I spent yesterday with the clutch cable of an '86 honda civic, cursing and bleeding and getting grease in my hair. Thanks to the patient skill of my father, the gears shift smoothly now; smoother than anything. I can't explain how gratifying that is.

I spent yester eve with Their Excellencies the Governor General and her consort, Booker Prize Winning Novelist and Very Spiritual Man Yann Martel and assorted other authors, and blobs of civic grease in my hair.

Honestly? The car fix was more satisfying.

I brought three batteries along, because it would have been a my-tee poor time to run out of power.

They all died. I ran out of power. So my conversation with B.P.W.N. and V.S.M. Yann Martel went something like this:

(He holds door for me as I trundle past with camera and tripod)

Me: Thanks. (tripod smacks his booker prize winning head) Oops, sorry. (tripod grazes his very cool girlfriend) Oh! Sorry about that.

Really, though, he kind of deserved it. I mean, jeez buddy, could you take yourself any more seriously? He said the stark emptiness of the prairies calls to one to fill it with creativity, and that it's indescribably beautiful.

Yeah, maybe.