How Is The Traffic On Brant Street?

Traffic Jam

It was a bright cold night in November and the traffic lights were stuck on red. I had my hands on the steering wheel in my lightning blue Ford truck. The radio was playing crappy country music when all I really wanted to hear was a good traffic report. My car stereo had a CD player. I put on Mr. Fantasy, the debut studio album by Traffic, and turned the volume up on Dear Mr. Fantasy. Traffic was an English rock band who began as a psychedelic rock group. I was stuck in traffic at a busy intersection in Burlington, Ontario in the lucky Golden Horseshoe of Canada.

A good stroke of bad luck, I thought to myself, with my foot on the brake. Unable to escape the traffic jam on Brant Street, I was whistling a traffic tune.

The Midnight Traffic Report is about Wyatt McReynolds who leaves his job at a community channel in Wheelerville, Texas. The lonesome traffic reporter travels to the Canadian Prairies and finds a job at The Traffic Channel. Pictures and Portraits is an online literary journal and small press based in Toronto. They rejected the short story, but called it “a fun piece.”

Whenever I’m on the road, I think about On The Road by Jack Kerouac. He wrote a famous description of driving when “behind the truck cars pulled out and peeked for a chance to get by it. In front of the slow cars other slow cars were pushing along. The road was crowded and everyone was exploding to pass.” Beyond The Blue Kite has been read by beta readers and Justin believes “the book is interesting to read. It’s tone is almost like Kerouac’s and rewarding to persist through.” The novel has undergone some minor changes and the opening is much better with an additional chapter.

Whenever I'm done writing, I watch FOX Sports Racing for the thrill of it. But when I stop to think about it, NASCAR has been challenged on the types of caution flags used to manipulate the outcome of races. NASCAR needs to donate money to government and regulate safety on streets and highways.

Brant Blues

Joseph Brant was a real historical figure and he had a serious problem with alcoholism. His long struggle with alcoholism left him dead. When I visited the Joseph Brant Museum, it just looked like a normal house with ancient artifacts, but the Indian chief had a lot more going on that nobody knew about. Joseph Brant was a Mohawk Indian chief, British military officer, war hero and drunk.

After looking up alcoholism, I discovered me and Joseph Brant had the exact same problem. We both had “an addiction to the consumption of alcoholic liquor or the mental illness and compulsive behavior resulting from alcohol dependency.” Joseph Brant never admitted his alcohol dependency. The Indian was too proud to admit his problem. When alcohol abuse became most severe, he almost admitted to it, but the British army covered it up and promised to grant him land for keeping it a secret.


The leader and chief proudly stood

With a pint of beer for the wise,

Shaking hands with a photographer,

There was a glare in his eyes.

The tattooed Native American Indian

Would drink all of the time,

As he'd stare into the camera

While admitting his last crime.

Proudfoot wore bone bead bracelets,

And bead jewelry for him to bless

And with his ritual tribal dress,

He wore a buffalo headdress.

His moccasins were soft leather shoes,

Well-designed for seasons of weather,

And Proudfoot loved to drink

And carry his Indian feather.

Soon the photo shoot was over.

And Proudfoot finished his pose.

He thanked the photographer and said,

“Thanks for the moment you froze.”

“You’re welcome,” he said as he walked,

And the photographer had to get away,

But he waved his hand as he talked,

“You’ll be in the newspaper today.”

(The photographer returned to impress

With a newspaper hot off the press.)

The camera man developed the picture,

While he showed the photo with pride,

Proudfoot stared at it a moment

Then said "This is for after I’ve died.”

He threw away the paper with disgust

And knew drinking was always his lust.

The Indian chief slowly walked away,

But his drunkenness would describe

How he would be known forever

And embarrass his tribe.

He whispered “Don’t tell anyone,

Howgh, drinking is fun.”

The photo was destroyed in the end.

Proudfoot's friend was Indian River,

Who rotted his liver.

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