Is that some sort of puppet?

*** continued from previous post ***


Behind the bar is a man.

At least, I think he was a man. But he seemed like an empty shell of a man. Zombie like. He wouldn't look at us. Just stood there, pouring frothy pints as Mom and I cleared our throats and looked at the menu. Not even a "Y hallo thar." I don't know for whom he was pouring the beer, for there was no one picking them up once they were tall and frosty. I believe it may have been a rote action.

The minutes ticked by. Curiously, and pointedly, he would busy himself at the counter, then wander away. Then come back. Nary a word escaped his mouth. When he did cast a glance at us it was less than friendly. Blank tinged with contempt is more like it.

Come to think of it, I didn't look for strings. He may have been a life-sized puppet. This whole experience could have been grand performance art, and we were just too stupid to get the joke. That would explain the bunching. Everyone wanted a good seat to the show.

After a while, (and it seemed like an eternity), Mom tugged my arm and said "This is just weird. Let's get out of here."

I believe she summed this situation up rather nicely. Time to get the Hell out of Dodge before there was trouble. As we began to make our way to the door, a man walked over to us and said, "The food is actually pretty good here."

Too late silly Canadian. The whole place had taken on a creepy 'Invasion Of The Body Snatchers' vibe. The crowd may have, I fear, on some unspoken alien-commander type cue, silently, and in unison, stood up and stabbed us in our red-blooded USA lovin' hearts with sporks, then later served us on toast to other unsuspecting tourists. If they ever got around to taking their order.

By the way in case you didn't know, sporks are the national utensil of Canada. It's true. Sporks are also, regionally, referred to as "foons' or 'runcible spoons'.

See, this is why I can't remember my address half the time - my brain is chock-full of useless, yet somehow mildly amusing knowledge.

Anyway, We left post-haste.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

We won't eat your babies. Probably.

*** continued from previous post ***


The first thing that strikes us as we sort of lunge through the door is - it's dark. Really dark. Like bat cave dark. As our eyes adjust we see that the room is fairly full of people sitting. Kind of bunched together all towards the front, oddly enough.

What made this weirder was there were a good number of tables spread through a deceptively large room. I mean this thing was huge! Another weird thing - there are not enough cars in the parking lot to accommodate the number of people in the Pub. From the looks of the crowd I assume that most of customers have given up and simply live in the bar.

And the whole creepy, clumping thing they had going on - I mean they were really bunched up. Eerily bunched up. Like a swarm of Canadians. Possibly we were witnessing some innate flocking instinct. If this were a raft, it would have capsized and everyone would have been eaten by sharks. Or squids. Or, by the most terrible horror of the deep - Shark-Squids!

But I digress, back to the Pub. The next thing we notice is that the conversation stops. I mean dead. Eyes turn to us. Hushed and whispered comments are exchanged. I look down to make sure we remembered to put our pants on. As you know, it's happened before.

Unsure of what to do - I mean do we sit and wait for the staff to bring us menus? Do we order at the bar? - we take a seat at one of the tables near the rear of the group and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Conversation in the Pub picked up a bit. I assume they realize we are not there to eat their young. Fatal mistake on your part silly Canadians! Bring out the babies!

And still we wait.

I leaned over and sniffed your Mom.

Mom leaned back and whispered, "What the hell are you doing? Did you just sniff me?"

"I did. I thought perhaps, in light of our day, you were a bit on the odiferous side and that's why we weren't getting served."

Mom stared at me, never breaking eye contact.

"You aren't. Odiferous I mean. Gamey maybe, but not truly odiferous."

Still nothing.

"Just a little," I said, and held out my thumb and forefinger to show her the universal sign for 'teeny-weiney'.

Mom leaned close, because - well because we were beginning to get creeped out at this point and didn't want to call undue attention to us, and said, "You know, I wouldn't call you 'daisy fresh' either."

I would have argued but that would have taken more energy than I could possibly rally enthusiasm. Plus, every time our voices rose above a hushed tone, the entire population of the bar twittered like a flock of starlings on a three-day espresso binge.

With patience of Job we waited, but even in our degraded state we soon realized that we could sit here until the Stanley Cup turned to rust and we were never going to be acknowledged.

"I guess we should go order at the bar," I whisper to mom.

We get up, and sort of tip-toe to the bar. Once again the place falls silent. It must be a predator-prey thing. I can imagine the group as a herd of gazelles on the Serengeti, ready to bolt at one threatening gesture, ever on the alert for teeth.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

What's With The Blondes?

*** continued from previous post ***


We collapse on the bed for awhile, each of us lost in our thoughts.

It felt great to be still and better to enjoy the quiet. It takes a while to shake the ride, much like a sailor getting his sea legs back. I begin to drift off to sleep when your Mom utters the fateful words: "Hey sweetie, you want to go grab something to eat? I'm getting hungry."

We saddle up. Gah! There's one problem to traveling by motorcycle, when the day is done the LAST thing you want to do is climb back on the bike. It's like an evil, evil carnival where you've spent a fantastic day riding the Tilt-O-Whirl and you're ready to go home but the Carny-folk won't let you because you were pitching the ride-operator crap due to the fact that you may have consumed enough tequila to anesthetize Connecticut and the semi-insulted dude at the button was now going to make you suffer by not letting you off the ride until you spin in the Tilt-O-Whirl for another three straight hours.

No, you may not ask how I know this. Grrrrrrr. Don't get me started on Carny-folk. They cost our family the Presidency back in 1916.

Back to the story.

We cruise down the road. Lots of people out and about. I notice that they are all unusually tall and blond. For some reason this unnerves me. I detect something sinister afoot. They all look related somehow – sharing the same facial features. I make a mental note to study on this further. Anyway, we see the Pub. It's close to the Motel, and that for now is one of my main criteria.

"Want to try there?", I ask innocently.

"Sure," mom replies.

We pull into the access road that parallels the highway, and cautiously roll into the parking area of the gray, blockish building. I'm confused immediately. It seems that one side is a family restaurant, (with a parking lot that is nearly empty), and the other side is the Pub with a few more vehicles in the parking lot, but not what I would call crowded by any stretch of the imagination. So I wheel the bike around, pull in next to a car and a couple of motorcycles, and proceed to back into a space next to the other bikes by the front door.

Before we can get our gear off, two guys come running up to us. Literally running. They want to talk about the Vision. That's fine, we are used to the bike attracting attention, but we're very weary. We spend the next 15 minutes discussing the Vision, and motorcycling in general, with the "boys". At last, the conversation begins to wind down. They may have gotten the hint when I started to claw my own eyes out of their sockets and your mother began to weep softly. We wrap up the conversation, say our good-bye's and venture inside the Pub for a hearty meal and some tasty, tasty cool drinks. As you know, no alcohol, but an iced tea would certainly hit the spot.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***