I took my daughter Bubba to see Anne & Gilbert at the Thousand Islands Playhouse in Gananoque, Ont., last week.
Of course, when I first booked the tickets, I wasn't sure what the play was about, but I was hoping against hope that it might have something to do with Anne Heche and Gilbert Gottfried. I'm not a huge fan of Heche, but paired up with Gottfried? I figured it could be the best play ever.
"What's the play about?" Bubba asked, as we cruised down the 401.
"I'm not sure," I replied. "But I think it might be about a comedian and an actress who used to swing the other way."
"You mean a lesbian?" Bubba asked.
"Precisely," I said.
"So why would that be good?" she said.
I wasn't about to explain the machinations of legitimate theatre to Bubba, so I told her that we'll look it up on the computer when we get to our hotel. I then discovered, to my absolute horror, that Anne & Gilbert was another installment in the Anne of Green Gables saga. Turns out, the play was okay and the best thing was, they served beer at halftime, or, as they call it in the theatre, intermission. La di da.
On the way home, we cruised through downtown Kingston and Bubba was fairly unimpressed until I mentioned that The Tragically Hip is from Kingston.
Now, as I mentioned before, Bubba's entire life revolves around music, and to get her interested in anything, there has to be a music connection. Kingston automatically became a cool place because the Hip affiliation.
It was like our trip to Niagara Falls earlier. As we drove through St. Catharines, I actually got Bub's attention for a minute when I mentioned that Rush drummer Neil Peart was from there. Hell, she thought it was cool that John Rutsey, the band's first drummer, is the brother of our baseball writer at the Sun, Mike Rutsey.
"Does Mike play an instrument?" Bubba asked.
"Yeah, the beer-gut bongo," I replied.
The kid lives and breathes music, and not much of anything else. I don't know if that's healthy or not, but at least she's interested in something. When I was her age, all I wanted to was run around with a stick in my hands, chasing a ball. And the great thing was, I didn't have to think. My dear old mom would have to come on to the street and slap me on the side of the head to get me in for dinner. The old man used to slap me too. Apparently I screwed up a lot.
Now, I'm not saying I have brain damage because of all the slapping, but Bubba certainly thinks there's something amiss upstairs because she claims I tend to go off on tangents, which isn't true, and who cares if the Leafs upgraded their goaltending, they're still not going to make the playoffs. Bubba, and others, insist that I tend to babble on about things that make no sense. They might have a point. But I don't blame any one person for that. I blame the educational system. That, and nail polish remover.
Anyway, Bubba and I have had a pretty good summer vacation, but now she's getting ready to head to California for the school year. Yeah, she's moving in with her mom, lock, stock and barrel, to some hick town near Sacramento.
I'm pretty bummed about that, but she'll come back for holidays and I'll get to visit her when the Raptors travel to Sacramento to play the Kings.
Now, I've only been to Sacramento once and the one memory I have of the place is when this Dave guy, who is now my ex-wife's husband, went to a Kings-Raptors game in the hopes of meeting up with me. We had met once before and I guess all he could remember was that I was a short, bald guy.
Anyway, he wandered down to court level before the game and spotted Raptors announcer Chuck Swirsky, who also is short and bald, but, unlike me, very well dressed and friendly. After a nice conversation with The Swirsk, the dude phoned my ex-wife and told her that he met up with me, adding that I was a great guy with impeccable taste in clothes.
"Great guy? Well dressed? Uh, are you sure you were talking to Steve?" she asked.
Later in the trip, I asked Swirsky if he remembered a conversation he had with a guy before the Kings game.
"Yeah, nice guy," said the Swirsk. "Said we met earlier in Toronto."
"Yeah, well, he thought you were me," I said.
The Swirsk was at a loss for words. He didn't seem like himself for the rest of the trip.