All the nostalgia and goodwill I've accumulated for Calgary over the past almost-two-years imploded into itty-bitty bits of bitterness when I was wrenched awake at 7:19 this morning by the blare of Alan Jackson and his ilk. Not to be pedantic, but when was Calgary ever a centre for ranching, or rodeo? It was a mountie fort and a railway stop, then it was an oil town. That's about it. Of course there are all kinds of ranching culture across Southern Alberta, but why do they have to rear their most ridiculous incarnations in front of my building, downtown, in what's supposed to be a city? Also in direct contravention of noise bylaws, I might point out, although not to the police, because it's Stampede! they don't care.

This morning wasn't all bad: they did play a couple of Johnny Cash songs. But that didn't last long, so I had to close the balcony doors and play the Smiths loud enough to drown it all out. After eating my breakfast quiche.

Man, I can never rant about the Stampede without making myself seem pathetic. Why is that?