Happy Thanksgiving (To My Readers Only)

    So, it’s Thanksgiving today... The Canadian Thanksgiving. Those of you in France, South Korea, and the rest of the world, may not be aware that we Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving a whole month before our American friends. I guess that means we must have invented it. I guess that also means that our Thanksgiving is better. Some food for thought there. Which is kind of funny, because what is Thanksgiving all about, if not about great quantities of food?

    For those of you not in the know, here's a little history. Thanksgiving is a uniquely North American holiday. If you live on any other continent, or in Mexico, you may not have even heard of it.

    Even though Mexico is part of North America, they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving there. It isn't because they don't have plenty to give thanks about. Every last one of them could all give thanks, every single morning, that the drug cartels didn’t burn down their village, after skinning every man, woman, and child alive. But stuff like this isn’t what Thanksgiving is all about.

    Here's how it works. This isn’t a holiday about giving thanks for the things you have in your life today. It’s about giving thanks that your ancestors did well in the past, and that you can ride on their coattails today. Essentially, it's being thankful for being white.

    You see, a long time ago, a superior culture met and shared their European cuisine with an inferior culture. Soon after, the superior culture nearly exterminated the inferior culture and subjugated the tiny remainder. Today, the descendants of that superior culture have inherited nearly unlimited opportunity, to squander or otherwise, and the remnants of that inferior culture continue their bannock making traditions. This is the foundation on which both Canada, and the USA, were established.

    Meanwhile, In Mexico, instead of going to war, the two races sort of blended together into a new, but impure, race of mongrels. The worst qualities from both emerged to dominate. That's nothing to be thankful for, and it’s certainly nothing to be celebrated. Nevertheless this is how things are allowed to remain, even to this very day.

    Let us speak no more of Mexico, lest we all be sickened further.

    In Canada, it is part of Thanksgiving tradition to spend it with family. Sometimes you might find four or five generations gathered together under one roof for the holiday feast. I suspect the older generations are to blame for these happy affairs. Young people are always trying to avoid the elderly, so the old people grasp at any opportunity to not slip away into their deserved irrelevance.

    In my family, the word “family” is what we say when we mean “people we don’t want to talk to”. In that spirit, I haven’t seen, or even spoken to, anyone in my family for over seven years. That may seem strange to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. I mean, is genetic similarity really a meaningful basis for your personal relationships?

    The only exception I’ve made to this is my Dad, who I haven’t seen or spoken to in a mere seven months. Even that is only because he lives in a halfway house just three blocks from my home. Additionally, my relationship with my father is has nothing to do with the fact that I am one half “him”. We’ve had some honestly good times. I have some genuinely positive memories of him as I grew up.

    Also, he and I are not genetically similar at all. Haven’t I told you this already? All right, then. I’m telling you now.

    I am adopted.

    I have no idea who my real parents are. Nor have I ever tried to find out. I have white skin and brown hair, which means they weren’t Indian, East Indian, African or Asian. That’s all I need to know to be happy.

    The only thing I’ve ever known about my biological parents is that my mother was sixteen when I was born. Which means if they’d kept me, I’d probably have grown up to be a drug dealer. In that case, I’d be writing to you now about how much I hate the pigs, how I’d probably been with fifty-two of society’s most vulnerable women, about how many skull and/or teardrop tattoos I have. I’d probably be writing to you about how I’ve been to jail eight times, and all the sodomy, gang initiations, and Johnny Cash concerts I’ve been subjected to there.

       Luckily, instead of all that, I’m going to tell you about the nice time I had with my father on Thanksgiving, just as it happened, only a few hours ago.

    I arrived unannounced at the halfway house around four thirty in the afternoon.

    “Well, Son, I wasn’t expecting you.” my father said.

    “Surprise!” I replied.

    “Yeah. Well, since you’re here, you might as well come inside. It is Thanksgiving. We’ll have a ‘family’ dinner.”

    I sat at the Formica table, while Jamie Jr. slaved over the stove. Ten minutes later, we enjoyed grilled cheese sandwiches and a couple of Four Loko.

Happy Thanksgiving

    “They say this stuff is supposed to be like cocaine in a can.” said my Dad about the Four Loko. “Let me tell you, this is not like cocaine in a can.”

    Then, in observance of our family’s traditions, we ate in silence. When the sandwiches were gone, we drank more Four Loko. It wasn’t until after his third Four Loko that my Father spoke again.

    “You might as well meet your Stepfather.”
   
    “I don‘t follow.” I said.

    “Vito! Come here a sec!” My Dad bellowed.

    Vito entered the kitchen.

    “You bellowed?” Vito said.

    I knew Vito. I had seen him here, at the halfway house, during earlier visits. We had never spoken much, because he always weirded me out. I swear he looked just how I would look in fifteen years, if I shaved my head.

    “I did.” said my Father. “Your Stepson is here.”

    “Hi, Jamie. We’ve met before, haven’t we?” said Vito. He extended his fist towards me for a bump. He didn’t get it.

    “I don’t… I don’t follow.” I said.

    “Does this make it clear enough for you, idiot?” Dad said, as he threw his arms around Vito, and they inserted their tongues into each other’s mouths for almost a minute.

    “Get it? Moron?” Jamie Jr. said to me.

    “Get. Get what?”

    “Dumb. Fuck. We. Are both. Your Dad.” said my Dad. Well, as my adopted father, he is technically my second Dad.

    “Maybe I should go.” said my third Dad.

    “Yeah. Get out of here. I saw a butterfly over by the chrysanthemums. You‘ll want to kill it for your collection.”

    Vito looked hurt by the comment, but he went outside anyway.

    Silence reigned after that. But only briefly.

    “That’s right. We’re married. That’s legal, now. Or haven’t you been paying attention?” my Father said.

    “Seen any good movies lately?” I responded.

    Jamie Jr. pounded back his forth Loko.

    “You know, you’re lucky you didn’t stay with your birth parents. Or else it might have been you who ended up in here with me. And then who might I have married?” he said, and he smiled at me until tears had soaked my face.

    “Ah. Buck up, Son.”

    “Who’s my Daddy?” was all I could say.

    “I can see how this all might seem a bit confusing for you.”

    “At least I now know why you adopted.” I said.

    My father looked at the wall behind him, and then at the ceiling, and then the floor.

    “You are not adopted.” he said.

    “I don’t follow,” I said.

    “You. You. Are not. Adopted.”

    “Yes, I am.”

    “No, You are not.”

    “But you told me I was.”

    “I know.”

    "I cannot remember a time in my whole life, not even in my earliest memories, that I did not think that I was adopted.”

    “I know.”

    “So? Why? Why did you tell me I was adopted?”

    “I don’t remember.”

    “And all these years. You. And Mom. Why did you never tell me the truth?”

    “Well, because. Besides, you seemed so proud of the fact. And, you know. Once you say something like that, and then try to take it back? It kind of makes you look like a liar.”

    “But you are a liar!”

    “I know.” he said. He made a face at me as he said it. A face like he was trying to express an emotion. I’d never seen him try to make this expression before, and I didn’t know what it was supposed to be. I don’t think he knew, either.
   
    “So this is how you wanted me to find out? This is how you want to drop a bomb like that?” I said.

    “Hey, don’t blame me. Blame the Four Loko. It was as much to blame then, as it is now.” my Father said.

    “Really? Because I don't feel like blaming some 'thing'. I want to blame somebody. It’s a bit too big of a deal to blame on a thing.” I said.

    “I can see how, from your perspective, it might seem that way.” my Father said.
   
    “You know what? You want to know what? I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. It’s going to take more than another seven months before I can cope with you again.” I said.

    “Yeah, well. If that’s what helps you deal with this. So, Merry Christmas, then. And also Happy Birthday.”

    I’d heard enough. I stormed out of there, and said nothing as I left. Vito was in the garden, and I would have went past him without a word, too. But, for some reason, I stopped.

    “Are you guys really married, or is that just what he told you?” I asked him.

    “The whole thing seemed pretty official, but then I don’t get married that often. So I guess I don’t really know.” said Vito.

     Instantly, I got the impression that Vito was less a hardened criminal and mostly just gullible, and dumb. Just the sort of person that find themselves victimized by my father.
   
    “Vito. Watch out.” I said.

    “Watch out for what?” he asked.

    I thought about it. I wasn't sure what to tell him.

    "Everything." I replied. It was the perfect response. Something both he and I could live by.
 
    “Could you be more specific?” Vito asked.

    “Not really.” I admitted, reluctantly.

    “Gosh, thanks. That’s the calibre of advice that got me in here in the first place.”

    Suddenly, I didn't feel so good about my perfect response. Worse, I didn't have any better ideas.

    “I guess I’ll be joining you in here real soon, then.”  I said.

Currant Events

    So I recently told you about how I was now a reporter for a local publication. What I did not tell you, although you may not be surprised to discover, is that I actually have to do some reporting! So, I want to share with you, for the first time anywhere, besides The Local Freebie, my very first published article!

One Man Threatens To Kill Another

                                                            Jamie Luxton III
                                                             Staff Reporter

    A local orchardist fears for his life after a fellow grower threatened his life Monday night. Lungri Khan, former president of the Grower’s Association, is charged with uttering threats and possession of a weapon for dangerous purpose. He was released on bail Tuesday evening.

    According to Bhurpi Kirpan, he received a phone call Monday afternoon from an unidentified man who demanded to know why Kirpan’s orchards went relatively undamaged by last weeks torrential hailstorm.

    “I said: It is divine intervention. There is no other explanation.” says Kirpan.

    Kirpan says the voice began to swear uncontrollably, and said “I must send you to thank God in person.”

    A short time later, Khan arrived in his pickup truck at the Kirpan residence. The following moments were captured by Kirpan’s home surveillance cameras. Bhurpi provided copies of the video to The Local Freebie and police.

    The video shows an obviously distraught Khan exiting his vehicle and waving a shovel about in a menacing fashion, before approaching the house. Although Bhurpi was not home at the time, his son, Pharti, was, and he met the irate Khan in the driveway.

    Pharti says that Khan never threatened him, but did announce his intention to kill Pharti’s father.

    Pharti called police while neighbours, attracted by the commotion, gathered to watch.

    An RCMP officer is seen to arrive swiftly and restrain Khan without incident.

    RCMP media spokesperson  Insp. Masia Parono explained the rest at a press conference earlier today.

    “Constable Yannick Segue was the first to arrive on the scene. A lot of people had gathered, but it was pretty obvious who the bad apple was.” says the inspector.

    “Constable Segue ensured a smooth transition out of a dangerous situation, by ordering the man, later identified as Lungri Khan, to put down the shovel. The man complied and allowed himself to be handcuffed and secured to constable Segue’s Segway without incident. Constable Segue then called for assistance, as the Segway is not equipped to transport two people.”


    Lungri Khan is scheduled to appear in court Thursday morning.

    Inspecto. Parono offered this assessment of the case.

    “It appears to be a case of sour grapes. Lungri Khan’s orchard was heavily damaged in the hailstorm, and Kirpan’s was not. It made Khan go bananas. Even for fruit growers, life isn’t always a bowl of cherries. But, as a police officer, I recommend that, when life hands you lemons, instead of trying to kill someone, make lemonade.”

    Lungri Khan is scheduled to appear in court Thursday morning.



    Not bad, I’d say. It’s both concise and informative. I guess I’m not the only one who thinks so, either, because it made the front page of today’s edition of The Local Freebie!

    If you, dear reader, are as local as The Freebie is, then pick yourself up a copy or two today! On the other hand, if you are that person from France, or that person from South Korea, or are otherwise outside local distribution, then have I got good news for you!

    I just happen to have ten copies of today’s The Local Freebie in my personal possession. Here’s what I am prepared to do. To the readers who send me the ten sexiest pictures of themselves, I will autograph and send you one of these papers. Of course, you are welcome to enter as many times as you like. But once you have won one copy, you will not be eligible to win more copies, no matter how many pictures you send. Winners will be determined by me, in the privacy of my own home.

    When I was just out of high school, I imagined myself becoming a TV journalist. I even took a written test from a post-secondary school. Then they conducted an over the phone interview. They asked me questions like:

    “If you could ask the Prime Minister one question, what would it be?”

    “I don’t know. About the economy, I guess.” I replied.

    I’m not sure if I ever got a letter of disinterest from them or not, but I do know I was never admitted.

    I was never really upset about it, though. I never wanted to be a journalist so much as a low level celebrity. Only almost twenty years later, here I am, and now I am both.  Isn’t it amazing what fate has in store for us?

And Now the News, Don't Touch That Dial

    Even public transit has it’s secrets. This is the sort of thing you’re going to find out if, like me, you’re an investigative reporter. If you find yourself sitting there right now, wondering how I can suddenly have become an investigative reporter, then you probably are not much of an investigative reporter.

    Briefly, it went like this. I was involved in a… Thing. Look, it’s hard to know what to say. It’s kind of a matter that is currently before the courts. Let just say I was involved in a venture, which, unknown to me, would prove to be “not exactly legal” in nature.

    One day, I was approached in a bar by a woman who drunkenly spoke at length on the merits of owning a dog. Her name was Smitty. Naturally, I thought a beautiful relationship was forming. What was really happening was an undercover police officer was turning me into her informant.

    I’ll tell you, I was happy to inform. I wanted to make Smitty happy. I thought that there was a real chance of making things work between us, even after I realised she was a cop. Even if it had to wait until our “professional” relationship was over.

    Besides, this place I was working at? It wasn’t an environment that fostered a lot of loyalty. For example, instead of paycheques, I got excuses.

    “I didn’t realise I was going to get paid in excuses around here.” I said once.

    “Do you want to die?” Is how they responded, and that was the end of that.

    Anyway, I am not guilty of anything. True, a judge may later decide differently, but for now, I am not guilty of anything.

    However…

    Gang at the Daily Planet aside, journalists are an unscrupulous lot. The things they will do for a scoop!

    If even one of them finds out, somehow, that you’re a police informant, next thing you know, six of them are beating down your door. And the things they will offer you!  Money, whores… You name it.

    “What I think I will really need pretty quick here, besides a good lawyer, is a job.” I told one of them.

    “I can arrange that.” Said “Bernstein”.

    So there you have it. That’s how you can become, like me, an investigative reporter. Strictly speaking, this also is “not exactly legal”.

    It might seem foolish to announce this kind of conduct publicly on the internet like this. But the truth is that nobody, other than a guy in France and a guy in South Korea, is reading this. Or maybe they’re chicks. Who knows? Who cares? Either way, I love you two. Send pictures. Kisses.

    So now I work for the community newspaper. It’s not the nice one. It’s the local freebie. In fact, that’s what it’s called; “The Local Freebie”. Some people call it a rag, and that’s just those of us who work there. But it is a job , and it pays. Well, it doesn’t exactly “pay”, but it has it’s perks.
   
    For example, J.J. Beaman, the owner of the Local Freebie, also owns the local television station, CHDC.
   
    As with the newspaper, CHDC is not renowned for it‘s pedigree. Nevertheless, for a community that has not a lot to take pride in, we take a lot of unwarranted pride in our locally produced programming. In fact, a few of these have gained some small amount of fame outside of the community, including:

    Poppa Wheelie - This motorcycle with eyes and a handlebar moustache was a Saturday morning character from the late seventies. In later years, a series of anti-drug PSAs, featuring Poppa Wheelie, were produced to stave off the character’s waning popularity. However, Poppa’s habit of winking at the camera was misinterpreted as insincerity. A nation wide scandal broke out, believing this character was promoting drug use to children. A late 80’s effort to revive the character as a wise cracking skateboard was met with resounding indifference.

    Velocirappa - A mid-nineties effort to create a new popular children’s character. Although this dinosaur’s rhymes about letters and numbers went largely unnoticed, somebody somewhere mistakenly saw some potential in it. A Velocirappa video game resulted, made for the original Playstation. But even back then, copies were hard to acquire. Finding one was only slightly easier that finding somebody who wanted one.

    Anyway, there’s a lot of crossover by the staff between the paper and the TV station. I’m hoping to have the same kind of luck. Really, I’m just hoping to get a job at the station in any capacity.

    Of course, before hiring me, Mr. Beaman wanted to meet with me. Thus, I found myself in his office one Sunday morning.

    “Do you know why you’re here?” he said.

    “For a job.” I replied.

    “Right. But why are you here right now? It’s Sunday morning. Doesn’t that strike you as a little unusual? I mean, why not Monday morning? Who does this on a Sunday?”

    “Well, when you put it that way, yeah. It does seem kind of unusual.” I replied.

    “So what do you think is going on here?”

    “That‘s what I want to know.”

    “There it is!” Beaman exclaimed with delight. “The newsman’s instincts.”

    “The what?”

    “Newsman‘s instincts. For uncovering the truth. Getting to the bottom of things. This is at the foundation of your character. Isn’t it?”

    “Yeah.” I said.
   
    “Now look at me. I’m forty-two. You weren’t expecting that. Were you?”

    “Not really.”

    “You were expecting some stuffed old suit. But I’m not even wearing a suit. Look at what I‘m wearing. It’s a leather jacket. It has a zipper on the sleeve. You weren't expecting that.”

    “I wasn’t.” I admitted.

    “And look at me. I’m a handsome guy. How come I’m still single? My mother can’t explain it. She says to me ‘You’re such a handsome boy. How can you still be a bachelor at your age? Why can’t you just meet a nice girl?’ and she‘s right to wonder. Why am I like that?”

    “I don‘t know.” I said.

    “Exactly. And that’s the point. I like to keep you on your toes. Keep you guessing. I like to cultivate an air of uncertainty around me. I’m in the news business. I run a newspaper and a TV station and I hire a lot of reporters. People who have to ask a lot questions. How am I supposed to know who's asking questions if there’s nothing around to ask questions about?”

    “That’s a good question.” I agreed.

    “I’m glad you picked up on that.” Beaman said, pouring two tall glasses of scotch.

    “I think you’re going to work out here just fine.”

A Moment's Indiscretion

Van Sotten was from Sweden, and had once been a world class financier. But that had been some many years ago. After his retirement, he made a business out of his passion for very old, very fine books, and now traded in some of the most rare and valuable volumes in the world.

    Everywhere he went, he carried a book bag containing a few samples of his wares. Though he always pretended otherwise, it was a tool he used to open discussion about his business, and possibly generate a transaction.

     Nevermere was just as every bit as old as Van Sotten, but not at all from Sweden. For twenty two generations, his family had dwelled in the Cardiganshire region of Wales. In all those generations, there were many things the Nevermere family had never done. Potato farming was not one of them, but both crossing the ocean, and becoming even remotely noteworthy, most certainly were. That is, until this current Nevermere who, against all expectations, had done both.

    This Nevermere was an author, and had written many books. Some few of these books were now very old, and some fewer still were regarded as very fine. But none of Nevermere’s books had found it’s way into Van Sotten’s collection.

    Both men knew that this was the reason for many years of chilly relations between them, even though they had never openly discussed the matter. Nowadays, they discussed nothing at all, and it is well that they did not. Only their conversations could have been more awkward than the silences.

    It was hot and humid in the Fifty-Fifty Club. It was hot and humid everywhere in Argentina this day. No amount of air conditioning or open windows could even begin to change that. The serving boys in the Fifty-Fifty Club also had the unfortunate habit of standing just a little too close, and the heat radiating off them only compounded the matter.

    It was pure chance that both Van Sotten and Nevermere crossed paths in the Fifty-Fifty Club that afternoon. To pass the time, they sat across from each other, hunched over a playing board of “Nopoly“, the Argentinean knock off of the popular game, “Monopoly“. In almost all respects, the game was identical to it‘s famous cousin. But, in order to simulate that even the banks are poor in Argentina, Nopoly comes with a lot less money than Monopoly. This leads to greatly reduced game times. For this reason, Nopoly is sometimes regarded as the superior version in certain circles. It may or may not need to be said that those circles are primarily Argentinean.

    On a side table, Van Sotten’s book bag lay tipped over. It’s contents had partially slid out, like a case of stairs. The titles were all quite visible and quite deserving of comment, and any person of knowledge was certain to be intrigued if they happened to pass by.

    But, to Van Sotten’s dismay, no person of knowledge appeared. No one even came close to their table, aside from the serving boys. And they knew as little about books as they did about personal space.

    Not even Nevermere glanced at them. There was no reason to expect him to. He never did. And yet, on this day, this was the fact that irritated Van Sotten the most. He slipped his books back into the bag, one by one. It wouldn’t do to leave them exposed to the humidity for too long. The motion also drew Nevermere’s eyes towards them, where they hovered briefly on the last one.

    “You saw what was there?” Van Sotten asked.

    “Only the scribbling of no greater a person than Hambone Artois.” Nevermere replied.

    “No less a person, either.”

    “I wasn’t aware there were any.”

    Hambone Artois was a somewhat famous figure, known for being not only a founding father of rhythm and blues music, but also for imbuing his lyrics with Kantian philosophy. Nevermere had occasion to meet Artois, at an event in Louisiana called Assembly of the Dwarf Stars. Here, persons of small repute gathered and demonstrated the skills that made them not very famous.

    Quite understandably, it was Nevermere’s intention to read a few passages from one of his books. He had only just begun when the soulful strumming of Hambone’s guitar emanated  from the next room, luring his audience away before they’d hardly heard a word.

    At the bar where the dwarf stars gathered afterwards, a drunken Nevermere, feeling slighted, and possessed of the racism that was fashionable in the day, attempted to humiliate the musician. A week went by before he was he informed it was less his barbed wit that inspired the other star's laughter, and more his stumbling about and indecipherable mutterings.

    Months later, Nevermere returned to his home one night, only to discover the door wide open and his dog, Secretary, nowhere to be found. This was a deep and personal wound to Nevermere. He could conceive of only one person could that would stoop to such undignified behaviour. It had to be the work of Hambone Artois.

    Secretary was an Arboreal Chamois, a rare French breed of dog, bred to keep birds out of orchardist’s trees. Although capable of living their entire lives in the trees, these canines were quite terrible at judging which branches could carry their weight, and many accidents occurred before the breed fell into disfavour. Furthermore, those few individuals who excelled at life among the leaves seldom obeyed commands. Many bounded away from tree to tree, never to be seen by their masters again. Instead, they spent the rest of their days barking at passers-by, who couldn‘t figure out where the noise was coming from. Thus the folklore about barking trees began, which is obviously stupid, but that’s the peasantry for you.

Ignatieff the Barking Tree, courtesy of TVParis

    “Such vehemence over a lost dog.”  Van Sotten chided.

    “Then I shall add his understanding of Kantian ethics is rudimentary at best. You won’t disagree if you have read that book.”

    “I haven’t read a word that was published in the past twenty five years, and even that is only because twenty five years ago, my tastes were not so discerning.”

    They returned their attention to the Nopoly board. One more round played out before the money was exhausted. Everything was tallied up.

    “I win.” announced Van Sotten.

    He was referring to more than the game. Hambone Artois had not stolen Secretary. He had already been beaten to death in a prison riot by that time. It was Van Sotten who had taken the dog. He had done it because he felt Nevermere had become pompous and insufferable.

    It wasn’t mere pompousness that Van Sotten couldn‘t tolerate. He tolerated it in himself and in many others with ease. It was pompousness unsubstantiated by achievement, that he could not abide. And in Van Sotten's eyes, Nevernmere had achieved very little.

    It barely registered with Nevermere that he’d lost at Nopoly. He was dwelling on the past, again, and it was about the past on which he spoke.

    “I liked that dog. Finest dog I ever owned. I loved that dog.”

    Van Sotten might have said something then, but Nevermere motioned for him to remain silent.

    “Haven’t you…? Haven’t you ever lost something that you loved? Some precious book, perhaps? No, not likely. They don’t tend to wander away, do they?”

    Van Sotten did know something about lost love. Having stolen Secretary, he kept the dog secure in his house for many weeks. He was quickly charmed by her exuberant nonsense and taste in champagne. Of course he was curious to see her in her habitat, so it was only a matter of time before he took her outside, where everything would occur in the blink of an eye.

    Immediately, Secretary shot straight up the nearest tree, one by the river. Almost equally immediately, a branch snapped under her weight, and she plummeted towards the earth. Like lightning, an alligator surged out of the water. It’s jaws gaped wide, like a bent, pink ironing board. Both animals met an unenviable demise in the quicksand beneath the branches.

    Van Sotten’s conscience sometimes came to visit him when he was drunk, and he was deep in his cups on this day. Being an experienced drinker, he was equally experienced in banishing such emotions. This time, though, confessional feelings overwhelmed him, and he began to speak.

    “I…I…” he stuttered.

    Van Sotten would be found stabbed to death in his hotel room later that evening. Within a day, Edaph, the sail-backed lady boy, would be charged with the crime. Among locals, this would be regarded with much suspicion, as it was well known that the authorities wanted Edaph out of the picture, by whatever means necessary. That is not to suggest there was any public sympathy for Edaph.

    None of that is particularly relevant right now, except maybe to Nevermere. But he could never have imagined that Van Sotten was about to stammer out the only opportunity he would ever have to learn the truth.

    “I…” said Van Sotten again.

    “Shut the fuck up.” said Nevermere.

I Am In Love

Are you? If your answer is no, then you should get yourself into love immediately. Because you really are missing out. It feels great!

    If you’ve never been in love, let me try to paint a picture for you. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m probably not the best candidate for this. However, I am possessed by a sudden and intense desire to share how I feel. Not with just anyone. Not just with a close friend or personal confidant. That’s not enough. What I’m experiencing insists… Nay, demands, that I share this with everyone!

    Imagine that there is this guy. His name is, I don’t know… Daniel. Daniel really likes Jesus. He’s heard all kinds of stories about Jesus from all kinds of people. Stories about how he saves your soul and fills you with his love. Stories about how he guides you towards a better and more fulfilling life. Stories about how, if you look back across the beach at your footprints in the sand, you’ll see his footprints beside yours. Daniel finds all this just so profoundly inspirational and uplifting, and rightfully so.

    Now, I should point out that Daniel doesn’t know anything about the church or the Bible or anything like that. Which is important. Because it is only after he’s heard all these great stories that, somehow, he finally gets in his possession a copy of the New Testament.

    Naturally, it blows Daniel’s mind. Here it is! All the Jesus! All the stories! But this is no collection of half remembered anecdotes told with no regard for theatricality or presentation. This is a professionally constructed piece of storytelling. Everything you could have ever wanted to know about the excellent adventures of the King of the Jews, brought to vivacious life in a way Daniel could have never imagined possible.

    Like Daniel, I also have a Jesus. But my Jesus is called Kal-El. And I also have a New Testament, but mine is called “Man of Steel”.

    Man of Steel, of course, is the new summer blockbuster smash hit that’s raking in the crowds and the dough. And it is altogether good and right that it does so, because the film is magic. Love filled magic.

    As I recall, in the time before Man of Steel, there were some things that I liked. I do not remember what they were, nor do I wish to remember. This is the era of Man of Steel, and in this new era, those old things are no longer of consequence.

    Back then, in ye olde tymes, I think I may have even been in love, once. But not with some other movie, this would have been with an actual person. Or at least, I thought I was in love with them. This was, of course, before Man of Steel came along to teach me what love truly is.

    It's possible that she may have loved me, too. If memory serves correctly, she actually lost some weight just because of my constant nagging. I recollect one occasion where I observed her legs looking a lot thinner than they used to be.

    Or maybe I have that backwards. I’m checking out my own legs right now, and they’re a lot more firm and toned than they have any reason to be. Also, I can see that I definitely shaved them recently, and I’m fairly certain I didn’t do that of my own volition.

    In either case, whoever you were, I hope we shant meet again, for I doubt you shall relish my blank stare of non-comprehension as you try to cajole my memories of our past together. My heart belongs to another now, and my brain has not the capacity to spare for your lurid details of our sordid history. My advice to you, fair-ish maiden, would be “Go see Man of Steel, and forget me in as utter a fashion as you yourself have been forgotten”.

A scene from "Man of Steel"

    What has Man of Steel got going on that it can not only fundamentally change the nature of a man, but change it for the better? Is “everything” too trite an answer? Then let me break it down for you.

    Henry Cavill.  This guy is the finest piece of ass on the planet. It would have been two planets, if Krypton hadn’t blown up. Listen. Dude can run around shirtless in my backyard until his heart’s content. When he gets bored of that, he can come inside through the backdoor, if you know what I mean.

    The Cape. So flowing and luxurious and crimson. Just imagine the breeze lifting it up to gently brush against your cheek. Imagine it settling over you as you lay down to sleep. Never before will you have slept so soundly or secure than you will with it draped over you. I wouldn’t even hesitate to try and catch forty winks in Crime Alley under this thing.

    General Zod. No more of the jejune balderdash that comes from riding on the coattails of the previously inevitable “Kneel before Zod” quippery. This time he is a tenacious man-bot with crazy eyes and too much sense of purpose. He may have a World Engine, but he himself is an engine of pathos. As riveting as he is tragic.

    Faora-Ul. Pretty much the only thing that’s keeping me from "playing for the other team" at this point. I have never been attracted to a woman who didn’t thoroughly intimidate me first, and this one scores high on both accounts. Plus, the way she zips around, like she thinks she’s Wally West or something, makes me feel good about the future.

    Everyone else and everything else. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t. It’s too true. I was even like “Hey, Jenny. We’ve never met before, but I totally accept you as your own person, and don’t think of you at all as some kind of affirmative action stand in for Jimmy Olsen. I really like your sweater OMG SHE’S TRAPPED IN THAT RUBBLE PERRY DON”T YOU DARE LEAVE HER TO DIE”.

    I left the big one for last. Martha and Jonathan Kent. These people are made out of love, and all they do is give. As soon as they show up on the screen, I am reduced to a blubbering, tear soaked mess, as I am infused with the love radiating out of the kindly couple. Seriously, I haven’t cried this much since the last time I thought about what I’ve been doing with my life.

    Even if you haven’t seen the movie, you might have seen it in the trailers, a part where Clark says “Can’t I just keep pretending I’m your son?”

    That’s when I drown him out by shouting out those same words, so that when Pa Kent replies “You are my son”, he’s talking to me. Suddenly, Pa is my Dad, and it couldn't be more wonderful! Talk about trading up. No way I ever have to have this Dad arrested for stealing my bicycle or anything.

    So there you have it. Out of five stars, I give it ten million stars. Ten million superstars!

    Now go. Gooooooooo.

    Go.

Would-Be Wife Found Wanting

    Sometimes, it’s best to start at the beginning. That’s what I decided while trying to figure out which of my prospective wife candidates I should meet first.  So, when the first submission I received was from a woman named Pattie, who described herself as forty-two, blonde, 5’8”, and 121 lbs, I agreed to meet her at a local watering hole of her choice, called “Betcho‘s”. 

    Although I wasn‘t even a moment late, I could see no one that I could suspect of being Pattie. I killed some time examining what must have been hundreds of collectible dinner plates affixed to the walls. I wondered at the wisdom of displaying these delicate possessions in such a rowdy place, but all seemed to be clean and intact. Someone was clearly invested in their upkeep. This was in stark contrast to the stripper stage in the corner, where a lonely girl danced unnoticed under dim and burned out lights. When I ran out of plates to look at, I just sat and waited.

    Half way into my third beer later, a woman, who not at all matched the description I’d been given, threw open the door and made her way to my table. This one was more like 5’4”, 140 lbs, and closer to fifty-five than forty-two. I hoped that this would somehow not turn out to be Pattie.

    “Hi, I’m Pattie.” she said, setting her giant purse on the table.

    I then proceeded learn all about Pattie for the next hour and a half. How she loved to talk about herself. Which was fine, because the more I learned, the less I was interested  in sharing anything about myself. I mean, I did try, but whenever I told a joke, she seemed confused. Other times, when I tried to share mundane thoughts or genuine interests, that’s when she would laugh. She didn’t even seem interested in talking about going to Mars. That’s pretty much where I gave up, and just bided my time until I could inoffensively suggest it might be time to pack it in.

    Just as I was working up the nerve, Pattie goes and spoils it by slamming down her empty glass and saying “Let’s go back to my place.”

    Those are kind of the magic words for me. I was ready to call it quits, and I certainly had no intentions of inviting Pattie over to my place. I don’t actually like to have any women over to my place. Maybe it's just me, but I see it like this.

    Once you get used to being alone, being alone isn’t so bad. That is, it doesn’t seem so bad, as long as you can’t remember what it’s like to not be alone. Once I have a girl over, she’s not coming back. I’m not going to ask her to come back because I know she’s probably hoping I don’t. Figuring out whether or not this is some form of unconscious self sabotage is best left to the scientists.

    So if I have a lady come to my place one night, the next night I’ll still be able to see her, exactly as she was, exactly where she was, and remember every touch and taste and smell. Everything in the room will be exactly as it was, only now there’s no one there. It’s like having a ghost in your bed. It goes away, in time, but for awhile, it’s rather distressing.

    That’s why it’s better to go to the girl’s place. Every part of it exists only as a memory. All the ghosts are far away. It’s almost like it never happened, which it probably shouldn’t have.

    So we get back to Pattie’s small apartment. There’s not much there besides a weirdly high and sloped couch, an entertainment center, and a massive stereo system. A small stand of glass and steel, containing wine bottles and glasses, rested against the wall separating kitchen from dining room. The bedroom was filled to the brim with boxes of who knows what.

    Pattie set her enormous purse on the ground and opened it, allowing a live cat to leap out. Then she tells me to get undressed and lay on the couch, and not to argue, because she is in charge. These instructions were pretty much in synch with the amount of effort I wanted to put into this encounter. So I did what I was told.

    While I'm laying there with my head on a pillow, she dances to old songs, which mainly consists of her swinging her hips around like she was inside an imaginary hula hoop. In between dances, she regales me with poetry she claimed to have written. I didn’t have any reason to disbelieve her, other than the fact it was really quite good. I’m not entirely sure, but I think I may have been moved to tears at one point. In any case, it was far superior to the chocolate wine she served. Wretched stuff. Avoid at all costs.

    Eventually, she finally gets out of her clothes, and I wondered, not for the first or last time, if I’d made a huge mistake. Beneath that loose fitting sweater was a whole lot of loose fitting flesh. She had a body like a half empty potato sack.

    So, she gets on top of me and almost immediately goes into some kind of trance. She starts muttering something that sounded like the black language of Mordor. Her arm snaps out, almost convulsively, and snatches a painting off the wall. I watch as she flings it across the room. All the while, she’s just chanting with her eyes closed. I guess I thought it was nice that she seemed to be enjoying herself. At least I didn't actually have to do anything.

    Seconds later, she has a heavy looking vase in her hand, raised high over head. She’s still muttering in tongues, only now she’s staring right at me with a glazed look in her eyes. I panicked. I thought she was going to smash me in the face with it.

    I bolted upright with enough speed and force to knock her aside against the back of the couch. Momentum had me in it’s clutches, however, and kept carrying me forward, right off the couch and face first into the wine stand. I wasn’t cut at all, but even now, a dark pink line across my forehead still shows where I connected with the glass shelf.

    Bottles were scattered across the floor. Luckily, nothing was broken, and I started gathering them up. Pattie told me to leave them, and get back on the couch. I had some reservations about that idea now, but I did it anyway.

    Things resumed much as before. Even the vase returned to it’s place in her hand, menacingly raised high in the air.
   
    “Hey, Pattie.” I said.

    The glazed look in her eyes cleared away.

    “Are you… Is everything all right up there?” I asked.

    “Everything’s great. Why wouldn’t be?” she said.

    I pointed out the vase in her hand. She looked at it like she was seeing it for the first time, and looked embarrassed. After a moment, she explained.

    “Sometimes I go to the place where the shadow people take control.”

    “The..? The 'shadow people'?”

    “They stand behind you so you can’t ever see them. They have mouths on their fingers and, when you let your guard down, they stick them in your ears and tell you what to do. If you’re not careful, you can’t tell when it’s happening. Even when I know, and I try to fight them, it’s still kind of a crapshoot who will win.”

    I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. The only thing that seemed certain was that this was not a good time to do or say the wrong thing.

    “Well, how about we try this, instead?” I said, taking the vase from her hand and replacing it with my pillow.

    Things went fine after that. I wasn’t even terrified or anything.

    Later, as I was thinking up an explanation as to why I should leave immediately, Pattie saved me the effort by indicating she had to get an early start that morning. She gave me her phone number, though, and said she hoped we would get together again soon. I said we would and left.

    As soon as her apartment building was out of sight, I crumpled up the paper with her number on it, and tossed it under a parked car. As you know, with only one exception that I had to pay for, I have never slept with any woman more than once. If I am ever going to break that streak, it is not going to begin like this.

    Sorry, Pattie. My quest must go on.

Obituary

The world of old people is a sad and depressing place. It is a place of disease and infirmity. Has there ever been another demographic that breaks so easily?

    I can’t help but be reminded of that old issue of JSA, where Jay Garrick, also known as the Flash, is about to chase down the villainous Vandal Savage. Instead, he slips on some ice. Savage just shakes his head and strolls away, and all Jay can do is lay there with a broken hip. Stargirl shows up and calls an ambulance while Garrick cries out “Curse these old bones of mine!“

    Now the elderly community sends word of a new tragedy. There is one less of them in the world. Normally, I go the Vandal Savage route, and just shrug at their misfortune. This time the latest development struck a bit closer to home than I‘m used to. On Wednesday morning, my Uncle Gerry, 73, passed away quietly in front of a speeding bus. I was pretty fond of him, so I hope you’ll indulge me just a little while I wax eloquent in his memory.

    Reginald Hamilton Luxton II was born to Jamie S. Luxton the First, and Adeline Bosephone Luxton (nee Constantine), on  August 31, 1939 in a shallow depression on the banks of the river Thames in London, England. Named after his grandfather, “Reg” became known as “Ger” due to his mother’s dyslexia.

    When he was only one day old, the second world war broke out. In later life, he would claim to have tried to enlist, but was disqualified by the recruitment officer for being “too young”. Whether there is any truth to this unverifiable hearsay is lost to the ages. However, My grandmother Adeline did tell me that, at that age, my uncle was quite literally a "cry baby". One night, as they squatted in the burned out ruins of the tenement that was once their home, Uncle Gerry kicked up such a fit that it woke the entire family. Fortunately, this was just in time to hear the familiar sound of an incoming V-1 “Doodlebug” flying bomb, and allowed them to escape without a second to spare.

    After the war, the family immigrated to Canada, and took up residence in London, Ontario. Finding it to not at all be what they expected, they later moved to New Westminster, British Columbia. It was here that my uncle fell in with Leon Mandrake and his crowd. One can easily imagine that it was under such an influence that he developed his taste for sleight of hand, duplicity, and half truths.

    Although my grandfather, a stern and unforgiving man, sought to curb these tendencies, Gerry could not, or would not, resist being drawn into the seedy underworld. Finally, grandfather felt he had no choice but to disown his son, after which Gerry simply disappeared. Gerry never sought to share with me what happened to him during the next twenty years.

    Apparently, he wasn’t seen by any of my family until just after I was born. Even then, after inspecting the newest member of the family, and borrowing some money, he disappeared again. I was twelve before I met my uncle under circumstances I can remember.

    I was lodged somewhere in the branches of our cherry tree, when a man who looked like a fatter, more intelligent, version of my father came out of our house and approached me.

    “Nephew! We have met before. Do you know me?” He said.

    “No.” I replied.

    “I’m your uncle. Should have clued in when I called you ‘nephew’.”

    “What of it?”

    “Nephew, I have come to give you some advice. Don’t grow up to be like your uncle. Or your father. Or your grandfather. Or your mother or your grandmother. Or your aunt, for that matter.”

    “Didn’t know I had an aunt.” I said.

    “Fair enough.” he said.

    “Who shall I grow up to be like, then?” I asked. He considered his response carefully.

    “Bruce Springsteen.” he answered finally.

    Even at that early age, I saw the wisdom of this, and I wondered what other truths he may have to share. For a few years, I became his protege. He took me places and showed me things that not a lot of other kids my age went to or saw. He became sort of a surrogate father to me, especially whenever my real dad was in jail. During these times, my mom would also say that Uncle Gerry was quite good at filling dad’s place. I didn‘t know what she meant by this, and I didn‘t care, either. All I knew is that any night he was over, I was encouraged to have the TV on really loud.

    By the time I was fifteen, and it was clear I was not following in the footsteps of “The Boss“, he became disenchanted with me, and swiftly faded out of my life.

    A decade went by before I started to notice an old man tooling around town in his Rascal scooter. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve got lots of guys like that around here. But this one always made me think “He sure looks a lot like my Uncle Gerry.”

    It wasn’t until one day I was walking down the street and he pulled up beside me and said “Hey, Nephew!” that I realised how right I was.

    We spent the next fifteen minutes catching up on the past ten years. He told me how he’d stumbled onto an incredible niche market of selling OxyContin to the retirees of the old folk’s homes. OxyContin is a powerful painkiller that goes for $20 a pill and, if you know what you‘re doing, gets you wicked high. It also has a host of side effects and unpleasant withdrawal symptoms.

    All he had to do was visit a few retirement homes once a week, which he was going to do anyway. That’s where all his friends were living. Then it was just a matter of meeting up with a particular nurse, or whoever, and exchange cash for goods. The nurse took care of the rest. This allowed Uncle Gerry to take home over $3000 a month doing almost nothing he wouldn’t have been doing anyway.

    I was equally repulsed and impressed. I wasn‘t sure why he was telling me this, though. I asked him if he wanted me to help him. He looked at his watch and said he had to go.

    I never really spoke to him again. I saw him scooting around all the time, and he’d wave at me as he sped past. He waved and shouting greetings at everybody.  He never stopped to converse to me, though.

    The last time I saw him was just last Monday night. I was standing at a crosswalk when a voice called out to me.

    “Hey, nephew! Check out these sweet moves!”

    I looked over to see my uncle waving at me, in his scooter, going around and around in circles. Then he peeled out of there and, though I didn’t know it at the time, out of my life.

    The funeral is today. I don’t know what to expect, exactly. I don’t know if I will have to say something or even if I want to say something.

    This is what I can tell you about my uncle... I didn’t exactly dislike him.

    In my family, that’s high praise. Maybe I’m saying this because I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Maybe it’s just too early to speak ill of dead. Maybe later, I’ll have more to say about him.

    For now, it's probably best to leave it at that.