26 miles

Lyrics to a song I wrote and hope to record....

Thirty years ago, I saw it on TV

When he dipped his foot, right into the sea

He was just a boy, acting like a man

Escorted out of town, by a yellow van

I’ll tell you what it means, to be all alone

A lonely West Coast boy, three thousand miles from home

30 days of rain, all along the way

26 miles he ran, each and every day

Chorus

What I didn’t know

What no one dared to say

He might not make it

Might not make it to Thunder Bay

Sometime in July, on highway sixty nine

Headed up to Timmins, when we passed him by

Collecting money, from beside the van

I reached out the window, threw a dollar in the can

Chorus

I still see him now, always on the run

A forever memory, forever twenty one

Heroes don’t come easy, it takes a lot of might

They sometimes win the battle, and sometimes lose the fight

What I didn’t know

What no one dared to say

He never made it

Never made it past halfway

(But the)The whole world knows your name today

The Greatest Party Never Told

Most children’s birthday parties follow a generic formula that has been carefully crafted and refined over the last forty years. A fail safe method if you will, unfortunately designed not for the tot in mind, but solely to keep parents from losing their minds.  Kids arrive at 1pm, followed by a contained activity, right into pizza, presents, cake and then home at 4pm. The hours of start and finish are negotiable, as long as you stick to the 3 hour window and don’t try to do anything too radical such as sending them outside with lawn darts. A formula followed through the ages and all across the land.

Unless, that is, you came up in the 70’s and were part of a small cadre of boys lucky enough to be invited to a party hosted by my friend Dale. You see, Dale lived in the country on a tree farm absolutely riddled with death traps at every turn. He would occasionally show up at school with a cast or a twisted ankle.

“Fell off the roof of the chicken coop” he would say, shrugging it off. Standard fare really, for a farm kid.

A perfect venue, for a collection of 11 year old boys. It’s not a surprise that I don’t recall any birthday cakes or gifts from these affairs. What stands out is being dropped off on a Saturday, late in April, and charging around looking for the group who would already be immersed in a death defying activity. It could be climbing the interior ladder of the silo and launching one’s self into the grain pile below, or playing hide and seek amidst the tightly packed evergreens stored in the dark recesses below the barn.

The tree farm was a strange and glorious conglomeration of out-buildings, barns and machinery, just waiting to be explored. The farm itself was mostly staffed with Jamaicans who lived in the basement of the rambling farmhouse where Dale’s family lived. Regulars with names like Moses and Dudley, who would return year after year to trim trees and then take blue jeans and shoes back to Jamaica with them. Dale told me they were always shooting pigeons in the silo and making stew with their catch. He snuck me down to the barracks once when they were out working, which consisted of one main room full of cots and a couple of fold out tables, a bathroom and a tiny kitchen. I bumped my head on a pair of hawk’s feet hanging from the door jamb leading outside.

“They eat hawks?” I asked, morbidly curious.

“Nope.” Dale replied.  ”They’re for voodoo. I think Dudley is going to put a hex on someone.”

“What’s that smell?” asked my 10 year old self.

“It’s drugs. You know…Marijuana,” Dale replied nonchalantly. “They’re not supposed to smoke it down here, but they do anyway.”

Well, that explained where Dale got his supplies later on.

Outdoors there were endless curiosities to be found. There was a drive shed that always had a topless calendar posted on the wall and a lunch room with a broken vending machine where a kid could jam a skinny arm up into the works and grab a free chocolate bar. One building had a slaughter pit in it, leftover from when a beef farm operated on the property. The game was to get dropped down in and see if you could scale your way back up the concrete walls and get out. Dale and I later painted lines on the floor and turned it into a handball court for a period of time.

The most notable feature though, the piece de resistance, if you will, was the main barn itself. This was where most of the fun-slash-dangerous activities took place and quite frankly, it’s a miracle that no one gave themselves a spinal injury. You see, there is a thing which all farm kids know about called a hay mow. This is basically a giant pile of loose hay, which was how it was stored before they started making it into bales. It functions like the foam pit that acrobats train with, only it’s a bit harder, a bit scratchier and a whole lot dustier.  There was a rope swing that you could use to toss yourself into the mow with, or for the more daring, there was the barn beam challenge. This involved climbing up a hundred year old wooden ladder, inching out onto a 10 inch beam and getting up the courage to jump. For those more daring, you could climb up to the highest beam, one which nearly touched the roof and from which a fall in the wrong direction would certainly bring serious damage.

Then there was the barn roof itself, which I’m pretty sure was off limits, but we climbed it anyway. You could get on the roof on the low side and then, depending on how slippery your shoes were, you could work your way up to the peak and look over the high side, which provided a serious thrill because of the massive drop. If you were slipping, you had to use the steel rivets as purchase, which is not much between you and sliding back down. If you could get up and follow the ridge over to the south peak, there was a valley where all the snow slid off and created a giant pile below. Because it was April, there was usually enough left to and jump into if you had the right technique. The trick was to slide while staying on your feet and not let your pant leg get caught on a rivet on the way down or you were in big trouble.

One year, there was a giant inner tube that someone had pulled out of a tractor tire. There was also a quarter mile long driveway, with a pretty decent slope to it. You see where I’m going with this? I abhorred any kind of spinning activity as a kid, so I only did it like, 3 times. If you made it the whole way, someone would have to stand at the road to stop you from crossing the concession and possibly getting run over by a truck. If you didn’t make it, it was preferable to careen off sideways and crash in the apple orchard as opposed to taking a spill on the gravel driveway.

I don’t exactly remember when those epic birthday parties stopped. Probably around grade 8, when we got too cool for them and wanted to go to parties with girls.  Since then, I’ve been to tons of parties with girls and the funny thing is, I never really did anything at them as cool as swan diving into a hayloft from 10 meters up.

How to half-ass everything

I wrote a book once. An honest-to- God novel with 175 000 words, complete with all the necessary literary elements such as a plot and all those other fiddly bits that make up every other novel. It was read by exactly 3 people, and while the contents may have been mostly rubbish, I was proud that I stuck with it and finished the damn thing.

How did I do it you ask? A combination of ignorance, narcissism and good old fashioned work. Being blissfully unaware of ones supposed limitations is a big help. Basically I walk around like Mr. Bean, bumbling through things in my own bull headed way. Books are not supposed to be written by guys like me. They are supposed to be written by struggling yet brilliant journalism majors or quirky housewives who sit around all day dreaming up tales of vampire love. On the other hand, if one wakes up thinking, “Hmmm…I think I’ll write a book”, then by all means hop to it young man. The same goes for dry-walling your basement, digging a pond in your backyard or running a ten mile obstacle course at the advanced age of 43. Be like Nike and just do it.

I’m taking the saying “jack of all trades, master of none” to new levels. I've done a lot of things in my day, some of them very badly, while others achieved a solid level of mediocrity. Giving yourself a chance is the key. Most times I go into these things blind, like the time I reformatted my hard drive using very cryptic, hand written instructions from a guy that couldn't really speak English. It didn't end well.

My list of accomplishments reads more like a list of attempts, and that, I think, is a good thing. For example, I play half- assed rhythm guitar in a band. Sometimes I forget the chord progression in the Neil Young song I’m playing and I’ll never learn the solo from Sweet Child of Mine but damn do I have fun on jam night! I’ve written and recorded about 10 songs of which a few might even be fit for public consumption. Are they great songs? No. Am I richer for the experience? Hell yeah, it was amazing. I got to wear the fancy headphones and sing into the microphone with the nylon thingy in front of it that stops your spit from making popping noises. 

How about the time, at age 38, I joined a competitive soccer team after a 25 year hiatus from the game?
“I can run”, I thought. “I've still got my moves from grade six”. 
Perhaps I underestimated the level of play in the league. Most teams were peppered with Europeans who grew breathing soccer the way Canadians do with hockey. Guys with names like Salvatore and Pavel who had footwork moves that could turn you inside out. Fortunately for me, it turns out if you have no skill in men’s over 35 soccer, you can survive on superior cardio and heart. Think Forrest Gump. 

Other questionable yet intrepid things I have done include such undertakings such as re-canvasing a canoe, building a website, starting a blog and wearing skinny jeans. When I learned it was possible to make your own charcoal in a 55 gallon drum, that became my summer project last year. I had one small explosion when gas fumes got into the barrel before I lit the fire, but other than that, it was a smashing success. Once I get going on these things, I have a bit of compulsiveness that takes over – until the next flight of fancy takes my imagination that is. 

There is something very satisfying in trying the unknown whether you achieve success or not. I want to be the guy who brews his own beer and can do a brake job on his car. I am desperate to weld something. Oh…and I’m going to build a wood fired sauna. Don’t fall into the trap of winning and success and all that crap. Wade into the task with a positive attitude and blatant disregard for what you think you can or cannot do. You might make a mess of things and ruin a completely good hard drive, but at the very least you’ll end up with a really good story.

Making charcoal in a barrel....

It's Alright Ma...I'm Only Bleeding

The first time I gave blood was about 8 or 9 years ago, and if truth be told, I did it for all the wrong reasons. Actually there was only one reason, but it was still on the business end of wrong. Due to some dietary concerns, I wanted to find out my blood type. Yes, there may be easier ways to find out one’s blood type, such as making a doctor’s appointment, or calling one’s mother, but who has the stomach for all that?

 Mrs. Rock and Roll Librarian suggested that I simply go and give blood and that way I could check off my good deed for the year and find out my blood type all in one fell phlebotomy. She’s a nurse, so I figured it was all on the up and up, so when the next blood donor clinic came to town, I was there.

Righto, I think. I’ll just whip in, get jabbed or stabbed or whatever they do, grab my test results, and I’m outta there. I entered the clinic, spotted the blood donating area and bee lined for it, but was promptly ambushed by nurse Ratchet. As it turns out there is a bit of a procedure and I was redirected to the staging (aka loser) area with all the other newbs to fill out the first timers paperwork. Seasoned veterans were waltzing by me with their donor cards out, flashing the nurses at the front table as though they have back stage passes to a concert. Smug bunch of do-gooders, obviously with nothing better to do than hang around the banquet room of the Days Inn, waiting to cash in on the free cookies. Once I got through the initial barrage of paperwork, I was shuffled into the actual line. It’s not really a line so much as a series of stations where they make you hold different pieces of paper at each one, and ask you weird questions.
 “Have you ever been bitten by a monkey? Have you ever yourself bitten a monkey? Have you ever been incarcerated in a Mexican prison and had to sell your body to buy back your freedom?”
No, no, and thank God no.

Eventually you get to sit at the edge of the action, awaiting the call to bleed. This is where I learned that if you get up too fast, you can faint. I watched as one woman got to her feet, took two steps and then started to wobble like a drunken sailor. One of the nurses was at her side in a flash and they walked her over to a stretcher to collect her bearings.

 “Is she going to be all right?” I whispered to the old guy next to me.

 “Oh…she’ll be fine. Just needs to get some sugar in her.”
 What he said next was cause for concern.

 “Happens to a lot of first timers if they’re dehydrated.”

 Just then, the nurse called his name and he stood up. I grabbed him by his cardigan and held on.

 “Wait! I’m a first timer. I’m dehydrated! Am I going to faint?”

 Cardigan guy looked at me with no small amount of pity.

 “You’ll be fine son. If you’re squeamish, just don’t look at the needle. It’s kind of…well it’s bigger than a regular needle let’s just say. Now let go of my cardigan.”

 I let him go as the true gravity of the situation sunk in. They were going to take God knows how much of my precious blood – ciphon it out of my body and store it in a glorified zip-loc bag that was hanging in clear view, right beside my head. No freakin’ way, I think, preparing to bolt. Unfortunately at that moment, one of my students sat down beside me.

 “Hi Mr. McEwen! I didn’t know you gave blood.”

 Great. This was going to complicate my exit strategy. I may have to fake a heart attack.

“Hi Lucy. Hey…don’t you have to be 18 to be here?”

 “Nope. 17. My birthday was last week. I always said to myself, as soon as I turned 17, I would donate and here I am.”

 “Trying to find out your blood type are you?” I asked with a knowing wink.

 “What? No, I was in Sick Kids Hospital for three months when I was seven, and I received a lot of blood. I’m just giving back. My goal is to get my gold milestone pin. That’s when you donate 100 times."

 Well this was not going well. This girl was hampering my escape with her lousy selfless behavior.

 “Wow, 100 times? Do you get paid after like the 5th time or something?”

 “Good one Mr. McEwen. So…I’m kind of nervous. Does it hurt?”

 “Not really.” I lied. Obviously it’s going to hurt like a bastard.

 “Just don’t look at the needle.” I added.
As if on cue, the nurse called my name and it was time to face the music. They positioned me in the reclining chair and to be honest, the next bit of business was considerably less traumatic than I had imagined. I guess I got all worked up for nothing as I made it through without fainting, and apparently l have really good veins for this type of thing, because the needle went in easy and I was done in no time. Relief city.

 I didn’t go back to the clinic for about 2 years after that, but the volunteers who hunt down donors are persistent, and fortunately, they didn't give up on me. These days I get a call every few months asking me to schedule an appointment and get there whenever I can. The whole thing takes about an hour. If you’re looking for a way to help out, I highly recommend donating blood. Really, it doesn’t hurt much and it’s an easy way to give something of yourself... literally.
By the way….I’m an A positive.

Your homework....Give Blood - Pete Townshend with David Gilmour on guitar.
This is worth it for the backup singers alone....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeXf90OGTHE

Top 10 reasons you need to listen to more music.

1. Distraction

Recently I was explaining to the Mrs. that for the first ten minutes of every day, between the time I crawl out of bed to when I get out of the shower, I feel the weight of the world crushing me into a finely ground paste. My brain starts spinning with all the things I have to do that day and all the things I forgot to do the day before. I’m pretty sure I spend the night storing up a zillion thoughts while I sleep, only to have them unleashed in a torrent of negativity, as though they are coming out of the shower head. It is, to be accurate, a shower of doom. 

 At this point she says, “Why don’t you get one of those shower radios? You can listen to music to take your mind off things." To which I replied, “That is your greatest idea since the time you let me use the chainsaw in the house to dismantle the old piano.” Point being, music can be a meditative force that can provide focus and take you mind to a calm place. It doesn’t matter if you’re singing along to Walk Like an Egyptian or War Pigs, as long as it puts you in the moment. Go ahead…sing along and be happy. Just like witches at black masses.

2. Spontaneous dance party

Any time or any place music is playing, the phenomenon known as the spontaneous dance party can erupt. Like an un-choreographed Flash mob, people just drop what they are doing and get down. It happens on back porches in the summer, in bars after midnight, and at all points in between. At my house it usually happens in the kitchen, during meal preparation. Cooking to music is a good thing. Cooking while throwing down some sweet dance moves is a great thing.  Occasionally, Mrs. Rock and Roll Librarian and Junior will join in and we get our dance on.  Recommended pairing: Bob Marley while making jerk chicken offers a great chance to shake it down while adding a touch of island authenticity to your dish.   

3. Emotion

Having music affect you emotionally is a pretty powerful thing. A certain song may bring tears, or joy, or better yet, tears of joy. It might be the Hallelujah chorus in Handel’s Messiah that makes you shiver or a cheesy love song that makes your heart ache but either way, how cool is it that some sounds put together with some words can have the power to reduce you to a puddle? There is a live version of Eric Clapton’s Running on Faith where, amidst the climax of the song, the back-up girls are just killing it, and he is doing a call and answer kind of thing with them and kind of soloing at the same time, and every time I hear it, it makes me smile. How could you not take advantage of some free mood altering stuff that won’t leave you with a hangover?

4. Connect with the Kids

Show some interest in what the kids are listening to these days and you can really make a connection. 

“So son…how about that new Bruno Mars featuring Rhianna and Jay Z?”  I ask casually.

“Dad…I don’t even know what you are saying to me right now.”

“You know….I Should Have Bought You Flowers.”

Then I sing in my best falsetto “I shoulda brought you flowers, I shoulda held your hand.”

“Dad....first of all, that doesn’t feature anyone, and it’s called When I was your Man.”

Well…I like that one. It’s not as crap as the rest of the stuff you listen to.”

“I like that one too dad.”

5. Air Guitar/Drumming practice

Everyone has an inner air guitarist waiting to be released. Like anything though, you need to practice or else your technique won’t get any better. (You never know, you might want to enter the air guitar world championships that are held every year – this year in Oolu, Finland) While not as popular a pursuit, air drumming should also be considered a legitimate form of music appreciation. If you are up for it, try out Jet’s Are you Gonna Be My Girl for a fun air guitar thrash. Recommended air drumming is the intro for Van Halen’s Hot for Teacher, or anything by Rush of course.

6. Singing

You can’t sing dude. Seriously. However, the beauty of singing along to the pros is that the loudness of the radio will cover the suckiness of your voice. If you’re anything like me, when you’re rocking down the highway, volume cranked and belting out Black Hole Sun along with Chris Cornell, you sound great. Listen to music, sing along and before you know it, you’ll be hitting the Karaoke bars and wowing them with your vocal stylings.

7.  Motivation

If the only sounds you hear during your workout are the clanging of weights and the strained grunting of overdeveloped thugs, I’ve got some bad news for you. You’re in prison. Here on the outside we’re allowed to listen to music any time we like, so why not during your workout? Make yourself a playlist of your favourite up-beat tunes and you’ll burn through the workout with the greatest of ease. It’s a fact.   (For real…I read it in Men’s Health magazine.) If you are a runner and you have to go solo, an iPod makes things much more enjoyable. Just don’t make it so loud you can’t hear the traffic. Safety first kids.

8. Sleep

Can’t sleep? Radiohead - The Bends or Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here

9. Broaden your horizons

They say that most people are prone to listen to the same music they listened to in high school, even after 20 or 30 years, because it harkens back to a time in your life when your main occupation was having fun. This can be a dangerous proposition if you came up in the disco era, or perhaps went through a bad Marky Mark phase. I’m as guilty as the next guy when it comes to reverting back to the old ways, but I still think it’s important to rotate the playlist and keep an eye out for the next Bob Dylan. If you are stumped, my new school favourites are Amos Lee, The Civil Wars, and The Decemberists. Keep searching the old stuff too though. I’ve rediscovered the obscure workings of Steve Earle, Bob Mould of Husker Du fame and Led Zeppelin’s In Through the Out Door, which for some reason I used to think was crap.

10. Set the Mood

You need to know your music if you’re going to take control of the iPod. Megadeth at a dinner party is not really cool, unless it’s a barbarian’s feast. Same goes for the dance party you’re hosting or the backyard BBQ. It’s helpful to have a great collection to draw on and even better if you can match the right tunes with the crowd.  

Your homework if you should choose to accept it….I just discovered Grace Potter and I dig this song.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9aXiYeXurdc