My dad was from Cornwall, England, and left home when he was fourteen to join the Merchant Navy. He travelled all over the world as a navigator in the forces, and that’s what eventually brought him to PEI. He had his own real estate company that he ran out of our house in Sherwood.
He died in 1980 when I was eight, but please don’t feel bad for me, bahds. First of all, it was a really long time ago and I have plenty of fond memories with him. Second, the hardest part of the whole thing was adults looking at me with sad eyes. The “Are you okay, dear?” look. That actually made me feel worse, like my life was somehow worth pity.
It also seemed like such a weird way to use energy, making the adults around me feel better about what had happened. If I was born a host, though, as the “running to open the toddler gate at the top of the stairs when people arrived” anecdote suggests, I put those making-people-feel-comfortable skills to the test early on.
There are two things I get from my dad.
One is real estate. I’m addicted to it. One of the first things I do in any new place is score a real estate guide to see what’s for sale and what things are worth. Realtor.ca is one of my favourite websites. Not sure why the price of a “charming fixer-upper in the West End of Winnipeg” is of interest to me, but it is.
The other thing I get from Patrick Torrens is my hyena-like cackle. I’ve always been a little sheepish about it, and I suppressed it until recent years. My laugh is unnaturally high and staccato. Maybe because of my line of work, too, my default response was always to say, “That’s funny” rather than actually laugh. As if I’m dissecting how/why it made me laugh rather than just reacting to it in the moment.
But my wife, Carole, and our girls make me laugh a lot. Taggart does too. So I do it now, more than ever, and so many TnT listeners have mentioned how happy my laugh makes them. I love that. Maybe I’m too old now to worry about how it sounds, or maybe it’s just that I’m genuinely happier in my life than I’ve ever been.
Plus, my laugh takes so much energy, I could never fake it.
Childhood in Sherwood, PEI, was idyllic. It was a short walk through the field to get to Sherwood Elementary. On warm summer nights, we stayed out playing until the street lights came on. And we played a lot of hockey—on ice at the Sherwood Sportsplex in the winter and on the street all year long. My world ended at the end of my street, and as a kid I was so fine with that.
Shirts-off Party
Taggart
PEI is a beautiful place. It’s the birthplace of nice. A charming and witty island of true bahds. I’ve not been there near enough, but I hope to have it be a regular stop on my retirement skid. Boy, summers there would keep a geezer horny for life.
I went to my friend Adam Campbell’s wedding there a few years ago. It was in a classic farmhouse not far from the Rodd Brudenell River Resort, where I was staying with my wife, Lisa. Adam played hockey and was good bahds with Sean Avery, who was also my roommate during the stint in Los Angeles. Adam played junior hockey with a lot of good bahds, so you can imagine how the wedding reception was.
You don’t see keg stands at wedding receptions often, but when you do, you should probably expect a mandatory shirts-off party. These keg stands were long and tall; everyone was trying to make a point on each. You see, it’s not that easy to do a rip on a keg upside down for ten seconds. It comes up ice cold and fast, like a 9.79-second Ben Johnson whistling down your throat. It’s tough.
Everyone was doing keggers. Young bucks and old folks alike. It was controlled and fantastic, though. I mean, some people got really banged up, but the mood was so fun, it didn’t get out of hand or dark. I got up and sat in on the drums and tore it up for good times.
I’m not much of a dancer. I just find it tough to let go on the dance floor without part of me laughing its guts out at my sad movements—even though Drake has seemingly made the “dancing of a fifty-five-year-old man with a game-leg” style acceptable. I somehow ended up shaking it in the middle of the floor with Lisa, and all of a sudden NHLer Danny Carcillo comes right in front of me and yells, “Shirts-off party!” He reached for my fancy new dress shirt and ripped it open like the Hulk. Buttons flew around the dance floor, and wild-eyed Danny went in search of the next victim. I don’t think any guy had a shirt on after five minutes. Classic.
The next day, we went to the beach. The hardness of the ocean and the sun blasting on that red sand really stoked the fire of my love for PEI. Jonathan was lucky to grow up in such a heavenly spot. Those rock-hard winters build up some mean humble pie, though. I’ll never forget those pictures of the snow from 2014–15. Holy boats! It was piled higher than the houses. I can’t imagine having to go upstairs to get out of my house. Heavy Canadianity, bahds.
Dallas, We Have a Problem
Torrens
One March break in 1981 my mom took my sister and me to Houston to visit a friend of hers. You know how on family vacations you’re allowed to get one thing? I saw my one thing the second we got off the plane. It was hanging in the window of a gentleman’s haberdashery in the Houston airport.
A white three-piece suit—the kind J.R. Ewing wore on Dallas.
My mom did the right thing by suggesting there might be other things that I’d see over the course of the week that I might like better. A Houston Astros batting helmet, say. Or a souvenir from a water park.
Nope. I had to have the suit.
All week long I resisted temptations for other toys and stayed committed to the snazzy suit. On the day we were leaving, we headed to the airport early so that I could be fitted properly for it.
I wore my white J.R. Ewing suit only twice. The first time was singing “If I Was a Butterfly” in front of a sizable crowd at St. Dunstan’s Basilica in Charlottetown. It was even recorded for Cable 10, so I suppose technically that was my TV debut. The second time was the next day at school, where a random game of dodgeball picked up at recess. Turns out a red, PEI-muddy ball left quite an impression on a stark white suit. Over and over again. And the mud stains from my slippery escape attempts didn’t help either.
Tide was no match for PEI mud, and that was the end of the suit.
Fortunately, that summer I went to England and got a full Buckingham Palace guard costume with the big black furry hat. Even wore it home on the plane.
My best friend, Mark Howlett, lived across from us. We played catch for hours in his backyard and golf in the field behind the school. Mark’s dad, Cecil, was the provincial lawn bowling champion for a couple of years running and even had the big trophy to show for it.
Together with a third friend named Joel Cormier, we had a street hockey team called the JMJs. Joel. Mark. Jonathan. Get it?
On a few occasions, we’d invite other teams from the neighbourhood to come over and play against us. One day, Mark had the genius idea to hide Cecil’s lawn bowling trophy in the long grass sprouting out of the ditch beside the “rink.” If we won, we’d make them stand on the “blue line” and witness the presentation of a huge lawn bowling statue they didn’t even know they were playing for. We’d raise the trophy over our heads in elation. Then pump up the ghetto blaster. Platinum Blonde, “Doesn’t Really Matter,” cued up and ready to go.
Kid heaven.
Matt Mayhem on Canada Day
Taggart
PEI is also the place where Jonathan and I first met. OLP was playing a show there, and we grabbed some dinner and then went out after the show. We cruised around Charlottetown, trying to find a spot to hang out and have a couple drinks. We couldn’t find anything that was open, so we ended up wandering around neighbourhoods to find a rowdy house. That worked like a charm. It wasn’t long before we heard a house just raging!
We walked in, and it was so packed that there was no way people would think we were crashing the place. There was a band playing, and people were in every room, having a blast. We went into the kitchen to source out some suds, and we ran into Matt Mays and some other musician bahds.
The party really picked up
when we decided to hit the instruments for a gas and to repay the fine folks for the libations. I think we played a bunch of songs by the Band, which is one of my favourites to jam out on. The only issue was that the drums were set up left-handed, and I’m right-handed. “Whatev-salad” is what popped into my mind. I call myself a professional, so I must adapt. So I crushed many Band tunes pretending I was left-handed, and it worked pretty well.
A true good time was had, into the wee hours of the morning. So much fun. People started getting pretty banged up, so it was time to get back to the hotel and call it a night. I wish I knew about the “monkey nuts” that Jono has since spoken about on our podcast. I would have crushed a dozen of them. I love chicken balls. It reminds me of being a kid fighting for them after a Chinese food order on a Saturday night, elbows firing into my brothers’ sides to get a couple more into me. Not to mention hearing the locals saying “monkey nots” over and over. I need that in my life.
Torrens
I remember that night. I’d actually gone to PEI for Canada Day with Mike Smith (Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys) because I was interested in/infatuated with this girl named Carole, who said she was heading over with a group of her friends. OLP was playing, and the Hip too. Turbo-Canadianity lineup. To show my true love strong and free I was even wearing my “I Heart Gordon Lightfoot” T-shirt.
So Smith and I met up with the OLP boys at a lobster joint after their show, and before long Taggart and I were volleying good-natured disses back and forth about who each other looked like. He called me Jack Wagner, the soap star who was also a one-hit wonder with “All I Need.” I called him Father of Confederation D’Arcy McGee.
We had a great night. Even bumped into Elisha Cuthbert from Popular Mechanics for Kids and her boyfriend—some guy in a tight T-shirt named Dion Phaneuf—but I never did track Carole down. She somehow missed my calls, and texted me when she got back home safely to Nova Scotia. She was playing hard to get. I countered with hard to want.
Spoiler alert: We’ve been married for almost ten years and have two kids. I’m still infatuated with her, and she still doesn’t always return my calls.
Bahd Ambassador
Patrick Ledwell
To help us cast a wider net for hot tips, we’ve asked local legends across the country to be Bahd Ambassadors.
On PEI, it’s Patrick Ledwell. He’s an author, observational comedian and live performer who’s got maybe the best take on what being an Islander truly means. Hyper-specific to the PEI experience, yet somehow universal—the mark of a great artist. Here are some of Patrick’s suggestions:
My wife, Tara, and I like to do a “burn and earn”—let the inner antelope out for some cardio, then graze a carby table. These are Island burn-and-earn pairings we’ve actually done, suggesting PEI still exists in the winter too, which it actually sometimes does.
•Call the Pinette Raceway in southeastern PEI and go on a rip all afternoon, riding the sulkies on the oval. Classic. No one designing an experience here. Then, go to Rossignol Estate Winery in Little Sands, and stick your red-caked nose into as many tiny sample cups of their fruit wines as they’ll serve you. Big head next morning, but worth it.
•Walk the boardwalk around Victoria Park in Charlottetown, any time of year. Beaut of a harbour, and you’ll overhear enough to know who should be running the province, who should be in jail and vice versa. Probably don’t cut through the woods after twilight, or you’ll catch some Pokémon you weren’t planning on.
•Charlottetown bats above its weight per capita in good places to eat, maybe because of the culinary school. But here’s a tip: follow where the old people eat, like, regular. Because they think they’re on a tight budget and have so much time to complain among themselves, it makes TripAdvisor look like a bunch of crybabies. So go to Papa Joe’s on University Avenue, and get the special, whatever it is. All about value.
•I hear Summerside has an indoor trampoline park, and a good restaurant called OpenEats that shakes it up with cow heart and lobster ice cream. Sounds like you want to hit the trampolines first.
•Get storm-stayed at Mill River Resort in the winter, up west. Sounds a bit “banjos,” but shut up and listen. Get some Vinny’s pizza into you. You don’t survive as a rural independent pizzeria unless you know your shit. You’ll get to meet people, play shinny, have a drink and then drink the stuff they make. Get someone to take you out at night on the Ski-Doo trails if you don’t have a sled and don’t fixate on life expectancy. You can learn a lot about yourself, holding on for dear life to a strange man’s waist in a screaming Canadian snow.
•Cavendish is famous (ask Jonathan about living in school buses for a summer). But Rustico, down the road, is the year-rounder. Get on your bikes at the national park in Cavendish, maybe at the old Rainbow Valley fun park, which the national park bought and removed all the damn sketchy magicians and fun fake owls from. Bomb to Rustico through the park trails, go to Gallant’s Clover Farm and pick up some mayo, iceberg lettuce and white bread. Get a pound of pre-picked lobster at Doiron Fisheries, and eat sandwiches with your feet dangling off the wharf. Jebus wept.
A Tourist (Lobster) Trap
Torrens
Islanders have a love/hate relationship with tourists. Mostly love because they drop a whack of cash on PEI every summer. I know this for a fact, because for two summers while on hiatus from Street Cents, I sold T-shirts on the boardwalk in Cavendish at a place called Christopher’s Beach Club.
That’s what I did during the day. By night I hosted karaoke at Thirsty’s Road House—a place that’s now a Chinese restaurant called the BoardWok. Ahh, even typing it brings a smile to my face. I love myself some solid wordplay.
Most Requested Karaoke Tunes at Thirsty’s Road House in 1990
“Summer Nights” (Grease soundtrack)
“Bust a Move” (Young MC)
“We Built This City” (Starship)
“Hold On” (Wilson Phillips)
“U Can’t Touch This” (MC Hammer)
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” (Bobby McFerrin)
My preferences were more designed to make audiences shift uncomfortably in their seats, like “Wicked Game,” “Crazy for You” and “Private Dancer.”
“Wicked Game” might be the greasiest/horniest song ever. Any time it comes on, it makes me feel filthy, no matter what I’m doing. Mowing. Driving. Digging in the garden.
If you’ve listened to the poddy, you’ll know that I like speaking with a Québécois-Franglais accent. It was there in Cavendish that I studied it hard. So many Québécois tourists, often doing little to combat the stereotypes. Wearing Speedos in restaurants, smoking in stores, using words like tabernac and câlisse at the price of touristy tank tops. But I love Quebecers. And they love the beach on PEI.
Americans too, who often did their part to keep the stereotype alive. They enabled me to hone my sarcasm.
“We’d like to have dinner in Calgary. Can you give us driving directions?”
“Sure. Turn left and just keeeeeeep going. Can’t miss it.”
Taggart’s Top Five Canadian Bands
As Torrens mentioned, we bonded on PEI at a show Our Lady Peace was playing with the Hip. I’ve been lucky over the years to share the festival stage with some unbelievable acts.
What makes a band great? For me it’s influence, experience and skill, honesty and integrity. These provide a common thread among all great bands, but maybe even greater when it comes to Canadian bands. Here are my Top Five!
5.Sloan
They are the perfect example of a great band. They have been through it all together from the start. They’ve had so many hits, and are still producing great songs. I think of Sloan as the Ramones of Canada. They are very connected to what’s right in music. They didn’t quite get the support in the States that they deserved, and I feel their songs should be heralded more worldwide. The songs on their first records still stand up as classic pop/rock jams, and they still maintain that great energy on songs today.
4.Blue Rodeo
I can’t get enough BR into my soul. Such a great band. They always worked their asses off and ground out one of the best followings in Canadian music. Thank God for songs like “Hasn’t Hit Me Yet” and “Lost Together.” Those jams help people like hospitals do. Curing the blue feelings of the day like master doctors. So good it hurts, they strike deeply into the glory of Canadianity.
3.The Guess Who
How can I not go to Burton Cummings and the boys? How can I not think of Burton Cummings when I’m in Winnipeg? You just do. The chance of spotting Burton at Salisbury House or the track? I’ll keep on trying until it happens. Then I can shake that man’s hand. Seriously, they were so prolific for a good stretch of the ’60s and ’70s. So many great songs. It’s unreal when you go down the list of how many there are and how diverse they were. They had shitloads of hits south of the border too. They should be in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, if you ask my opinion. Some of the best tales I’ve ever heard involve Burton or Randy Bachman. So classic.
2.The Band
I can’t go a week without craving some Band. They’re so good I can hardly explain it. A style that can’t be traced—the most original band that ever was. So great that they couldn’t be copied. So great that Bob Dylan had to have them as his backing band. Four-fifths Canadian, but Levon was a pretty incredible American. A stew of talent that soars above everyone with ease. So much musical talent that bands would retire after seeing them play. No hints of arrogance, but sharklike ego. You couldn’t match their musical prowess. The sound of their harmonies is like a happy hug from your parents after a big life event—the birth of a baby, or a funeral. So thick and warm. Nobody heals you like the Band. You could cure a bad day in seconds with one of their tunes.
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