Thursday, May 28, 2009

"I miss the mountain; I miss my life."

The epiphany was grand. I had just seen exceprts from the new rocking off-Broadway musical, Almost Normal, featuring Diana, a bipolar manic-depressive who has kept her family off balance for years. I have kept my own family off balance for years.
I look out the balcony and like Alice Ripley playing the character of overly-theraputized Diana, I seemed to see my whole life passing by as if in a parade--
trumpets, uniforms, drums, clowns, firemen, Masons, mummers. And at the end, oneself, though younger, strapping still curlyhaired, leisuresuited as in the Seventies, waving goodbye.
Talk about mourning for the passing of one's youth...Almost Normal.
Seems the theme of this Year of our Lord (Barack Obama ?) himself still a vigorous forty-eight, but it would appear that for some of us
the last fifty years have gone by, full of sound and fury signifying nothing, but wow, what a sound and fury and wouldn't we want it all back?
This is the new spirit of the age, the zeitgeist, a dirge, really of sorrow and regret and it is felt, surprisingly among the creative young-- American Idol, Off-Broadway and the songs of the nation. Oh how grand it had been to fail, to screw up, to lose at love--even that!--but to have been alive, healthy, strapping and shouting wild promises to the wind in our health and wealth.
But Merle Haggard had said it early, way back in 1985.
" Are the good times really over for good?
Should a Ford or a chevvy last ten years as it should?

And on Idol, young Adam Lambert is lamenting, in an incomparably beautiful ode,

It’s a mad mad world that we’re living in
Gotta keep your heads up high, can’t be giving in
Don’t you let one day go by without praising the most High
‘Cause it’s the only way we ever will survive

It’s a mad mad world that we’re living in
(What’s wrong with us?)
Gotta keep your heads up high, can’t be giving in
Don’t you let one day go by without praising the most High
‘Cause it’s the only way we ever will survive

Rough life, nuff crime, youth them a do hard time
No guides, no sign, walking on a thin like
Sentenced, no trial, victim of a profile
No hope, more fight, wonder why we’re hostile

False prophet make profit, focused on them pocket
White collar false docket, door open, can’t lock it
Politics, polytricks, equal econometricks
(Where is the justice?)

Death toll rising, sex commercializing
Barely surviving, future jeopardizing
No compromising, hope paralyzing
Rules need revising, why is it surprising?

Got to heed the warning, see the storms are forming
Not the time for stalling, look around it’s so appauling

It's a mad mad world that we're living in
Gotta keep your heads up high, can't be giving in
Don't you let one day go by without praising the most High
'Cause it's the only way we ever will survive

It's a mad mad world that we're living in
(Mad, crazy you know)
Gotta keep your heads up high, can't be giving in
Don't you let one day go by without praising the most High
'Cause it's the only way we ever will survive

Nuclear warfare, satellites everywhere
Mothers on welfare, what about medicare?
Ethnic cleansing, freedom pending
Government spending, who are they defending?

Bankrolls on poles, anything to enroll
Spotlight's their goal, price paid their soul
Step back, retrack, notice where your life's at
(Where was it worth it?)

Got to heed the warning, see the storm that's forming
Not the time for stalling', look around it's so appauling'
Poor is the mentality that disregard humanity
Say no to this insanity, create a new reality

It's a mad mad world that we're living in
Gotta keep your heads up high, can't be giving in
Don't you let one day go by without praising the most High
'Cause it's the only way we ever will survive

It's a mad mad world that we're living in
Gotta keep your heads up high, can't be giving in
Don't you let one day go by without praising the most High
'Cause it's the only way we ever will survive

Rough life, nuff crime, youth them a do hard time
No guides, no sign, walking on a thin like
Sentenced, no trial, victim of a profile
No hope, more fight, wonder why we're hostile

False prophet make profit, focused on them pocket
White collar false docket, doors open can't lock it
Politics, polytricks, equal econometricks

Cut to: Off- Broadway:

There was a time when I flew higher,
Was a time the wild girl running free would be me
Now I see her, feel the fire
Now I know she needs me there to share
I'm nowhere

All these blank and tranquil years
Seems they've dried up all my tears
And while she runs free and fast
Seems my wild days are past

But I miss the mountains
I miss the dizzy heights
All the manic magic days
And the dark depressing nights
I miss the mountains
I miss the highs and lows
All the climbing, all the falling
All the while the wild wind blows
Stinging you with snow
And soaking you with rain
I miss the mountains
I miss the pain

Mountains make you crazy
Here it's safe and sound
My mind is somewhere hazy
My feet are on the ground
Everything is balanced here
And on an even keel
Everything is perfect
Nothing's real
Nothing's real

And I miss the mountains
I miss lowly climb
Wandering through the wilderness
And spending all my time
Where the air is clear and cuts you like a knife
I miss the mountains
I, I miss the mountains
I miss my life
I miss my life

Don't we all "miss our life", the good of it, the bad of it, the heartbreak of it, the poverty, wealth, pleasure, pain....just to be there, still alive, still beautiful, not knowing we were beautiful--and now, either through age, pill or therapy reduced to numbness. Limbo. Sort of like Rush Limbaugh and his party, feeling nothing.
Oh give old Odysseus back his men and his ships.
This is bullshit and psychopharmacology.
Our patched-up selve are nothing, a shadow of what we used to be.
Give us back lovers, wives, husband, children, chickens.
Give us back our God.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Roman a clef. Novel with a key.How to make the bastards take a joke

Stomach rumbling, landlord at the gates, so I have to write this one really fast.
Like the last "fast one" I pulled on local electorate, me having lost an election and coming out with a little roman à clef which would surely explain why I lost, and, further that all my competirors had been frauds, bumstabbers, thieves.

Niccolo Machiavelli: When you lose an election, claim fraud.
I did. I wrote a roman a clef.
What is a roman à clef ?

A roman a clef is a book that has the out-of -literature interest of portraying well-known real people more or less thinly disguised as fictional characters.

So I had drawn the current mayor at the time as a bumstabber and a thief.
Ah wounded vanity. But at least, I got to print and publish my Storm and Stress on the Campaign trail.
A whole sixty copies printed and even reviewed.
Look out Hunter S. Thompson!
"You've got all the characters," said THE NEWS.
"Now fill 'em out and write a real novel."
Well, better read than dead, I suppose.

I got to learn how to write a roman a clef.
Heaven forbid there should be a key to everything.

Roman à clef. Novel with a key. I think I chewed that key.
Gave myself a cleft palate.


Thursday, May 21, 2009

The writing and "pilgrim's progress" of one book

The rejection was hard to take.

"The book is wordy, there is no plot structure, it takess forever to get going. It is hard to find sympathy or even empathy with the hero...Especially his sexual immaturity. The typing is messy. There are many corrections I could have made but I was too lazy .
...Perhaps I am too harsh. There are entire passages that are pure poetry, and one really wonders how such an uneven book should have such brilliant nuggets laced throughout. We cannot acept the book in its present state.

I'm sorry, but Montreal Writers' Co-op cannot publish.

My first reaction was of wounded ego, outrage,

Why, you unpublished, mendacious gay bastard. Who do you think you are?
Writers' Co-op is a place for the otherwise unpublished-- the
would- be Albert Camuses, old burnouts and young snots who hadn't had a line published and so have set up this co-op for themselves so that they could get published...but only the club.
I piss on your co-op and send me no more of your own crappy books.

But the unnamed reader did have a point.
The book was indeed wordy. I had written by the seat of my pants, and so, it rambled, and rambled. If some passages were indeed good, I should have done a better job of self- editing.
And the hero was sexually immature--say it on-- spent a lot of time jacking off...But this was good enough for Portnoy's Complaint, where the "hero" is even worse-- makes love to the family's liver in the grocery bag...Hell, Philip Roth got away with it...My sexual scenes involved largely women. Does that bother you Gaylord?

House of Anansi was kinder. "Work it over and we might have a second look, though I'm nor sure it's Anansi's kind of book in the first place." Well, what was Anansi's kind of book? Adopted Aboriginal woman growing up in a small town made first aware of her lesbian tendencies?
Subsidized art. Politics. Reinforce a society's propaganda.

Still, something was wrong with my work. I had taken it to a big-shot New York intellectual...She had said much the same things as the co-op. "No plot? No wonder it was not taken.
And she got up and walked away from the table...I did end up paying.

The magnificent obsession. The novel. The great bitch in the sky.
The unattainable woman. The unattainable novel...Inchoate was the word, tentative, not fully formed. Awkward A dead hand of intellectuality. Erectile dysfunction.
But then Hegel came around., The dance of the dialictic made so famous by our own Mordecai Richler.

I had quit my job as staff writer for the Star Weekly to write the book. I labored mightily and seemed to produce a mouse. "This we get from a professional writer?" Heritage House asks. We are not rejecting you. We will put in in our Bring Forwaard file when the time comes--if ever...I would suggest trying another publisher, but I don't think he's going to publish it either.
Wow. No job, now, might as well say no book.
But the dance of the dialectic...
There is great power in a vacuum.
When you're down that low, your class will pick you up.
A grudging cheque written out by a relative..."I'm getting sick and tired of you sitting on your own Ukrainian shit..It embarrasses my daughter..So here's a hundred thousand for you and her to get you through until you get it together."

Well, the apprentice had finally gotten it together. A columnist's job with a magazine, room to print whatever came into my head; I had served my journalist's apprenticeship and cound finally make money out of what I thought from day to day. Getting paid for what you think... Preposterous....The one -hundred -dollar -a- day intellectual. This, for most writers would be paradise.
And still I had come no closer to truth or piety....I had scewed up the novel, the novel, the sine qua non for journalists...Not just keeping a job, but running with the big literary cats. Wondering, while the money kept rolling in, "Did I, did I make the grade?"
"You write pretty good," says wifey. You should get a PhD and teach.
No immediate need for the PhD. I applied to the college on my publishing credits. There were short cuts. They gave me some paper. I was in.
Two jobs now. Writer and teacher of writing. An still, "Has he, has he made the grade?"
There were some wobbles at the college. Some students, though already possessing their B.A..'s--lord knows where they got them--could not write their way out of a wet paper bag, and they said it was all my fault. Hm. "You don't complete your writing could it be my fault?"
"You gave me a "Did Not Write.!"--"Well, what do you expect when you don't write the final exam?" You might have your B.A, baby, but you must have gotten it out of a popcorn box...Who let you into this programme anyway. Community college. Mature students not so mature. Think you're better than the teachers while polishing that diploma mill B.A. that you didn't have to work for. And you dare not write for me because i'tll show.I put in five years to get my mortarboard, and even then I'm not sure if I really got it.
You really have to put in some time, kid."
So this particular bunch, something of a cult, eventually dropped out. I was getting tired. Tired of being on every day And for whom? This particular bunch of idiots.
I was glad when they dropped out.
Got some real students, real novelists, journalists, some better than me. And I was glad.
But still, my own poor novel. the sine qua non. I had faied.

Quit the college. Surrendered the vows.
Put more stock in My "Hat People", the rejected book, the novel that I thought had merit.

Ah the dance of the Dialectic.
I lost with "The Hat People"

There was a carom here. I had to write an entirely different kind of novel.
Somehow, thought divorce, personal failure, financial grief, madness I somehow got the new book done.

Came back to town with something called "Light Over Newmarket"
Jesus. You could see for miles.
The book published. Critical acclaim. A grant.

But, tradest thou a wife for an MFA?

Ah, Hegel's dance of the dialectic.
Thesis, antithesis, synthesis.

Made astronaut. But lost in space.

Major Tom to Ground Control.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Better drive a Merk than take one

"There is nothing worse than an idle hour, with no occupation offering. People who have many such hours are simply animals waiting docilely for death. We all come to that state soon or late. It is the curse of senility."
--H. L. Mencken

It was late in life that even the great H. L. Mencken, sage of Baltimore, himself became senile, his association centres gone (ein gutes beer?) and his cigar put out forever.
I am not Mencken (but would I not love to have been!) and sadly that is the way it seems to go in my senior apartment complex.
People seemed to have worked all their lives, housewives, factory hands, nurses, sales ladies--and then the wham. Senility. Yes, yes, alzheimers and all that, but it seems the majority of seniors have spent their lives in an almost robotic dream state, work, sleep, eat excrete, absentmindedly fornicate, raise children, turn senile and die, never having given themselves a second thought.
Perhaps just as well, as those of us who had been too sentient end up with something like ADD, or some other euphemism for stupid kid.
Second childhood. for some. Heh. Some call it creative writing.
But writing is thinking. Holds the alzhemer's down, like smoking snogging, and drinking, but the doctors don't want to tell you that. Make them into drug-addled basket cases, there is health for you.
The Garden of Eden foiled. The pill before the grape. The caduceus in the garden, the snake long ago slithered off in disgust.
In the year of our lord (AMA), those of us too weak to work and too strong to die have this last recourse: Create, think. Write or die.
And make no sawbones about it.
A successful writer is worth any number of M.D.'s.
They try to kill us with bad doctoring, but they know it is still we who write their obits.
Better drive a Merk than take one.


Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Chapter nine. LIGHT OVER NEWMARKET. A novel

Chapter Nine

If you look out at your world, Kevin Logan, you will observe that for the past ten years, mankind has been hotfooting it back to the dark ages.

Children of God, sorcerer's apprentices, encounter groupers, radical feminists, touchy-feelers, worshippers of the almighty IS in the Eberhard seminars--all of them are clamoring for your attention and all of them are on a sprint back to the dark ages.

We live in dangerous times. All of society's icons have flipped over and the scene is ripe for any demagogue with sound business training to slouch not only towards Bethlehem but also towards Santa Barbara and Inuvik and Toronto.

Snapped continuity. You can feel it as surely as you have felt the death of that blues music you were so attracted to, for the blues are an antidote for cultural oppression and the Irish aren't exactly the least repressed people in history.

Something oily and corporate has encrusted itself on men's souls. You know this as surely as you know that you are a part of a business civilization that has stopped being a civilization proper, and is therefore in trouble. Corporations are immortal while we are not, and that's a large part of the problem. We serve a clacking electronic god who is becoming suddenly very aware of his godhood. Man remains man.

We feel a lack. An important religious element has vanished and we are left to our own devices, rationalizations, social experiments, totems, while psychiatrists commit suicide and our children overdose in the plazas.

And in the wings, black hoods and candles, bells and books.

Join the gathering inquisition? Burn the infidels, books, state capitols? Certainly a temptation for the powerless people who sense that they are indeed powerless and have therefore nothing to lose through a cathartic release of emotion, of the loosing of the bonds that make a civilization one of work, one which gives us the feeling that we are important, self-sufficient, aristocratic and inevitable. Ah, but then there's this Devil. The Devil, it would seem, has a human face; he can be beaten with a stick and be driven out by fire. The burn-the-devil movement has appeal. It's the cosmically conscious, the spiritually beautiful against the narrow and Faustian professionals who are about to give up the reins anyway.

And yet how helpless the cosmic people seem unable, more often than not, to even feed themselves, unable to exist without a dimly understood technology, unable to resolve family anxieties or personal problems in a society that endlessly promises relief and never delivers.

We watch Third World high priests giving lesson to grown people on how to make love, how to experience emotion, how to be assertive, how to survive. Protestantism and technology has somehow erased the basic wisdom that any peasant outside the west possesses. We appear to be a culture of children, adolescents at best, dangerous toys in our heads, leading us down the garden path for the hundredth time.

Yet as the middle ages encroach upon us, the encroachment is hastened by an awakened Third World, which, curiously retains many of the values, folkways, icons so deeply hankered after by those in the west who have lost such things. Most of the world remains in the middle ages. It is only our island culture that can produce the hippie, the Jesus freak and the unmolested radical student. Basic survival is not a problem with us, while spiritual survival is a vary urgent necessity. The hope of a growing segment of North American civilization seems to lie in the Third World itself, which remains in the dark ages so narrowly averted by a lucky historical turn in western civilization.

And yet can a society of the electric toothbrush, digital toilet and television cope with a Third World where men are, after all, men, women women and the peripheral misfits left to their own devices? The Third World peasant is the ultimate free enterpriser, who has no support or technology whatsoever and makes scratch, more often than not in an economy that would baffle the architects of the New World Order.

The cat is really out of our bag. The Third World does see the manual helplessness, moral ambiguity and spiritual confusion of the North American and the local swamis are only too happy to lead the North American into the deepening night.

We have created a culture of storm and stress where whatever has been up is now being pulled down, where the truck driver feels completely equal to the brain surgeon, where woman wants to be over man, where the sexual acrobat has equal standing with the Pope, and the alcoholic, madman and homosexual is a high literary figure.

The Third World is upon us, and we are not resisting. We welcome the dark ages--we had the technology, the savvy, a can-do attitude, but not the wisdom. Wealth used to bring the gift of time, time to think, read, play musical instruments, reflect, develop.

The gift of time has only made alcoholics, drug addicts and mystical basket cases out of us; produced two generations of people who do not know what a conscience is, what shame is, what love is, what compassion is, what rejection, failure and pain are as the new unholy trinity, what the silent keen is to shout out loud, "Behold, I am a man!" or "Behold, I am a woman!"

And the children: only the babysitter is in there pitching. We relinquish to institutions, to governments. Men flee from women, women from men; the therapists are having a field day. Engineers from MIT are incapable of raising an erection. A Philippine shaman has to teach the inventor of plastic hearts how to play hanky-panky.

So we move from excesses to emptiness, personal and cultural. There are hardly any new songs; light shows are going out; the theatre is obsessed with young men who suck the sweat off horses and the music has returned to the Fifties in a dangerous retro that signals a dissatisfaction with the present, and a cultural vacuum that Europe cannot fill any more. We have no confidence in the present and this is a bad state of affairs for the key culture in the world.

And so the sensitive, the moody and the mystically inclined are leaving the established institutions opting for communal farming, transcendental meditation, cosmic awareness. Empty-handed soldiers are coming home, home to the middle ages. And while this happens, the unestablished and the unlettered are slowly filling in the spaces left by capable idealists, and we see the universities teeming with writers who can't write, mathematicians who can't add, systems analysts who can't do math, all of this leading us to the dark ages.

Perhaps it's for the best. Societies become stagnant; peasants scratch the ground around pyramids. Yet it may be sad to see mankind failing its final examination and never reaching the end of night. For many of the world's problems can now be solved and most of its inhabitants can now be fed...There's only this...devil.

And then the voice stopped. I moved from the table to lie beside sun-hot Valerie. I felt a deep shudder.

Back to Title Page


Sunday, May 10, 2009

Thoughts of a Rowdyman on this rowdy Mother's Day

Comes a time when I ape my old editor, John Slykhuis at THE NEWS, when I stare at the screen, say, "I can't write anymore" and head for the pub.
We had had some inspired editorial meetings there, in the Grey Goat's fuzzy interior of brass and oak, and then we'd get drunk, constructing great sprawling novels in the smoky air and shouting wild promises to the wind

Well, for me there are no great sprawling novels, no wild promises to the wind today.
I had tried to blog on this Mother's Day, but suddenly my lights went out, as they used to do in my drinking days, more often the result of a punch than not.
This morning, this "Pole" has been pole-axed.
Petit mal, probably-lots of Eastern Euopeans get that way, but probably too much drinking and too much thinking, which usually results in either a breakdown or ending up in some strange bed, echoes of a "Flying Dutchman" in your head, who is nagging, "Whatever you are trying to find, you won't get it from a whore."
Well, you can get lots from a whore. Build up your ego, call you handsome, wonderful. But the hand is out for the tip.
And yet, St. John in his masterpiece notwithstanding, what man does not love a whore? And how many times have we gone to Babylon?

Gad, I just can't stay on topic. I had intended to write about Mother's Day and had a personal power blackout.
Worse, I can't write any more.
I think I'd better make a phone call.


Friday, May 08, 2009

Be a star, but don't cut a fart on the elevator of The Star.

He was about 73 and a recruiter for Thomson Newspapers.
I was out of work again, The Star wouldn't have me on any more on a regular basis and I had to ebarrass myself by working for a nearby provincial daily called the Oshawa Times.
"What do you know about newspapering? said the grizzled old Judas- goat for out-of-work itenerant reporters. "I am 73 and am still learning."
Across the interview table, I almost mutter to myself, "Do you think you'll ever get it?...I mean, time's a-wastin'."
Anyway I was hired and went on to producing some fairly readable stories about war veterans, saloon fighters, truckers-on-speed and other optimists.
One aspect of writing--any ambiious writing--soon shows you what the hell is wrong with you.
I am, probably, a manic-depressive (most writers are), and I seem to do my best work on a manic phase where it will get ya a prize and sometimes evn imitated by the slick magazines But during a depressive phase I will look at a typewriter or telephone and and ask, in all incredulity, "What is that?" Happily,at the Times, I was largely on a manic writing streak, though those streaks had often to be interrupted by my having to chase ambulances. and police cruisers. That's when I'd get depressive, bored with the story and screw up. Meanwhile, my story on the war veteran remembering the horrendous taking of Vimy Ridge at a loss of some sixty thousand Canadian lives in World War One--resulting in an impressive monument at Vimy--was passed hand to hand by vets at the Legion, and was cribbed almost word for word by the Star, my previous employer. "But, said my Star friends over a drink--"Oshawa Tmes? Baby, you f*cked up...Egad. How the mighty have fallen."
It was actually quite embarrassing. I had been a fairly big man at the Star, but coming to work with a vodka hangover, I somehow sickened my editor, standing next to me on the elevator. Was it a bouquet of Shmirnoff I laid on him, or did I inadvertantly cut a fart, driving the poor man to scramble, getting off on the wrong floor just for breathing space. Before escaping, he had hissed, "Man, this elevator is loaded!"
He did not entirely label me as "Smerdiakof", out of Dostoevsky, a character known for extreme flatulence.
I was still young very young in those days...young guys are like that, gassy, unkempt boorish and proud of it. Fart under the covers...force girl's head under the duvet. "If you love me you will stay under the covers. If not, you're a fart-smeller". Like that.
Looking back, lord how could we? The arrogance of bibilous youth. They are still around. Stupid, rude and proud of it.
Anyway, I had been eased out of the Star, probably for farting in the elevator, especially around Beland Honderich, who, though he was the most powerful journalist in Canada, had been somhow my friend, but probably not too fond of Smerdiakovs. He got tired of emptying my ashtrays--he would do that--and probably my farts.

Ah but the manic-depressiveness at the Oshawa Times.
I was in the middle of a good streak on a GM strike at Oshawa. Good colourful vignettes of characters on the line--when I got the call to rush to a bank robbery.
Bank robbery? I am in the middle of the biggest story on Canadian labour.
Young, arrogant, I had said to the editor, fock you.
Fock me? he had said. Fock you. Your are fired.
"Me? God's chosen"
"Yes, you."

Pounding the pavement again I certainly realized that the grizzled ol recruiter had been right. There was a hell of a lot I didn't yet know about journalism...Or ones personality.
It was a more chastened, sober journalist that finally landed at the Toronto SUN. Never mind your moods. Do the work.


Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Puzzling out some grand masters--My mad, paper-hanging ladies

Query letter to the Newmarket ERA, Ontario

Good morning ERA ladies.

I am still up to here, mobbed by my busy, painting-hanging lady neighbours..

They have gone nuts. I go to check my mail and find completed paintings not only all along the wall here, but even fringing the mail pigeon holes. Some recently- hung completed paintings almost overlap my mail slot. These nutty girls are hanging finished puzzle paintings on all nine floors of this Senior apartment,and for some tenants with nothing to do--home of the blues.
I guess they hang paintings to get away from the pigeon- grey, to add colour and light to walls, to avoid that "What's on TV?--Aw why bother feeling."
Gloria Burgess, who surely doesn't want to be compared to another paper hanger, is asking me, When is the Newmarket Era going to call?

So here is what I've got, ERA lady editors:

Vibrant pictures and pieced-together puzzles featuring occasionally, great masters, are lovingly hung on all nine stories of the big seniors' apartment, Founders' Place at 540 Timothy, Newmarket.
Daily essentials—such as muffins, coffee, Sweet’N Low, napkins, —sit out on a formica table.

The girls are busy, June, Shirley, Marg, Gloria Emmy, Barb, Eileen--and one male--Chris.

"Lucky guy," says Gloria Burgess, who over the past four months has been on a quest to turn not only the flat-grey walls of of the tall building not necessarily into displays of fine art--the pictures are largel pastoral-- but instigating and financing the project, sizing the frames, getting glue to hold the completed jigsaw work together, placing each picture squarely on the matte. You can hardly see the seams of what had once been a puzzle.
All nine floors have three our four pictures on the walls....

Whatcha think?

I think "art" has its own reward. And Gloria is a trooper. And a leader.

Keeps the ladies from quietly going mad these going mad these cool spring nights.

Aw, what the hell. Keep busy or go mad, says Hegel.
I myself am trying to keep anything.


Monday, May 04, 2009

Origin of White Russian Farmer

Rheuminations on evolution:It is my firm belief that the Caucasoid Neandert(h)al was a White Russian (like my uncle). He walked stooped and carried a colbassa. Somehow, he would evolve to invent the wheel. But what he did with it!