As I toiled in the sweltering heat of the summer of 1994, in various hellholes scattered across northern BC, I dreamed of escape. Escape from the gruelling phyical labor of treeplanting, the monotony and uselessness of replanting clearcuts that were only going to be logged again in 60 years if the trees actually survived, and the spirit crushing reality that we were so very far away from anything.

I sang in my head to rid myself of the pain of this reality. Reggae, the music of 400 hundred years of suffering, offered little other than eventual but distant salvation, and the occasional dose of revenge. What I love to sing was Steely Dan, and while looking through my CDs tonight, I saw a track I had to play, if only to make me feel grateful that I am not out there with the cold, heat, bugs, bears, stinging nettle, devils club, and rednecks.

This is what I would sing:

Bad sneakers and a pina colada my friend

stomping on the avenue by radio city with a

transistor and a large sum of money to spend