My sister tells this story from her last year of high school: That year, the prom was on the same night as the tractor pull and these choices presented a real dilemma to some. You see, every year the town of Brooklin has a good ol’ country fair. The small town is eight kilometres north of Whitby and is currently being subsumed by the northward ooze of Styrofoam^TM housing. I believe the town is technically part of Whitby, but Brooklinites are a proud breed. And these ones didn’t even lose the Dodgers. This fair comprises your typical fair fare: rides whose nausea inducting powers are two-fold—gravitational and structural; food that flies off the top rope to drop-elbow your guts; and oodles and oodles of teens exuding there brand of sexual tension—girls teasing boys, boys punching other boys on the arm and girls shouting to other girls “Hey bitch!” To boot, there’s also a real, mother f#*kin’ tractor pull. You can see why some of the Brooklin boys from my sister’s graduating class were conflicted.

This story piqued Martha’s and my interest. We were excited that our sojourn in the ‘Bee would offer us the chance to see this cultural event. But alas, the only time we could go to the fair was on the Friday of its four day run. And alas, we would miss the tractor pull because everyone knows that events where there is the burning of much gasoline and alcohol at high decibel levels happen on SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! Still, we decided that we should attend the fair as disinterested anthropologists. We thought we’d rope Elif into this thing too.

…

Matthew moves to the phone to call Elif. Martha heads to the computer to find the Brooklin Spring Fair web site. They need to find out what’s happening on Friday. Hopefully, they’ll find something that will entice Elif.

“Hey, I’m going to put this thing on speaker. We can both talk to Elif. It’ll be so fun,” says Matthew, a simple soul who’s easily amused by phones, single socks, bent paper-clips and elastic bands.

“Umm, humm,” says Martha, who knows it’s better to just go along with these things. It avoids the screaming and the tears.

“Hello. Is Elif there,” says Matthew in the manner of an American tourist speaking to a French waiter.

“Hey Elif, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing.” This is Whitby don’t forget.

“We’re going to the Brooklin Fair. Wanna come?”

“Well, I—”

“Holy shit Matt! The tractor pull is tomorrow!” Martha yells after clicking through the fair’s schedule.

“Matt, what was that?” asks Elif.

“Mar just found out that the tracker pull is tomorrow. Isn’t that wicked!”

“Well, I—”

“It starts at seven tomorrow,” says Martha.

“Okay, Elif we’ll be by your place at 6:30.”

“What? Matt why what’s going on—”

“We can’t be late for the TRACTOR PULL,” says Matt, his face turning blue as he employs that frustrated-whiny lilt that is used to great effect by twelve year-old girls.

“Uh, okay.”

“Wicked see you then.”

…

We also got Caitlin, who caught the GO train and arrived at the Whitby station at 6 o’clock. Then a stop at the drug-store for earplugs. Elif’s. Then no stops ‘til Brooklin.

We took a spot on in the bleachers amongst the fans at the 200 feet mark: a couple with a pack of du Mauriers stuffed in the baby carriage, boys with long floppy shirts down to their knees and blue lips from their snow-cones, older boys with ball caps sporting the logos of motor oils and after-market car parts; girls who look like they got lost on their way to the meat-market club; men, who were men because they had leather pouches on their belts carrying multi-tools or cell-phones. And families, loads of families.

The track was 400 feet of packed dirt with low concrete barriers lining the sides. The MC of the event, whose name I never got, was masterful as the master of ceremonies. He was full of all sorts of information from Ontario laws and regulations governing highway tractor-trailers to the history of the Hemi engine in relation to drag racing and pulling. His colour commentary was also excellent with such gems as “…and the twin stacks are starting to bark” and “…she’s taken the hook with a good bite on the ground” and “don’t worry folks, all the mosquitoes have been checked for West Nile Virus so go a head and let’em bite ya.”

There were four classes of tractors that would be pulling. Each machine in each class would pull this huge contraption called the Executioner, a sled (a they call it) which increases the resistance on the tractor as it hauls down the track. The dude who gets farther than the others wins. If two or more drivers make it to the end, then, as our MC said, “We’ve got a full pull and we move on to a pull off.” This means the full-pullers get to drag the Executioner down the track a second time.

The first series of pulls featured highway tractors, you know, those things hauling trailers of important goods across the country, like beer and Canadian Tire products.

“[Pulling’s] a great way to get rid of your warranty. He can get [his tractor] fixed anywhere he wants after tonight,” our MC said.

“They’re rippin’ on the road, they’re rippin’ on the track and they’re rippin’ in the fields.” I think he was talking about the highway tractors, but I’m not sure what he meant by “rippin’ in the fields.” Sounded cool nonetheless.

The next series was the Stock 4×4’s, which were anything but off the rack. I think only the bodies were original and the rest was suped up beyond highway regulations.

As we watched, some locals behind us made fun of two other guys dressed up as cowboys.

“Look at the belt-buckle. Like, where are yer spurs, buddy?”

The next set featured 2 Wheel Drive Modifies. These were trucks that had huge back tires and engines that burned alcohol and spat flames. They were frickin’ loud too.

“Remember to cover yer ears folks. And if you’ve got kids, cover their ears first. We want everyone to be safe. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t know there’s a pull going on in Brooklin tonight, you’re either dead or deaf. I can just imagine all those folks in Scarborough right now wonderin’ where the thunder is coming from.”

We also got a lot of information from the dad behind us who had to explain things to his seven year-old son.

“Dad, why don’t they drive back to the other end like the other trucks?” said the boy as tractors hauled the 2 Wheel Drive Modifies back to the starting line for the pull off.

“It’s too expensive to burn all that fuel just to get back.”

We also found out that the engines get so hot that the drivers only run them for the minimum amount of time. That means no more than two pulls a night.

One driver came from a long line of pullers.

“His father was a puller. His grandfather was a puller.”

Hey Beavis. He said ‘puller.’ I think we were the only ones giggling at the onanistic innuendo. Imagine the fits of snickers produced by “full-pull” and “no more than two pulls a night.”

The ultimate series was the Multi-Engine Modified. That’s right, these suckers had a maximum of three engines on them. Actually, one contestant had to remove his fourth [!] so that he could compete. These things were cool. They ran hotter and louder and their front wheels lurched into the air higher than the vehicles of the previous class. The first driver piloted a tractor with a V12 Allison engine, off of a WWII fighter plane. This guy’s machine went up and down and side to side down the track. I thought he’d crash. We all had to admit, it was pretty cool.

Elif and I left after the second driver’s heat. Martha and Caitlin said the sound from the machine rumbled them around a bit over in the beer tent. Our new found need for speed took us to the carnival rides. The Ferris wheel was just crazy enough for Elif and I. Martha and Caitlin needed more so they hit the Zipper, an old standard made by the Chance [!] Manufacturing Company of Wichita, Kansas. It was a ride they both described as ‘transcendental.’ For the rest of us, that means nauseating. Caitlin won the champ award because of her showing that night. Her dinner was a bag of Doritos, a serving of dripping fair fries and two beers. Then she went on the Zipper. She wasn’t quite right until she had a good late night viewing of the Wrath of Khan and a good night sleep.

Here’s to the fair.

Earlier in the day, Elif suggested that we find at least another friend in town. It makes sense. Someone with a different opinion about the town would be refreshing. Still, this fictitious fourth person, who we now call Ringo, would have to know that Evelyn Waugh isn’t girl and George Eliot is.

We were pretty self-conscious as we walked into the movie-rental place. In Montreal, Elif had a conversation with a friend from university.

“So, where are you living now?” asked Will the friend.

“In Whitby,” said Elif.

“Oh, so you rent videos?”

It hurts ‘cause now it’s too true.

You see, the weather may be getting better and the flowers may be blooming, but this is actually a dark time in the ‘burbs. In the previous months, when the sun went down, there was the 500-channel universe to keep the existential angst away. Now, all our favourites have packed it in for the summer. I still have MASH from 10 to 11pm. Martha has [gag!] Trading Spaces.

The only sport worth following, hockey, is essentially over for the season. Despite my best efforts, armed with all my good-luck tokens (lucky rabbit’s foot, lucky half-eaten piece of cake from my 10th birthday and lucky two-by-four), the Ottawa Senators lost on Friday. Now, I just hope that that f*$#in’ Walt Disney team doesn’t win the Cup.

So it’s off to the video store we went, while my parents were in Battawa attending some Scottish haggis-eating fest (pretty weird for a couple of Poles) and Elif’s parents were out hanging with friends. Two houses devoid of parents! If this was high-school, there’s no way this opportunity would be wasted with a movie rental. But, we’re much more mature now. We watched the flick and then Saturday Night Live and then after a few yawns Mar and I headed home. Elif’s parents had shown us all up, staying out well past 1am. The real kicker, though, was getting home to find my parents hadn’t gotten back yet. What the hell! They had to got to church the next day. Just who did they think they were!? I waited up to give them a good scolding.

On Monday of this week, John O’Toole showed everyone just what kind of leader he is.

During a debate in the legislature, a debate that he no doubt spent a long time preparing for, complete with rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror, O’Toole was interrupted by the NDP’s Peter Kormos. Now maybe lowly backbenchers don’t have to spend a lot of time in the legislature, maybe they can skip out of these things. I’m wondering this because Kormos’ interruption came as such a surprise and infuriated O’Toole to the point that the MPP for the Durham region felt he should give the NDPer the one-finger salute. It was only following this incident that things got ridiculous.

Outside the chamber, O’Toole denied that he’d made any offensive gesture.

“But Mr. O’Toole, it’s right here in the legislative broadcast service videotape.”

Busted, O’Toole then said he was sorry.

“Uh, so then, why did you deny flippin’ da bird?”

To which he responded that he didn’t know what the reporter meant by “flipping the bird.”

So what’s the fallout from this? Well, there have been calls for his resignation by his constituents. And I don’t blame them. What does it say about a region who elects someone who’s too dumb to know he’s been busted and plays stupid after the fact?

[Props to CTV.ca and The Durham Times and extra big shout-outs to Whitby this Week.]

On Friday, Caitlin, Michelle and Scott took the GO eastbound. Picked them up at the station, the classic rock radio station blaring.

“I didn’t know [Trooper’s] Raise a Little Hell actually had verses beyond the chorus,” said Michelle.

See, the event was educational from the start.

The plans for the evening involved a barbecue, a designated driver and a six of 50 (cans). All of us grew up in the suburbs, we wanted to see if we still had the skills we honed in our teens.

After a lovely barbecue came the stealth mission into the woods behind the elementary school and the old-folks home. On the path to the forest, we were passed by 20 to 30 high-school kids. Caitlin wondered aloud if this was some class-trip. I heard calls of ‘Nerds!’ Ah, la plus ça change. For us, it was into the woods to the big tree with the forked trunk and then off to the right to the rotten log. A few leaves scattered ever so naturally and the 50 was stashed.

“Sixer, dude!”

On the way back, we could hear the kids, cursing and swearing their way along the fence set up to keep the wild sylvan things off the old folks’ chemical lawn.

The six of us crammed into Elif’s parents’ car. I did the lie-across. Parking downtown [sic] Whitby on a Friday night turns out to be pretty easy, at least outside that ‘Firkin’ pub. Nickel Jam was on the stereo and hockey on the tube. An incredibly generic experience, really. The next stop was the Downpatrick: no frills, neon Ex sign in the window, harsh fluorescent lights inside, darts and AC/DC. I went for the first available table, right in the middle of the place. Someone else spotted a nice booth off to the side.

“What do you guys want?” says the bar-guy.

“What do you have on tap?” says Caitlin.

“Well, what do you want?” reiterates the bar-guy.

“50.” says Matt.

“I wish.” says the bar-guy.

A good sign nonetheless, eh?

As the levels from the first round approached empty, but before we could start debating a refill, the fit hit the shan. The whole bar erupted in a fight. A full on bar-brawl with broken glass and baseball caps knocked onto the floor. One of the servers said quite despairingly, “Oh, we haven’t had a fight in three months.” before she called the cops. Then, the fight took a break so that the participants could file outside and continue to smack each other in the face. The booth turned out to be the best seat in the house. We could sip our beers and watch everything. It might have been a little hairy if we stuck with my initial choice.

Scott and I got a warm “goodnight/take care” from the bar-guy. The cops told Martha, Elif, Michelle and Cait to stay out of trouble. “No fighting girls, hehehe.” We crammed into the car, headed to the northern reaches of town, made our way into the woods, past the car parked at the end of the soccer field with a make-out couple, to the big tree with the forked trunk and then off to the right to the rotten log. I brushed aside the natural-looking leafy covering and voilà, the sixer was still there! Time to enjoy mother nature and father 50. Lovely.

On our way to my parents’ we ran into a guy making his way home for the night.

“Aw man, were you here when all the cops showed up?” says the dude.

“What?!”

“Yeah man, there were like three or four cars here, busting people. About an hour ago.”

“Really, how many people were here?”

“Like, uh hunrud.” [Trans. “There were roughly a hundred.”]

“Holy crap!” [Trans. “A hundred?! That’s rather impressive.”]

Timing. It’s everything.

Still not in phase with the EST.

It’s amazing how busy you can find yourself even with no job. Christmas shopping kept me walking around Toronto for five daze. When I started that yearly ritual of undisguised consumerism, I was filled with nothing but resentment. But as I got going, I began to enjoy myself. I can’t explain it. The romantics will call that “the joy of giving” and the cynics will say that consumerism is simply coursing through my green North American blood. Still, there is a bit of a high when you got a gift that works, one that strikes the right balance between surprise and appropriateness. Like alive things. Pretty much guaranteed to surprise. Not plants though. I’m talking things that walk, like bugs.

“Oh. Thank you dear. A can of Raid. That’s wonderful.”

“Got you something else Mom.”

“Oh really. This is too much. Thank you.”

“Might want to hold on to that Raid.”

Merry Xmas, Mom.

I was hoping for a home-grown culture-shock brought on by looking at the homeland with eyes that have seen so many others. I was hoping it would hit me like a bag of Yukon gold potatoes swung by the mighty poutin-fueled biceps of Big Joe Mufferaw. And, so, not much luck on that front. The post-trip comedown has been as exciting as Canadian national news. I was struck by the hugeness of the grocery store and size of the yoghurt containers. But, I am in Whitby and re-acculturation can only happen in a place with culture.