Epic road trips

I've had a few. But before we head out on our adventure, let's define our terms. It's not a road trip if you end up at home at the end of the day. That's called a Sunday afternoon drive, or maybe a day trip. As for "epic," that's the sort of terminology that is defined in the eye of the beholder. If you've never been out of your home town, a foray into the next county could be epic. On the other hand, if you've hitch-hiked your way across the USA, like Lou Reed actually didn't, "epic" needs to look a little bigger than a trip to the next county. Back in the early '70s, me and my old pal Kipling set out on a journey to the promised land, Alberta. That was a thing back in the day. Everybody from Ian Tyson to Neil Young sang about going to Alberta. So we did. It was obviously the land of milk and honey, but first we had to get there. Me and Kipling had just been laid off from Budd Automotive. Budd was the best-paying factory gig in the K-W area at the time. They built frames for full-size cars for the big four. Then the '73 Arab-Israel war hit, the Arab oil embargo followed, the price of gas doubled, and nobody was buying full size cars anymore. Hence the layoff. Kipling came up with the bright idea we should head to Alberta to seek our fortune. For some reason, we had to make this trip in my car, because he didn't have one at the time, or he had one but his wife needed it, and she wasn't keen on moving to Alberta. So off we went in my '69 Dart GTS 340 automatic. Kipling had looked at a map and deduced that our most favourable route to the promised land was to cut out a day of driving by crossing into the US at Windsor and driving through the Midwest south of Superior, which would cut a day off our driving time. Two greasy long-hairs show up at US customs in Detroit with all their worldly possessions packed in their car. Kipling made up some bullshit yarn about how we were heading to Alaska. Long story short, after an hour of interrogation by completely humorless border apparatchiks, we found ourselves heading back up the 401 to take the north-of Superior route to the promised land. That seriously compromised our travel budget. We had pooled our resources, which was about 200 dollars from me and twenty bucks from Kipling, and that Detroit detour hurt. Nevertheless, we ploughed on. We were on the Trans-Canada Highway closing in on the Manitoba border, I was at the wheel, even though I hadn't slept in 36 hours. The highway was straight and flat, perfect for a nap. I awoke to a massive snow berm burying the Dart as it ploughed into the median and ended up on its side. In the middle of the night in the middle of winter in minus 30 temp. While we sat in that ditch, we had a debate about whether to press forward or turn back. By the time you're at the Manitoba border, you're half way to the promised land. I wanted to press forward. Kipling was getting cold feet. But we agreed that before we went anywhere, we'd need to get the car winched out of the median. So we hitched a ride into Winnipeg, the nearest place we'd find a tow truck. Two greasy long-hairs standing beside the Trans-Canada with their thumbs out in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere when it's minus 30... well, that's not an easy ride. After a couple hours freezing our balls off, we finally had a car pull over. It was full of Newfies heading to Alberta to make their fortune. Even though their car was already full, they took pity on us. They squeezed in and made room for us. Newfies are the kindest people in the world! They dropped us off in Winnipeg, where a tow truck driver took us back to the Dart and winched us out of the ditch. By the time we paid him, our budget was down to about thirty bucks. Mind you, a fill up was about ten bucks at the time, so we had some range. To my chagrin, we applied that range to a back-east trip instead of a press-forward trip. Who knows what great good fortune might have awaited us in the promised land? We never got there to find out! To my way of thinking, our trip was a failure. To Kipling's way of thinking, he was having a hoot racing that GTS 340 down the Trans Canada back to Guelph. The budget had run out somewhere around Sudbury, and we were forced into a gas-and-dash. I was asleep in the back seat at the time. I was having a dream wherein I was involved in a police chase down the highway between Sudbury and Toronto. I was in a car travelling at high speed. In my dream I heard sirens howling... then over the sirens I heard a voice, Kipling's voice. Just say we were only doing 60 just say we were only doing 60 just say we were only doing 60... I rub the sleep out of my eyes as the Dart is parked on the shoulder and there's a cop standing at the window. "Seems you were lettin' 'er dangle a bit there, boys," he says. No sir, Kipling says. We were just doing sixty, I offered. He let us go without so much as a speeding ticket.

Welcome to Winnipeg, racism capital of racist Canada

Maclean's magazine, that Toronto bastion of smug middle-class superiority, has had a team of investigative journos do their homework, and by golly, if they didn't figure out that Winnipeg is the most racist city in all of Canada!

Well, that sure is a kick in the nuts for the Metis mayor and the Black police chief, ain't it?

I don't want to diss Maclean's. After all, that's one of the few print platforms in Canada that still pays actual writers with cheques that don't bounce. Most everything else you read in Canada's print media is written by unpaid interns who are grateful for the McDonalds gift certificates they take home.

But I think what's driving this hate-Winnipeg campaign is museum envy.

That's right; museum envy. Nobody has been more sceptical than the think-tank here at Fallling Downs about the Canadian Museum for Human Rights. We were from the very beginning taken aback by the droll ironies that inevitably resonate when you park such an edifice in a city with huge issues around racism and poverty.

In the first place, there's something odious about putting human rights in a museum.

But this is not the place for that, so I'll just point out that the Asper's were, in spite of everything else, proud 'Peggers, and they wanted their baby in Winnipeg, not in Toronto or Ottawa.

And that's what has given rise to the museum envy emanating from the eastern elites. It galls those people no end to see such a monument in what they consider a prairie hick-town!

As for the nuts and bolts of the article, nah, I don't buy it for a minute. Is there a race problem in Winnipeg? Absolutely! Is Winnipeg's race problem worse than Regina's or Saskatoon's or Edmonton's or Calgary's or a thousand towns and cities across this great land that we stole from those people?

Absolutely not!

Winter blues

Back when I toiled in the Budd plant in Kitchener there was a shorthand used to refer to your co-workers.

We worked among Rastamen and Polskies and Ukes and Newfs and Frenchies and Krauts.

Every Portugese guy was known as Goose or Magellan or Vasco de Gamma.

One night after second shift let out we headed for the all-night liquor store in Stratford. A couple of home boys and a couple of Rastas in Frenchy's Javelin, with Frenchy driving.

I don't know to this day whether there actually was an all-night liquor store in Stratford, but we almost died trying to find out.

I do recall there was a 24 hour beer store in Toronto. We did make it there one night.

But Frenchy's Javelin ended up in the ditch on its roof that winter night, with five thirsty guys just getting thirstier.

Winter blues.

There's something about winter that makes desperation more desperate.

Me and Kipling headed out west to make our fortune in the dead of one winter. Went in the ditch 50 miles east of Winnipeg. Went in the ditch at a high rate of speed while I was both napping and driving simultaneously.

Winter blues.

If you're watching this at home, kids, don't drive and nap simultaneously.

It's not a happy thing.

There was a Neil Young song popular at the time that glorified going to Alberta. I think most of us were just going to Alberta because Neil Young had sung a song about it...

Years later me and Terry ran out to Calgary in the dead of winter. Lost a wheel bearing somewhere around Bumfuck Manitoba in the middle of the night when it was -40 degrees outside.

You can't fix a wheel bearing without going outside.

-40 is really fucking cold!

Winter blues.

Winter adventures.

The Kid still swears that the best day of his life, and he's had an awful pile of great ones, was the day I picked him up at the hospital in Vegreville, in the dead of winter, and we toured all the way into the foothills and beyond, all the way to Mount Robson, him with his bottle of pills and me with my case of beer, and we ended up in Edmonton totally fucked up and just in time for a Triumph concert.

In the dead of winter.

Winter blues.