I warned you all that there would be fireworks when I returned to my birthplace in Kenogami, QC, for the town’s 100th anniversary and a reunion of our Saturday night dance club. Continue reading
It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious or religious, because the scene playing out here on the shore behind the Lac St. Jean Motel might just scare the bejeesus out of any other 65-year-year after a lifetime of cigarettes, beer and all the other things on the list that doctors hate.
They say you can’t go home anymore, but I’m calling bullshit on that myth.
This is not an easy thing to do. Because I know it will be disappointing for all of you out there who think of me as a kindly pensioner tending his little garden after a grey-flannelled career and a personal life that pretty well set the standard for moderation in all things.
Not quite true.
It’s that wonderful time of the year when old fogeys wax nostalgic about Christmases Past and how great they were compared to the hectic, grasping, consumer-driven nihilistic modern version delivered upon our poor offspring.
So why should I be any different, being a Certified Old Fogey and all?
Because the rose-coloured-glasses selected recall is all a bunch of hooey and flapdoodle, that’s why. Continue reading
The world’s greatest language—English—is still replete with terms of prejudice that would be the subject of liberal and CBC outrage if they were invented today to heap scorn on any minority other than mine.
Society has suppressed the “N-word” for people of tan, dumped “gypped” that might suggest Gypsies are sketchy and scrambled to ban an entire dictionary of terms that change weekly in the rainbow world of gender and sexual orientation.
Millions of marginalized people undoubtedly sleep better knowing they won’t wake up as kikes, spics, dogans and pansies, etc., while their Funk and Wagnall’s sheds the terms and all the entomological roots of such slander. Continue reading