That's right kids, it's another excellent edition, and for the third month in a row, it features an article by yours truly. Check it out at www.shrugmagazine.com, and tell your friend, your mother, and your mother's friend.

Here is a brief teaser in order to arouse your interest: "Charlie Taylor will cease to be so angry when you cease to be so suspicious. Perhaps he guiltily wishes most politicians shared one neck." Ha ha, is your interest aroused? I know I am.

I have been to 45 different countries around the world, and have never been searched by customs. Never, ever, in any country, other than Canada. In Canada, it has become a part of my "welcome home" ritual.

I don't have a criminal record. I have never been arrested, suspected, or questioned in relation to any crime. I've never lost a point off my driver's license. I have never been fined for J-walking, littering, uncle abusing, or nun bating. I have never even been issued a parking ticket. So why is it, that every time I come home, Canada customs treats me with slightly less respect than your average American vigilante would treat a freshly arrived "wetback"?

Out of each plane load of people arriving in Canada, about 10 or so are sent into the special room for closer examination. If you assume a plane carries about 200 passengers, and you apply the law of averages, you could expect to be among the selected few about one in 20 times. I am currently batting at about 20 out of 20 times. Canada customs has been through my bag more often than I have. It doesn't seem like a random check anymore.

Either Canada customs has a serious fetish for my "I won't bother doing laundry cause I'll be home in three weeks anyway" underwear, or they're trying to find something which isn't there. Some of the things they can't find because I don't have them in my bag are: weapons (airport security presumably would have found them before I got on the plane), more than $10 000 CDN in cash (If I had that kind of coin I would have a nicer bag), or drugs (Haven't you been paying attention? I get searched every time I go through customs, do you think I'm retarded?) I can therefore only assume, that Canadian customs has a panicky fear that I will someday, with malice of forethought, try to smuggle fresh fruits and/or vegetables into the country.

It is not unlike being back in school. While all the other passengers get to run out to their waiting friends/famillies/car services, I have to go to the detention room with all the other losers. Then I get to spend an hour or so with somebody whose job it is to ruin my life. Nothing would make them happier than to find a couple of kilos of coke wrapped up in that cardigan sweater my auntie knitted for me. Why? because that way they could send me to jail for a long time. Fantastic. They get a promotion, and my chances of ever having a career, holding public office, or running for Pope, are flushed down the drain.

So why me? A clean cut, middle class kid, with no criminal record, who has been unsuccessfully searched more times than Loch Ness? I even happen to have secret clearance from the Canadian government. My brother is a Major in the Canadian army who is currently serving his country (?) in Afghanistan. My father, grandfather, and great grandfather have all worn the uniform of this nation. Why are they so certain that I plan to someday transgress against the laws of Canada? God knows. But when that day comes, they'll be ready. By God they'll be ready.

"I woke up with the birds again today... I have got to stop sleeping in the park." -Shoe.

When the poker game finally ended this morning at eight, with the loss of all my money, I stumbled drunkenly out onto the street, and into the nearest park. When I came to several hours later, a squirrel was licking my face. I was in a patch of shrubbery, whose main purpose appeared to be outdoor toilet facility. Amazingly, I had managed to avoid lying down in any of the many piles of shit, and none of the used toilet paper had blown onto me in my sleep. It was a small victory.

I crawled out of the bushes, and stumbled home. I was still incredibly drunk, and lurched conspicuously about amongst the well dressed, happy, day-time people. I finally woke up at about six this evening, and had to ask myself some hard questions. One, why the hell am I still doing this shit when I´m thirty, and if I continue living like this, how much longer will I get to live? Two, why the hell have I started smoking again after six years without a cigarette? Three, what makes me think that I can win money at poker, and why can´t I just walk away from the table like a normal person? Four, why am I such a completely useless alcoholic sack of shit?

Some might consider losing all your money, and then waking up surrounded by human feces to be, as they say in AA: "hitting rock bottom." Unfortunately I suspect that for me, it`s just another Monday night.

By now you will all have heard in the tabloid press that Charlie Taylor and Axis of Evil drummer Charlie Still, have ended their affair. The break up was by all accounts amiable, and they have agreed to share custody of bass player Terry Sommers. Charlie Taylor´s spokesperson cited creative differences as the cause of the break up, whereas Charlie Still´s people claimed that Miss Still was no longer sexually satisfied as a result of Taylor´s "tiny, rabit-sized penis."

Many in the rock and roll world were shocked when they heard the news of the end of what many saw as a fairy-tale romance; "It was like Beauty and the Beast," said Andy Deported. "None of us could figure out what she saw in him. We figured he must have money... or a giant penis."

Charlie Taylor is currently residing in Austria. He offered no comment.

Next week: we get to the bottom of Charlie Taylor´s penis size. 

The most excellent July edition of Shrug Magazine is out featuring illustrations of poo hats by Leon Lapointe, and an article on interweb dating by yours truly. Be sure to check it out at www.shrugmagazine.com.

I've been in Ireland for a couple of weeks now. It's a nice enough country, unfortunately all the women appear to be lesbians. They engage in hetero-sexual sex only for the purposes on breeding, which they do on a prodigious level, and shortly after fertilization they become fat and ugly. The surplus offspring are shipped off abroad in order to avoid potato famine-style pandemonium, and the little tykes are given Irish pubs around the world wherein they peddle the most God awful drink ever to masquerade as beer: Guiness.

It's been an eventful couple of weeks. For one thing I turned 30, a bit of a miracle in itself considering the poor lifestyle choices I've made over the years. Also I played a show with Mave, a finalist in the "You're a Star" television show, Ireland's version of "American Idol". Mave is a very talented and lovely16 year old. I inquired discreetly what the age of consent was in Ireland. Apparently It's 17. Doesn't matter, she's probably a lesbian anyway.

Also exciting in the world of Charlie Taylor: be sure to check out the July edition of Shrug Magazine (www.shrugmagazine.com). They are publishing an article by me titled "Interweb Dating." 

More pearls of wisdom from my book "Rules of Thumb: a Beginner's Guide to Hitchhiking." (Hey the TV networks are all on reruns this time of year, I can take it a little easy too.)

I crossed the U.N. checkpoint into Kosovo crammed into the back seat of a Yugo, leaning against my back pack, my guitar between my legs. The two students from Belgrade who were driving me were very concerned for my well being. "The Albanians will kill you," they said. I had been getting that a lot. All the Serbians who had been picking me up had given me similar warnings about the "Islamic terrorists." Some had showed me scars caused by the Albanians, while others had just roared off and given me the finger when I had said I was heading to Pristina.

The boys drove me through a Serbian town that was just on the Kosova side of the border, and pulled over right inside the city limits. "We can't take you any further," they said. "Good luck." There was no border guard or fence, only the sign post indicating the edge of the town. The fields along this invisible border were neglected and over grown. There was no traffic at all, so I started walking. It was a three km hike through this no man's land into the next town, which was Albanian. The only vehicles that passed were French armored personnel carriers. They didn't stop to pick me up.

As I approached the Albanian town, it seemed eerily deserted. I slipped my passport out of my pocket, and held it in my hand, in case I had to prove in a hurry that I wasn't Serbian. I saw a kid, about 19 or 20, standing beside the road. I walked over to him and shook his hand, and explained where I wanted to go. For a few Euros he offered to drive me to a busier road, and I took him up on it. Going through Kosovo was easy. The people were friendly and helpful, and most of them thought I was a U.N. police officer. They thought it was hilarious when I told them I was a tourist. As I drew closer to the other side of Kosovo, back towards the Serbian border, the Albanians who were driving grew concerned. "The Serbians will kill you," they said.

Hitchhiking through the Balkans is a unique experience. Don't waste your money on a map, the borders change so quickly down there. The most important thing to remember is, don't let the Serbians think you're Albanian, and don't let the Albanians think that you're Serbian. It was the first time in my life that for a few seconds I wished I had a Canadian flag sewed to my backpack. Then I realized I'd rather get beaten to death by an angry mob in a horrible case of mistaken identity than look so embarrassingly idiotic.

It's a hard concept to wrap your head around, but the guy being so friendly to you right now, and the guy who was so friendly to you five minutes ago, would probably try and kill each other if you invited them to the same Tupperware party. When in doubt play stupid, and never allow yourself to get drawn into any political or religious discussions.

Also, stay on the roads and off the minefields.

I'm going to be leaving Canada again in a few days. The climate is agreeable enough during the summer season, but Canadians are shit heads year round. A people who allow themselves to be governed by Stephen Harper are not worth the backpacks their flags are sewn on. I'm leaving in protest.

In an effort to lend some meaning to the last month or so during which time I once again suckled at my mother country's proverbial tit, I decided to celebrate my departure with a right of passage, or as I like to call it, a party.

As I have spent the last eleven years traveling, and have visited over forty different countries, I've had a lot of going away parties. So instead of boring my reading audience with details of how I, and five other people spent an enjoyable but tame evening drinking beer at the Oak, I will draw on my extensive farewell party archives, and share the story of a more interesting party as described in my book "Rules of Thumb; A Beginner's Guide to Hitchhiking." This one took place in 2004 I believe, as I was about to leave Austria:

I invited some close friends out to Karen's place in the country to celebrate my departure. My memories of that last night are hazy, but I do remember that Karen went to bed early to rest for the long drive ahead. There was nothing unusual about the night. We began drinking beer. The girls decided to take a bath together, so Emlyn and I went in with them to help them lather up. Then we ran out of beer and started on the vodka. Then I took one of the girls downstairs and had sex with her in the sauna.

It was a delightful evening until we ran out of vodka and started on the absinthe. Absinthe makes you crazy. I remember the others laughing hysterically as I went tearing around the basement naked trying to stomp out a fire that they had started by pouring absinth over everything and lighting it. At eight in the morning Emlyn's girlfriend started freaking out and decided she wanted to go home right away. I told her Karen would drive her when she woke up. Then I went up to Karen's room and got into bed. She asked me if I'd gotten laid. I said yes and then passed out.

I think I'd been asleep for only a couple of hours, and I was definitely still drunk. There were two cops standing at the foot end of the bed screaming in German. I was pretty sure they hadn't been there when I'd gone to sleep.

"Who's is the white car?" shrieked the shorter, fatter one with the red face. I tried to remember what color my car was. I couldn't. I didn't have a car. I poked Karen in the ribs and said, "It's for you," then I rolled over and covered my face with the blanket. I was asleep again within seconds.

Several hours later I woke up, Karen was gone. I went into the next room and found Emlyn passed out in the middle of the floor wearing someone else's clothes. He had a half empty bottle of Absinthe in his hand.

Ok, well, that's not much better. Anyway, long story short, I got Karen to drive me to Paris, then changed my mind and headed east, overland to Mongolia. That's a long trip. Anyhow, now I'm off to merrie olde England.