feb 1 1751

Beer, happy produce of our isle
Can sinewy strength impart...

We quaff thy balmy juice with glee
And the water leave to France.

Blackbird - 1 58 minutes

Omega

Another week off for the Bard, as the company opens Pinnochio this week, and we wait ten days or so for the triumphant mounting of the Shrew. In the park, on such nights as this one, it shall no doubt prove wondrous.

Instead, a word from our man Sam Johnson, who at some point between 1709 and 1784 had the following words attributed to his good name - "No mind is much employed upon the present: recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments." And also - "Such is the state of life, that none are happy but by the anticipation of change: the change itself is nothing; when we have made it, the next wish is to change again. The world is not yet exhausted; let me see something tomorrow which I never saw before."

Hard not to agree, flipping so often between past and prologue as I do. Wondering whence again another TFI with seemingly infinite and strange potential may lead. I am bringing Don Julio home and will begin the night with him. And see what surprises this young evening may yet have in store...

Santiago

"Talmadge is asleep behind the couch" reads the board upon arrival. Blair has accepted the mid-East peace role and continues talks with the Pope. Cheney et al. will surely refuse to be subpoened to account. Conrad will be guilty, but of a mildish offence. Roy Pearson Jr. may never find gainful legal employ again. We wonder if full shilling Moira has found her Mr. Darling.

Beware of trap doors, is all I'm saying. Even when everything you (we) say is fucking brilliant. Think back. And tell me every last detail...

Sebastopel

..Or in other words... Again it is the cool breeze that blows. Again it is the fifty dollar bill that would see me through a few days in rural China. Again it is the first night for summer dresses of the summer. The irony of ironies, as Faustian letter carriers emerge, but not to Indy but to Paris. The possibilities are endless, the hilarity superlative, the dancing... Oh, summertime. We stand between grand ceremonious building and cemetary, unfortunate high-rise and churches left beside the apartment. As the red cowboy boots and smoke tred by oblivious. As the directions are called for after she has walked by. Amidst this impossible to describe wind. In the heart of my city that I do love.

I must this TFI decide on an appropriate package for paris and its most hilarious destination. Operation the end. How apt, Faust might say. I say only thus, 'let thou glorious wind of randomness (beat) continue.'

Above all, tedium we must have not.

bearley's bathroom graffitti genius

"Fear of tedium is a modern luxury."

Apparently I can't get clean. Glorious.

Many such-like Liberties of Sin

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE
He that commends me to mine own content
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
I to the world am like a drop of water
That in the ocean seeks another drop,
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:
So I, to find a mother and a brother,
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Enter DROMIO of Ephesus

Here comes the almanac of my true date.
What now? how chance thou art return'd so soon?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS
Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late:
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
She is so hot because the meat is cold;
The meat is cold because you come not home;
You come not home because you have no stomach;
You have no stomach having broke your fast;
But we that know what 'tis to fast and pray
Are penitent for your default to-day.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE
Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:
Where have you left the money that I gave you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS
O,--sixpence, that I had o' Wednesday last
To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper?
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

A fog is rolling in, despite the glorious summer weather that has cleared since the joke of a rainstorm we had yestermorning. The WASP sits obediently at the harbour dock anon, the yellow hose pumping it full of fuel that shall drive it to its next port of call. The cars traverse to and fro across the bridge, and I wonder at the freedom of thought that could put me on a bus this afternoon, drive across that bridge, and on to varied horizons. It is well, perhaps, that the airline of choice flies not to England, or my returns there would grow tedious as opposed to glorious.

Late arriving to work again on this little Friday, a wonderful perk of the current occupation that we can float as such underneath the radar. "The freedom is unparalleled and invaluable," exclaims a co-worker who chooses words I would not to supremely make my long-held point. Although the seagulls out my window make a mockery of this supposed freedom, to be fair.

There was a Portuguese explorer named João Álvares Fagundes who tried (and apparently failed) to establish a colony in Nova Scotia between 1521 and 1525 "but little else is known". I like that he tried to name St. Pierre and Miquelon the islands of Eleven Thousand Virgins. I found the small plaque embedded in the waterfront honouring our man Fagundes last night and I think next time someone asks me about a historical figure I'd like to have dinner with, I'll reference him and seem bizarrely interesting.

What else? as Barrat used to say. I feel we haven't really spoken for ages. The fog has now covered the bridge and the forecasted thundershowers are threatening the softball this evening. The darkness is spreading. The General Way Forward is unclear. The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting. The shimmering and salty ocean is asking me when I will foresake all and leap wholeheartedly into her embrace. Bubbles float mysteriously upward. I waste time, time wastes me, but one fine morning in less than 700 days, I will once again fly away. And this time for real. Latiores, Fines, Petimus. Who ever knew that would prove so accurate and concise advise and admonition on living life right. The Saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

The road shall be for you a means of communion...

Ah, the absurdities of religion and the world. To think the Pope feels compelled to release the "10 commandments" of driving. As if it means anything more than... well... it does read humorously. Throw it in the pile with the Reno golfer who started a forest fire trying to get his ball back on the course. But there is still some poetry in the so-called "top ten". I like number 3 and number 9 the most. And any sentence that begins, "the road shall be for you..." tugs at the strings of it.

The sun has gone down. Both the fiddlers and the casino beckon, and I have no travelers game in either direction. But once it begins, as the wall always asks, will ye no come back again? Always a question worth asking. And the swinging blades of the copter wonder at the vagabonds below.

What News of Fresh Disasters?

DUKE SENIOR
Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
'This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in every thing.
I would not change it.

AMIENS
Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

So, speaking of funny stories...

... and world's colliding and drunken words setting chains of items in motion that cannot be properly recalled, appointments that have taken place in the past and and randomness rearing its deliciously incisive head to make fateful, Loki-like appearances.

You like to think it is driven of a restlessness, of a foreshadowing, of an irrepressible insanity. You like to think of it as little drops of bread that lead you down the gardenpath toward an onward voyage. You like to think it may happen sooner before later and at the same time you cringe at the sheer folly and irresponsibility of it all.

Just a further rumination on Alfie's old rumination: "What's it all about?" I guess. As the boats beat on...


UPDATE, hours later, and an entry into the 6th annual most beautiful word contest that crosses my desk captures it well (oh, you dictionary.com you): "Hilarity implies noisy and boisterous mirth, often exceeding the limits of reason or propriety". Impropriety was the word I was looking for to place after folly above. The wondrous English language.

Tokyo Express...

...Just left the Harbour. I can't continue to do this (that comment is open to interpretation -ed.) But that's why life today is wonderful. The power of choice.

These sunglasses I bought this morning are worth far more than 17 dollars. I will say this as a resolution - never again will I drink coors light on my birthday. And every June 8 I will spend at least a moment standing on something over an ocean. Every fucking one. As the night begins.

But put this on my tombstone - "all things considered, I'd rather be on the Tokyo Express.". Oh for opportunity. And madness.

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks...

ANTONIO
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

GRATIANO
Let me play the fool:
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,
And let my liver rather heat with wine
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks--
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,
As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!
'O my Antonio, I do know of these
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

God he's good, no?

Waiting patiently for a document I prepared in a rush for Wednesday noon to be reviewed so I can jump on the boat and get in-the-volved as long planned. And then, George's Island baby. A place much longed for and for years utterly unattainable. Not unlike another place I know of.

The 28th. And 283 days until St. Pat's. Rochelle Rochelle. What do you want me to say, to make it happen now? Just cueing up spool number 2 of Krapp's for recording. I'm sure there will be more to come. But in the mean time, a few words from our sponsor of this favorite of weekly days:

The Barony is the biggest, busiest and best bar in the Union. It's the home of the organised chaos that is 12 Hour Tuesdays, and the infamous TFI Friday - disgusting and entertaining people for the last 10 years. Our resident compere DJ Phil holds down the fort, insulting as many people as possible, and building an atmosphere and a following that is second to none. It really must be seen to be believed. You will love it or hate it, but you certainly won't forget it.

Love it we did, forget it we won't (although where were the 12 hour Tuesdays in 2000??). Happy TFI all.

The Day of Opening

Not just of the Don Julio - finally, and which was/is tremendous and a staple of all future liquor cabinets - but my time on the traveling road itself. Seems strange, sitting here in this office (all desk space strewn with miscellaneous printouts) a few months after the call, looking at the items hanging on the walls and reminiscing over these potent drops of goodness. The Halifax fog overpowering out the window, hiding the future courses of action from site with a knowing enthusiasm. Dali and Briggs, Warhol and the Annotator, Team Newfoundland and Great Speeches in History, Oxford from Hinsley's Hill, a namesake's Pools on a Salmon Stream and the Triangle's Fat Ballerina. All glorious. Speaking both to what has past and to the shape of things to come. Weddings and funerals, Fridays and birthdays that the spinning of the globe make so.

"He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of description, of the sights and sounds and odors and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind - he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star." - Poe.

Oh - June 5th, thou day of openings, how you make me think and breathe and smile. We sing in remembrance and in anticipation of thee.

Perhaps... but if you don't dear, confess

The last entries of the evening - but too good to be true, in the language, I feel (Gatts - if I was soberer I would save this for the wedding. Oh wait, I am. Just. So will give you others. And save the "best" for "later".) Oh nelly. I want to stand up. So I give all another:

I can stand any society. All that I care to know is that a man is a human being - that is enough for me; he can't be any worse. I have no special regard for Satan; but I can at least claim that I have no prejudice against him. It may even be that I lean a little his way, on account of his not having a fair show.

All religions issue bibles against him, and say the most injurious things about him, but we never hear his side. We have none but the evidence for the prosecution, and yet we have rendered the verdict. To my mind, this is irregular. It is un-English; it is un-American; it is French. Without this precedent Dreyfus could not have been condemned.

Of course Satan has some kind of a case, it goes without saying. It may be a poor one, but that is nothing; that can be said about any of us. As soon as I can get at the facts I will undertake his rehabilitation myself, if I can find an unpolitic publisher. It is a thing which we ought to be willing to do for any one who is under a cloud. We may not pay him reverence, for that would be indiscreet, but we can at least respect his talents.

A person who has for untold centuries maintained the imposing position of spiritual head of four-fifths of the human race, and political head of the whole of it, must be granted the possession of executive abilities of the loftiest order. In his large presence the other popes and politicians shrink to midges for the microscope. I would like to see him. I would rather see him and shake him by the tail than any other member of the European Concert.

who/what the hell is "dumas walker"?

Answer to follow.

Oh glorious fridays. Never leave me.

Summer Bay Tours

... Whose slogan is:

"Follow the horizon to adventure."

Ah, yes. And may you have the road downhill all the way to your door. It's a special night. Why? It's Friday.

Or just 'cause it's today. Pooh's favorite day.

Kingly in my Thoughts

The English language is surely one of mankind's most infinitely glorious creations - its idioms and absurdities that have been passed down through the generations. Had a spare moment last night to relax at the public library and a reference on such origins caught my eye. Two classic entries about famous flies of the past:

"the fly on the coach-wheel" - one who fancies himself of great importance, one who is in reality of none at all. The allusion is to Aesop's fable of a fly sitting on a chariot-wheel saying: "See what dust I make."

The fly in the ointment - the trifling cause that spoils everything; a Biblical phrase: "Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour; so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour." (Eccles. x, i.)

Master Shakespeare, of course, triumphant throughout the text, along with the other usual suspects. I like this excerpt about "making fair weather". Appropriate for a Friday. Time for some free cheer and then a 200-to-1 shot at the Grand Prize Bonanza... Anyone can be a winner.

YORK
[Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great:
O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint,
I am so angry at these abject terms;
And now, like Ajax Telamonius,
On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.
I am far better born than is the king,
More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts:
But I must make fair weather yet a while,
Till Henry be more weak and I more strong,
--Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me,
That I have given no answer all this while;
My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.
The cause why I have brought this army hither
Is to remove proud Somerset from the king,
Seditious to his grace and to the state.