The Canadians are as perplexed about Trump as we are. They don’t hate Americans, just the Donald. But they also don’t understand how they wound up in a pissing contest with a long time friend and neighbor. How could they? Current events are completely inexplicable.
Well join the club my Canuck friends. We are also confused and angry. Along with Denmark, Venezuela, Cuba, Greenland, Mexico and just about every other country on earth.
Getting on an airplane for my flight to Montreal, the flight attendant, a large black man, told me I had great energy. So I have that going for me.
Another 5-day trip with Sjoerd and Shane. Always good but also good to be getting back to my people and my own life. I was out of sorts on this trip for some reason. Still working through some things I guess — trying to figure out the next few years.
The pictures look like we had a good time, so I suppose we did. Our trips are fairly predictable — only the location varies. We walk a lot, explore the city, check out the architecture and people-watch, stop for coffee and snacks and beers and have a couple of nice meals each day. We continue the same old arguments we left off with 6 or 8 months ago, none of us conceding any errors in our viewpoints.
The time to relax was good. If I had gone to Black Dog Ridge, I would have felt pressure to work all weekend on projects or cutting and stacking firewood
We were lucky with good weather this trip. It was unseasonably warm and sunny every day except the one day we were driving to Quebec City. So if we had to have a rain day, that was the day. When we stopped for lunch around the half-way point, the rain stopped and the sun came out while we sat outside at a picnic table and ate poutine and salads and grilled cheese with a cold beer. Our luck continued.
I walked just over 30,000 steps one day, and averaged about 20,000 every day except when we drove to Quebec City. Too much time in the car on that day. I also slipped in a nice run along the waterfront in Montreal. Precious time.
In Quebec City we rented a condo in a working class neighborhood. Lots of mid-level bars and restaurants and apartment buildings and shops geared more towards the budget shoppers than the elite.
Being an early riser, I was able to get some cherished alone time for early morning walks while the others slept in. Looming over our neighborhood was a different part of the city, way up high on a hill. So I walked up a few blocks, then a long set of steps, then another mile or so uphill. Block after block. Not unlike San Francisco. Finally I got to the heart of the city. CBD and a funky little neighborhood called Sainte Jean-Baptiste. Lots of Sainte named streets and towns and neighborhoods in this part of the world.
There is a big beautiful park on top of the hill and hard up against the downtown area. It’s called ‘Plains of Abraham’. No idea why. Maybe I’ll go to the library next week and see if I can find the answer.
I walked around the park and the old fort whose cannons pointed out over the St. Lawrence River (another St. Name) and took the obligatory photos of the beautiful views of the river and surrounding towns and further out, small mountains. After, I stopped at a small pâtisserie for a latte and a croissant and welcomed the early morning sunshine on my face.
By the time I got back to the apartment, I had my 10,000 and the boys were finishing their coffee and breakfast and we were ready to get back out there.
Later in the day, we came back through this area and sat and had a coffee and a beer while watching the gay pride parade. Lots of interesting people and bad fashion and beautiful dogs. Are the dogs also gay or just marching in solidarity?
I’m told that both my grandfathers were alcoholics. I never met either of them but have no reason to believe it’s not true. My dad’s dad, apparently, was a happy go-lucky sort of alcoholic. Never mean or sloppy and always had good work until he died of a heart attack at 56. My mom’s dad was a different story. Also, I am told, a very nice guy. Kind and gentle. Until he got drunk — and when he got drunk, he went after it like a bat out of hell. Mom said he and his brother would go on benders and stay 100% completely drunk for weeks or even months. They would shit and piss themselves and be completely out of their heads. Then they would sober up for a few months and start the cycle over again.
Mom told me there were a few others in her family who also had the brown bottle disease. Growing up in the 30’s and 40’s must have been wild. Depression and WWII and oppressive poverty. And alcoholism apparently.
Workday, like all modern companies, cannot help themselves but talk incessantly about AI. AI this and AI that. I watched a demo yesterday of the AI help support utility that we are deploying at BCH. It is essentially the same bots that have been deployed at every company now for the past 5 years or so. Same useless garbled text that NEVER answers your question. AI or marketing hype? We are covering the entire globe with data centers for this?
Here in rural America, trucks are important avenues of expressions for men. It’s probably not an exaggeration that 75% of men drive trucks. Maybe more. When I walk or run, I see every size and kind of truck imaginable. From little toys to monsters with wheels higher than a 1st grader. Dual wheels, big black smokestacks where some like to ‘roll coal’ to show their commitment to destroying the planet as quickly as possible. They have lights in the wheelwells, truck nuts, and equipment in the beds and ‘Fuck Joe Biden’ and ‘Trump 2026’ and ‘Make America Great Again’ bumper stickers.
These trucks are part of the identity of certain kinds of males. This is how they communicate their importance. Big trucks I think are better than smaller trucks and probably have an inverse proportional relationship with dick size. I don’t know that for fact, but have heard some speculation on the topic.
I wrote to you somewhere in South Australia
a poet’s heart in the eye of a hurricane
I struggle with finding words to sing these days I said
as if my thoughts were waiting in the wings
For the stage to clearAnd you in your elegance and humor fill the room
your love and your conern
your anger at the injustice of man’s narrowness and fear
I thank you for being here.You wrote of love from the coast of Mendocino
a poet’s heart crying a fighter’s tears
the children of your body spread out across this earth
like messages written across time
measuring the yearsI heard your songs reach out to California
a poet’s heart locked in the Coeur D’Alene
of the old me and the booze singing out the truth in lives
of forgiveness and loyalty to friends
constant as the endless railroad tiesKate Wolf
Mom and dad came for dinner the night before I left. I made black beans with cumin, carrots, fresh thyme, onion and garlic served over steamed rice. Fucking killed it. Cooked the beans all day while I was working. Blew their minds. For dessert we had the leftover lemon cake Brittany had made for our family birthday round up on Sunday. Nice meal.
After dad left, mom hung around and we had a beer and chit-chatted for a couple of hours. We went back in time and she was reflective. Mom gave all for her kids. But she was a Catholic girl from Rural Appalachia with not enough eyesight to drive or get any sort of job that paid well enough to raise 5 kids alone. So she stayed and put all her energy into raising children — finding a little enjoyment here and there when she could. Not fulfillment, just small pockets of contentment, while her dreams slowly faded and eventually disappeared entirely. It’s heartbreaking, but also a common tale from women of that time. None of us kids would be worth a damn without mom’s consistent and loving support.
I hope modern women are pushing back, taking control, protecting their own happiness and not letting husbands or kids be an excuse to give up on their their dreams. Not saying it’s easy — not at all. Certainly not.
I actually don’t understand the desire to raise kids. It’s such a time and resource draining endeavor. And for more than 20 years. I’m sure there are some redeeming attributes, but I only think of all the fun lost and missed travel and all the drama. I see parents wrangling their kids, doting on them, begging them to behave according to expectations that are lost on a 4-year old. It seems absolutely exhausting. My sister spends every weekend on a hard aluminum park bench watching tiny little grand-kids play one sport or another. Grand-kids, so she is well into 3 decades of doing the same thing weekend after weekend. No thanks.
If I had chosen a more traditional life, including kids, there would be no MYO and I would not have lived on 4 continents or climbed Kilimanjaro or sailed the North Atlantic or written a book or a thousand other memories I find satisfying. Because I don’t have kids, I cannot understand that relationship and so an actual comparison of experiences is not possible. But comparison is not even the appropriate way to look at it I’m sure.
Just an observation.
Mom had a medical episode last Saturday. Then a few more each day until they finally quit later into the next week. Possible mini-strokes. Not bad, but enough to be scary. Then on Wednesday, dad became convinced he was dying so we took him to the ER. He did not die.
We rolled him into the hospital with him telling everyone he was going to die if he didn’t see a doctor immediately. 3 hours later he skipped out through the lobby joking with the nurses and people hanging around waiting for news of their own. He had no symptoms of any medical malaise save normal 90-year old shit.
I’m at Montreal airport now and will soon leave to return home to Brittany and Marti and my fortunate life.
Humbly Submitted
Robert Myres – Flanker, Portneuf Valley Rugby Football Club (ret.), writer, nomad, comic genius
The Martini Tales 