Yesterday, being Remembrance Day, gave us the chance to reflect on the futility of war/bravery of military personnel/(insert thing to remember). Traditionally I give not a fuck for this event, focused as I have been on the first option. Of course, now that Canada has shifted its international policy from peace-keeping to "peace making" (which, correct me if I am mistaken, is a euphemism along the lines of "police action"
) I need to consider that my newborn son will be draft fodder in 17 years.
In any event, we live near a "Memorial Park" replete with cenotaph. We attended at 1045h and observed singing of the sort that would make a battery of bagpipes, at close range, sound mellifluous, and did. I have worried of late that baby A is a light sleeper. Nap resistant. Sleep averse. I have been mistaken. He slept through the skreel of the pipes and the drum corp at a distance of +/- 6 feet. Perhaps sleep was the best defence, I don't know. We then walked along with the procession of police officers, veterans, police horses, knights of columbus, people in fezes
, the dukes of corduroy
, and boy scouts to the nearby legion hall where miscellaneous animal parts
were on offer. E (who is, I must recall, 2) said: they're marching for me!
We met a fine horse, in the employ of the city, who operates under the name of "Duke". I stood, insecure, as Duke's (equine) partner unfurled his massive knob and pissed on the street.
I digress. I went to the local S-- store later on to satisfy my family's grocery needs. As I waited in line for my turn to exchange my net income for products of dubious merit I gazed upon the spackled
visage of Ms. Reese Witherspoon. According to the cover of the magazine, Ms. Witherspoon tells "her side" of the story regarding her marital breakdown. I peeked at the next till to see the rouged face
of her soon-to-be ex paramour, on a different magazine's cover, promising to tell his side of this whole sorry affair. (Note: Obviously, one may accuse me of no small degree of exhibitionism, on the basis of the deep, meaningful, and revealing blogthing I have going here. I am aware I may protest too much... don't I wish it was me on the cover of these glossy rags, describing in excrutiating detail my psyllium
fixation and the personal horrors
which made my descent into fibre abuse seem reasonable.) That said, I can scarce imagine what kind of defective moron would tout the sordid details of my marital disfunction to some hyena from the press for all and sundry to read. Or get all made up for the cover shot, which adverts to the gory details within. I can scarce imagine what kind of nut would actually pay to read that tripe. (Or what kind of twit would blog about it, I suppose...) (The end times are near...)
As though this grim spectre were not sufficient to horrify, these images were accompanied by images of the corpulent Ms. Alley, the waxed and bikinied Ms. Alley on Oprah, the 'liposuction rumors' headline (of course she had the surgery, you could see the rubber stoppers in the fat-sucking holes, right on her hips! It was TOTALLY Dune
. (The end times are upon us!)
Later E and I observed a televised memorial on tv, showing pictures of the Canadian service people who have bought it in Afghanistan. I was tearful by the end. E turned to me and said: That was a good show, eh?