Do you have suppressed wanderlust? I sure do. I’m itching to travel, even to just go on a road trip for a few days, something Derek and I love to do. But to paraphrase Bob Dylan, the times they have a-changed. It will be a good long while before that travel itch can get properly scratched.
…If you’re old enough, you might recognize today’s title as a song lyric from the 1972 soft rock hit, It Never Rains in Southern California. Albert Hammond wrote and sang it. And if you know the song, it goes on to say: It pours, man, it pours.
…As a child of the late 60s and the 70s, it always irked me when people called a 45 centre a “spider”. “Oh, that’s what it was called”, they said. “They”, being amateur historians who weren’t there when 45s were the most popular way to play music and needed the special bit of plastic to fit them onto a record player spindle! Harrumph, and other sounds of indignation…
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Have you ever wondered how much more time you would spend outside if it wasn’t for the Internet? Me neither. I’m too busy viewing nature photos online.
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The annual Botten-and-cousins-fest happened over the weekend. This is the one whose early, backyard days in Sharon, ON brought some of York Region’s finest in uniform to cap the noise.
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Six months have passed since Derek and I had the privilege of driving down the Pacific coast from BC to California. The goal was to get Erin Davis’ Mini Cooper to Palm Springs. Mission accomplished, via a gorgeous drive.
…Just about a year ago, we were in Memphis. We visited Graceland, walked storied Beale St. and took a tip from a producer at Sun Studio and grabbed lunch at Elvis’ favourite diner.
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An encounter with a woman in Oregon has stuck with me. We didn’t even talk to her but an increasingly loud conversation she had with a woman at the front desk at a hotel, although brief, was memorable.
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On our recent trip south, at a steakhouse in Bandon, OR, the server brought us a little plate with the bill. On it were two tiny, triangular bites of their signature dessert. “Just to say thank-you”, said the server. It was a nice touch and we hadn’t ordered dessert so we enjoyed it. …
This is what happens when you’re an artist to the core and your parents leave you too much money and land! …
You know the kind of person who can tell you the street names and highlights of towns and cities they’ve visited only once? Well, I’m not one of those people. I have just dug through a mountain of receipts to remember where we have been! Lucky for us, we mainly drove on one road: highway 101 along the Pacific coast, from Washington to California. …
When Donald Trump made fun of sexual assault victim Christine Blasey-Ford, I knew I was close. When he walked up the steps of Air Force One with toilet-paper stuck to his shoe, and no one told him, my laughter created a little bit of room for more. But the confirmation of undoubtedly biased Brett Kavanaugh to the US Supreme Court nailed it. I’m out of f***s. …
Ever since that time I bought the big house in Toronto and found myself waist-deep in a much higher cost of living, I’ve been seeking out ways to make it all smaller. The big house coincided with the big job so the bills were manageable. But as fun as it was to decorate the place, the whole lifestyle went against my core values. …
For years, my Blackberry was my constant companion. It was provided to me by Rogers radio and I loved it. I was lightning-quick on the physical buttons on the keyboard and rarely made mistakes. It went with me to Europe and turned out photos that were plenty good enough. It’s not like I was entering them in a contest. …
For a few years, alternating them with my then-husband, I went to Country Music Fan Fair in Nashville as a working journalist. It was always held during the hottest week of the summer, roughly 105F in the shade. I got to interview country’s up-and-coming stars while freelancing for the now defunct Country Wave Magazine. …
Not chocolate chip or peanut butter cookies. Cookies on the Internet that capture a bit of data from your visit to a website only to use it against you later on.
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