PUNK WOODSTOCK Meets The Ugly American
Just out of the Detroit-Windsor tunnel, a friend and I are fighting a losing battle. We’re trying to take Canada seriously. Here we are in actual Ontario, nary a snowshoe between us, on our way to Punk Woodstock by way of a route as exciting as Canada gets:
PUNK WOODSTOCK Meets The Ugly American
Dave DiMartino
Just out of the Detroit-Windsor tunnel, a friend and I are fighting a losing battle. We’re trying to take Canada seriously. Here we are in actual Ontario, nary a snowshoe between us, on our way to Punk Woodstock by way of a route as exciting as Canada gets: Route 401, which begins at Windsor, heads for Toronto and then mysteriously vanishes into uncharted territory. Nobody, you see, has ever stayed ‘awake long enough to find out exactly where it ends; if they have, presumably, then they’ve been kidnapped by vengeful baby seals and won’t ever be seen again.
After spending 12 Canadian dollars (P) on 48 liters (P) of gas, we’re confronted with a disturbing road sign which advises ‘us’ to travel no faster than 100 kilometers (?) per hour—or else, we presume, neatly dressed Mounties will pull their respective horses adiacent to our car and threaten us with various Canadian obscentities which, peppered with appropriate “eh’s”, will only begin to prepare us for the difficult road ahead.