the try outs (my apologies)

It’s time for the try outs.

Can you believe it? The recruiters are going door to door looking for the next rocket ismail in the sewers of the harbour town.

Could it be you? You, the talentless slug?

Oh, if only we could manufacture the search, how easy it would be to convince you.

If only we could be fortunate in implementing the plan with precision. If only we could deceive you all so skillfully, to get you all on board, all huddled together, and then announce the examinations, the tests.

And, then, the bomb: "Let the castration begin!" would echo through the tunnels.

And, mother earth, our beloved mother would be so happy, the leaves on the trees would sigh a glorious sigh of relief... the clouds would crack and joyful rains would fall... and the sky would grin down all of creation with a big rainbow ...

What a blessed day it would be, when the world is rid of the possibility of your procreation. When this beautiful world is spared the future existence of more fat and useless McIllwains, each of whom born with their face in a trough of chocolate and pepperoni. And, each of whom so far, since the dawn of creation, have only managed to blight this earth with aluminum shacks, fat boring children, false love, false prophecy, hurt, greed and hatred.

andy'll be named andrew

Tonight, a woman asked me how old I was. I said, "I am thirty years old."

It felt odd to say it, like I was telling a lie.

And I know as I've been told that tonight that woman and many other women like her and not like her are going to struggle between the sheets to try and bring new life into this world with men who are no less eager.

And if, and if they're successful, if they are successful, that child will someday turn thirty, like me now.

Thirty years to take so seriously, like me, something that was never asked for. Well, I guess then the two of us would be stupider than selfish to ever complain, like in a blog, for example.

hole is a word indeed

My watering hole...

What is your favourite watering hole, so what is your favouite watering hole? ... ugggh I want to scream!

Oh, but in your favourite watering hole we can all get well lubricated, under the influence of lubrication, you know, we can talk and be interesting, being well lubricated, that is.

And, then we can be wet and sloppy men, the lubricated men, crawling inside vaginas, in wet holes, in watering holes, our favourite watering holes...

Never mind, never mind.

the preacher

I've been wanting to write blogs about Stan Rogers, newspaper flyers and the book of Ecclesiastes.... Though I don't think I'll be able to hang them altogether in one typing. So, I'll deal with Ecclesiastes, here... well, actually, that favourite biblical book of mine is not too far disconnected from the blessed son of Nova Scotia.

It could have been written in the time of Stan Rogers, maybe by his brother, it's a story about the bones of the cosmos ... when there's nothing else to hang life on but the cold, hard and polished bones of the world. While I don't doubt that the book could have been written on the east coast of Nova Scotia in the 1970's it has always seemed more suited to the depresion era midwest.

At times it reads to me as if it was written by some wandering dust bowl preacher kicking the dried out dirt up in the air with the soles of his feet and wondering what sense he's gonna make of this big mess to all the folks who come to him looking for the answers, and he knows they'll come... No, but it wasn't written in the days of Stan or in early 20th century America, it was written more than two thousand years ago by some Israelite, the self proclaimed son of the good king David a son of Moses and alleged forefather of Jesus Christ.

History looks pretty much the same regardless of the particularities or the cast of characters. As the preacher says, "...and behold, all was vanity and a striving after wind"