Pain... Embrace It...

This entry is going to be Toronto, days three through 3 through 5.

Why, you ask?

Well, because I don't remember enough of days 3 and 4 to make decent blog entries, that's why. Day three was spent in bed, and day four should've been spent in bed.

In my last entry, I'd mentioned getting some aspirin from my pal Ryan. I had a toothache, and figured that some aspirin would do the trick. I got back to my hotel that day, got some dinner, and went to bed.

On Friday, I woke up and felt miserable. I had planned a day of visiting clients, but was lucky enough to leave the room long enough to get some aspirin and some Anbesol. I came back to the hotel and went to bed about two o'clock in the afternoon. I felt pretty bad.

On Saturday (day 4), my friend Andy Lund and I were doing a big event at a guitar store just west of Toronto. I woke up, and my tooth still hurt quite a bit. I walked into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror. I noticed that the right side of my face was slightly swollen. I figured I had a small infection, and was mildly concerned.




This isn't normal



 My buddy Brent has kids, and kids are always getting sick; ear aches, strep throat; stuff like that. "Surely", I figured, "he's got some lerftover antibiotics kickin' around the medicine chest".

I gave him a call and, unfortunately, he didn't. What he did have, though, was a friend who's a dentist: "Dr. John". I spoke with John, explained to him what was going on, and he said he would send a perscription to a local pharmacy for me. I got the prescription for antibiotics, and started taking them. And the aspirin. I took lots of aspirin. The event was a huge success, and I wanted to take the guys from the store to Barberian's, which has been voted the finest steakhouse in Canada. It ain't cheap, but the crew earned it.

The problem was, though, that I was feeling like Hell. Whatever those antibiotics were doing, they weren't helping me feel any better. Andy had flown in late the night before, so he was fine with my not wanting to go out to dinner (I told the guys the next time I was up, we were going). Andy was beat and wanted more sleep than he'd gotten, and I wasn't feeling well. Add to that the fact that we had to drive to Buffalo on Sunday, and it made sense that we make it an early night.

I woke up Sunday morning feeling better; I got out of bed encouraged, assuming that my antibiotic magic bullet had done its' job. I was horrified, though, when I walked to the mirror to see this:



This definitely isn't normal



Had I been in a fight? Was I hit by a car? I was definitely not diggin' it.

The antibiotics, clearly, hadn't done what I'd asked of them, and I was worried. I was more than worried. I was scared. I considered going to a local hospital, but thought it best to first give "Dr. John" a call and let him know what was going on.

He was not at all surprised that the swelling had gotten worse, and he wasn't concerned with it. I remember wishing I could share in his indifference. But then he asked me if it hurt as much. When I told him it didn't, he said something that I'd not heard before, yet it makes absolutely perfect sense: "The swelling will follow the pain".

I hoped he was right because, at this point, I was ready to pay Mafia-doctor prices to get this taken care of. John offered to see me in his office before we left for Buffalo, but the last thing I wanted to do was undergo any level of oral surgery and then have to get on a plane the next day.

Andy and I left Toronto about 2:00pm, and we stopped at the duty-free shop at the Lewiston border crossing at about 3:05pm. The swelling had, in fact, gone down quite a bit. Don't get me wrong; it was still swollen. But I was no longer sportin' the "Hey, did you get your ass kicked in a bar last night?" look, so I figured I was heading in the right direction.

At dinner last night, it had gone down even more and, this morning, it actually started looking, dare I say it, "normal". John had expressed concerns about my flying (I didn't really have a choice), but it didn't affect me at all.

My point is this: Had I paid closer attention to the pain on Thursday, I might've avoided this; at least to the extent that I've had to deal with it. Essentially, I put it off two days, and who knows what I could've avoided had I been on antibiotics two days earlier than I was. So, when you feel pain, check it out. Get it looked at. It might be nothing. Or it might be.

Yeah, it probably is...

Toronto - Day 2

My second day in Toronto started early. I woke up about 5:00am, and double-checked all of my photo gear. I was headed out with my buddy Ryan Courson to shoot some horses.

We met up and went to breakfast. It was one of those good, greasy, tastes-so-good-you-want-to-eat-it-forever-breakfasts. In all honesty, it was in the top five breakfasts I've ever had.

We finally got out to the first of two farms. As prepared as I was; plenty of battery power and memory, I was quite ill-prepared for what the weather had left behind. While it wasn't raining, it had rained. Ergo, everywhere I turned, I found mud. It was everywhere.

And I had one pair of shoes.

Once I'd resigned myself that, in fact, I would leave with muddy shoes, I was ready to shoot. Let's face it, there was no way I was getting away with clean shoes. I consider myself fortunate, however, that the shoes I had were equipped with a bajillion little rubber nubs on the soles, which allowed me to avert disaster. Had I been wearing treadless shoes, this skid never would've stopped:

Aside from the shoes, it was all good. We gathered our gear and went on our way.

As far as "excitement", well, there wasn't much of it. Unless a horse is coming around the clubhouse turn at Del Mar, they're pretty docile. That notwithstanding, though, they still offer some unique photo opportunities. And, because they don't come up to the fence too often (they've learned the fence is electrified), they lend themselves well to some long-lens work which I really enjoy:

I don't want to make it seem as if they're these enormous, yet skittish, animals that have no interest in interacting with we bipeds, but it takes a while. Once they do, though, they're sure to let you know that they're right there:



My buddy Ryan and Lucifer. Or Satan. Or something else which demonic in nature.



We spent a while shooting at one farm, and then drove over to another to do more shooting. The morning was getting late, though, so we opted to go ahead and call it a day. I dropped Ryan off at his place, got some aspirin (more on that in the next entry), and headed back to Toronto. Overall, it was a good time. Maybe, next time, we can do it when there's a little less mud. I mean, everyone was laughing at me:

Canadian Cuisine

I have a great deal of affection for Canadians.

Generally speaking, they are friendly, good people. My recent trip to Newfoundland only amplified this belief. I could not begin to overstate how friendly those people are out there. And, to be honest, I find it's that way, pretty much throughout the entire country. I've been as far east as Cape Spear, and as far west as Nanaimo. Friendly folks abound in between.

But, as with anything, there is always something to take exception to, and my Canadian friends are no different.

I am, of course, talking about "Canadian cuisine".

I've run into more than a few people who will aver that fish & chips is, wholeheartedly, Canadian. And, while it's true that you can get some excellent fish & chips in Canada, the places that serve it tend to be located on the coasts, say, in Halifax or Vancouver. I wouldn't expect to get fresh fish & chips in Winnipeg. Also, there are a number of places in the States to get outstanding fish & chips, so to call it "Canadian cuisine" wouldn't be entirely accurate.

When I was in Quebec City, my good friend Richard Gagne took me out for something called "poutine". Not only had I never tried it, I didn't even really know what it was. I knew it had something to do with french fries.

Well, poutine does contain french fries, and that's fine. But it also contains so much more. For an American, the go-to condiment for fries is ketchup. Period. I know some Americans who use mayonnaise, and that's just too disgusting to discuss. So, for the purposes of this entry, we'll go with ketchup. Or, for those of you who prefer, catsup.

In short, this is what belongs on fries:

 

 

That's it. That's all that any reasonable person would agree should go on a french fry. But Canadians just can't leave well enough alone.

As I said, poutine is, indeed, french fries. But that's where any similarity between America's version and Canada's version ends. Instead of ketchup, some Canadian, likely from some bygone era which precludes him from knowing the affront to humanity he sparked, decided to put gravy on them. Plain old brown gravy. Now, to be completely honest with you, gravy on french fries isn't that bad. After all, we put gravy on potatoes, so putting it on french fries is no tremendous stretch.

And I'd be able to live with that, if that's all that poutine had to offer. But the aforementioned Canadian wasn't done.

It would've been nice had he opted for something like, oh, I dunno', let's say cheese, to adorn his dish. That, however, would've been too easy. So, instead of cheese, he opted for cheese curds. 

Mmmmmmm... That just sounds yummy, doesn't it?

Well, if you don't know what a "curd" is, let me help you out. If you pour orange juice into milk, the milk "curdles". It renders the milk (and, presumably, the orange juice) unpalatable. You see, a "curd" is the solid portion of spoiled milk.

I know. My mouth is watering, too.

What you have, when you put the fries and the brown gravy and the solid portion of spoiled milk together is this:

Please believe me when I say you don't want this. Ever. The first time I tried it, it was, well, "interesting". The second time I tried it, I was convinced that I have no need to try it a third time.

Now, despite the nature of poutine, there are scores of Canadians who will proclaim it "Canadian cuisine". In fact, this isn't quite on point. It's difficult to find poutine outside the province of Quebec and, even if you could, why would you want to? So, Canadian? Only insofar as it does come from one portion of Canada.

If you think about American cuisine, you'll undoubtedly think about things like hot dogs, corn on the cob, hamburgers, ribs, etc. You know, good 4th-of-July-damn-proud-to-be-an-American food. These are things you can find in Spokane, Miami, New York, Detroit, Dallas or California.These things permeate our country, and with good reason. Everyone loves them. Well, Canada has something which fits such a description for them, too.

If we, or more precisely, my Canadian friends, are to be completely honest about it, there really is only one thing which truly qualifies as "Canadian cuisine". Of course, I can only be referring to the Canadian national treasure that is Tim Horton's.

Tim Horton was a hockey player. Canadians love hockey. They love curling (which I refer to as "ice bowling"), too, but hockey is to a Canadian what baseball is to an American. Tim Horton played for a few different hockey teams, but was most famous for his tenure with the Toronto Maple Leafs. He opened his first restaurant in 1964 (I've visited it several times), and there are now over 2,700 locations throughout Canada. Think of it as a Canadian version of Starbucks, but without the $6.00 cups of coffee (an extra large cup of coffee is $1.59) and better food.

I'm not entirely sure of what the point of all of this has been. I guess it's just something that I've been pondering since hearing someone utter the phrase "fine Canadian cuisine", and I wondered just exactly what that might be.

Now, I think we know...

Toronto - Day 1

Today was as uneventful as the previous few days have been eventful.

I didn't sleep Tuesday night. That happens sometimes when I have an early flight; I'd rather stay up and know I'll make the flight than take a chance on missing my wake-up call. I know; weird.

I landed in Toronto at about 9:30am, and found my way to the ridiculously ineptly-staffed Hertz counter at Pearson International. It took a full half hour for them to bring me my car. I was tired, and I didn't need this. As it was, a woman there sensed my mood, and knocked a day's charge off the rental. I was loading my bags into the trunk when I should've been brewing a pot of coffee in my room, and I told her that.

I took a much needed nap, watched some television, and got my photo gear ready for tomorrow morning. I'm meeting my good buddy Ryan Courson at a horse farm he manages, and we're going to spend the early morning hours with the horses.

I'm up at four in the morning tomorrow, and that bed is lookin' pretty good right about now...

Newfoundland - Day 3

I started my third and final day in Newfoundland early. Stupid early. I had a 6:00am flight out to Corner Brook, which is on the west coast of Newfoundland. Had I elected to drive it, the trip would've taken about ten hours. The flight was about 50 minutes.

Yeah, good roads up here.

So this is what I was staring at around five o'clock this morning: St. John's International Airport:



St. John's International - Just this side of a "ghost town" at five in the morning.



The flight to Deer Lake, which is about thirty miles north of Corner Brook, was uneventful. I find that "uneventful" is a plus when discussing the attributes of air travel. And, before you start thinking that I'm jet-setting throughout Atlantic Canada, consider what my transportation was. I give you the Beechcraft 1900D:



Beechcraft 1900D



It was not, to say the least, anything like the last trip I took. I fly a lot, and I've never been on a plane which had seats that didn't recline, and no overhead bins. And heat? Oh, don't tease me. Then again, I never had the pleasure of enjoying the luxurious stylings of the Beechcraft 1900D. It was bumpy and noisy and everything else bad you would expect from a prop-job puddle jumper.

But the upside is that it got us to Deer Lake:




Deer Lake Regional Airport. It's an event when a jet lands here.



Given that the flight was so short, and left St. John's at the ridiculously unholy hour of six in the morning, I was in Corner Brook long before my client was, in all probability, even awake. I grabbed my rental car and decided to drive around a little and check things out.



Only one way to go...



The west coast of Newfoundland, if my abbreviated experience with it is any indication, is very different than the east coast. The east coast is a lot more rugged, more rocks, and nowehere near as many trees. The west coast was far more moutainous, and was covered in forest.



Corner Brook, Newfoundland



Now, driving around, I try to take in as much as possible. You never know what you're going to see around the next bend or over the next hill. Or even in the next car:

I spent the day in Corner Brook, and had lunch with my client and met with him and his manager. It seemed like the day flew by and, before I knew it, it was time to drive back to Deer Lake to catch my flight back to St. John's.

In the same plane.

After some dinner and some packing, I got into some photo editing. Man, I take a lot of pictures.

I have a flight to Toronto in the morning (on an actual jet this time), and will spend the rest of this week doing some business in the "Queen City". Newfoundland has been an absolute blast, but it's time to head west from the coast.

This was a good time...

Newfoundland - Day2

I met Bob and Kurt in the hotel restaurant for breakfast this morning, and then we headed out to visit one of my clients. It was a big deal for the staff, as they never even get visits from Reps much less the owners of companies. Even guys who had the day off, like Acoustic Guitar Manager Rick Lambe, came in early (we met at 8:45am) to meet us:




Rick Lambe poses for a photo with Bob Taylor at Long & McQuade in St. John's. Rick's son, left, seems wildly unimpressed.

 

We had a good visit at the store, which included the fifty-cent tour from Manager Bob Davis. We were closing in on Bob and Kurt's departure, though, so we said our good byes to the staff at the store.

Before heading to the airport, though, Bob wanted to visit Cabot Tower, which is, in allprobability, the highest point in all of St. John's. The views were pretty incredible:



Bob Taylor walking the wall at Cabot Tower.



St. John's Harbor



Newfoundland Coast



We finished up at Cabot Tower, and had to get to the airport. Bob and Kurt were flying to England today. Their scheduled "wheels-up" time was 11:00am, and we nailed it. We bid them farewell, and I took Bob Davis back to his store.



I spent a good part of the afternoon at a place I've wanted to go since I started traveling up here: Cape Spear. Cape Spear is the eastern-most point in North America, and is known for some rugged coastline and unpredicatble surf. It was, in a word, awesome. Everything I've read about Cape Spear pales in comparison to walking along the rocks, listening to waves crash against the craggy shore, and feeling the wind. If you look east, you don't hit another piece of land for a long, long time.



The coastline at Cape Spear.



Lighthouse at Cape Spear.





An Inukshuk overlooking the North Atlantic.





One of two lighthouses at Cape Spear.



After spending a while walking around Cape Spear, I decided to head over to a place called Petty Cove. I'd seen a sign for it on the way to Cape Spear, and wanted to check it out. After driving the 15 or so kilometers, I found myself in the quintessential "tiny Canadian fishing village". A small inlet, peppered with boats moored dockside and boats on skids on shore was pretty inviting.




Petty Cove, Newfoundland




Petty Cove, Newfoundland

 The sun was finding its' way down over the horizon as I was meandering through Petty Cove, so I decided to call it a day and head back into St. John's for some dinner. An early flight in the morning will take me to the west coast of Newfoundland, as I fly to Deer Lake and drive down to Corner Brook.

I'm looking forward to the photo ops...

Newfoundland - Day 1

The Newfoundland trip has, thus far, has been very good.

The trip started out in El Cajon, California, at Gillespie Field. Our ride was a Hawker 850XP business jet. I'll just say this: It beats the Hell outta' flying Coach. We met at the airport at 7:30am, and we were due to be wheels-up at 8:00am. I couldn't help but get a photo snapped in front of the plane:




On the ground at Gillespie Field in El Cajon, California, just east of San Diego.


On a good day, you can seat eight on this plane but, for this flight, there would only be three of us. Bob Taylor and Kurt Listug, the owners of Taylor Guitars, were giving me a ride to St. John's on their way to England.

Now, if you're like me, one of the first things you do when you board a plane is check to see how far back the seat will recline. Hey, at some point, everyone kicks the seat back. Well, I didn't really have that concern. As I said, this plane seats eight people. However, three of those seats are a couch. And, if there aren't people sitting there, the couch is free:




Catching a nap on the way to St. John's.

 
We flew from El Cajon (which is about 20 miles east of San Diego) to Salina, Kansas, to refuel. In all honesty, it's got to be the flattest place I've ever been. You can see for miles. You could watch your dog run away for days out there. We were scheduled to be on the ground for about an hour, but 35 minutes after we touched down, we were rolling down the runway and taking off for St. John's, Newfoundland.

We arrived in St. John's around 8:00pm, collected our bags, got our rental car, and we were on our way to the Sheraton. We were being met at the hotel by Bob Davis, who manages a local music store in St. John's. His mission? To take us out for "the best" fish & chips in St. John's. After having my ass kicked by dinner (it was a lot of food), I'll agree with the descriptive "the best". After dinner, we hopped into Bob's car and headed on down to George Street. George Street has more bars and pubs per square foot than any city in North America. It was awesome. We went to the Shamrock City Pub, where I enjoyed a Guinness while the Bobs and Kurt enjoyed drinks you could see through. After our beer at Shamrock City, we headed over to Christian's Pub, where we would be taking part in the solemn ceremony of "Screeching In", which is where first-time visitors to Newfoundland become honorary Newfoundlanders. My friend Ed Robertson, of the band Barenaked Ladies, told me that he'd been "Screeched" at Christian's, and that it was definitely the place to go.

The ceremony is actually a very tongue-in-cheek, very fun ceremony where our Master Of Ceremonies, Keith Vokey, has his charges singing songs and trying to keep up with his heavily-accented vernacular. The crowd erupted into laughter countless times, and there were smiles spread around the room. But, then it was time to get down to business.

The ceremony starts with all participants on their "nucks", or knees. I don't know why they just don't say "knees", but "nucks" it is. The ceremony begins: The participants drink a shot of Screech (a Newfoundland rum), and then kiss a fish. I was at one end of the line and, just my luck, the kissing started at the other end. I kissed it last and, as a result, am preparing for a myriad of untold diseases to befall me. After everyone kisses the fish, we have to answer the question "Are ye an honorary Newfoundlander?" with "Indeed I is, me old 'cock, and long may your big jib draw". At that point, the MC drop a "sou'wester" onto the head of his charge, and performs an Arthur-esque touching of the shoulders with an oar while proclaiming that person an honorary Newfoundlander.




The "Screeching In" ceremony at Christian's Pub in St. John's, Newfoundland. Everyone's drinking a shot of "Screech".

 


Yours truly being dubbed an honorary Newfoundlander. A special moment. I'm just glad Keith decided it would be a good idea for me to wear the sou'wester backwards.

 

The bartender was using my camera, and he didn't get any photos of me kissing the fish. You can see Bob taking a picture of me in the above photo; if he has a "Steve kisses fish" shot, I'll post it.

After the ceremony was completed, everyone wanted their photo taken with Keith, and I was no different:




Keith Vokey and me following the "Screeching In" ceremony. I decided to wear the hat correctly.



Talking to him before the ceremony, he told us that he's performed over 2,200 of these "Screeching In" ceremonies, and it shows. He went through the entire evening, with about a dozen participants, like a seasoned pro.

It was pushing 12:30am by the time we were finished at Christian's Pub, and we would be up early Monday, so we decided to call it a night. We returned to our hotel, said goodnight, and rested up for the next day...