When I was a kid, I spent summers with my father in the suburbs of Regina. I remember his basement with particular fondness. A small kitchenette, a pullout couch and wood panelling on the walls. The rabbit-eared television, when you flipped the dial fast, sounded like a dry-firing machine gun. I would hide down there in the dark, laying on my back, feet against the wall, reading comic books and sipping Slushies.