Vintage NAD: The Pumpkin Papers
“A Googling of Obscurities”
By David Hunter
"I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully." ~ George W. Bush
TORONTO -- It is indeed an honor to have the inaugural guest blog here on The National Affairs Desk, or the NAD, for those of you who are into the whole brevity thing. I’m hoping now that I’ve gotten the first few tentative sentences out of the way that this drink teetering in my hand will loosen my tongue, and a point will become a little more evident. Until then I guess I’ll ramble.
The National Affairs Desk is the brainchild of one Joseph Lane who I’ve never met in person, but who trusted me to write this post in his stead. It is an honor, of course. I’m not above (or below) helping someone out, especially if it’s for a noble cause, but it would help if I knew what the hell was going on around here. That’s where you, dear reader, come in to the picture; we need you to argue, scream, yell, rant, and even bark obscenities at us. This way we can codify an ethos here at the NAD, and be better equipped to verbally spank you back in the future. Until then we remain at your mercy, so be kind. I suppose we’ll just have to take our lumps, whatever those lumps may be.
Joseph has professed a love of Hunter S. Thompson, and has adopted the credo “the only good rule is no rule” much in the same vain as my literary hero Edward Abbey; writer, author, self-professed elitist and naturalist who’s last wish was to be buried in the desert, in complete disregard for all state and federal burial laws so the buzzards could eat his bones. Quite a set of heroes we’ve adopted, Joseph and I. Ed was an Iconoclast of the first order, and so was Hunter. You could say Joe and I are two peas in a pod as well; we’ll definitely learn something from each other before it’s all said and done. Until then I suspect we’ll fight and fuss, which is only natural between two kindred spirits. As for no rules, I kind of like that; I don’t often truck with rules. It makes the world, and The National Affairs Desk, a much more interesting place to be.
So here is a run-down of stuff floating around in my transom; I won’t rant about the state of health-care (which sometimes can double as an oxymoron) but I will say this; in Canada, if you need it it’s there, but a better tact would be this: don’t get sick, it’s not healthy for you. Politics? Ugh. Politicians? Double ugh; although I did have a love/hate on for Pierre Elliot Trudeau, even though I was too young to understand him or his ways. I still don’t. I can only tell you that a lot of old-timers around here are polarized by him. Half loved him because he stuck his middle finger up to the Canadian terrorist sect the FLQ, or Front de Liberation du Quebec, the other half hate him because he let too many immigrants into Canada. Some feel both ways. I just liked him because he did a pirouette behind the queen of England, and he could string a few well spoken sentences together, plus he did a decent job of not embarrassing us, y’know? Actually being a statesman for our country. Plus Nixon called him an arrogant son-of-a bitch on the Watergate tapes, which makes him a hero in my eyes. Another thing, pop culture; I am a pop culture junkie, old movies, TV shows, writers; if it’s safely dead and obscure chances are I will embrace it. No gossip, no paparazzi-like activity, nothing of the sort. You may have to do some Googling of obscurities while reading any of my posts, which may not be such a bad thing. We may learn something before it’s done.
Well, I hope our supreme commandant Joseph Lane finds this post all good and well, he is a good man, and a talented individual, so I will try my best not to embarrass him, or Canada, or myself.
I pirouette behind you sir!
David Hunter
Note: To all our cousins below the border, I’d like some American thoughts about Canada, if you have any. Take care, and may the good news be yours… (See? Les Nessman. Google it!)
'aim directly at his Presidential penis'. Okay, I tell ya what. My lady friend and I, once the children are tucked away will give you piece a good look over, make the fixes we think it needs, then I will send it back to you for you to look over before publishing. Oh and hey, it must be late over there, get some sleep, we can always publish it in the morning. No deadlines on the NAD, yet.
On Mon, Aug 24, 2009 at 8:21 PM, Derek H. Frey <derekfrey@mac.com> wrote:
As I said, be my guest, fiddle with the President's penis - if you must. - Seriously, I believe the better is the enemy of the good. In fact, I am not 100% happy with the first paragraph either. But I also know it contains what need to be in there. And one part of that is: him being PRESIDENT.
On Tuesday, 25 August, 2009, at 01:16AM, "Joseph Lane" <josephlane73@gmail.com> wrote:
>
Can I fiddle around with this bit... 'when nothing else cuts it, it appears all that remains to his opponents is to aim the squeamishness of certain members of society about Obama being the President to… his penis.'?.. I understand the point your making, but I think if I cut a few words out, it will make more sense. Like say this? ...when nothing else 'cuts' it, it would appear that all his opponents can do is aim for the squeamish among us and take aim directly at his penis...
when nothing else cuts it, it appears all that remains to his opponents is to aim the squeamishness of certain members of society about Obama being the President to… his penis.
appears all that remains to his opponents is to aim the squeamishness of certain members of society about Obama being the President to… his penis.
appears all that remains to his opponents is to aim the squeamishness of certain members of society about Obama being the President to… his penis.
On Mon, Aug 24, 2009 at 8:07 PM, Derek H. Frey <derekfrey@mac.com> wrote:
Joseph,
if you find something that will improve what I set out to do, please absolutely do so! - All I ask is that I see what suggestions you think I should consider - so I may decide yeah/nope. ;)
Whatever. You know what I mean,
D
On Tuesday, 25 August, 2009, at 01:02AM, "Joseph Lane" <josephlane73@gmail.com> wrote:
>
Thanks Derek, I am just now giving it a quick look over. I
promise I won't change anything other than the odd spelling or grammatical
error.
Thanks for playing
J
On Mon, Aug 24, 2009 at 7:50 PM, Derek H. Frey <derekfrey@mac.com> wrote:
... Please do NOT publish before
checking for edit suggestions/corrections. I sent it to David, but haven't
heard from him. Possibly he's busy. If you do edits... please send back for me
to see before publishing. If you just correct grammar/mistakes... never mind,
just do, then publish.
That okay for you?
Thanks & Cheers,
D
When all else fails, it appears all that remains to his opponents is to aim the squeamishness of certain members of society about Obama being the President to… his penis.
When all else fails, certain members of society squeamish about Obama being president will be led by his opponents to resort to the lowest common denominator and aim for the gut, or in this case, his penis.
When all else fails, the last resort left to the President’s opponents is to aim those who are squeamish about Obama right for the gut; or in this case, his penis.
When all else fails, the last resort left to the President’s opponents is to aim his detractors right where it hurts; his gut; or in this case, his penis.
Taking a Stand
By Derek H. Frey
When even the most fantastic lies about Barack Obama’s healthcare reform don’t rock people sufficiently anymore – or when rumours about his Muslim roots or continued forgeries of his alleged Kenyan birth certificate don’t stir the pot like they once did – the last resort left to the President’s opponents is to aim public opinion right where it hurts; his gut; or in this case, his penis.
As historians who specialize in animosity between the races have pointed out in numerous papers, members of the darker races were always a centre of attention – and suspicion, supposedly because they are assumed to be huskier, more impressive, and more productive. In other words, it is hypothesized, that from the moment it entered the white world, the black penis was treated as a threat to the white penis. And the men attached to them.
In fact, some of said historians have suggested that darker penises are a real, albeit subconscious, basis of all (white) racism –– A tempting speculation, isn’t it? Certainly, there is no denying it: White men, being like any other men, define themselves – and their worth – a great deal based on their good bits.
Come on, we all know it is so: most men look at each other covertly from an early age on, measure each other up as it were, trying to determine who amongst them is the most viral, the most strong – who among them is the alpha male. In that respect, size is a good indicator. In fact, often it is the only tangible indicator. Size matters.
Be it fundamentally justified or not, deep down most men take it as fact that the individual with the biggest one will get the best catch – women that is. Therefore, to imagine that a group of men reportedly being above their “white” average in that regard certainly demands respect, and action, Lest, as the saying goes, their women go black and never come back.
Let’s be compassionate! What are these poor lads to do, really? – Feeling as most men do that their prospective women-folk will only come to them if they are sufficiently equipped to satisfy their demands (and desires, it is assumed) for manly protection, virility, and steadfastness. Isn’t it understandable, thus, that they give it all their best to fight, suffer, and work, and that they are, in a metaphorical sense at least, hard on themselves for being the right man?
Fighting for survival, men have always done everything in their power to get their girl, and to keep her; this being an evolutionary prerequisite. Competitors with more to offer have always given them the willies and reduced their options considerably, at least in their perception. In fact, in the equation of evolutionary survival, the only way to fight a big penis should be with a bigger one, which is harder then it seems, because despite all those offers of enlargement available to most men, the majority will have to live with what they have for as long as they can hang in there. That kind of change is, as far as we know, unobtainable.
So, the best offence in that sense may be defense – and to get those dark-skinned “Tom, Harry, and their dicks” out of the way, so that these well-endowed men may never present themselves as the insurmountable object they are feared to be. Let’s bond, bind, and belittle the competition – it! The Penis! – Beforehand. Let’s talk him down, the black man (and by way of association, his penis too). Let’s withhold membership to the right club from him. Let’s send him into the fields, the streets, the dark alleys, let’s discard him into the realm of dark fantasies, Into dirty animalism and dreaded disease.
Therefore, at this stage, to talk about Barack Obama’s penis may be the only option certain members of society have to hold on to; guided by primal instincts, primal fear may be all they have left. Their brains, obviously, due to all their previous attempts to deal with the competition, are too limp to take a stand.
August, 24th, 2009 –– © by Derek H. Frey
When even the most fantastic lies about Barack Obama’s healthcare reform don’t rock people sufficiently anymore – rumours about his Muslim roots or continued forgeries of his alleged Kenyan birth certificate don’t stir the pot– the last resort left to the President’s opponents is to aim public opinion right where it hurts; his gut; or in this case, his penis.
When even the most fantastic lies about Barack Obama’s healthcare reform don’t rock people sufficiently anymore – or when rumours about his Muslim roots or continued forgeries of his alleged Kenyan birth certificate don’t stir the pot like they once did – the last resort left to the President’s opponents is to aim public opinion squarely where it hurts; his gut; or in this case, his penis.
Dog Days and Grade School (The Heisenberg/Hunter Uncertainty Principle)
TORONTO – I was just sitting here listening to Verdi’s Rigoletto - Questo A Quella when it suddenly dawned on me that summer is almost over. Soon the little rug-rats will be off to school again, pissing and moaning about homework, and clogging up the public transit system with their particular brand of insanity.
Lucky little bastards.
I never would have admitted it at the time, but sitting on my ass all day scribbling 2+2 is 4 in a notebook and making google eyes at the girl next to me seems like a pretty good deal right now. A PB & J sandwich and milk for lunch, a quick game of “Murder Ball” (Dodge Ball to all you Americano’s out there) and the day is complete. No worries, no fucking bills, nothing; except the occasional dust up with a monosyllabic troglodyte bully, or not getting to the bathroom on time and shitting your pants in school. But these are minor trifles compared to what we deal with in the adult world. Admit it, who REALLY gives a shit about you at work? Sure people are nice, but deep down they hardly tolerate your very existence. They got their own shit to deal with. There was nothing like grade school; it was a smelly three ring circus. Have you been to a grade school lately? It’s where they herd the little tykes through hallways that smell like Plasticine and unwashed humanity.
God how I miss that.
Fall, 1984, St. Dorothy’s Elementary, eighth grade, Toronto; It’s my first day at this new school. It’s an old place, built in the early sixties, and cramped as hell. The halls smell alternately like Hubba Bubba bubble gum (before the Gum Prohibition) and melted pencil erasers. Its lunch time and they have herded us into this squashed little room to eat since this place has no cafeteria. There’s twelve feet of snow outside, but you can’t see it because this particular room has no windows. My buddy Sal sits beside me, chomping on a Salami and cheese sandwich. The stuff smells like shit, but I don’t care because Cathy Stewart just walked in to the room. She’s a cute girl, despite being crossed-eyed.
There’s a record player in the room with a Beatles 45 on it, Revolution (B-side to Hey Jude for all you Beatle nuts), that this Idiot Mike discovers has a John Lennon scream on it, so he plays it over and over, scratching the disc as he lifts the needle to replay the scream again. The fourth time he does this he is serenaded with a chorus of “Yeaaaeaaeaaarghs” in a pale attempt to reproduce Lennon’s throat-tearing yodel. I’m trying to eat my fucking lunch and Sal is belching Salami particles at me; so all in all, a good afternoon of chaos and hilarity ensues.
They kick us outside, despite the sub-atomic temperatures; what to do? A snow-ball fight erupts in which there are not actually snow-balls but chunks of ice the size of the Larson-B Ice-shelf being hurled at my forehead. Good thing I’m quick, but Sal, being quite slothful and dim-witted, manages to get one right in the noggin. We all get in deep shit, and are all herded back inside the stuffy and musty catacombs of St. Dorothy’s halls.
Back in those days Toronto had an exceptionally large population of kids; we were the children of the Boomer generation, 65 million of them, and there were a lot of us; the schools were crowded. I mean I’m talking CROWDED. St. Dorothy’s was no different; it was like a mini-Calcutta. Result: We were crammed into small rooms a lot. We were not unlike hobos jammed into box-cars. The result was hallway-chaos; kids screaming, teachers yelling; complete madness. Even as a kid in the Eighth grade I pondered the wisdom of squeezing so many children into these tiny halls and the future implications that would be visited upon us. Sal would usually tackle me at moments like that, shattering my chain of thought, and causing me to stop all such ponderance: a head-lock and a noogie in a teeming diaspora of unwashed eight graders will do that to a fellow.
The library after lunch; it’s Friday, and they don’t know what to do with us, so they pile us in to watch a movie, “Freaky Friday” with Jodie Foster or something. There aren’t enough seats, so we scatter, strewning ourselves across the floor like mud-caked hippies at Woodstock. I sit on the floor next to Laurie, who has blue eyes, dark hair and a smattering of freckles across her pale cheeks. Bonus; she smells like strawberry bubble-gum and dove soap. I am entranced. Most of my (male) compatriots haven’t learned to use soap yet, so I sit close to her through the movie. It’s dark and warm in here; the film projector is chittering quietly. Most of us fall asleep.
This is how I remember school.
Nowadays, such reverence is rare. The workplace is populated with dour-faced middle-aged people with far too many problems and not enough time for anything resembling fun, let alone making new friends. I miss guys like Sal, who, despite the constant Salami-like waft emanating from him and his large frame was always there to give me a big fat smile and a hello. I didn’t think much of him then, but I miss him like hell now.
That’s my story Mac. So tell your kids to enjoy their time in school, that someday they’ll be shoved out into the cold reality of life burdened with back-breaking debts and perhaps an ex-wife who’s taken him to the cleaners. He might even get jacked by the IRS.
And when they meet a guy like Sal, don’t shun him because he smells different.
Post-script: I’d like to hear any memories of school you have, and share them with us. Take care.
David Hunter
Back in those days Toronto had an exceptionally large population of kids; we were boomer children, and there were a lot of us, and the schools were crowded. I mean I’m talking CROWDED. St. Dorothy’s was no different; it was like a mini-Calcutta. Result: We were crammed into small rooms a lot.
The Passing of the Guard: Ted Kennedy The Lion of the Senate
TORONTO --
No, you can email the story to me when you have one ready ~ just cut and paste it into the message: xdavidhunterx@hotmail.com ..and thanks!
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