away
across the Atlantic, a large section of mountain came crashing down outside
of Hope B.C., Canada, burying forever several cars and their occupants on
the Trans-Canada Highway. I swear I had nothing to do with it. Life was pleasant enough in the small fishing town of Fleetwood where we lived although I yearned for more out of life than working in the local "Fisherman's Friend" factory, despite their reputation as world leaders in the field of vile tasting throat lozenges.
Longing for adventure and more appetizing snacks, I convinced my parents to emigrate to the untamed wilderness of Canada in April 1966. We eventually settled in Burlington, Ontario, my father procuring employment at Procter & Gamble in nearby Hamilton and my mother the slightly less glamorous and highly underpaid position of housewife.
After several fun filled years living in the metropolis of Burlington my parents, as people often do when they discover they don't really like each other anymore, decided to go their seperate ways. I was carted off on a long and perilous journey across Canada in a bright yellow van with no doors and a nasty habit of shredding its tires. Our destination was British Columbia, the pacific rim, land of the free and mild.
The next few years are a blur. We moved around alot. The parental types
attempted a short lived reconciliation in Chilliwack where my father was
assistant manager of the local airport. I spent most of my formative years
in Chilliwack which was a shame because I despised the place but it could
have been worse I suppose.During this time I was able to nurture my two main desires in life: to become a rock star and a WW2 fighter ace. The fact that I had missed the second world war by several decades didn't seem to dampen my enthusiasm for the latter....
Eventually coming to the realisation that there was no real demand for Spitfire pilots anymore and that shooting at other aircraft was now somewhat frowned upon - at least in Canada anyway - I set out to realise my ambition of sleeping with a lot of groupies. Little did I know I had picked entirely the wrong instrument to turn the chicks on. They really should incorporate that into the high school band class curriculum. Lesson 1: "Choosing the right instrument for maximum groupie interaction". Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but I guess I wasn't willing to go to the same extremes as Tommy Lee to find my Pamela Anderson.
Still here? Still awake? Clearly you're feeling a bit masochistic. In that case, go to "Part 2: The Rock Years".