December 30, 2008

The Last Dance.

I have a DJ SuperCub gig for New Year’s Eve night. I just cemented the deal last night, but I will be doing my regular Friday night gig on Wednesday but for a little longer and there will be balloons dropping and champagne instead of some cheap swill. The drunk woman will probably still be sitting on the urinal in the men’s room.

I haven’t mentioned this to anyone outside of Earl but the Wednesday night gig will probably be my last at the bar I’ve been spinning at for the past year or so. Earl and I have a *lot* of plans for the next several weekends and quite frankly I don’t think my style fits the crowd at the club anymore. So I’m in search of a new gig come 2009, more likely in the way of guest appearances. Earl and I will still continue hosting the semi-monthly bear nights and I’ll still make CDs for the bar because I enjoy that very much.


“LAST EXIT BEFORE USA” the sign proudly proclaimed. “2.5 km to Buffalo USA” the next one so generously reminded us.

Sigh. It’s time to cross the border. Good-bye Canada. We’ll see you very soon.

“United States.” I refuse to say I’m an American because that would imply that all other countries on the North and South American continents don’t have that right when technically they are Americans too, just not in the generally accepted sense. Nevertheless…
“How long have you been in Canada?”
“24 hours.”
“Where have you been?”
I wanted to tell him that I had driven to Winnipeg and back but he probably wouldn’t have believed me.
“Why were you in Oakville?”
“Visiting my sister and her husband for the holiday. Happy holidays.”
“Your sister is Canadian?”
“Not yet. Her husband is a Canadian though. He plays hockey.”
Hockey doesn’t impress a U.S. Customs Agent. Silly boy.
“What did you take into Canada?”
“My mother.”
“Where is she?”
“In Oakville with my sister and her husband the hockey player. She’s spending time with her grandchildren.”
He tries to discreetly wave my passport over a reader, but my passport isn’t chipped. He has to slide it. I’m old fashioned.
“Where do you live?”
I give him the name of our little town. It’s near the little city. I refrain from saying my favorite name for the little city. It rhymes with “hit bowl”.
“What do you do?”
“I work for a telephone company.”
“How do you know each other?”
“We are LOVERS!” I proudly proclaim.
Customs man just got a teensy bit more woofy.
“What do you do?”
“I work for a telephone company.” Is it rerun season? Oh, he’s talking to Earl.
“Who is the car registered to?”
Earl leans over, “it’s my company car, it’s a leasing company.”
“Are you bringing anything you purchased back to the U.S.?”
“No. We just ate food and drank a little.”
“Roll down the back window so I can see in.”
Thank goodness for automatic windows.
“Thank you, have a nice day.”

Welcome to “The Land of the Free.”