Who are the Real Chickens?

For a city that has a bug up it's ass about being progressive, environmentally conscious and with the times Halifax has made some awfully strange decisions lately. It's one thing to bring your cloth bags to the stupidmarket and turn off your lights on Earth Night, but the real test of environmental respect comes in the hard decisions, things like installing bike lanes to get more people out of cars and letting people grow their own food.

I don't get you Halifax.

First, the chickens. It is against the law for people who live in HRM to keep chickens in their backyard. The reasons? Chickens are smelly and chickens are noisy, apparently.

I have chickens. Fortunately I don't live in HRM anymore so I can own them without fearing the wrath of the bird police. At this very moment I actually own 12 chickens, that's 9 more than most people in Halifax would like the right to keep. Are they smelly? Well, let me tell you, If I happen to track a lump of bird poop into the house it can get a little gross, but I can say the same for my dogs (who, as of yet, are not illegal in Halifax.) I work in downtown Halifax and on a daily basis I encounter far more offensive odors - people walking down the street smoking, women wearing so much perfume I can barely breathe in their presence, car and truck exhaust mixed with rotting garbage, barside puke and Eau de Harbour. The general rankness of any city outranks the smell of a few birds any day.

As for the noise, well, I have 12 chickens and there simply isn't any noise. I live outside the city and I'm frequently awakened by the sound of rain, spring peepers, a neighbour's dog or the buzzing of a mosquito who makes its way into my bedroom. I have yet to be awakened by my chickens (and I have roosters, too...if anyone's going to make noise it would be the roosters.) I guarantee that anyone who lives in the city would never notice the occasional peep of a chicken over the sounds of screaming children, arrogant crotch rockets, drunken partyers straggling home from Pizza Corner and the brain-rattling thud of far too much bass from pimped out Neons. The city is a noisy place already; if you can sleep there as it is, a few chickens are not about to stop you.

Allowing people to raise chickens means they can grow their own food, teach their children about natural processes (eggs really DON'T come from a styrofoam carton), have some control over the quality of what they're eating and reduce the amount that they rely on gas spewing transportation to deliver their food. In short, it's an environmentally friendly educational practice. Hmmm, it MUST be bad. Chickenshit would be the least of Halifax's problems - if it wasn't elected to Council to beak off with ridiculous ideas and by-laws.

So Halifax, you ban chickens and then you let a few business owners convince you not to build bike lanes. WTF? First you seriously consider the idea of charging people to park on residential streets that are near the downtown core (because Halifax has SOOO much awesome and affordable parking as it is). Then you refuse to do something that would encourage less people to bring their cars into the city - you vote against bike lanes on a very busy route that tons of cyclists rely on. I don't know what you're smoking, Halifax, but that just doesn't add up. I guess you figure that if you recycle, you don't need to cycle in the first place.

Halifax needs a serious wake up call. Sometimes life requires getting a little bit of dirt under your nails. If business owners on Herring Cove Road can't accept a bike lane let them move to a shopping mall where all they'll have to worry about are motorized scooters careening down the halls. If Halifax Council doesn't like chickens, that's okay. Next election Haligonians should vote the chickens in and send the turkeys packing.

I believe in karma and I'm pretty sure that with behaviours like these a whole lot of councillors are bound to end up with egg on their face. Hopefully they're green eggs - I hear those go great with ham.

Where did all the Backpackers go?

Last year I went to Iceland. It's a smallish country really, with roughly the same number of people as Halifax. The highlight of our trip was a 4-day backpack with friends on a route known as Laugavegur, a 53 km trek from Landmannalaugar to Thorsmork and by no means an easy hike. The route traverses volcanoes, glaciers, extremely steep climbs and even steeper descents. The scenery is unbelievable but you work for every frigging look, that's for sure.

Carrying backpacks weighing somewhere close to 60 pounds apiece, my husband Troy and I set out at the end of July to complete Laugavegur with our Icelandic friends Sigrun and Bjarki. Getting to the trail involved a 2-hour drive from just outside Reykjavik, and then another 2 hours down a dirt road on a tour bus that traversed glacial rivers and navigated switchbacks I'd be hesitant to ride on my mountain bike. When the bus finally dumped us at our destination, I was shocked to find myself in a mini-city of high-tech fabric, extreme four-wheelers and camping gear that you'll never be able to afford. No really, I'm serious... you won't. Think I'm joking? Imagine paying $120 for a Camelbak bladder (JUST the bladder), $25 for a single dehydrated backpacking meal, $40 for a Nalgene bottle. Yes, it's expensive to be "outdoorsy" in Iceland.

And yet, despite the prohibitive costs, the insanely inconvenient travel to get to the trail head, and temperatures that (we found out the hard way) get down to -5° at night at the end of July, Laugavegur sees an average of 8000 hikers per year. Yes, 8000, you heard me right. Astonishing, isn't it?

Our backpacking trip began with a meeting with a park warden. He warned us about jeans, the "pants of death", informed us that a snowstorm was headed for the area where we planned to camp that night, and wished us luck as I dug my toque and mittens out of my pack and watched bikini-clad women splash in a nearby hot spring. I sensed that this was about to be a very challenging hike, and I was right!

8000 hikers per year. On one trail. Statistically it sounds like a lot. Realistically, it's unimaginable. Every turn on the trail we encountered another group. For four days we could always see people in the distance and people following our steps. Every night we camped alongside at least 30 or 40 tents, not to mention all the people who chose to stay in the huts at each campground. It was like car camping in Nova Scotia, but there were no coolers full of Coors Light, no ghetto blasters fronting Kid Rock, no screaming children, no washer toss. This was serious business. Every night as the sun dimmed (it never really got dark) the campground went silent as exhausted backpackers slid into tents for the night and every morning a routine of eating, packing, lining up for the toilets and departing occurred as hikers set off once again. Although this trail was remote, it was never lonely and always occupied by others with a similar goal. You can't imagine what it's like to be surrounded by so many people who appreciate the outdoors as much as you do. Men and women, young and old, traditionalists in wool and techies in Gore-tex - they were all out there, enjoying the scenery, enjoying the challenge, and enjoying the comeraderie of their fellow explorers in the great outdoors.

That was last year's backpacking trip.

This year, Troy and I decided to tackle something more local. Cape Chignecto is a 51 km coastal route around one of Nova Scotia's most scenic shorelines.

This time we set out in mid-July, a week earlier than our Icelandic journey. We arranged the trip to last four days again, and found the trail to be a little more challenging than Laugevegur - no volcanos or glaciers, but definitely steeper in places, and with a temperature pushing 30° each day and insane humidity, a whole lot more uncomfortable.

Chignecto is touted as one of Nova Scotia's great backpacking destinations, and I always thought that as Canadians, backpacking, camping and wilderness exploration is in our blood. Yet over a course of 4 days we encountered 3 other people on the trail. 3! That's less than one per day! What the hell?

Could it be that video games, movies, Lazy Boys and SUVs are destroying our great Canadian desire to explore the wilderness, rough it in nature, and breathe in real fresh air? Is Canada afraid of the wild, the coyotes, the attack squirrels and the oh-so-fearsome horseflies? Have we been pampered to death? Have we fallen into the seduction of air conditioning and paved parking lots and Rotten Ronnie's and microwave meals? Have we given up on what it means to be Canadian? Alas, I fear that might be the case.

I have words for you, Canada. Words like "beavers", "canoes", "maple", "loons", "wilderness", "stars", "birch bark", "wild", "rugged shore lines", "eagles", "wildlife", "free". Have you experienced any of these words lately? Do you really know what it's like out there? Could you tell the difference between a street light and the Big Dipper if your life depended on it?

If the answer is no, then do yourself a favour. Grab a backpack. Get out of cell phone range. Find out what shit is all about, both figuratively and literally. We were never supposed to be a nation of tv-watching, fast-food-eating couch surfers. If a chilly and treeless nation like Iceland can see the beauty and value in spending time outdoors, then what the hell is our excuse? North Face wasn't made for grocery shopping, you know?

Canada, I'm embarrassed. We have one of the most beautiful countries on the planet and if it wan't for the Discovery channel, you wouldn't even know it. The sights in your back yard are National Geographic material, but you're busy checking out the shootings downtown and the deals on pizza pockets in your stupidmarket flyer. There's a whole world out there that you'll never experience until someone plows it with a bulldozer and puts up a strip mall or subdivision.

Oh well, more tranquility for me, I guess. Enjoy your gridlock, screaming neighbours and Blockbuster fees. If stress is stepping in a pile of bear poop or going a day without texting, I'll take it. You don't know what you're missing, Canada, and I say, "Skål!"

Don't know what that means? I'm sure you can Google it from the comfort of your home office.

Dear Restaurant Owners and So-called "Chefs"

Dear Restaurant Owners and So-called "Chefs",

When I walk into a food establishment bearing a name that begins with something other than "Mc" or ending with something other than "King", I have expectations. Whether a restaurant takes pride in its reputation as a greasy spoon or flaunts itself as a 5-star extravaganza of taste bud bacchanalia, I expect it to have some sort of standards. I expect to feel like someone in the kitchen cares. I expect to feel like I, the customer, am important. Time and time again, I am sad to say that I am proven wrong.

There are two "foods" that make me cringe when they arrive on my plate, restaurant owners and so-called "chefs". Now let's get something straight right up front. I am not one of those people who complains over the slightest bit of burnt, the smallest hint of undercooked, the neglectful lumps of a curdling Hollandaise or even a hair as long as it's decidedly un-pubic. I put up with a lot when I go out to eat and I've tipped well for meals that many would send back in a heartbeat (or a heartburn, as the case may be). That said, when a plate lands under my nose bearing the culinary equivalent of an insult, I feel like paying a visit to the chef with a big fork in one hand and a bottle of vinegar in the other.

Restaurant owners and so-called "chefs", There are many things you can put on my plate that might look gross, taste gross, or just plain suck altogether. Not everyone likes everything, and as long as I think you tried to make me a happy eater I'll accept it. That said, there are two things you can put on my plate that make me crazier than a weasel in a bucket of KFC. Both of these items are considered "food" but why I'll never know. Both items tell me you really don't give a shit about your customer and both items tell me that you probably don't know good taste from bad. Both items make me pretty damn sure that I made a big mistake spending money in your fine eating establishment.

The first "food" that pisses me off is iceberg lettuce. The name says it all. What comes to mind when you think of lettuce? How about "healthy"? How about "green"? Iceberg lettuce is neither. Its nutritional value matches its colour - I think Martha Stewart sells that tint as "Whitewashed". A salad made with iceberg lettuce has all the taste appeal of a bag of puffed wheat soaked in tepid water and rolled in all-purpose flour. When I eat a salad made with IL (such an appropriate acronym) I pray that I'll find bugs. At least earwigs and beetles would add flavour and protein. Lettuce on a burger is supposed to be colourful and make it seem healthier. If you're planning on topping my burger with iceberg lettuce, try topping it with a piece of paper towel instead. At least it would suck away some grease, which is more than I can say for the lettuce. If your profit margins are falling so close to the edge that serving romaine would put you out of business, raise your freakin' prices by a dime or buy cheaper toilet paper. I'd rather wipe with newsprint than eat the butt of all greens.

The second "food" that drives me insane is frozen french fries. When my plate comes out heaped with those perfect little oblongs of soggy starch I am seriously offended. Why, why, why would ANYONE choose to serve frozen french fries in their restaurant over homemade? Yes homemade fries are more work, but people will go out of their way to eat where good french fries are served. As a publican or restaurant owner your success or failure could depend on your fries. Buy a machine to chop the potatoes or hire some kid at minimum wage, but don't serve me frozen fries unless your mascots are a clown named Ronald and a caped burger in a mask. Frozen french fries are the biggest disappointment since the day your big brother promised to take you to the circus and then made you stay in the car while he boinked the ticket lady. It doesn't matter how great the rest of the meal is, frozen fries make it all taste like crap. Handcut fries make a grizzly steak tender, a hotdog glamorous, a piece of deep fried fish worth every oily calorie in its puffy battered flesh. Frozen fries make every meal look like something your babysitter threw together while she texted her BFF with one hand and rubbed Oxy into her zits with the other. Frozen fries spell incompetence laced with the need for a good solid boot to the ass and that is NOT something I look forward to seeing on my plate.

Some foods are cheap and some foods are convenient -these are not the kind of foods that a restaurant should serve. Make me some damn fries and make them tasty or don't bother making anything at all. Restaurant owners and so-called "chefs", there are lots of place to eat out there so if iceberg lettuce is your idea of a good time I'd suggest you turn over a new leaf, and fast.

Oh no! Coyotes!

I turned on my radio this morning and there they were again - those wily coyotes peering from behind every radio show host, patiently waiting to pounce on me, chase me into the house, rip my poodle to shreds or carry my poor mother off into the wilderness. It scared the hell out of me and fearing for my life I quickly turned off the radio so they wouldn't see me.

Get a grip, people. Coyotemania may be ripping your imaginations to shreds but your children, schnauzers and mistresses? I don't think so.

A woman gets mauled to death by a coyote and suddenly the entire species is out to take us down. One death in HOW many years that we've co-existed in this province? I'm very sorry that Taylor Mitchell was attacked and killed, but I think that the response of the people in this province is nothing short of paranoid sensationalism. Before that incident how many coyote attack stories did YOU hear? Yeah. That's what I thought.

I live in an area where there are lots of coyote and I spend a large part of my life in the woods where coyotes run free. I find little logs of poop sprouting rabbit fur all over my property and trails. On a calm summer night I hear them calling to the darkness. Once I actually laid eyes on a coyote as it skittered across my road, daring me to add it to the redneck meat section that crops up every spring. I live in an area where there is lots of forest. To expect anything less than coyotes, bear and other wildlife would be moronic.

This morning I heard on the radio that two coyotes were trapped in the woods behind a school in Brooklyn. Since when is it news that the coyotes are in the woods? Perhaps the coyotes should learn to read so they can identify the difference between woods abutting schools and woods abutting other types of buildings. "Oh look, Wile E., that spells SKOOOL. We'd better go somewhere else fast!"

The fact of the matter is that most coyotes are exactly where they should be... in the woods. Is it their fault that we cut down more and more of the trees they call home in order to put things like schools and houses there? If we move into their territory do we expect they'll just throw up their paws and buy a condo? We force them into our ever expanding world and expect them to leave us alone, and if they don't, well I guess we'll just have to institute a bounty. That oughtta make the woods safer - a bunch of rednecks running through the forest with guns setting traps and shooting at anything that looks like a coyote, dog, wolf or jug of moonshine.

I have yet to hear scientific evidence that coyotes are indeed more numerous, more aggressive, more problematic or more visible than they have been in years gone by. The only evidence I've heard is from people eager to get on the radio and tell a good yarn.

Should problem coyotes be culled? Hell yes. If it's threatening people or pets in their yards or playgrounds, then get it out of there by whatever means necessary. Should all coyotes be culled? Only if we're ready to start killing off all the other 4 legged critters that we're pushing out of the forest in the name of subdivisions.

If coyotes are truly a problem, it seems to me that spaying or birth control would be far more effective means of reducing the population. Until the scientists confirm the out of control coyote population, however, I think I'll listen to CDs instead of my radio. The real nuisance wildlife is nowhere near the forest but it sure as hell seems to have learned how to use a phone. I guess we really are in trouble.

So you REALLY Want a Conspiracy Theory About the Drug Companies?

Every time there's an outbreak of any sort of disease it seems conspiracy theories run rampant about where the disease came from, whether it's even dangerous, and, most importantly, how much the drug companies are benefiting from it. The recent H1N1 pandemic has gotten completely out of hand in this regard, to the point where I've actually been accused of lacking intelligence because I got vaccinated. Women in the locker room at the gym are saying ridiculous things like "If you ate properly your immune system would be strong enough to fight the flu and you wouldn't need a vaccine." People I bump into seem to shudder at the notion that I'd allow anyone to inject such an onerous "chemical cocktail" into my arm.

Now before I get ranting, let me throw down a few facts. First of all, I eat very well. The last time I had nutritional analysis done every single vitamin and mineral was present in exactly the quantity it should be. Iron was the one exception, and two weeks after discovering that, I made small adjustments to my diet and bloodwork revealed that the problem was corrected. Secondly, I am asthmatic and I work in a university. The asthma means I am vulnerable to respiratory illnesses and the university setting means I'm being bombarded by coughing sneezing students on an hourly basis. Thirdly, I don't get sick often, but when I do it usually comes in the form of bronchitis or pneumonia and with H1N1 that can be very serious indeed. With all those facts supporting me I say this to those of you who mock my decision to get the vaccine: "Consider the fact that if I get swine flu, I have serious potential to get very ill and end up on a ventilator. That poses a much larger risk to me right now than the imagined effects down the road of a vaccine that has been produced by the same methods as any other flu vaccine."

Okay, now, you really want a conspiracy theory? Let's have some fun.

Hands up. Who's heard of a little company called Pfizer? Oh, you have? Well, you probably also know that they're a producer of pharmaceuticals, right?

Well, back in 1880, Pfizer also began producing citric acid. In no time flat, citric acid actually became the company's number 1 product, they sold tonnes of the stuff. The main buyers for citric acid were the producers of soft drinks such as Coca Cola, Dr. Pepper and Pepsi.

Do you enjoy an ice cold Coke? Well you're not alone. According to statistics released by Coke, in 2008 they sold the equivilant of 395 cans of Coke per every person in North America during that one year. Now, consider that 12 ounces of Coke has the equivalent of 11 tsp. of sugar in it. Already you can see one big reason why our rates of obesity, heart disease, and diabetes are skyrocketing.

Now, consider this! Within 5 minutes of drinking one can of Coke (or consuming an equivalent amount of sugar), there are studies that show your white blood cells become 50% less active and for the next 4-5 hours your immune system is functioning at half strength. During that time you're much more vulnerable to all sorts of baddies including *GASP* swine flu! If you actually DO get sick, you're probably going to end up forking out hard earned cash for drugs to make you feel better and SOME of that cash might just find it's way back into the pockets of the company that made the citric acid to support the soft drink industry in the first place. Delicious!

So if the drug companies are making ingredients for delicious unhealthy products and their antidotes, all of which you'll happily buy, why oh why would they feel the need to invent a horrible thing like H1N1 and then go through the trouble of convincing people to stand in 5 hour lineups to get stuck with a needle? In fact, why wouldn't they just come up with something easier to sell like a pill and call it a day? Seems a little complicated to me!

What was that theory about Survival of the Fittest again? You people who are so terrified of the H1N1 vaccination might want to review that little conspiracy theory - I hear it holds a lot of merit!

Responsibilities

I love dogs. I have two and they're as close to kids as I'll ever have. My dogs are far from perfect, but I'd like to believe that I've done a pretty good job at training them and giving them the skills and respect to be decent companions. I can predict their moves most times, and I care enough about them to make sure that I can control them pretty much always.

Tonight I had a terrifying experience, not because of my dogs, but because of someone else's. I am still shaking as I type, and if I ever get the knotted muscles in my calves to untie it might be a miracle.

I rushed home from work today eager to get some time in on the road bike. I haven't ridden for a couple of days due to annoying schedules and a sore back. Tonight I was feeling pretty decent and I was pretty sure I could get in a couple of hours on the road, cook supper, and maybe even shower before Troy got home.

I debated which route to take - hills, hills, or hills? I hadn't gone down the Ashdale Road yet this year, so I thought those hills, although brutal, would make for a good workout. I shoved a piece of toast in my mouth to tide over my grumbly tummy, threw on some spandex and hit the pavement.

I was feeling pretty good tonight, attacking the hills without dying, no asthma wheezing whatsoever, and despite a pretty solid headwind, I felt like I actually had some speed. I turned onto the Ashdale Road, tucked in, and hammered, dodging pavement patches and potholes on the way. Then, about 1/2 way up the road, I heard every roadie's worst nightmare... a big dog barking furiously and getting closer fast.

Right about the time I heard the dog, I was started up another hill. Not a big hill, but big enough to prevent me from outrunning a large and determined dog. Normally I'd put some muscle into the pedals and get the hell out of there, but I knew this time the monster that was tearing up the pavement behind me would catch me. I looked back and noted the breed.

Chocolate labs are goofy, energetic, rambunctious, but I have yet to meet one that's vicious. Thinking it would be smart to thwart the prey drive, I unclicked my right pedal and stopped. The dog brushed past my leg, spun around, and then ran back in the other direction to the pre-pubescent boy who was screaming at the top of his lungs. I waited until the dog was back at his young master's side, shook my head condescendingly, and clicked back into my pedals to continue my ride. Damn people letting their dogs run loose!

No sooner had I gotten back up to speed than I heard the kid yelling bloody murder. I barely had time to look behind me before a massive pile of brown fur leapt from the pavement and knocked me to the ground. The dog tore off ahead, and once again spun around and ran back to his frantic owner.

Stunned, I unclipped from the bike and picked myself up from the hard asphalt, noting the bruises and welts immediately rising from my legs. Quick survey, no blood save a little road rash. I stood in a daze in the middle of the road while ten feet away the geeky looking kid screamed at the dog by his side, kicking him in the ribs and pummeling his head with clenched fists. I knew I should say something but the shock of the situation made me unable to move or speak. I stared in horror at the little dervish flailing at the cringing dog.

Suddenly I snapped out of my delirium. "Stop!", I yelled, "It's not his fault! That's no way to treat your dog, stop!" The kid stopped punching and looked at me with an expression that made me wonder if he even knew what he had done. "I'm sorry," he moaned and as his lower lip quivered he started crying.

I don't know what overtook me next. I lectured the kid on controlling his dog, keeping his dog away from the road, but most of all earning his dog's respect by training him and working with him to reward him for good behaviour instead of beating him when he was bad. The whole time the poor kid continued to cry and blurt out "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do, I'm sorry." The dog cowered on the road and the kid collapsed to his knees, bawling his eyes out with his face buried in the now docile dog's fur.

My brain went blank and I just wanted to go home. The kid was crying but it was obvious he was subdued. The dog looked totally unmotivated to chase me any further.

"Get some help training your dog", I told the kid. "He needs it. And don't let him run into the road anymore. I'm ok, I'm not seriously hurt, but he might really hurt the next person."

Then I swung a leg over my bike and continued up the road - for 2 whole minutes until the cramping started. The muscles knotted in my calves so intensely that I had to stop riding 5 times to walk out the cramps. One of those times I fell off the bike again, unable to unclip on a hill when the muscles spasmed intensely.

I was 5 km or so from home when I started to feel sick to my stomach. traumatized by the actions of the dog, the actions of the child and even worse, questioning my own actions. Did I do the right thing? Maybe I should have talked to his parents. Maybe they'd have put the dog down and beaten the kid. Maybe I should have offered to help the kid train the dog. Maybe I should have just kept riding, Maybe... so many maybes.

All I wanted tonight was some exercise, a peaceful ride in the country with some sweat and self-induced pain. Now I hurt physically in ways I hadn't imagined, but it's nothing compared to the mental agony of not knowing whether or not anything will change for the better.

What if that kid thinks he should beat a bad dog because his parents beat him when he's bad? What if they shoot the dog because he's dangerous and out of control?

I am disturbed tonight, and it's not because of the bruising on my legs and arms or the cramping in my muscles. I am disturbed by the what-ifs. That, I suppose, is the curse of being a responsible adult. I want to make everything better, for the kid, for the dog, and for me. And instead I can only wonder...

"What if..."?

It's going to be a restless night.

Dear Randy Bachman

Dear Randy Bachman,

You don't know me, so please don't tell anyone that you do. I am just a CBC fan who never really loved your music, but now, I'll be honest Randy, now you just plain annoy me.

I know that lots of Canadians love you. You read their letters all the time. Perhaps they smoked too much weed in the 60's , or perhaps they're acknowledging the fact that compared to commercial radio, anything sounds good.

I didn't want to have to tell you this Randy, but it seems I'm the only one who will. So here it is. Randy, we as a country are embarrassed for you. There, I said it, no take backsies. No matter how much maple sugar you spread on it, it's not getting any sweeter. You, Randy Bachman, are a name dropper.

I'm not as old as you yet, Randy, but I can tell you a thing or two about aging.

One. If you're going to relive your glory days, do it at the counter of the town drunk watering hole where everyone else is so obliterated they actually think your stories are good. National radio is not the place for such behaviour.

And two, nobody except you gets off on who you know.

We might be impressed if Neil Young rambles on about the song he learned from Randy Bachman while Randy graciously gave up his Sunday afternoon to help Neil catch up on laundry. I might respect you if I heard such a tale coming from someone else. But Randy, when you ramble on about how you just happened to play that same chord 1 split second before Neil and then it ended up on one of his hits, well, that doesn't make you cool, it just makes you annoying. Take it from me, Randy - Canada doesn't care if you've met the Beatles or Elvis. Canada is impartial to who wrote the songs you've played and who claimed the riffs you've slayed. Canada just wants to hear good 'ole Canadian content. Name dropping is not a national pasttime.

We don't need to hear you demonstrate a Stratocaster on the radio Randy. Plenty of the artists you play do that just fine. We don't need to hear you tell us about "back in the day when I had to walk 10 miles each way just to buy a guitar pick". We certainly don't need to hear you talk about the time John Lennon wore the exact same brand of socks that you'd worn just the day before. Believe it or not, that doesn't make you the co-writer of "Give Peace a Chance". It doesn't even earn you credit on Yoko Ono's performance art.

Do us a favour, Randy. Tell us about the great restaurant down the street from where you live, let us know who you think is going to win the hockey game, play us a song without telling us how it has something to do with you. Your show is called "Vinyl Tap", not "Everything You Need to Know About Why Randy Bachman Considers Himself to be a Canadian Legend". Yes, you were popular. Yes, you were part of a scene. Yes, your accomplishments are noteworthy in some version of the Canadian music history timeline. But Randy, let it go! Kids in their 20's still know who Buddy Holly and Ringo Starr and the Beach Boys are, but Randy Bachman? Not a chance in hell. You can't live in the past, and if you want to try, you can't expect Canada to go with you. Get a grip, man, we don't care who you've met, known, slept with, played for or ripped off. All we want is a few hours of solid radio time that doesn't make us grind our teeth. Even Steven Harper could do a better job of giving this country what it wants without being self-indulgent!

Randy, next time you feel the need to say "back when so-and-so and I went to blah blah blah", stop. Just stop and think for a second. Will you make my life any better by telling me that? Will I gain further insight into the human condition and the trials and tribulations of life as a rock star? If the answer is "no" then for the love of all things holy and not, just stop! Stop, and play a song. Not on your guitar, but from whatever CD you have on deck. Canada will be grateful, Randy. Canada will breathe a sigh of relief. And you may even look a little bit cooler because you'll be a part of that inside joke about the name you didn't drop. We'll all know that for once, it wasn't all about you.

Randy, to steal a phrase from Carly Simon, (who I don't know, and with whom I have no connection whatsoever), you're so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you. Well, for once, you're right. But nobody else has a clue who I am, so thankfully there's no fear that you'll ever talk about me.

Keep on keeping it real, Randy, just like John Lennon and Janis Joplin and John Denver. Oh wait. They're dead. Well, never mind, I'm sure in heaven they're all playing your tunes and talking about you like there's no tomorrow. I know because they told me so when I had burgers with them at the Pearly Gate Café. Oh, God was there too, Randy. He says "Hi".

Give my regards to Denise, who I don't know at all.

Sue