Whatever you do, don't go to Vancouver

Ahh, Beautiful British Columbia. Shimmering mountain crests as your glorious backdrop. Fresh clean skies. Elk. Oh, and crackheads who steal your bike in the night.

Yes, you heard correctly. My cherished stallion Schwinny has been taken from me, and I've kissed the best $120 I've ever spent at Target goodbye. I guess that's the price you pay when you park on the street in dirty rotten Vancouver. We stayed one night then got the hell out after a 3am scare that included sleeping in a neighborhood, hearing suspicious noises, and Joe running outside in his underwear to watch some junkie riding away on my bike, cackling like Satan himself.

It's not just the bike. We've had such a string of bad luck lately that running away via ferry, to Vancouver Island, seemed like the best option. It's been rough. Let's just say I've sustained a Girl Injury that occurs when you fall off the curb and onto your bike crossbar, full force. And I dropped Joe's guitar. Dropped it in it's soft case and he loves that thing more than I've ever seen a man love a guitar, and for due cause. It's a beautiful 1973 Martin that belonged to his dad and now I feel absolutely horrible that I hurt it. Then to top it all off we got a parking ticket while shopping for a new bike.

Deep breath. We've had a few setbacks, but nothing that can't be fixed. The guitar is carefully packed, on it's way to get fixed by meticulous gentle hands in LA. I bought a new bike. And a new lock. And we got away from stupid Vancouver with it's smelly bike thieves with souls as black as their rotten crack-coated lungs.

Now we're sitting in Victoria, and it's so nice to relax and hope our luck has changed for the better. We'll hang out here for a few days and ride bikes and lock them with our Kryptonite uber-lock. So Superman doesn't steal them.