The year is new, but so many things stay the same.  New Year’s Eve in Tempe, Arizona was a good time, complete with my new suit trousers tearing right down the seam nearly at the beginning of the show, and all of my clothes were back at the hotel.  At least I was wearing bright red underwear, so as the hole began to gape further, the folks at the back of the crowd could get a decent view as well.  Upon hearing the tale, my six year-old son told me that if he had a new pair of pants, he’d try out all his moves in the hotel before the show just to make sure they wouldn’t rip.  I had to explain to him that I feel stupid enough doing my moves onstage in front of thousands of people, never mind all alone in a hotel room, in front of those “sprinklers” which we all know are actually cameras which instantly upload all they capture to YouTube.  Speaking of which, am I alone in loving the fact that if you search “Barenaked Ladies” on YouTube, you’re often brought to the most peculiar porn, my favourite being the series that show men’s scrotums being crushed.  By cowboy boots. 

Yesterday I was in a Starbucks and the barista handed me a coupon for a free drink (“we’re sorry your experience wasn’t what you’d expected…”) and told me she was a HUGE fan.  And then asked me if we were still together.

Then, today, walking on Queen St., a man in shorts on a bicycle made eye contact with me and said “Barenaked Ladies are HORRIBLE!”  I chased him.

How can I not love my town?