We got home from the bushes of Canada just a little too early last night. As the Hammer circled the neighbourhood park she stopped, perked up her ears and howled at our moon from way down in her camping wiener filled belly. When she stopped her singing I listened to the dimming evening and picked up what it was that attracted her canine attention. It was Karen Lee Batten. Karen Lee was singing at the Canada day wing-ding at the stadium a few miles from my place.
Karen Lee Batten made the top ten of Canadian Idol a few years ago and now we are stuck with the tuneless tramp until someone else from Steepleton is recognized as having just enough talent to please the ears of my church choir loving community but not enough talent to get the fuck out of town. There are lots people with more talent than Karen Lee Batten in town but none of them can make it past the motherfucking censors that run community events hereabouts.
After the Hammer had passed her camp dinners onto the park grass she stopped and howled once more. My poor dog, like me, has been traumatised by the cancerous fallout of Canadian Idol.
Karen Lee's ubiquity has me more than a little concerned about the quality of acts likely to be booked into our new hockey arena when it is finished next year. Rumour has it the facility is going to be called the Holy Motherfucking Trinity Arena.
When I got back from the park I fixed myself a big glass of Dalmore and stuck the Drive-By Truckers' 40 Watt dvd into the player. I guess I should have put on an Ian Tyson record or something since it was still Canada Day. I think Sonja was tired of Canadian music after listening to Anne Murray cds on the highway home. And after all, just about all us Canadians are southerners.