Found one for my mother.
“The Jack Acid Society Black Book”, basically a whole bunch of Walt Kelly’s songs, little prose pieces, etc…”Old Dog Trey” is in there, I’m sure.
Completely forgot I scooped it up at the Bowen Island Book Sale this summer. “What did you get?” she asked. “NEVER YOU MIND!” I screeched back. “Come on, can’t I see?” “NO YOU MAY NOT! I DO NOT GO INTO YOUR BOXES OF BOOKS AND…”
“Yes you do.”
“ALL RIGHT IT IS TRUE THAT FROM TIME TO TIME I MAY, BUT THAT IS NOT RELEVANT! THAT IS NOT GERMANE TO THE DISCUSSION! NOT! GERMANE!”
It’s possible she may suspect something.
Glad I remembered it!
Snow outside, Bloggers, piled up by the ploughs, making little passageways running hither and yon throughout the streets of the really rather picturesque neighbourhood I live on the fringes of. Over its hill and far away, on the south side of Vancouver as it begins to think about facing down toward the mighty Fraser River, the old parental domicile, which in turn is hard up against the old Interurban stop in Kerrisdale, my stomping grounds as a kid — cut by the old Ravine of Second Creek, wound about by a thread of what turned from passenger to freight rail, and then to dog-walking strip (I once walked sixteen blocks without falling off the western rail of that bed, admittedly the more level one but even so…even so!), and though much changed still itself, still the Bedford Falls of my city, or perhaps the Shadow Hill. You can still see what Chesterton was on about in his Napoleon: it’s like its own little country. You could imagine a war there, fought entirely by elementary-school children.
Blanketed in snow, now, in a way it hasn’t been since I was ten years old. The plateau once you get up past where the streams all met — and still do, underground — the school, the skating rink, the dumb new condos, the Chinese groceries…there are still some of them left, even now. Even now! It’s a bit of a ridiculous place, really. Somehow it pulls boundaries to itself. And many people don’t like it, but I do.
I’ll be there tomorrow!
North of me, the zany deep-focussed strip of Granville Street, the old logging road, once filled with antique stores and greasy spoons and Hungarian restaurants, now over-cluttered with high-end shoe stores and young lawyers with laptops and ballcap-bozos pretending they know how they like their Scotch — the Chinese stores all gone! — but then the road plummets part the theatre to the bridge over False Creek, and past it Stanley Park, the water and the mountains and then the sky. Freighters bobbing out there, the serrated edge of Texada Island in the distance, that the Natives say just rose out of the Inside Passage one day, just like that. Like a big violet breadknife, in the evenings. Little white Lego-pieces of apartment buildings downtown, and then the sodium-vapour fairy dust climbing the slopes of the mountains, atop them the white lights of the ski hills. Howe Sound like a funnel, blowing the winter Squamish out into the Gulf. No spring tides for a while, I guess: the Strait of Georgia’s customary extra tidal charge is headed down into Puget Sound.
It’s midnight now, just about exactly, I think; better post, before the moment passes.
Just wanted you all to know where I’m at.
Where are you?
Merry Christmas, Bloggers. See you after the turkey bloat goes away.