Monday, June 29, 2009


For the all one of you worried about my next MacGuffin installment, I apologies for it's lack of existence. Bogged down in dialogue issue in Huế, it sits in limbo. Plus, my lack of sleep means I am cranky with my work right now. My habit of eating antipasto and cheese at one AM has something to do with it, no doubt.

Monday, June 22, 2009

I am, in twain, Dux; for those before me were giants.

I stand on the upraised arms of titans. I may make a passing reference to it from time to time, an offhand remark about something or other my grandfather or uncle might have done, a brief comment about deeds. But what Allan King's funeral has driven home to me is what I have always understood intellectually, but never before felt. No man is an island, no soul exists in a vacuum. And, as I realized today in the depths of Victoria College, my lineage, my sangre azul, titles suzerain, is just as prestigious as any Jarvis, McGill or Trudeau.

If I stand any higher the hoi polloi, it is only because I stand upon the palms of giants. Giants of their field, masters of their craft, touching the lives of thousands. Of course, just because I inherited such a legacy doesn't necessarily mean I am a good heir. That's the flaw in any inheritance system; a giant's reach may be high, but their shadows are long, and they grow even longer as the sun sets on their era. It is all too easy to fall from such a lofty perch, fall into darkness and remain permanently in that gloom of twilight. But if you can remain atop those up reached hands, dwarf or no, heir to the logos and whatever nonesense that is part of any legacy- if you can remain aloft, then you're always going to bask in the sun.

Saturday, June 13, 2009


The correct answer to the poll, by the way, was that she left them at home, like she's always does, every time. Seriously, Darlene, what is with that?

Agnus Dei Qui Tollis Assus Bovis

I have a secret confession to make.

It might totally ruin whatever street cred I might have as a bastion of intelligentsian sensibility and good taste. It might even lead to my mother taunting me- or even mocking me. Or flout me. Or... hoot... me... you know what, I think you made that last one up.

Forgive me Blog audience of Four, and really angry Miltonman, for I have sinned. It's been quite some time since my last confession. Here goes:


I love 7-11.

There. I said it. I love 7-11. And do you know why? Because 7-11 doesn't try and pretend it's something it's not. It sells crap. Crap of the purist, rarefied form. And no one leaves 7-11 under the impression that they have purchased something healthy. They have purchased, as said, pure crap (Crapure!), and then they will eat it. Some will feel gratified. Some will feel guilty. Some will be indifferent. This is consistent with the effects of attending a local place of worship. Being in the presence of articles of faith can lead to diverse responses running the gauntlet from orgiastic frenzies to sitting bored in a pew, as affected by the preacher as one might be by a dust mote on the floor. Each 7-11 is a shrine to crapure- no, it's bigger than that. Each franchise store is a chapel to crap. It offers t o it's followers the promise of hope eternal, of something more, no matter how inaccessible it might sometimes seem (by which I mean Beef Jerky. Now there's something inaccessible. Eight bucks a package, what the hell people?). Here, in this seraphic sepulchre, one might consume such victuals as to hit a sugar high so uplifting that one might touch the face of God. And when it might seem like anything will give you a heart-attack, that the organic lovers might win, the faithful know that they can prostrate themselves before the altar of the cashiers counter and be taken up into a Divine, loving embrace (the Crapture!). And at that altar, you can find the host of our chapel, the inscrutable taquito. What is in a 7-11 taquito, you ask? I don't know! I looked it up. Nothing. I even wikied it... and I misspelled it and got sent to article on Tacitus instead. Nice man, good with kids. But taquitos, friends, in their glistening, unctuous depths is the true Elevenian Mystery.

No, 7-11 is proud of its faith, its rich heritage, its venerable and sancrosant traditions. Its ads don't try to make their food look healthy, no, the lighting highlights the patina of grease, the beige and green hellion innards of a Jalapeno and Cream Cheese Taquito. And as for that display of fruit and sandwiches in the corner? Sacrilege, you say? Heresy? Not at all, I reply. It's merely a nod towards the existence of other faiths, like a note pinned to a church hall bulletin board informing members of an upcoming interfaith dialogue. A sign that the church is full of tolerance, but not ever taken seriously.

So sits august 7-11, administering alms to the trans-fat poor, and bestowing MSG on those who have none. Sail on, sweet 7-11, sail on.

*Next Week*
Street Cred: What is it, and how can I break it?