In fact, in my beautiful little town in New Brunswick (which I like to say, puts the “ain’t” in “quaint”) the signboard on the highway for years stated: “Welcome to St. George, Home of the Best Drinking Water in Canada.” Now, after decades, that sign has since been changed, partially, I think, for the sake of new tourism priorities, but also because I think the claim was fairly dubious to begin with. Regardless, since there is no such thing as “irregardless,” the water was very tasty. In fact, to my knowledge, it still is. But the reason I choose to supply you with this little tidbit of small-town trivia, is to relate the story of my cousin’s husband, D’Oyen.

Carol and D’Oyen moved to our little town straight from Toronto. D’Oyen was born in Jamaica, but since he was a young boy, his main experience of Canada had been the big city. I think that he was a little taken aback at the substantial shift in the pace of life in our town, which would be something akin to shifting from fourth into reverse. It would often take D’Oyen hours to run an errand, because he was baffled by the number of people who would actually stop to talk to him along the way. Anyway, it was after one of these afternoon-long errands that D’Oyen wheeled into our driveway, ran up the stairs, poured a glass of water and gulped it down. I happened to be in the kitchen and said, “So D’Oyen, a little thirsty?” (I was sarcastic even as a teenager). “No, not really,” he said between gulps. I was slightly confused. He finished the glass, held it up approvingly, and said, “Wow, that is good.” I was still confused, “D’Oyen, you’ve been living here for a year. You’ve never tried the water?” He looked a little sheepish, “Well, yeah, but I just noticed that sign on the highway for the first time today, so I had to come in and check,” Which just goes to show you that you don’t know what you’ve got until somebody tells you… or writes it in block letters on a billboard.

Consequently, you really don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. And I’ll tell you, one thing I miss everyday in Karachi is that sparkling, clear St. George water. Even living as I do, in one of the most expensive areas of the city, water comes through the lines Monday and Friday at 4:00, for one hour. At which point, you have to run outside and plug in the pump to try and fill the tank buried under your lawn. Now, to be fair, it is now coming into the hotter months and water is harder to come by, but even in the winter, the water gushes forth only once a day – no matter how many times I strike it with my staff.

The timing of the water flow is a complete mystery to me. I leave it up to my man Paul, who always tries to explain, “Today – no water, tomorrow –half hour of salty water, next day – one hour of dirty water, next day – one hour of ‘Sweet’ water.” Of the three water categories, dirty, salty and sweet, the last one, surprisingly enough, is definitely the one you’re aiming for. Now, how Paul figures all this out, I have no idea. There seems to be some secret network of servants in the neighbourhood that figures out when and what quality of water will be coming. I usually just shake my head and say, “Ok, whatever.” Now, since one hour of water doesn’t do much to fill a 5000 gallon tank, especially if you have a housemate who tends to take 3 to 5 showers a day, your tank will go dry at some point. In my experience, this usually happens on holidays, weekends and during transport strikes. Then you have to call up a tanker service, who will tell you that a truck will be there within the hour. An average of six hours later, a tanker truck will arrive and pump, hopefully, sweet water into your tank. Add to this that all of the tanker trucks are part of a mafia that control the prices and supply of the water, and you’ll start to get an idea of the irritation involved.

I feel a little ashamed of complaining about this, since my troubles are obviously insubstantial compared to the countless thousands that survive with next to no water at all. However, believe it or not, all of this rambling has all been leading up to one single story. You can really tell I haven’t been blogging in a while, since my writing is running on like a trip to the toilet after some spicy street food. All this blah, blah, blah about the drip, drip, drip has been to say that my housemate and I decided to sign up for drinking water delivery. We had tried boiling and filtering the “sweet” water, but it just wasn’t cutting it. And since you never know what micro-bugs are swimming around in there, we decided we would play it safe and call Ava or Culligan’s.

However, we left this to a friend to set up for us, who, for whatever reason, decided to save us 20 Ruppees a bottle and instead of ordering a recognised brand of drinking water, signed us up for “Winsip Drink.” No-Name, President’s Choice water. Winsip (which sounds like a windows application I downloaded recently) seemed extremely pleased to have our business. In fact, we soon received the following letter:

Dear Sir,

It is indeed heartening for us to find your great name among our valuable clientele. While we express our thanks for giving us an opportunity to serve you, we congratulate you for selecting a quality drinking water of course water is a catalyst for making body active and hence the choice of water is of high essence.

We have developed and offered WINSIP with all humbleness to be of service to human kind which been engulfed a whirl of complexities of tough life-style, requires special attention on health issues.

Commercial aspects apart, our focus is the satisfaction of WINSIP users and the effect of WINSIP drinking water on their health. Not at all contended with the efforts put in developing WINSIP, we are quiet eager to gain from your valuable suggestion and views to further improve quality and services to what ever extent possible and feasible. We will feel privilege to get enlightened with your valuable comments that would definitely push us making further improvement in our product.

Signed by CEO.

Now, as soon as we received this letter, I was a became a big fan of WINSIP. Grammatical and syntactical errors aside (and I assure you, I copied it word for word) my favourite part is the last paragraph. I love how they say, “Commercial aspects apart, our focus is your satisfaction and health.” It’s great to see a company with a little honesty. Other than our profits, we care about you the most. Fantastic. And I’m also glad to see that they tacked on that “feasible” just to make sure that they won’t be held to any outlandish suggestions.

Unfortunately for me, I won’t be receiving anymore WINSIP letters, because soon after we started drinking it, my housemate and I both admitted to a feeling of lethargy and apathy. Since this is often a common state of mind for me, I didn’t think much of it, but my housemate was convinced it was the water. I wonder if we would have come to that conclusion if it hadn’t been 20 Rupees cheaper. The mind plays amazing tricks. In any case, we have now switched to the Ava service and things are flowing nicely now. Most importantly, it is pleasantly palatable when mixed with contraband Scotch.

One thing’s for sure, as soon as I get home this summer, I’m going to walk in the door and poor myself a nice tall glass… right from the tap.

Given my somewhat reclusive sojourn in the third-world, I haven’t really been in touch with my more extended family. On a whim, I checked in on some Canadian Olympic coverage and realized with a start that my little cousin Graeme Gorham is competing as a ski-jumper. This is Canada’s first ski-jumping team in over a decade, and they’re some of the youngest guys competing at the Olympics. From the looks of things, Graeme didn’t qualify in his first competition, but there’s still the bigger hill left, and really just being there must be quite the experience. Plus, he’s only 18, and should be into his prime by 2010 when the Olympics hit Vancouver. Fly High Dude.

Here’s a site with his stats and photo etc, although I’m a little embarrassed that he’s given Tim McGraw as his favourite music, although I suppose it could be worse. But seriously, have you ever seen a whiter kid? Hard to believe we’re related.

Of course, this only serves to remind me as my own failure to qualify for the Canadian Olympic Team. Of course, I never tried, but I always wanted to. The Athlete’s village just sounds like a blast. I guess I’d better hurry up and learn curling… or lawn bowling.

Yes, it’s admittedly difficult to get into the Christmas spirit here in Karachi, but I tend to try my best. Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but I believe that it’s the spirit of Christmas that matters, so I did my best to consume as many Christmas spirits as I could, without decking the halls with pools of unpleasantness. You see, the real trouble, is that Christmas just comes sneaking up on you over here. There’s none of that month and a half long build-up of the North American Christmas scene, which has less to do with what Christmas is really about, and more to do with selling a million sleigh-loads of GAP khakis. As a result, I had no running tally of how many shopping days I had left, and with a shock, about a week before Christmas, I realized I had better get around to ordering my Christmas turkey. It was then that I learned of the Great Turkey Shortage of 2005, and that my bird this year would be even more exorbitantly priced than last. Something to the tune (a carol I presume) of $100 for a ten kilo bird. A far cry from 79 cents a pound. I shrugged it off though, figuring that it was indeed Christmas, and the only time of year I would allow myself to drop that kind of dough on frozen poultry.

One way that I measure the success of my Christmas season is by the number of turkey dinners I’m able to consume. By that measure, all things considered, I did pretty damn well. Christmas Eve, my friend Komal cooked her first ever turkey for Steve, her Canadian fiancé (who I happen to be staying with at the moment) and 30 odd guests. It was a great success, and as a Christmas connoisseur, I give her full marks. I played bartender, a role I am quite comfortable in, whether it be professionally, on stage or off. It was a great little shin-dig, considering I really didn’t know anyone at all. The last guests left, and I slid out to a get together nearby and came home just in time to call Mother at 3 AM. I don’t think she noticed my inebriated state, at least, no more than usual.

Christmas morning, I woke up at 11:00 to my cell phone ringing and ringing. I picked up, only to hear Norma, Steve’s coworker from Newfoundland (and you thought I was strange) screaming in my ear. “Dave! The only other goddamn Maritimer in Karachi and you’re sleeping through Christmas lunch! Get your ass over here!” Fair enough. I got up, took a shower and got my ass over there. I entered a scene that would have chaos theorists in a tizzy. Kids were running and screaming and peeing everywhere, wrapping paper was scattered about, and Norma was yelling curse-filled instructions in the kitchen. I took a deep breath and smiled… Ah, now this was Christmas. I rocketed into the Kitchen, cracked a beer and started cooking. The turkey and all the fixin’s were phenomenal once again, and I stuck around to watch the kiddos open some more presents, cause really, nothing beats it.

So then it came time for me to don the apron and stuff my bird, so to speak. I planned to cook on boxing day, but logistical issues made me postpone a day. So on the third day of Christmas, I set aside my turtle doves and got to work. I threw out open invitations and coordinated with my pal Ameena, the queen of the dinner party and self proclaimed opiate of the masses. She took care of appetizers and the opening courses and I stuck to Turkey, garlic mashed and veggies in a cheese sauce. About an hour and a half into the cooking, I opened the oven and thought to myself, you know, I shouldn’t be able to hold my hand in here like this. I touched the turkey and thought, you know, this really shouldn’t be ice cold. Then I had a fleeting memory of some wise figure saying, “Watch out for those local ovens, you just never know.” My turkey was cursed. I was upset, so I stuck my head in the oven, but only so I could light that sucker up, top and bottom. Now, as Big Dave Lewis would say, I was cooking with gas.

In any case, the late, great turkey was finally ready at about 1 am. By that time, everyone was starving, but the back-bar was covered in empty bottles, so the Christmas cheer was palpable. To my relief, it was just as juicy and tender as always, thanks to the skills handed down to me from my mother and grandmother before her. A secret technique that, faulty ovens notwithstanding, has now, literally, been enjoyed the world over.

At that point, I changed out of my kitchen garb and entertained until dawn. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. A little snippet of Christmas in the Islamic Republic. Falalalala-lala-la-la.

I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing to old camp holdings or fighting forest fires. Great job I tells ya, one that always impressed my city-slicker friends.

Now, one thing that a lot of people don’t realize is that the Forest Rangers are responsible for clearing up large-scale road-kill. The Department of Transportation handles all the small animals, or “shovel-jobs” if you prefer, so basically, anything smaller than a coyote. We handled all the big game (deer, bear, moose, cougar etc.) Such large animals can be a real problem, since our high-speed highways, thick coastal fog, and abundance of wildlife make for a pretty dangerous cocktail.

So there I was, on the side of the highway, looking down at what was once assuredly a moose. I was with Terry, one of the Rangers I had known forever; he had watched me learn to ride my bike in the station’s parking lot. We backed up the truck and trailer and adjusted the winch. We hefted up the moose’s head, which is no mean feat, and secured the cable around its neck. Terry started the winch and I stood by to guide the animal up the ramp as we ungloriously yanked it up by its head.

The winch started to overheat with the strain of hauling the huge animal and we were forced to move the moose up the ramp in fits and starts. Terry would wait for the winch to cool and then give it another burst, hauling the moose up about six inches at a time. We were both starting to curse in frustration when I noticed a car zip past us, swerve suddenly to take the next exit, and come back down the other side of the highway until they found a place to turn and pull up behind us.

“What the hell is this?” asked Ranger-Terry. The car had Ontario plates, and a young couple jumped out with YUPPY written on their foreheads in indelible ink. “I think they’re tourists,” I replied. “Weeell, shiiit,” said Terry, rolling his eyes and giving the moose another pull up the ramp. I walked back to try to head off the couple at the pass.

“Hi there!” shouted the woman, “We’re from Toronto!” Now, that’s a label no one would self-apply where I come from. “Hi,” I said, giving a half-hearted wave, “I’m from right here.” The man grinned and said, “We’re on our honeymoon… we’re from Toronto!” I looked from one to the other, “You sure are,” I replied. I tried to cut between them and the shattered animal, but the woman was already peering over my shoulder. “We’ve never seen a moose before!” she said excitedly, “That’s a moose right?” The husband spoke up condescendingly, “Of course it’s a moose honey,” looking at me and rolling his eyes. I raised my hand and tried to speak with a little authority. “Look folks, I really don’t think this is the moose you want to see.” I’ve always found that when you talk with authority it’s good to call people “folks.”

“No, no,” insisted the wife, “we saw one from a distance once, but it was far away.” I decided not to tell her that things at a distance generally are. “Well, listen, there’s a zoo about half an hour up the road…” “No, no, not the zoo, that’s not the same. We want to see a REAL moose, in the wild.” I was sure that my face was betraying my disbelief. I tried to spell it out to them, “But… well, at least it would be, you know, walking around.”

There was nothing for it. The couple followed me back to where the moose was lying, halfway up our ramp. A pink jelly was oozing from several contusions, one of the legs flopped around like a rag-doll, and slimy green innards were spilling from several old and new orifices. I looked up at Terry on the truck and shrugged. He cursed and turned back to work on the winch. “Wow! Look at that!” said the husband. The couple seemed completely unaware of the mangled condition of the animal. “How much do you think it weighs?” asked the man. I looked to Terry for an estimate, but it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with this. “Oh, I dunno,” I said, “maybe 600 pounds?” Of course, I had no idea, I can’t even judge the weight of a package of hamburger. The woman was bent over the moose, inspecting it carefully, “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asked. I stopped short. “Pardon?” She seemed very genuine. “Are you sure it’s not still alive?” she asked again. I turned away to see if Terry was hearing this. “Well, you know, I’m just a summer student, I’m no expert…” I said, trying not to lose it. They both turned to Terry. I had to hand it to him, he looked at them for a long moment and then said, “Ma’am, in my professional opinion, this animal is dead.”

Seemingly satisfied, the woman ran back to the car and came back with a video camera. This was getting out of control. She started her narrative, “Here’s the moose we saw in Nova Scotia…” “New Brunswick” I broke in. “New Brunswick…. And here are the Forest Rangers.” She started panning over the moose and zooming in. Terry had had enough. He wanted to get the damn moose loaded and put an end to the stage show. He started up the winch, and with a scream of engine and cable, the moose lurched six inches up the ramp.

To be fair, we probably should have warned them. Despite our assurances, and the overwelming physical evidence, the poor woman must have suspected that the moose just maybe, possibly, was still alive, because when the winch screamed and the animal jumped up the ramp, she screamed and jumped even louder and higher, and threw her hands in the air. I give a lot of credit to her husband, who watched agape as the video camera flew through the air in a perfect parabola, but somehow managed to catch it before it became as mangled as the moose. The woman was hysterical, I was shouting, “It’s dead… It’s dead.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The couple scrambled back to the car without saying goodbye or thank-you for seeing their first REAL moose, which I thought was a little rude.

Man, would I ever love to see that video.

A friend of mine has a show on FM 89.0 and featured me in the second hour as “The Second Most Popular White Guy in Pakistan….” Damn that pesky George!

Anyway, it was a fun interview and features five songs of my choosing. Even if it’s not true, I’m taking full credit for introducing Pakistan to The Tragically Hip.

So check it out if you get the chance.

Plus, if I do say so myself, I’ve got a great voice.

A friend of mine, let’s call him James, had been interested in a girl for quite some time. The problem was that they had been friends for years, and he didn’t know if she felt the same way, or if it was all in his head. I think we’ve all been there before, when you feel like your sensors are on the fritz and you just can’t interpret the signals properly. Finally, they decided to get together and watch a movie at her place. Now, this was good news for James, because they had never spent time alone together (I think “alone together” is a funny phrase) and the best part was that it had been her idea. For once, they wouldn’t be surrounded by all their friends, and he could try to gauge the situation.

So they’re watching a flic in her basement – things are going well – when suddenly James feels his stomach cramp. Not good. With a sickening feeling (that I know all too well), he realizes that if he doesn’t go straight to the bathroom, there will be terrible repercussions. Now, any guy will tell you that using the bathroom at a girl’s house is a delicate matter. There’s a definite comfort level that must be reached before it can even be considered. And at this point, on their first real date, and with his insides gone super-nova, the idea of desecrating her toilet is about as appealing as a nudist fish-fry. He tries to hold it for as long as he can, but it’s just no good, he knows that this feeling is not going to pass. Finally, as casually as he can, he asks where the bathroom is. She points to the door across the room. Of course, this is the last thing he wants to hear. If only the bathroom were upstairs… out of range. As far as he’s concerned, it would be ideal if the bathroom were in a different house.

His soul full of doubt and trepidation, he heads slowly for the bathroom. He decides that he’s going to try to get this done as fast as possible, so that maybe he can make the whole venture seem like one long pee. He makes his deposit as quickly as he can without pulling a muscle, while staging a coughing fit to try and cover any untoward noises. Everything is going according to schedule. He is beginning to feel confident that everything is going to work out fine (so to speak), when he realizes that there is no toilet paper in sight. He looks to he left… he looks to his right. No relief in sight. Gingerly, he opens the cupboard under the sink. Nothing. He performs the pants-around-the-ankles-dirty-assed waddle over to the closet to check for supplies. Nada. He scans the whole bathroom and there isn’t even a magazine to help him through.

The clock is ticking. It’s around this point that James starts to panic. In fact, if he hadn’t already, he probably would have lost his shit. I think it would be safe to say that James abandoned all capacity for rational thought. All he could imagine was his potential girlfriend sitting in the other room wondering why he was taking so long. The idea of popping his head out to ask for more toilet paper either didn’t occur to him, or else it just seemed too far beyond embarrassment to even contemplate.

Instead, in his now frantic state, a different solution occurs to him. Pulling out a Swiss Army Knife, he gets down on his hands and knees and cuts a piece of carpet from behind the toilet. He then proceeds to wipe himself with a swath of prime, 1970’s orange shag. I don’t think it’s exactly necessary to point out that behind the toilet is never the most sanitary area in the bathroom either: guys always miss. But at this point, he just doesn’t care. As far as he’s concerned, his problem is solved. In fact, he’s proud of his resourcefulness.

He calms himself and returns to the rec-room, where this poor girl has been sitting with the movie paused, unaware of the drama unfolding in the washroom. “Are you ok?” she asks. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, as non-chalantly as possible. He even uses his new found adrenaline rush to snuggle in closer to her for the rest of the movie.

About an hour later, the girl’s father gets home and comes downstairs to say hello. He sits and chats for a minute and then heads for the bathroom. James isn’t worried until he runs out shouting, “Where’s the plunger, the toilet’s flooding!” James slowly shrinks back into the corner of the couch. He is seriously considering cutting his losses and trying to make a stealthy escape when her father shouts from the bathroom, “Jesus Christ! There’s a God-Damn piece of carpet in here!”

And the best part is, last I heard, they’re still together.

Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother where he was kneeling on his chest about to pummel him (although I bet my brother still would have got the better of him). So, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the game.

We were warming up, taking shots on goal, when one of our balls sailed over the fence and into the yard opposite. Charles, a childhood friend of mine, started over to retrieve it because it happened to be his own ball. But just as he was crossing the street, in a streak of grey and pink, an old lady ran out, grabbed the soccer ball and then ran back into the house. Charles stopped in the middle of the road and turned back to us with a look that would have perfectly accompanied the phrase, “What the fuck?”

You see, St. Andrews is a resort town. It is a tourist destination. It is the site of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel and an international golf-course (where my canoe and I once pitched a tent). It is a beautiful location, there’s no doubt about it, but for me the place always rings a little false. The town swells in the summertime when all the Americans come north to their summer homes. My town, on the other hand, is just as beautiful, but more like a country cousin. My little town is quaint; St. Andrews is faux-quaint. The way to make this distinction is by counting the gift shops. Who needs 24 gift shops selling the same thing on one street? Anyway, the town has a reputation locally as being snobby and elitist, and like most reputations, some of that is completely undeserved, but then, some of it isn’t. There are some great people who live in St. Andrews, but as we were about to find out, the lady who had just athletically whisked away Charles’ ball was not one of them.

Charles continued across the street and knocked on the door. Eventually, the lady opened the door, releasing a small white poodle that immediately started barking and relentlessly jumping on Charles’ legs. Ever the gentleman, Charles began, “I’m sorry Ma’am, but it seems our ball landed in your yard, and I was wondering if you might have found it?”
“Yes I did,” stated the woman, “but you little bastards can forget about getting your ball back.”
This took Charles aback, not being used to hearing the elderly refer to him as a little bastard. But still, he maintained his composure. “We are very sorry Ma’am. But you see, that’s actually my own personal ball, and I’d like to get it back.”
“Young man, there is no way in hell you will ever see your ball again.”
“Look, I understand you’re upset, but maybe you should talk to the town about raising the fence around the field or stringing a net or something…”
“The town?” she sneered, “Those bastards are the worst bastards of them all.”
Charles took this in stride, but the dog jumping up his leg was starting to annoy him. “Listen,” he began.
“Don’t you “listen” me!” she shouted in a shrill voice. “I’m not putting up with this anymore, you can all go fuck yourselves!”

At this point, I heard escalating voices and started over there. I arrived just in time to hear Charles shout, “Listen you crotchety old whore! You go into your musty, old-lady house right now and get my god-damn soccer ball!”
The woman gasped… so did I. “Chuck!” I said, completely at a loss for what to say.
The woman recovered first. “Have respect for your elders, young man!” she squeaked.
“Fuck You.” said Charles.
“That ball was on my property,” said the woman, “It’s mine now!”
“Fine” said Charles as he bent down and scooped up the annoying, little dog, “You keep the ball, I’m taking your dog.”
“You can’t do that!” she screamed.
“Watch me! Your dog is jumping all over me, so he’s my property now… See ya.” Charles turned and started down the walkway. I stood rooted to the spot.
“I’ll call the police you little bastard-shit-head!” she screamed at his retreating form.
“You go right ahead, you old bag!” Shouted Charles.

The police arrived shortly. The officer in charge went inside and retrieved our ball, begging us to try our damnedest not to let it land in this yard again. “That woman,” he confided in us, “is a God-Damn crazy lady.”

We thanked the officer, and headed back to our already delayed game, heady with the victory that a bunch of guys in their twenties and thirties had just achieved in getting our game ball back from a mean old lady.

I should stipulate that you could type “Beer Can Chicken” into Google and find half a hundred versions of this recipe, but you might as well get my take on it right here. In any case, it’s a fun and easy recipe, and I’ve got jack all else to write about today, so why not?

What you Need:
- One Medium-sized Chicken
- A bunch of spices I don’t feel like listing
- Four Cans of your favourite beer
- Some Olive oil
- A Barbecue
- An aluminum plate

Well, that was helpful.

First, find yourself a chicken. I find the supermarket to be the best place, but if your feeling adventurous, you could try to find one in the wild. The Eastern Canadian Feral Chicken, for example, is a delicacy that is not soon forgotten, but I recommend wearing protective gloves. Anyway, get a nice, medium sized roasting chicken, and make sure it’s not frozen. I’m always amazed at people who throw frozen meat on the grill, then again, I’m also amazed at people who use the word “un-thawed” when they really mean “un-frozen” or, as luck would have it, “thawed.”

Semantics aside, clean up the chicken in the regular way, wash out the cavity, pat it dry, the works. Now, set the chicken to the side. Don’t forget where you left it. Now you’re gonna want to make a rub. In a small bowl (or a big one, I don’t friggin’ care), mix together a bunch of spices you think will taste good on a chicken. I say this because my combo changes each time I make it. But you’re definitely going to want to go with salt and pepper as a base, and I use garlic in just about everything I cook. After that, you can just go with your gut. Some poultry seasonings are nice sometimes: a little parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (if you’re a folk rock fan). If you’re feeling spicy then hit it with Cayenne and chillis. I’ve also found that those Montreal Steak Spice combinations go well in there too. I’m sure you’ll come up with a good mix. Aye, there’s the rub.

Open the first beer. Drink it. This is the best way to cook. While you’re drinking try to find your chicken again. Once the beer is finished, drizzle or brush the chicken with your olive oil (extra virgin… obviously). Then you’re going to take your spice rub, and well, just rub it all over that chicken. Sprinkle some spice down into the cavity as well.

Open another beer. Drink about a quarter of it. Take a can-opener, jack open the top and dump any remaining spices into the beer. Now that your chicken is all rubbed down and lubed up, penetrate it gently yet forcefully with your can of beer. You may feel a little dirty doing this, but don’t worry, you can’t get arrested for it (well, except in Alabama). Stand the chicken upright so that it stands up on its beer can perch. Push the legs out forward so that they help balance. Throw the whole thing on the BBQ at a medium-high heat (like over 400). I usually put an aluminum plate or something underneath to catch the drippings and save the grill from becoming a god-damn disaster.

Close the cover and let her go. You’re probably looking at a half-hour to forty-five minutes. This is plenty of time to drink the two remaining beers. While you do that, the beer will be bubbling up inside that chicken like Vesuvius, keeping everything nice and flavourful and juicy. I usually put another tin of water in there as well to keep things extra moist.

And that’s all there is to it. I find it’s one of the moistest, tastiest ways to cook chicken. And good for you too, with all those fats dripping off. Plus, there is pretty much no real way not to drink beer while your cooking it. Ahhh… summertime.

Well, that about takes care of any future recipe requests I think.

Well, I’ve never been the kind of guy that held down a nickname. They just never seem to stick. People have tried to make it work, but for some reason, I am just simply “Dave.” I am referred to in a number of different ways, by a number of different people, but I wouldn’t class them as actual nicknames. For example, I would currently list the following lexicon of Dave references: David, Dave, Daud, Daud Yusef Garriwalla, Sheikh Bin Daud, Ford, Fordy, Big-Dave-Ford, the Davistani, Desi-David.

For a long time, my mother was adamant that I remain a pure “David.” She would insist that she had named me David, not Dave, and she did it for a reason. In fact, she’s given up on it in recent years, but for a long time, if you called my house and asked for “Dave” my mother would say, “No, no Dave’s here, but you can speak to David if you like.”

In residence, during my undergrad, our house gives a nickname to every single new resident. By the time I got mine, they were fresh out of ideas and I was left with “Schmooze’s Bitch.” The idea was that I had to carry a bar of soap with me during frosh week, and anytime that Schmooze, an upperclassman, yelled, “Drop the soap, Bitch!” I was to do so, ideally with a certain amount of ass-waggling. Entertaining, certainly, in the minds of some, but not a nickname that would ever stick.

My university campus was one of those ones where the Engineers face off against the Artsies in a friendly (or not so) rivalry. One of the Engineers in my residence, a guy named Vern from a town even smaller than mine, would see a typical Arts student and say, in his hick-drawl, “Would ya look at that Arrt-Saay Punk!” Often, all it would take to incur such wrath was wearing a nice sweater, but what can you do, Vern was set in his ways. In the years following Vern’s departure, my Engineer buddies decided that I was one Art’s Student who was cool, so my new house name became “The Artsaypunk.”

Over the years, I started using the term because it was convenient on the Internet. I could be DaveFord72 or I could be the one and only Artsaypunk. And I grew to like it. I am an Artsy type of guy, but I wouldn’t consider myself a typical Artsy. So I guess “Artsaypunk” for me, has morphed into its own definition. It’s just me. Not your typical artsy. A little left of centre. Plus, that random phoenetic “a” in the middle throws everyone off, and I like that. I like throwing people off (especially sleigh-rides). So when it came time to name a blog… Hey, what’r ya gonna do?

So there you have it. There’s no real explanation, it just happened. I know it was bothering all of you immensely. I’m sure you were thinking to yourself, I wish I had a really lengthy, useless explanation as to where that name came from. Well, I aim to please.

Big-Dave recently retired after thirty some years of service as a school teacher, and we should all raise a glass in honour of that feat. Unfortunately, in my recent battles to check my hotmail account, I missed the invitation to write something to be read at his retirement party. It’s not quite the same, but I thought I’d pay this little tribute here on the blog. So Big Dave, whenever I get back to God’s country, have those beers chilled and the tomato juice ready (since you and I are the only fools that will drink it)(even if it makes your ankles swell). We’ve got some catchin’ up to do.

And here, as best as I can reproduce it, is my absolute favourite Big-Dave story:

“Back in the day, I had just started teaching at the old Deer Island School. I was doing noon-hour supervision, when this girl comes running up to me saying, “Oh Mr. Lewis! So and so’s written something terrible about me in the girls bathroom!” It didn’t seem like that big a deal to me, but the poor girl was almost in tears, so I cleared out the bathroom and went in with her to check. I didn’t see anything written on the walls so I asked her where this terrible slander was located. “It’s behind the stall,” she sobbed. There was a small space between the last stall and the wall and apparently that was where I had to go. The thought crossed my mind that it was ridiculous to be checking graffiti that you had to crawl behind something to find, but I was already cramming myself in there. I was slimmer back then, but you know, I was still a big man, so it was a tight squeeze. I turned myself around in there, and had just spotted, “Laurie is a whore” written on the wall, when By Jeezus Boys, I felt a terrible burnin’ down below.”

At this point I interrupted, “You felt what?”

“It was the most horrible burning sensation I’d ever experienced. It turns out I had wedged myself up against an old radiator and now I was scalding the bejeesus out of my hooty-pecker.”

I almost choked on my beer, “Your what!”

“My ole hooty-pecker boys. The only thing between it and a chunk of cast-iron full of boiling water was the fabric of my pants. Of course, by this time, I’m hootin and hollerin, and just plain frantic to get the hell outta there. I manage to squeeze outta there, but now I’m in the girls bathroom, bent double and sobbing, and I gotta figure out how to tell my new boss that I gotta go home cause I burnt my hooty-pecker in the girls bathroom.”

By this time, the rest of us were all losing it. I was wiping tears from my eyes. Big Dave, always one to see the line and cross right over it, finished off with: “But I’ll tell ya boys, it felt some good when the scab came off.”

Here’s to you big guy, take a break and relax a bit.