Sunday, June 20, 2010

The woofer to my tweeter.

There is a gentleman who walks through the park with a boom box perched on his shoulder. He's about 75, give or take a decade, and favours loud fiddle music. 'Just plain, fucking crazy', I always figured – until I made eye contact with him one day – and he just looked happy.

Maybe it's me who's crazy.

This has been a hectic month of work deadlines and distractions. First there was the post-holiday slump, followed by the post-slump slump. Then, Cousin Sarah arrived with her merry traveling circus, reminding me of how much I hate children and chaos – and love Sarah for her ability to remain calm when the world around her is Disney meets Stephen King, set to a Miley Cyrus beat.

So we retreated to White Point.

The beauty of doing what I do, is I can do it just about anywhere. I just need the Internet, a little inspiration, and a relative amount of calm. Besides, the little bastard's class was on a school trip to Moncton, and having refused to fork out $450 dollars so he could go to the asshole of the Earth and overload on BBQ chips and testosterone – I figured a few days stuck golfing with me would teach him to pitch in and fund raise the next time.

What better place to escape reality than a cottage by the sea. A cottage with room service, housekeeping, a chef, and a kick ass wi-fi ( that allows me to wander and work anywhere on the property – like the bar. Or the golf clubhouse. Or the beach. White Point is like hangin' with a fun, old friend who doesn't care what you wear, or comment when you have to unbutton your pants to polish off the kid's Flourless Chocolate cake. We golfed, swam, played tennis, walked on the beach, napped, guzzled wine, and finished one another's sentences. I never pull away from my friendly seaside sanitarium for the chronically perturbed, feeling anything but peaceful, rejuvenated, understood, and mildly hungover.

White Point put an end to my slump and prepared me for the week ahead: Grade nine exam hell, work deadlines, hopping back on the UWeight wagon, hockey schedules, walks in the park, the usual day-to-day drudgery I take for granted, and the end-of-the-week arrival of my very best friend.

The yin to my yang. The Ethel to my Lucy. The tonic to my vodka. The "no we can't " to my "what the hell" is arriving in Havenot.

Crank up the boom box.

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