The New Book: A Work In Progress
The unlikely combination of musician and bush rat has found me in some odd and occasionally hilarious situations. Enough, in fact, that more than a few folks have muttered the equivalent of, “You can’t make this stuff up. You should write a book,” while managing to look serious at the same time.
So let me take you on a trip. You might find yourself recognizing one or another aspects of my double life as you accompany me, but you likely won’t recognize both. It has been, and continues to be, a fantastic experience; one I never take for granted and one for which I am eternally grateful. And parts of it might tickle your fancy. If you are of a mind, then, pull up a stump.
This thing is a living organism. I am knocking it out willy nilly and tossing up chapters as they materialize. Although I will do my best, there is no guarantee they will be in order. When stuff comes up like the day Hart burned down the outhouse, or I ended up having to wear an elf outfit on a particularly gruesome gig, they will need to be stuck in the right time frame after the fact. With that weasel clause out of the way, then, let’s get on with it. And thanks for coming along for the ride.
Oh, one more thing: I am tickled that one of best comic artists on the planet (Lynn Johnston of 'For Better or for Worse' fame - my mate and partner in crime) has offered to illustrate a few chapters in this epic of nonsense and tomfoolery.
ADVENTURES OF A GUITAR PLAYER IN THE NORTH
Misery stared at us through a frosty twilight. We could see the eyes now; dolefully sweeping the rapidly shrinking distance between us. One paw, then the other, lifted, then back again, the road just too cold to bear.
Rock hard tires pounded a fog of ice crystals up and over the hood, momentarily leaving us blind.
“Do you think he’ll move?”
I stirred. I hadn’t felt my left big toe for a while, and I was wondering whether I should check it out.
“I really don’t think he cares whether he lives or dies right now.”
“Well, he’d better make his mind up soon. As loaded as we are, we’re not going to be able to stop if he decides to commit seppuku.”
The mist cleared, allowing us to peer once again through the two tiny portholes that were the best a 401 cubic inch Ford engine could do to clear the windshield at this temperature. And he was gone.
A moment of silence then:
“Went home to get his boots?”
The cab erupted in laughter.
I scraped the frosted side window and stared out at the spruces flashing by, caped with snow and looking like so many old men huddled against the weather.
There we were. Silly buggers in a band, out in the middle of nowhere, hauling equipment in the dead of the Yukon winter, loaded to the tits at 54 below and laughing our asses off.
I reached down, rubbed my toe, and murmured to myself, “How in God’s green earth did I get here?”