Perth! Perth! Get off the Earth!

Perth! Perth! Get off the Earth! - is a nice chant.  People like it...especially if you're from Smiths Falls.  My sons love it.  They ask me to chant it whenever they play the evil ones in sports. 

As a teen, French and the lads had a love hate relationship with Perth.  We had discretionary hatred.  The boys of Perth were all bastards, in our opinion, but man we dug the girls.  Our basketball teams would play them often.  The bus would get loaded up with three teams and we'd head off to Perth for a few games.  Somehow French would always tag along.  No one seemed to find it weird that French, who only ever wrestled in high-school, would be on the team bus.  Sweaty didn't even have to sneak him on.

He'd disappear while the games were being played and he'd wander off and meet some pretty little Perth girl.  Once, after a game, we were all loading the bus, and around the corner we see French fighting two guys as this mini-skirted blonde looked on.   He put them both down and with his nasty wrestling tricks; gave her a big ol'kiss and ran to the bus.  Some of the Perth basketball players saw the end of this and came running.  A little brawl erupted as the guys on the bus piled back out.  The coaches broke it up quickly.  We always said that it was a short little scrap because we were tired after the big game.

French sure kept that rivalry hot.  It was fun to play Perth the rest of that season...lots of elbows. 

Truck Luck

Bruce Fish called me on his rotary phone (still uses this ancient medium...says it "keeps him honest") to give me an update.  I don't see him often in the winter, and his calls are very rare; let me paraphrase the details...

He has a new job; or at least new responsibilities.  Bruce Fish has been given a rural route garbage run.  He picks up trash in between Sharbot Lake and Parham.  The best part, and the part that he was excited about, was that he got to keep the truck at his place.  So he has been taking Rose and the baby to the Methodist Church in the garbage truck.  Says it "shocks the shit" outta the churchy types.  He laughed and said: "Don't worry Ollie I'll never let religion get in the way of my faith, but Rose she likes the Church".  Fair enough.

There's more.  He'd done such a good job on the garbage runs that the county let him moonlight on the Snowplough.  So he's been making some good dough.  Bruce Fish was abuzz.  He said that people flash their porch lights when he goes by with the plough, folks waves and honk too. 

Bruce Fish finished with this comment just before his typical abrupt hang-up, that I've gotten used too: "This truck luck is 'effin great.  Best part: people like me now".

Being Tragically Hip in 2011

I've noticed that whenever the guys pull up in their trucks I can hear the muffled sounds of the Tragically Hip playing until their engine shuts off.  The abruptly ending chords of 50 Mission Cap or Little Bones is a common sound for me.  The only exception is that we all seem to play Johnny Cash on Sundays; Bruce Fish calls this our Christian duty.

Music has always been a bond for us lads.  We love to jam.  Many nights we have worked on songs in garages, basements and of course French's famous shed.  

I guess I'm an old timer; just a tragically hip (or formerly hip) old timer, but bands used to galvanize us.  When a big band came to an arena we'd all go.  Even a bewildered Bruce Fish would tag along.  As a youth we all went to Aerosmith, the Cult, KISS, Skid Row, Neil Young and our heroes the Tragically Hip.  It was a given.  If a great band was in town, or a nearby town, we'd scrounge money and go.  Sweaty would collect empties in every town park just to see the Hip.    Also we'd all wear our black concert shirts to school on Monday.  Very cool, but things change...

As high school teachers, French and I, have the chance to gauge the youth of today.  We asked a "cool" student about what band was the most popular?  What band had the unified support and devotion of the kids.

Her answer:

"I dunno...Kid Cudi?"

Garage Beers

A lot of the family "talk" this Christmas was about the formula revealed in my last blog: the perfect woman is always 1/2 your age +10.  Things got a little heated because of this controversial formula and an uncle that excels and making cocktails...stiff ones.

When things got a little too hot too handle, in the kitchen, I'd see my grandpa disappear out to the garage.  I followed him out once.  He was having a smoke out the back door; and just hanging out with his bloodhound Carl.  Grandpa said that it was time I learned a lesson.  He pointed to an old Beach Industries Tool Box and said to bring it over.  It was heavy.

He looked all mysterious and said: "Now son open 'er up and pick one".  He had a serious look on his face.  This was surely some time honoured rite of passage.  I was not disappointed when I opened the case.  It was full of winter chilled beers.  They were mainly imports.  Grandpa started chucklin'  - "This emergency tool kit has helped me weather a few storms".

I picked one out.

Grandpa said: "Now pass that G.D. case over here".

Half Your Age Plus Ten

Had a few festive drinks last night with the lads.  Sweaty sat there all night looking at PD's sketch pad.  Occasionally he'd pull out a coloured pencil and do a bit of work; guess he's got the bug.  The rest of us just chatted and sipped on our rusty nails.

Lonesome 50 sat alone.  I think we were wearing him out...especially Sweaty.  The Tavern was quiet, but French rhymed off his latest tales.  We all listened.

A cute little brunette came in around midnight.  Pancake said: "Ain't that your hot neighbour from when you was a kid?"  Sure enough it was.  She was my first crush. I was 13 she was 25; it never worked out.  She went by and said: "hi boys".  I just grinned like I was a teen again.

PD said: "That my friends is a beautiful woman".

She went over to Lonesome 50 and the left together moments later.

We all looked puzzled. Pancake said: " How do they know each other"?

French said: "They are dating."

We all did some mental math. The hot neighbour of my youth was 51 and Lonesome 50 was at least 80.

French piped up: "Look guys it is a simple rule that he has followed his whole life.  The perfect woman is always half your age plus ten".

We pondered that for a bit.

Mean Dean Rides Again

French and I were talking about odd jobs recently.  You know those brutal jobs you had as a teen.  He had his little liquor raffle to avoid the rigors of work.  Our friend Mean Dean had his own method as well.

We were at a huge field party once where Dean's job was revealed.  The cops raided the party around 10:30 and we all had to bolt.  Pancake and Sweaty took off in their cars; they each thought the other had picked up French and I.  The two of us ran through the forest to a side road trying to avoid the police.  We walked for about 20 minutes when a huge truck with a dented steel bumper pulled up.  Dean was at the wheel and we jumped in and headed into town.

Dean said that he had a job to do on  the way, but then we'd grab some beers and shoot some pool at his grandma's place (she had a beautiful table, at let us hang out if we "kept it down").

Dean pulled into a parking lot in an old steel factory.  Dean said, "buckle-up". He reved it up and did a brake burn, a donut and then sided swiped an Oldsmobile.  He said, "there that oughta do it".

I said, "what the hell was that?"

Dean replied: "That my friend was a hundred bucks".

Dean, on occasion, would take money to do little crashes to get back at bad bosses, cheating husbands and general bastards. 

We headed off to see his grandma.  French broke into Dirty Deeds by AC/DC.

Of Lingerie and Truckers

Pancake's dad is a long haul trucker.  He climbs into his rig and heads out on the road for days, even weeks, at a time.  (We've taken to calling him PD.)  So PD was telling us lads some stories from the road.  He says that, "He has a hellavuh lotta alone time.  I've fine tuned my mind; I see myself as a trucker mystic, but lately I've been thinking about lingerie".

Pancake tried to get him off the subject.  He often gets embarrassed by his eccentric father.  Sweaty started to tease him.  Pancake was getting really riled up.

We all piled on Pancake and PD, but then French said: "No guys I wanna hear more".  We all shut-up.

Turns out PD really has thought about lingerie a lot.  When he gets off the road he grabs a pencil and paper and sketches out his designs.  Teddies, lace skirts, boy-shorts, bras, g-strings, bodices...you name it PD has drawn it.

We all piled on again. Laughing at red-faced Pancake and his smirking father.

PD said:  "I've sold some designs".   French replied: "No Shit?"  PD handed him a folded cheque from under the brim of his trucker hat.

French read the figure: "Thirty Thousand Dollars".