Small town rodeo

So before God invented skateboards, motorcross and Extreme Everything, God invented rodeo.

He prefers small town rodeo. God is not much for sitting high up in binocular-land, top of a grandstand in some name brand cow town.

At a small town rodeo, every seat offers the sweaty, sweetstink, hoof-eye view, better than a pair of golds at The Hanger. You are nose-to-nose with the stock. And there's always the lucky chance they'll come thru the fencing and give you a swift boot to the head. You've been asking for it.

Who was the first guy who said to his bud: "See that one-ton steer? The snarly one? I bet I can ride it." I mean honestly: how bored were they?

But here walk heroes.

The "thud" is no louder, the fractures and risks no greater in Calgary than in Weasel Breath, Ontario. And when the cowdudes get the ladies sweaty wtih their daring deeds, or somebody makes the eight second horn, the sun shines a little higher, a little brighter.

Holy crap. Did you see that? Who wouldn't want to be a cow hand?

Or so it seems this perfect August Sunday afternoon.

Ontario's big heart

A modest proposal

Quite by accident, I discover the CBC is on strike.

An endless stream of mediocre music fills the radio network airwaves, interrupted by an occasional management voice and moldy oldies like This Is Art. Can Canada keep its begonias alive without the Monday gardening phone-in? Find a way, I say.

Since most agree the CBC's best days are behind it, why not just repeat every show the network has ever broadcast? And never make a new one?

This serves two purposes.

1. A continuing drizzle of public sector ear drool for a loyal, grumpy, shrinking audience of hearing aids.

2. A guaranteed sunset clause for taxpayers. After the CBC exhausts 50 years of archives, let the ship sink slowly in the west.

Is everybody happy?

One day out

Gone kayaking.

Ready and waiting

Going, going ...

Taking turns

Prime Minister Dithers' delightful appointment of another obscure CBC talking head as governor general raises new hope that George Stroumboulopoulos can become GG in our lifetime.

Thus, Canada's first suspect separatist Governor-General would be followed by George, star of Newsworld's Yo We Be Happin' The Hour: our first pierced GG.

How hot is it? About five inches

Broken justice

So how much does the NHL care about a broken neck?

Not much.

How about a new rule for the next time somebody like Todd Bertuzzi takes a run at somebody like Steve Moore?

You get to play again whenever the guy you've injured plays again. Simple? Easy to remember? Even for Bobby Clobber?

No 10 games, 13 games, 20, luck of the draw.

No sad hearings and appeals to the commissioner.

You play again whenever the guy you cold cocked does. It might be four games, it might be never.

You think players might focus their energies in a better direction?

Fair disclosure: the above rule would not apply if the object of the hit was NHL boss Gary Bettman. We all want a shot.

That'll do

Dawg days

Oh the happiness. The frisbees. The barking.

Spent three days at the annual Kingston Sheepdog Trials, now in its 18th glorious year.

The pastures at Grassy Creek Park roll down to an unexpected sand beach on the St. Lawrence.

Dogs and trainers move sheep thru gates or try to sort out the few with red collars on.

Dogs play fly-ball.

And since spectator dogs are welcome, for every one of the 100-plus dogs in the herding events and Freestyle Dance (yes!) events, there are another 50 dogs watching, whimpering, barking, straining.

"Let me at the flying fuzzy thing he's got."

"Hey hey hey, that sheep in the back is looking the other way!"

"A little help? I'm here, I'm here! Me!"

The fly-ball demonstration--dog relay teams jumping hurdles--is about 90% airborne.

On a sunny afternoon, double the moving shapes for flying dogs and their scooting shadows three or four feet below.

There is nothing a border collie would not do to grab a rope, a pulltoy or to just get much crazier than usual. Here is the proof.

Perfect weather. Dog people. Happy mutts. Sweet.

Sheep shearing

Ontario's Thousand Islands Casino shears more sheep each year than most wool farms.

This is a mighty mystery.

Follow the signs near Gananoque, and you arrive at what appears to be a failed Wal-Mart or Loblaws in a field. Inside this eyesore box is more security--and less fun--than most airports.

An Unsmiling Uniformed Greeter will decide if you should be allowed in. If she suspects you are under 50, you will be shepherded into a second line-up to produce two pieces of identification for a Large Uniformed Bald Guy. Prove you are 18. People obviously in their 30s and 40s were digging in their wallets when I was there. Or having their cameras confiscated.

Are we having fun yet?

Beyond the doors is an area smaller than a Canadian Tire store, filled with slot machines. It is patrolled by Large Uniformed Security People. A few random table games are under the yawning control of Uniformed Croupiers. You will notice there is much less sound than in a Vegas or Atlantic Casino. No yelling, no laughter. Are we having fun yet?

At the far end of the hall is an entry to the Grill. It is more brightly lit than the casino or most high school cafeterias. Here you will order your overpriced beer and a bump. Do try the Virgin Baah shooter. Thanks to Ontario's arcane liquor laws, drinking and gambling may never be mixed. No cocktails for high rollers.

But then, you can buy beer, wine and booze at many rural groceries. The province insists all city folk buy their drinks from lazy LCBO stores, conveniently located wherever the MPP of the government of the day insisted there be one.

In short, here is a sullen, imitation casino for sheep. It is a sad, insulting imitation of the real thing, where sheep are stripped of their money with Great Joy and Delight.

Ontario is politically correct so it is a "charity casino." The charity of course, is the Ontario government which thanks to your participation, can ignore good causes they really don't give a darn about. You have bought them The Freedom from Guilt.

Aren't you taxed enough? Casinos are a tax on the stupid. Why would you give them a cent? If you are wise, you will just take a nice snapshot of the large rock in parking lot C2. And leave. Shaking your head.

Is it more humiliating to work at the Thousand Islands Charity Casino Penitentiary? Or to actually spend a dime there as a customer? Discuss.

Click

Do you believe in ghosts?
Backing out the driveway, I glance at the spot
where my sweetest sheepdog buried his bones.
He died in January.
Nothing ever grew in this spot, mostly because
he'd dig, hide and rearrange his stash on a daily basis,
even thru the coldest winter.
This morning, there is something there.
This.
Yes, I'm spooked.

Take this desk and shove it

Charles Gerba, a microbiologist at the University of Arizona, found the typical office desk harbors some 400 times more disease-causing bacteria than the average toilet seat.

Hey Bob! I'm moving my computer.
If anybody wants me, I'll be out back.

Snooze

Doors open.
Doors close.
Sheepdogs sleep.

Just sent column 7,127 down the pipe.
I'm okay with it.
Saved this photo for this day. Sweet.
It looks at me every time I turn on my computer.
These columns kept him in kibble.

Guess I should also save a complete file copy here--in case it's not posted to the canoe website Sunday. By accident, of course.


EXIT RIFF: This is my last column for the Toronto Sun.

Those who just muttered "Good" can probably stop reading.

The first dunf column surfaced in the third issue of the Sunday Sun. That was September 1973--about 7,127 columns ago. Not bad for a part-time job.

From Trudeaumania to Prime Minister Dithers and Premier McFib, from the Tiny Perfect Mayor and North York Bananaman to Amiel, the Black Queen of King Street, it has been an all-too-enjoyable ride. Did I hear somebody request the Christmas Glove joke? Too late.

If you remember any of those columns, get to a clinic. You may be what we doctors call "an effin' boomer." Boomers are despised by ad agencies and young alike. Quick, get in the van. Enjoy our ride to the dump.

The clever columnist keeps two file folders.

One is the Alibi File, in which you place any favorable mention. Notes from Allan Slaight, Leonard Asper, Gary Lautens, Jim Carrey and years of in-house high fives. You frantically wave this folder the day you zig when you should have zagged and fear they might fire you. Mercy!

The other folder is labeled Last Column. Here, you save any final effort by a Royko, a Breslin that manages to touch your heart or shows some class, a generosity of spirit. You hope to marshal the same. If you can't, you can always scalp theirs. Hey, just kidding. That would be wrong.

Many exit columns celebrate mentors and guardians. Daily columns can only be grown by master gardeners. Mine would include the amazing Kathy Brooks, insightful pal John Downing, wise Trudy Eagan and quarterback Peter Worthington--who saved me from ever being sacked by a Bassett. And of course, tabloid newsdom's founding god of grins, Doug Creighton.

Barbara Amiel once wrote that to survive at the Sun you have to learn ballroom dancing and how to be a good sport. She danced with Doug. I once danced with Eagan. They were kind enough not to laugh. Or demand to see our Alibi Files. They were good sports. But hey, I've mastered the limbo.

To be a happy Sun reader, you need two things. Good toonz and good teeth. Try the new CD by jazz singer Chiara Civello for the first. And if you fear dentists more than a Liberal majority, find Anesthesia Associates in North York. Superhero "Dr. Dave" was not an invention. Dr. David Isen is real. So is being zonked, dentalphobes. Anyone for pre-med? Me!

I'm sorry we never solved the mystery of Mickey Mouse's dog, Pluto. He's half Mickey's size. Is Mickey a giant mouse? Or is Pluto no bigger than a thimble? Goofy--Mickey's next-door neighbor--is also a dog but walks on two legs. Does Pluto never look over the fence and cry: "Hey, I got a dog house. Look what that dog has! You're my pet now, cheese-breath."

Please, no sobbing, Sparky. There's no key to turn me off. Did I mention I've been blogging for a month? See proof at www.dunf.blogspot.com

Eight years ago, my late, great accountant asked how long I planned to write a column.

"Until they beg me to stop," I joked. "The Sun's been very good to me." Arthur Gelgoot, guru to so many media idiots, let a gentle smile flicker about his cozy Bay St. office. "You can stop any time, you know."

I nodded. He meant financially. I thought emotionally.

Years later, I had a conversation with somebody at the Sun I suspected might be my boss. A freelance writer, I never really knew who was my boss. Nobody ever talked to me about yesterday's column. Nobody asked what was in tomorrow's. They left me alone. AND paid me. Holy crap. Unique.

"Hey, when the day comes, just say the word," I assured one of the editors. "I won't go away mad. I'll just go away."

"Like hell you will," he laughed. "Everybody goes away mad." Wrong, dude. Page Six died screaming. But not me.

Exit laughing. Y'all have a great life. Thanks for the ride, gang.

Beer? dunf

Dunf's e-mail: pagesix@aol.com

Ontario, off the grid

High Falls, Algonquin Park

Paddled with a pal yesterday into High Falls on the east side of Algonquin Park.
Amazing.

Pines, pools, perfect blue sky, no bugs.
And hardly any people! It's high summer! What gives?



I guess everybody's home, playing Grand Theft Auto.

All the best things are off the grid.
If you can hike 45 minutes one way, or canoe or kayak about five hours round trip, you can see and share this not-so-secret place.
Water, cascading over monumental rock faces.
Sit in the bubbles. Try the natural slide.
A perfect place.

Location: up the east road from Pembroke into Algonquin Park.
To canoe/kayak, start from the Achray launch ramp.
Between two and three hours by water with one quick liftover around a damn.
To hike: find the unmarked trail halfway between the park gate and Achray at about mile 16. Any Algonquin staffer will be happy to help.

Yes, it's even better than in the photos.
Most Ontarians will never see it.
Pity.

"The world stands out on either side,
no wider than the heart is wide...
Above the earth is stretched the sky,
No higher than the heart is high..."

Stephen Harper's favorite joke

Why do Albertans turn the sides of their cowboy hats up?

To fit three in the front seat of a pick-up.

Canada Day

Canada is eating toy food at 30,000 feet and looking down on the most amazing herringbone of blacks and whites that turn out to be the Rocky Mountains.

Canada is coming home from Kensington Market with a vegetable that looks like a carrot, smells like a melon, feels like a banana but may be a potato. The lady next door knows how to cook it. You give her half.

Canada's lying on your stomach on a raft and watching shy fish circle below, safely hiding in your shadow.

Canada is slogging down a narrow, snow-clogged street in Quebec City, watching a midnight traffic jam of ice floes in the St. Lawrence.

Canada's sitting on the shore of Newfoundland's Grand Lake, sucking at a bottle of Star while a pal balances a bottle of Moosehead on his forehead. Laughter tickles the stubby pines.

Canada is paddling three hard days only to discover two other tents are already pitched at your "secret" place. Windlocked, you'll meet the strangers you meet there again each summer for the next 20 years.

Canada is Muskol. A hell of a lot of Muskol.

Canada is patching the hole in the tent and killing the last mosquito at 5.23 a.m. to finally fall asleep. The sun rises at 5.33.

Canada is climbing a tree with two friends in August and waiting two long hours to drop a balloon filled with water on your best pal.

Canada is a sharp green stick with one brown hot dog on it. The first frank falls in the fire but the second is perfect.

Canada is an amazing red trillium in a hillside army of white ones. Sprawl in the foot-high flowers and it takes them 15 minutes to find you.

Canada is poring over your priceless pile of 44 maps of lakes and portages in front of a roaring fire in January and never thinking about a black fly.

Canada is a metal mug of coffee too hot to hold, on a misty morning that's too cold to be there.

Canada is standing on the deck of the last B.C. ferry of the night, watching the water slide by. From somewhere deep inside the ship, a door closes. Or opens. Stars wink at reflected twins in the sea. Time stops.

Canada is meeting a bear at the rural garbage dump. You consider each other thoughtfully for long moments. The bear has other things to do.

Canada is dogs wading in lakes, sitting in shallow water to cool their bums.

Canada's the lightning storm that scares you witless.

Canada is whipping into a beach on one water ski to land at the exact edge of the sand ... just ... so. Keep your stomach sucked in: those girls are watching.

Canada is one perfect fiddlehead green. So small, so fixed in your mind as a fragile growing thing, you dare not pick it.

Canada is discovering the dog has eaten all the marshmallows.The marshmallows are already upchucked in your sleeping bag.

Canada is unpacking Christmas lights in a chilly attic.Canada is watching the field mouse run up to, then over your girlfriend's sleeping bag and never telling her when she wakes up.

Canada is one ear of yellow corn, a plate of butter and a napkin. You feel yellow a long time after.

Canada is sitting in a privy, hoping porkies don't come for another 10 minutes. Swallows have torn the toilet paper into confetti, no piece big enough to hold.

Canada is a deep lake, a sloping rock, a warm sun and a perfect curve of time. Afternoons arch to the horizon.

Canada is a brown envelope from Revenue Canada. And the modest boat you christen ... Rebate.

Canada is whitecaps on the lake, cold smoke spirals above winter chimneys, the speckled rocks at the bottom of a clear, glassy stream.

Canada is a big secret.

Shared.

turn back? never!

Today's spring canoe challenge...

You have conned your good buddy into being the first canoe down the Opeongo River.
One car is parked at the top of the route near a dam.
The second car is parked at the bottom pullout near a bridge.
The water is running fast at top and bottom.
This photo is taken in the middle, about an hour from either car. It is a river of rocks.
Do you:
(a) turn back upstream where you know you'll have to wade/swim the canoe to the top car
(b) live on grubs and berries til the water rises and/or the bear comes
(c) keep going downstream thru the rocks in the photo

We chose C.

Countdown begins

So this is where it begins.
In 30 days, I will disappear from one area of the web and reappear in this one.
I'm looking forward to it.