I was all ready to write a pissy and rather bitter post this morning about people who chew gum and cut across lanes when they turn … until I found this link:

http://www.earthhour.org

I read about it and felt all warm and fuzzy and decided to sign up. Take a look and leave a comment if you think this is worthwhile.

It’s also worth noting that I made it back from Toronto in one piece, and I’ll share a few slices of my journey with you now.

The first shot is of the Uxbridge Trans Canada Trail pavilion. I bought a metre of this trail back in 2006 - and while my name still hasn’t appeared in the pavilion, it’s nice to have supported such a good cause. Someday I’d like to hoof part (or all) of this trail …

Next up is the new face of Yonge and Dundas. This is quickly becoming one of those “magical” intersections, and I think it’s really giving Toronto a cosmopolitan, metropolitan look. As much as I miss the dingy old buildings, I do have to say that this part of the city has a new energy I’ve never felt before.

The venerable Eatons Centre (or whatever they call it now) is still a magnificent edifice, and I enjoyed paying homage (and some hard-earned) to Roots and lululemon. I can remember coming here in the early 1980’s when I was just a sprout, and the place still dazzles me with its expanses of glass roof, art, and ever-so-polite hustle and bustle that epotomizes Toronto life.

Last is a shot of my beloved TTC. “Ride the Rocket” in Toronto isn’t just innuendo, and there’s nothing more enjoyable than riding a red streetcar after chowing down on a hot dog from a Toronto street vendor. This particular streetcar kindly took me across Queen Street.

Canadians are often branded as whiners, but Americans take the cake when it comes to complaining about taxes.  And seriously, I’m tired of hearing it.

This country is a bounty of cheap, low-taxed junk.  It’s also full of creditors who are all too willing to finance that junk for low monthly installments (and no payments until June of 2086).  In fact, it’s entirely possible to live like royalty in America, finance this lifestyle over the next four-hundred years, and pay a pittance of taxes for all of it.

Please understand that I have tremendous respect for the mantra “no taxation without representation”, and I agree that taxes need to be managed carefully and spent appropriately (something the United States and Canada are not particularly good at) … but I also think that people whine about it way too much in this country.

Take, for instance, a car purchase.  Let’s suppose this new car costs $20,000.  For the privilege of that purchase I’ll donate an additional $600 (which technically isn’t even sales tax - it’s a “highway use tax”) to the coffers of North Carolina.  That same purchase in Ontario would have resulted in a $2600 windfall for the government.  And we can make this comparison relatively easily, since the US dollar and the Canadian dollar are virtually at par right now.  In the UK, the same vehicle (based on the VAT percentage rate) would net Her Majesty about $4200 - give or take a bit, since nobody really understands how taxation works in the EEC (and there’s a good chance that they don’t, either).

We also enjoy a deluge of tax deductions.  The interest from my mortgage, for instance, is a healthy tax deduction that puts a good bit of money back in my pockets at the end of the year.  No such luck in Canada.

But going back to cars (which is much more interesting than houses).  Now that we’ve bought that $20,000 car and made some government richer, we need to fill the tank.

In the United States, 15 gallons of regular fuel will run me about $47, based on the prices I saw this morning.

That same tank in Canada will cost me $59.53 (converting back to USD, based on today’s exchange rate).

That same tank in London, England will cost an agonizing $120.  And in the Netherlands?  You’re better off just walking.

In fact, the United States has some of the cheapest gas in the world, outside of the oil-producing countries like Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.

I could go on and on, but I won’t, because I don’t want to give the impression that Canadian are whiners. 

In 1994 I made my first attempt as a radio DJ.

I was in my first year at Trent University, and I remember vividly driving past the Trent Radio building every day.  I immediately felt a pang of envy; some friends and I had done some DJing in high school, but I had never gone “on the air”.

I would later learn that getting into a college radio station isn’t nearly as hard as it sounds (the basic requirements are to have a pulse, some initiative to show up on time, and a basic understanding of the CRTC or FCC’s rules), and I got a call from CFFF about a week after dropping off my application.

I had the advantage of familiarity with a mixing board and the basics of cueing, so the orientation was fairly uneventful.  What blew me away was the seemingly endless collection of music they had, including a voluminous amount of old vinyl.  There was nights I would spend endless hours in the stacks, running my hands over the worn cover-art.

My first night on the air was as a “fill-in” for a no-show DJ.  It was an awkward amount of time; an hour and twenty-two minutes.  I showed up with enough of my own records to play music for about three continuous days, and clumsily worked my way through the requisite call letters and public service announcements, and never once thought to myself that someone might actually be listening.

But I had the bug, and would continue as a DJ (first as a stand-in, and later with my own late-night show) for well over a year.  It was exhilarating, frustrating and incredibly boring; as good of a show as you may have, the night always ends with the anticlimactic silent walk out to the car, and the lingering question: did anyone actually listen tonight?

College radio taught me a few important skills.  The first one was the idea that the show must go on; in the midst of blown fuses, skipping records and failing XLR connectors, I had to make sure there wasn’t the least bit of panic in my voice.  The second skill was to use a microphone properly - and that wonderful Audio Technica side-address microphone that they had was the kind of microphone you could almost crawl inside of; it had a warmth that other broadcasters may be able to relate to.

I also learned how to put on a show - and not just in the “radio show” sense, but the idea that there’s more of a formula to entertaining people than just telling jokes and playing music.

I didn’t do anything remarkable at Trent Radio; it wasn’t so much about the shows I was producing as it was the skills I was developing - for another radio experience I’ll be blogging about shortly. 

3038 kilometres (1888 miles), 204 litres (54 gallons) of fuel, and many power bars later … and my trip to Toronto is complete.

I did a bit of a detour on the way back.  Normally I barrel down the interstates at supersonic speeds … but this time, I decided to take the scenic route through Pennsylvania.  I crossed the entire state on highway 219.

For those who have read William Least Heat-Moon’s book “Blue Highways”, you’ll understand exactly why I did this.  If you haven’t read that book, get it immediately.  Heat-Moon explains with alarming clarity why people should bypass interstates completely on road trips.

There was another ulterior motive here; my mother’s hometown of Lewis Run is just off 219.  Lewis Run is a tiny little blip on the map; the sort of place you don’t drive through unless you really need to.

My grandfather, Lebe, passed away in 1989.  It’s from him that I received my love of collecting and antiques.  Ironically, one of the things I brought home with me from this trip was an antique Sundstrand adding machine (circa 1918) that my grandfather used in his general store for many years.  It was only when I got home that I thought how appropriate it was that this adding machine return to its hometown - albeit briefly - on its way to its new home.

Most people will never have a reason in the world to hear of Lewis Run.  The largest “major” town to the north is Bradford - the home of Zippo lighters and Case pocketknives.  And you can bet that I stopped.

There’s something incredibly delightful about little trinkets like lighters and pocketknives.  I don’t smoke (in fact, I have never, ever smoked anything in my life), but I own two Zippos, just because.  One was made in Niagara Falls, Canada; the other (acquired on this particular trip) is a nice polished-brass model that I bought on this trip.

My reasons for owning a pocketknife are far more pragmatic.  Pocketknives can save lives; tragically, the residents of Cannington, Ontario learned this two weeks ago when a little girl drowned to death in a car accident.  The rescuers - valiant as they were - could not free her from her seat belt in time.  A pocketknife could literally have meant life for her.

(So there’s no doubt: I’m not disparaging anyone involved in that rescue.  It was a heroic attempt, and those people should be commended for braving the freezing-cold waters.)

I own nine pocketknives.  Seven of them are Case knives; the eighth is a Wenger Swiss Army knife, and the ninth is a Smith and Wesson number that looks a lot meaner than it actually is.  And while the Swiss blade is made with the usual fastidious Swiss obsession to detail, there’s something very “right” about the little Case knives that keeps them in my pocket every day.

I’m also proud to carry something from my mother’s hometown.

The most “valuable” of these knives is my grandfather’s old Case.  It bears the marks of many sharpenings, and having it keeps him a bit closer to me.

The last ditty I picked up is a set of Case steak knives.  I have never owned a proper steak knife set, and it seemed like the right time.  They come in their own little wooden case, and I can almost hear the “Andy Griffith” theme playing when I open the box.

Anyways, I’m back in Raleigh.  The temperature is in the high teens (in the 60’s Fahrenheit for the Yanks), and I can’t say that I’m not enjoying having all the windows open in my house.

On that note, time to throw some ‘burgs on the barbeque (grill).

Har, maties. Yesterday’s weather was just a warm up for ye sissies and complainers. This morning is the real thing - well into the “minuses” on both the Celsius and Fahrenheit scales.

Let me be unequivocally clear about these temperatures: this is fucking cold by anyone’s definition. Mel in northern Iowa Idaho will agree with me on this. The only people who don’t think this is frigid-ass cold are Eskimos - and even they would be putting a second pair of socks on in this weather.

The funny thing is - I’ll be doing the first leg of my journey home in this freezing weather. My car has never seen air this cold, and I’m sure it’s in the garage right now hoping that it’ll get to slumber through this. No such luck … and our adventure of driving through the snow on summer tires will continue, alas.