A Sticky Situation

Almost 18 years ago, I awoke on the day following my wedding with a seriously sore ankle. Looking at the comments on that post nearly 2 decades later, I wish I'd taken the Navigator's advice and cut the damn thing off. And to the anonymous poster - yes, I do wear those brown orthopedic shoes. 

And I'm walking with my cane again. 

Yeah, I'm back on the stick. Rhonda and I took a lovely walk through Wascana Trails on Sunday. And by walk, I mean stumble and climb and hope we can get back up the hill. It didn't hit me then, but I certainly woke up yesterday feeling it. 

Contrary to the conclusions of my doctor at the time, the ensuing 20 years have revealed that it most certainly is gout - and probably a nice healthy dose of arthritis too. I've got medications for the gout, but I do need to be a bit more careful about going off-road with this 80-year-old body. Have I mentioned I also have glaucoma, and I take drops every day to treat that? Peachy. 

Walking with a cane isn't the classic, stylish endeavour I'd always imagined it would be. It's a lot less Victorian gentleman and more cranky, wobbly Dr. House. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm House because I feel that grumpy. But my medical diagnosis skills aren't there. I'm 3 for 68.

And it seems I use that damn thing more and more all the time. 

I recently re-read "The Hound of the Baskervilles", the Sherlock Holmes book by Arthur Conan Doyle. The book opens with Holmes and his ever-present assistant, Watson, inspecting the walking stick of one Dr. James Mortimer. They deduce that he worked at Charing Cross Hospital, had a dog and had moved his medical practice into the country.  

Sometimes I look at my own walking stick with that same eye. Like Dr. Mortimer, I have a dog who has picked up my stick a time or two. Her teeth marks are pretty evident. And it's my right foot that bothers me the most, you can tell by the way the handle and rubber tip have worn. And I imagine you could come to some conclusion about how I spend my money based on the fact that this is clearly a lower-cost handmade item and not some mass-produced aluminum and rubber deal you get at the drugstore. Although I have one of those, too. Maybe I need to get it engraved or bound with brass to give more clues about me. Or maybe I stay a bit mysterious. Or maybe I don't forget my cane at the private residence of England's greatest private detective. 

But as fun as it is to play detective and look like I took a dumdum bullet in the Boer War, being on a stick is uncomfortable, inconvenient and generally a pain in the ass. Not only is there the pain of my foot, but having to adjust to walking on a stick causes soreness all over the body after a while. You don't just lose a foot, you generally lose a hand since you're always holding the damn cane. Not to mention, every time you lean it up against something to take a pee or grab something, it inevitably falls to the ground.

But I am thankful for ramps, automatic doors and buses that can lower their decks. As much as I've always tried to avoid misusing accessibility infrastructure so that those who need it have it, I'm glad it's there now when I need it. 

And then there's the motivation-draining aspect of this whole thing. Like I don't wanna do ANYTHING right now. I could be forgiven for wanting to avoid building a barn or cleaning house, but I don't even want to sit and play video games or play guitar - like non-standing things. I just want to lie around. 

Ah well. Hopefully, it fades off by the end of the week, and I can start to feel like a normal person again soon. 

The world needs more than stories

 Back at the beginning of July, I played my first "real gig" at Moose Jaw's Sidewalk Days festival. From almost the first moment I was there, I noticed that there were a bunch of people walking around with nice big walking sticks. I mean - wooden broom handles. But walking sticks nonetheless. 

I asked around and was always given the friendly note that you could get one at the south end of Main Street. No one said how much they were or how I was to get one. 

So it was that after my performance and before I had a busking shift to start that I mosied my way down to the south end of Main Street to see if I could obtain my own walking stick. But as I approached the booth with a barrel full of broomsticks, I knew I'd been duped. This was no hippie selling recycled broom handles to gullible festival goers. No, this was an evangelical church, and they'd be happy to give you a walking stick and a string of beads. If you listen to a story. 

I established earlier this summer that I'm probably not going to be swayed to the Lord by some story, but I did kinda want a walking stick, and I do try and approach life with an open mind. Plus, I kinda wanted to hear this story if nothing else. Boy, was I in for a letdown. 

A letdown because there were no stories. Just some old white dude giving me a list of rules I needed to follow - all with "in a Christian church" appended to them. Like 10 minutes standing with this man and he couldn't tell me a single story.

What a waste. I may no longer be a Christian, but I was once, and I know that the Bible is positively PACKED with stories. And Jesus did a lot of work spreading his message using stories. Does anyone remember the good Samaritan or the prodigal son? Like stories abound. But this dude couldn't find one of them to tell me. I wanted a piece of wood, but he wanted my soul - and that's gonna cost more than $7. 

So it was that as he reached the end of his checklist of rules and pivoted to "can we pray together?" that I stopped him. I explained to him that there was no story told in the last five minutes. I explained that I had been raised in a Christian church, and the things I had seen had been what drove me away from faith. And that couldn't be bought back with a broomstick and some dollar store beads. 

Fast forward to this Saturday afternoon, as I was walking the dogs and thinking about this interaction again. I don't know if I saw a broomstick or a flyer for a local church, or what had me thinking about that. And I was thinking about how badly churches are failing themselves and humanity these days. How these institutions that are supposed to be built on a foundation of charity and love are spending more time trying to control and manipulate. 

And in that moment, I stumbled across a man lying on the ground next to the old abandoned church near my house, unresponsive. 

I did what the churches aren't doing. I stopped and offered aid. 

It's a bit more convoluted than that, to be sure. I tried to rouse him and couldn't. I had to run my giant Newfie home because she was very concerned with this person and was getting loud and belligerent. I didn't have a phone to call 911. I was not in a position to offer easy help. So I ran home, dropped off the dog, grabbed my phone and ran back. 

I was able to get the man up, but he was in terrible shape, and I called an ambulance to come offer assistance. The story doesn't have much from there. I kept him safe and gave him instructions, monitored him until the paramedics arrived, then I was left on my own to ponder what had just happened. 

And that pondering led me to the place of - could this man have been helped to a healthier place if that church had spent less time trying to con people into faith and more time trying to help the poor? Could the money spent on wooden dowels have been spent on food, education or drug treatment? 

I've been thinking a lot about this over the weekend. Whenever I am tempted to volunteer to help others, it's never through a religious organization. And after nearly 2 decades in "the hood" I've never even seen a Christian church lending help. I do see the Sikhs feeding people every weekend. So if I were going to consider a faith, it's more likely to be Sikh or Buddhist. Because those are the people I see actually helping. Faith for the sake of faith isn't enough. 

And so ends another tirade about religion. But at least in my anti-religion tirade, I told a story. Actually, I told two. 

Checkmate. 

The myth of myths

"Better start writing about Ozzy ☹️"

It wasn't the first I'd heard, but it was how The Navigator chose to tell me that The Price of Darkness had left the mortal coil last Tuesday. 

But I wasn't quite ready to share my thoughts then. I'm not really sure I am now. 

I don't know that I remember "discovering" Ozzy Osbourne, or for that matter, Black Sabbath. They've always just been there. I'm not sure I ever adored Ozzy as a singer, but more as an icon or as a character. He never made me cry like Gord Downey or brought me euphoria like Maynard James Keenan, but he was always there. 

Ozzy's celebrity was unavoidable in the 1990s, but at the same time, something was missing. You never heard Sabbath songs on the oldies station - only on the rock stations. My parents listened to 1970s music, but they never had Sabbath records. I never saw Sabbath or Ozzy records when I bought old records at garage sales. 

All that to say, I certainly knew Ozzy, many of my favourite bands are disciples of Sabbath, but I wasn't exactly a nut about him. 

So why have I felt so weird about Ozzy's death? 

I saw a video the other day talking about how music just isn't special anymore. It's perfect and overproduced. Some of that makes sense, I suppose, but it doesn't quite hit the mark. I think it's more about how everything around music has changed. 

How we get the music has changed. Outside of an algorithm or a YouTube video, what was the last thing you discovered that really grabbed you? We never get our music from our friends, from the music shop or from someone on the street anymore. 

And with that, we've lost the myths of our music. I mentioned it in my comment on The Navigator's post from last Friday, but there are no real legends anymore. Like, we don't pass these stories down orally anymore. No one whispers stories about Lemmy bedding 100 women or Alice Cooper dining on bats. There's always a website with fact-checking backing up everything being said. 

In a "post-truth" world, I suppose looking for the facts is a good thing. But the only way a singer becomes a legend or a myth is if legendary stories or mythical events surround them. Not to mention, sharing what they're up to is how bands (or anyone in media) promote themselves these days. There's a statement I hear repeated often when I'm looking for how to promote my music project: "Document the process." So everything is videotaped. 

There are no more myths. Only evidence. 

Maybe that's the way it needs to be. But it sure takes the fun out of rock n' roll.

Rest easy Oz. I hope you're having a blast with Randy and Lemmy and all the rest of your rock n' roll buddies who left us with the last true myths humanity may ever know. 

I turned 44

 I know, it feels like I already tackled this subject. But this is more about my impressions and behaviour in the week since my birthday. 

I noticed the shift not long after last week's post. Because of the rain we'd had the week before, our firewood and tinder were damp, and I was struggling to start the fire. Normally, I'd just persist until I had fire but - I was 44. I didn't want to persist. I just wanted fire. So I grabbed a firestarter cube from my pizza oven kit and got the fire started in no time. 

I'm not sure why I'm like this, but given the option between the easy way to do something or the hard way, I am inclined to select the hard way. Especially if I have time and resources to do it. Maybe it's being culturally Catholic. Maybe it's just a belief that becoming fully dependent on tech and shortcuts will erode my ability to do stuff. 

But I really am in my midlife now, and it's really become apparent over the last couple of years that I'm not going to live forever. Today we learned that the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne, died. I mean, if Ozzy can die, I sure can too. Even if he's got 30 years on me. (Side note: I'm sad about Ozzy dying. We all knew it was coming sooner than later, but it's tragic to see the end of the beginning for so many of us of a heavy-music persuasion. I'm so glad he got to do one last show with Sabbath. I had hoped he would end it all by having a bat bite off his head as the finale of the show. No luck. RIP Ozzy.)

And this willingness to take help has continued. This weekend, after a decade of harassment, I finally bought a licence for Reaper to help me record an EP. I could do it with Audacity. But it's so much easier with Reaper. 

It's a debate I've always had with myself. What is the balance between building skills and knowledge through hard work and practice, or making life manageable through the conveniences of the modern world? I think that the Amish have perhaps gone too far in the wrong direction, but at the same time, I'm glad I held off on TikTok to wait and see what happens. I'm grateful to have a car to drive to get groceries, but at the same time, I'd love to eat at a restaurant or bar without 100 screens in my face. 

But now, I'm 44. So that's going to help my decisions for the next bit. Maybe the easy way is the way. And if I'm wrong, I've made it this far without knowing how to tie a proper Clove Hitch. Probably I can make it another 44 years without that knowledge. 

Happy Birthday - to me?

I'm damp, slightly cold and my kidneys hurt. That's right, it's my 44th birthday!

As is typical, we are spending the week camping. We got the same site we booked last year at Buffalo Pound. 

The camper was out of commission all last summer but, with great effort, I got it back up working this year. The cable that is used to lift it was broken and there was no grease in half of the camper. So I spent the last 3 weeks greasy and angry but repairing the camper. It now lifts quickly and perfectly silently and I couldn't be happier. 

It rained pretty hard all day yesterday so everything is just a little bit wet and I think we're all just a little bit sore and frustrated from it. But today looks like it's going to be gorgeous and we can get things dried out and back to enjoying camping. 

Jonas brought a bunch of his friends out camping this year so there's less entertaining, the kids for us at least. And Kayah is working all week. So we only get to see her a couple times. 

I made pizzas in the rain last night which was kind of funny. We have an awning so I was able to stay dry and the pizza oven was so hot that it was actually kind of warm. 

Really the worst part was for the boys because we forgot to bring a ground sheet for the tent. I think they were a little moist in there but I think they're going to be just fine once we get them dried out. 

I don't have any huge plans for the day or even for the week. I might try and write a few songs and I do want to practice a bit because next week. I'm heading into the studio to record a few of my songs. The music thing is finally starting to take off a little bit. I've got a few gigs ahead and a few projects that I want to do. 

But really my needs are simple. Today I need a shower.

Well looky here.

The Search

 Last week's post was openly lazy, but there was a reason I had become so lethargic by the time I sat down to write (dictate) the post. 

You see, Rhonda and I had spent most of the afternoon on a crusade to find a most unusual thing - Co-Op Gold Ginger Ale. 

Ginger Ale? I know. I thought much the same at first. 

It started when we stopped at the Co-Op to fill the car with gas. Rhonda commented that she'd had a Co-Op ginger ale on her trip home from Winnipeg the week before, and we should grab some. Alas, the cooler had none left. 

After the gas station, we needed to stop for some groceries (namely the hamburgers I needed to grill up in last week's post). But again, the coolers were empty and the shelves had been wiped clean. Well, that was a bit unusual. 

We had some time before we needed to pick up Jonas from a friend's house, so we decided - what the heck, let's see if we can find some at the Co-op grocery near his friend's house. Again, no ale in sight. So we tried the gas station next door. Empty. 

Things were starting to get weird. 

The next day, I was in the south end and needed a Slurpee, so I stopped by the South Albert Co-op. No ginger ale. 

At this point, it turned from fun curiosity into an obsession. I don't even care to drink the beverage. I just need to know it exists. It has become my holy grail. 

On Friday, I dragged Jonas all the way to North Winnipeg Ave. Co-op only to leave empty-handed again. 

And so this story continues to progress without a resolution. As recently as last night, Rhonda stopped at the Co-op grocery store and left with another ale fail. I have some holidays next week, and while we'd planned to go to Buffalo Pound for some camping, I'm prepared to cancel and spend the week scouring Western Canada for this soda. 

I've made a police-artist sketch of the soda, if you see some, please let me know. Take pictures because it might be gone once "they" figure out we're on to them. 

After all of this - it better not taste like shit. 

Lazy Deck Day

As I sit here on my deck on a beautiful Canada Day and consider that "fuck I have to blog." But the good news is it's 2025 and not 2005 anymore so I don't even need to type. I can dictate this. So I am. 

I mean really I could just make AI write this blog post and just smoke another bowl and enjoy Canada Day like I should. But I'm not. I'll just voice to text it. 

The Pilot that wrote this blog back in the early 2000s probably would have been pretty amazed by this. I do remember trying to blog using my cell phone and t9 typing and that just took a lot of work. 

So what do I have to say on this gorgeous Canada Day in 2025? Not a lot. Like every Canada Day I think a lot about my place as a Canadian and what the history of my people means to the people who lived here before me. But I also feel under threat from the people south of us who really could give two shits about the people that came before them or the people that come after cuz all they can think of is now.

I'm also enjoying Canada today in the other way I usually do: by listening to Canadian music. And not the cliche stuff. This isn't April Wine and Bachman-Turner Overdrive. No, I'm listening to some newer stuff. Some Burning Hell. Maybe a little July Talk. Who knows what could be next. Maybe even Beaches. Canada has some great music.

Wait.  July Talk? April Wine? There's a theme idea for The Cockpit! Canadian month bands. Like Leonard "June" Cohen.

I'm playing my first paid gig in over a decade in Thursday in Moose Jaw. I'm pretty stoked. I've been going out busking at the Farmer's Market to practice up so I suppose those are my first paid gigs. In any case. 

Slow week,.I suppose not much to say. And those burgers aren't about to grill themselves. Lazy hamburgers. 

Why you do me so dirty Strombo?

I recently watched a video essay by one of my generation’s spokespersons, George Stroumboulopoulos. It’s an essay about aging, about our moments as a generation, and he focuses on the legendary soundtrack for the movie “Singles”.

Now, I admit, this wasn’t a soundtrack I was actually that into at the time. I had plenty of others. The soundtrack to Cable Guy, Godzilla, Empire Records – even my first CD: the Wayne’s World soundtrack. But the songs on this soundtrack are the bands that defined my younger years and are the foundation of what we were into during that 1990-1996 era.

He talks about the legendary years of 1965-1969, and I realize that not only did we have a similar movement of music and culture, but a lot of what happened in the late 60s helped define the early 90s. Jimi Hendrix and The Beatles were as essential listening as Nirvana or Soundgarden. And it makes me feel very old to realize that there is more time between Nirvana and now than there was between Hendrix and Nirvana.

Sigh.

Maybe the essay shouldn’t have made me feel sad, but it did. It’s as though the cycle didn’t come around again. That time of youth coalescing to create something new and expose the excess and abuse of the music industry. Or maybe I just don’t see it because it’s not rock and roll. Because the cycle didn't come back around and pick me up. It was for someone else.

And then again, maybe it’ll come in the next couple of years. The world really is in a bad way, and people are standing up around the world. Something I’ve learned in developing Jeremy and his Kazoo is that the kazoo is an instrument of protest. Maybe I’m the one on the cusp of the next cultural movement. Not that I have the energy or, frankly, the knees for it.

I mentioned to The Navigator when he was over a couple of weeks ago that I’d been watching a lot of JHS Pedals content on YouTube. One of the most fascinating things I’ve learned through that was how the intersection of rock music and technology created so much of that late 60s sound. Jimi Hendrix with the wah and fuzz. Clapton with overdrive. The Beatles and flanger.

All this to say, these changes come with the innovations of the time. And I think our time is defined by the innovations of social media and the internet. Hank Green talks a lot about this and how similar uprisings happened after the printing press. Maybe the movement happening now will be easier to see in a decade or two.

So what of it all? Nothing really. Just an old man bellyaching about how good we had it while I sit here and listen to the Singles soundtrack streaming on Spotify.

But George also talks about all of the people on that soundtrack who died too young. And about one who they wanted on the soundtrack that also didn’t make it to 30. And that just doubles down on the feeling of being old, of being fragile and finite.

And it makes me want to make music. To connect. To make a zine, copy a tape, hang posters and just do all of those things that social media has taken. To be human and connected in person again. 

Time to get moving along

 I've mentioned my frustration with work and life a couple of times over the last year. It's such a weird position to be in because in the same breath that I'm fed up with my place in life, it's a nice enough rut that it's hard to get out of. I don't feel particularly motivated to apply on jobs or run off to the woods. 

Yet another modern Catch-22 of my own making. 

The Navigator visited this weekend, and we had a chance to talk about work. We talked about his recent job move and what he's doing to find himself in the right position. It was inspiring to me. Being at the same company for 18 years makes switching jobs an anxiety-filled proposition. But here he is, looking at his options mere weeks after starting a new job. Far out. 

Photo of me with handsome nephew Capone for context. 

Coming into work yesterday, I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place and frankly lacking the motivation to find my way out. Granted, trying to launch a music project is part of that. As is raising a family and trying to keep up with the Joneses. 

So I decided to leave it for this week. Just relax. I start a long stretch of holidays on the 24th, and I'll focus more on job applications and work stuff at that time. 

I'm considering using the career counselling services I can get through my work employee assistance program as well. It's not just wanting to change companies or managers - I think it's time I looked at a new path or challenge. If I knew I stood a chance in hell, I'd just dump every ounce of energy into music. But there doesn't seem to be much of a future there. It's gonna be more of a part-time gig. 

And maybe I should just forgive myself for being burnt out on life. 

Who knows.