Nuns can’t beat back the might
of Lac St. Jean, changing times

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.

As Gord Lovelace looks out over Lac St. Jean three nuns gesticulate out towards the large body over water.

Father Lovelace tries to attract his flock with communal beer and cigarette host.

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When I head out on a homecoming, you should pray
it’s not your home

Kenogami Protestant High School’s grade one and two class from the early 1950s

In this shot of Kenogami Protestant High School’s grade one and two class from the early 1950s, there is no prize for guessing which grumpy-looking little prick is the author.

They say you can’t go home anymore, but I’m calling bullshit on that myth.

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I don’t have writer’s block,
my knee has stiffed me…

So, tell me, where do I have to move to pick up a classier type of ailment, something exotic with more than one accusatory syllable?

I woke up three weeks ago with my right knee swollen to the size of the Greek national debt and MFW (My first Wife of 40 odd years) took one look before snorting: “It’s gout. It’s from booze.”

Now see here, Doctor Ooze, I’ve had gout before and it appears briefly in my left toe caused by my classy consumption of rich traditional French cuisine like poutine on a stick and has nothing to do with booze.Gord Lovelace exits his man cave with his fancy new gout stick (cane) and a fitting grimace of disdain for aging, illness and apparently the photographer.

“Yup, it’s gout,” said the doctor when I presented myself to a local clinic two days later Continue reading

Dim Sweeper scarier
than Grim Reaper…

Ah, it comes to all of us, kings and peasants alike, as the feared Grim Reaper engages in his really tacky hobby of snagging ever more friends for his Deadbook page.

Illustration of the Grim Sweeper Via The Strip Generator. Illustration bu rukowski

The Grim Sweeper by rukowski via Strip Generator

Even more feared, after death, is the Dim Sweeper, whose motto is: Dust to dust. Ashes all over everything.

Yup, that would be me. I’m telling you, my brother Pete would have lived forever—or at least been buried at sea—if he thought there were the remotest chance I might ever be in charge of any part of his cremated mortal remains.

After all, I hadn’t done such a great job for Our Sainted Mother…. Continue reading

What’s more Canadian
than kissing a beaver?

A picture of a red maple leaf on concreteIt was 35 years ago this week that powerful forces—immigrants wishing to impose their twisted homeland religious culture on our peaceable frozen kingdom—stopped the presses of one of the nation’s biggest daily newspapers to censor my pride in being Canadian. Continue reading

There will be no blog today
due to a death in the family

Well, I was going to take this week off for a couple of good reasons.

For a start, two blogs escaped last Thursday to double my normal pollution footprint and then I hit the big 65 this Monday and should have earned some bonus sloth time from that milestone.

But it’s hard to break old work habits and shed the guilt thing that has had me meeting deadlines for 45 years.

On the other hand, you have to cut some slack even for yourself after a death in the family. Continue reading

Don’t wait for the hangover to say: ‘Gord died doing what he loved…’

A Picture of the Lovelace Island in the middle of the Little Kedron Lake, NB.ALKI-TRAZ ISLAND, NB—I just hate those news stories involving fatal accidents in which some sobbing survivor burbles about yet another daredevil too stupid to stay home in his recliner: “at least he died doing what he loved.”

It seems to me a little farfetched that anyone in his final moments would think: “Boy, I just LOVE having this snowmobile roll over and crush my head” or “Whooopeee, my parachute hasn’t opened!” or “Isn’t it fantastic that the Titanic band is playing my favorite song.” Continue reading

Cocktail parties no place
for the unvarnished truth

My First Wife (MFW) of 40 odd years is retiring next month and, being a thoughtful new-age type of guy, I inquired whether she wished me to be at her side for moral and spousal support when her office had her farewell cocktail party.

“Oh God, NO!” outburst MFW. “I mean, no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to interrupt your trip to the fishing camp. You’ll be missed, for sure, but I’ll just have to muddle by on my own.”

Actually, MFW has been muddling as a solo act on the cocktail circuit for most of our 40 decades of holy deadlock and that’s just as well considering my track record.

You see, I’ve just never quite mastered the art of social chitchat. Continue reading