Happy New Year Everyone!

Montreal in Winter / Oil on canvas / SOLD


I wish you all a restful New Year. Slow down. You move too fast. Peace.

This column, published several years ago, is satirical. Do not take that which I say literally. That would not be right. :)


Stop Everything!

It must be January. I know this because in the last week we’ve had ten feet of snow, wild winds with frigid cold, freezing rain, ice pellets and now gentle warm showers. With this kind of excitement in the Gatineau Hills who wants to move to Florida? But the real reason I know it is January is because out on the highways the Chelsean Jogger Beetles are cluttering up the landscape in brightly coloured fleece and spandex. This actually is not much different than at any other time of the year for Chelsea, however, added to the mix, every January are the “others”.

They are the New Year’s Resolution Beetles and they are a far different breed altogether. Usually they are not wearing spandex since they don’t fit (just yet… but soon…) into brightly-coloured plastic organic imitation sell-the-house-and-children-to-afford-them-name-brand clothes… These strangely interesting individuals (dressed in all sorts of odd mismatched things such as fur-lined muu-muus) are indeed one of the main tourist attractions here in the Hills in winter; huffing and puffing their merry way down the roads. It is said they rival if not outright outdo splendidly the clouds put out by the Wakefield Steam train in summer. A relatively enthusiastic group, they are often accompanied by disgruntled dogs and miserable spouses but for the most part they all tend to disappear by February. Booking your bus tour sightings of these strange creatures must be done by November if you have any hope of spotting a few before they retire to the fire with a box of chocolates.

Now all of this is a natural phenomenon much like the clustering of monarch butterflies in South America. Heaven help us all if the New Year’s Resolutions groups actually all achieved their objectives because it would be unnatural. In fact, the entire western world’s economy would grind to a horrible halt and we would be completely lost, forced to live by our wits, stone weaponry and a dusty copy of Martha Stewart Living magazine. We might even all-die-horribly. Again.

We are consumers in a consumerist world and as I have explained in previous columns, ours is never to question why, ours is just to buy and buy. Here is the truth: the only thing that keeps the entire western world’s economy on the straight and narrow is licorice-flavoured jumbo jellies. Well… that and cigarettes, alcohol, lottery tickets, chocolate, high-fructose corn syrup, caffeine and full-fat cheddar aged at the bottom of the Saint-Laurence for seventeen years. Without these things available to buy we wouldn’t buy a damn thing and the world would fall apart.

The only way we know how to even use a credit card is because we have bad habits. We buy everything based on what it costs against our bad habits. We know for example that the latest I-Pod costs about as much as half a pack of cigarettes (without matches) or the black silk jacket is pretty much equal to ten cases of Bristol Crème or that a foot massager on special at Wal-Mart is equal to 14 jars of Planters Chocolate Covered Almonds. And so, knowing these things, we are confident consumers feeding the economy fully aware of how we are one day going to quit all these bad habits in the New Year and that will cover off the cost of those 23 pairs of multi-striped toe-socks we bought last week. And furthermore, if we all give up licorice-flavoured jumbo jellies, in just six months we could take a trip to Paris. In fact, bad habits are the only thing that gives us any hope whatsoever for the future and keep us spending because maybe we’ll just take that trip to Paris anyway because it “only” costs as much as six months worth of licorice-flavoured jumbo jellies. This is as it should be.

Now I don’t know why but over the years many people have foolishly questioned me on my irrefutable conclusion so I just ignore them because I spent at least seven minutes on Google researching this and without a doubt I’m right and there is no point in arguing. Now go out and eat some chocolate before we all-die-horribly.

Why I Hate Stuart McLean

The Storm / S. Shawcross / Oil on canvas / 20 x 26 / SOLD

This week's video: Oh the sights and sounds of Christmas!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysIzPF3BfpQ&NR=1

The Louis Stories: are contained in my July post ---->

This week's essay: Two for the price of one! A bitter story of unrequited turkey. A true story yet to be really written as it happened that fateful night. Stuart McLean, Canada's quintessential humour writer, has read this and knows it would be published so not to worry--the man is a true gentleman. The story revolves around the CBC radio offering a turkey dinner to be delivered by Stuart McLean for the funniest Christmas story about a turkey. The guy who won the turkey dinner has not read this however. I suspect he'll be a good sport about it though. Afterall he did send me a copy of the anecdote that won the contest and the picture included here. This early post is my last post until the New Year. Have yourself a merry little holiday everyone.



Why I Hate Stuart McLean

Stuart McLean owes me a turkey dinner.

Bastard.

Not that he is a bastard. I imagine he is a nice enough fellow. In fact he’s probably (oh… alright… he “is”) delightful and engaging and certainly loved by hundreds of thousands of people who read his books and listen to him on the radio or read his columns all across Canada, the United States, Australia and New Zealand. He makes people laugh and wherever he goes to do a reading the halls are packed to the gunnels with adoring fans and you can hear the swell of rising laughter all the way down the streets. He is well loved certainly. But even still I hate him.

Stuart McLean owes me a turkey dinner, which I will never get. And for that simple reason I hate him. And I hate him even more for not knowing that he owes me a turkey dinner.

See this! Look at this picture… See Stuart McLean eating ham to be followed by the turkey dinner that “I” should have had. See the happy face on the man who stole my dinner with Stuart McLean!

















Oh I know this was a long time ago. I know that people will say that “technically” Stuart McLean doesn’t owe me any turkey dinner. Of course the people who say that have no insight into anything. They aren’t the ones that spent the better part of four years struggling to write humour columns every single week for the local rag at the time. EVERY SINGLE WEEK at the time for FOUR YEARS! They aren’t the ones who had to be funny EVERY SINGLE WEEK for FOUR YEARS! More importantly, they aren’t the ones that bought the turkey-that-ended-up-in-a-wheelbarrow-that-crossed-the-road. They aren’t the ones that elaborately stuffed the turkey-that-ended-up-in-a-wheelbarrow-that-crossed-the-road. Or lovingly basted it every half hour for the better part of the whole darn day! Well... at least until the stove stopped working. No, they aren’t the ones that hosted the party with the turkey-that-ended-up-in-a-wheelbarrow-that-crossed-the-road to the neighbour’s house because their stove stopped working. They aren’t the ones that get a phone call in the middle of a winter day to say that someone on the radio just won a turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean and “was that YOUR turkey he was talking about?”

Yes. It. Was. My. Turkey.

They weren’t the ones that were interviewed by the local press and asked if it was MY turkey dinner on the radio with that funny story that won the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. They weren’t the ones that had to make up some quick spur of the moment benevolent response that showed what a good sport I was when in fact all I wanted to do was murder someone with a pair of garden shears. Anyone would have done at the time. Yet the only one that got killed that day was I. The irony killed me. It did. I’m writing now from the Great Beyond.

It’s not so hard writing from the Great Beyond. Nobody expects you to be funny. What could possibly be funny in the Great Beyond anyway? It’s the Great Beyond after all. I mean who wants to be here when they could be tap-dancing in a pub in Puerto Vallarta or putting pennies on a railway track waiting for the Wakefield Steam Train to go by? Nobody. That’s who.

Oh I know this happened a long time ago and nobody really cares (then or now) but I do feel compelled to explain to someone why I had to do myself in (ironically speaking). I did myself in because… well… It pains me to say this but--I didn’t even get invited by the ManWhoWon the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean TO the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. That was just adding insult to injury of course… to exaggerate the ironical misery.

So what if ManWhoWon the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean moved away a long time ago… I don’t know why on earth after all this time he decided to enter a story about MY TURKEY in the wheelbarrow without even a ghost of a whisper of a phone call to me just as a heads up about how he won the contest (with his what? Five-sentence-long-spur-of-the-moment-unedited-agonizingly-short-anecdote-because-of-course-he-isn’t-a-writer) and then didn’t even invite me to the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean.

That’s not true. I know why of course. Because the Universe hates me. That’s why.

You see the Universe, being what it is, is actually passive aggressive. And because it hates me, it lies in wait. It waits for me to spend a good deal of effort on something and then, just when I think I’m doing okay writing my miserable little humour column in this tiny little town in Quebec in complete obscurity, it rushes in with Irony and Spite. The ManWhoWon the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean had no idea the Universe was using him to spite me. I haven’t the heart to tell him. Even after he sent that lovely picture of himself and Stuart McLean enjoying the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. There is no point of course in confusing the poor ManWhoWon the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. He is, after all, in the real world and not in the Great Beyond like I am so he hasn’t got the opportunities I have to understand the Universe.

The Universe and I you see, are now good friends…. Well… nodding acquaintances. The truth is I can’t ever be friends with the Universe because of what the Universe did to spite me with the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean.

Oh I’m not the least bit bitter about it all. This is because I live a non-corporeal existence in the Great Beyond. But sadly because of my unfortunate demise I’ll never get that turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. Bastard! Not that he isn’t a nice enough fellow or anything… Anyway, I’d have preferred being taken out for turkey dinner anyway. (Who wants to do the dishes after a turkey dinner? I mean even if Stuart McLean is doing the drying with a dishtowel part?) That’s what I would have held out for. If I were still here. Which I am not.



Why I Hate the Man-Who-Won the Turkey-Dinner-Delivered-By-Stuart-McLean

Now I hate to go on and on about the turkey dinner I feel I am owed by Stuart McLean but I’m living here in the Great Beyond with very little else to do after having metaphorically killed myself off due to the utter irony of being a struggling humour writer who had her turkey dinner stolen by the ManWhoWon the Turkey-Dinner-Delivered-By-Stuart-McLean. The ManWhoWon the radio contest did so for writing an anecdote based on an event involving a turkey that I personally bought, plucked, stuffed and put in tinfoil in order for it to cross the road in the first place. As a matter of fact, not that anybody cares as far as I can tell, I was saving all this as a story to one day write “all within the fullness of time” of course. Now, seeing as how I’ve gone and done myself in, I have to go on and on about it on account of this restless spirit with unresolved corporeal issues thing. Sigh.

It’s not like it was “my” story. Yes, I did host the party wherein which the turkey actually crossed the road in the wheelbarrow. Yes, there were many people at the dinner party who remember with fondness and even participated in the event. In fact as I recollect there were at least five people out there trying to get that wheelbarrow with the turkey through the snow banks and across the highway while chasing away the neighbourhood dogs and preserving at all costs the stuffing I’d so carefully stuffed. (It had chestnuts in it for godssakes!) I know any one of the people at the party could have entered that Christmas contest and won a turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean with the very same story.

So I’m told.

So I hated Stuart McLean there for a while for not realizing he owed me a turkey dinner. These things don’t last. There are many who would say I’m just a bitter disgruntled writer who failed to listen to the CBC radio when they announced the contest to win a turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. Well, to those I’d have to say, “of course I am that bitter disgruntled writer.”

Mind you I’m living in the Great Beyond now so technically speaking I’m not that very same person, You see… I believe I’m actually quite different now. I’m “ethereal” and quite above the fray of envy and misery. So I just want people to know that I no longer hate Stuart McLean for the nasty trick that was played on me by the Universe, which hates me. I never hated Stuart McLean. I was just projecting. Who in their right mind could hate Stuart McLean? The man’s a living legend one step away from Sainthood and/or an Order of Canada. He probably has that by now. I would hope so. It wouldn’t be fitting if he didn’t.

Yes, it’s true I am a long-suffering humour writer who idolizes Stuart McLean so I don’t hate Stuart McLean. I hate the ManWhoWon the Turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean.

The point is, anyone, I mean ANYONE who has a friend who is a writer KNOWS that all humour situations belong to the humour writer in the group. Any idiot knows that. I’m not saying the ManWhoWon couldn’t just tell the story in the company of good friends and acquaintances. That’d be fine. But to flout my turkey-story-that-I-was-going-to-write-one-day “on the radio” NOT just for any old turkey BUT for a turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean; it’s not right. It’s just not right.

For that reason I done myself in… Metaphorically… Because of the irony and all… It had to be.

It may be too late now but lets just get one thing straight here. I would have won. My story about the turkey-that-crossed-the-road would have been Pulitzer material. I could have won the Order of Canada after the first sentence. I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody. And the whole thing--the whole fame and fortune and forever-after-happily would have been mine had it not been ruined by the ManWhoWon the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean. And he won with one stupid anecdote that did absolutely no justice to the hysterically brilliant story that it was. “That”, of all the drivel that can be written, wins the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean! And without one adjective in the entire anecdote! How can you write something without adjectives for godssakes! That’s like writing without verbs! He didn’t even mention the treacherous icy hill and the leaping cantankerous cat! Really! Pure slapstick at its finest! Not a mention. Bastard. I could just wrap up the ManWhoWon in tinfoil and deliver him across the road!

But I am being unkind again. I’m ethereal now and all ghostly and spiritual and no stones or sticks can break my bones anymore. I confess: the truth of the matter is the ManWhoWon is not a bastard. I lost my chance to win the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean because I was not paying attention. Writers who do not pay attention to CBC radio do not deserve to live in this country and since I didn’t have an updated passport I had no other alternative but to do away with myself (metaphorically speaking). So now that’s all over and done with I feel I’ve grown much wiser. Suffice to say, I don’t need Stuart McLean to buy me a turkey dinner.

I want the ManWhoWon the turkey-dinner-delivered-by-Stuart-McLean to buy me a turkey dinner. That’s what I want. And I’ll bring the tinfoil.

A Familiar Face

Going Home / Oil on canvas board / 20 x 24 / S. Shawcross / $300

This weeks feature video: Sometimes we just gotta sing and dance eh?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUMwu_gXK7Q

BIDDING ON THE LOUIS STORY IS NOW CLOSED
The Louis Saga: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 is now closed. Winning Bid: $107.22 G.R. Chelsea Monday, December 2, 2011. I'd sincerely like to thank everyone who bid on this story. It gives this writer much encouragement. Thank you all. To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->


This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post March 2011.

A Familiar Face

Now when you get old--when people mumble instead of speaking clearly and keys always misplace themselves and there’s nothing in the world you haven’t already seen or heard, when this time comes people can go one of two ways. They can dance on arthritic toes in the morning sun in celebration of life or they can curl up into a acrid ball of cranky intolerance grouching their way through the bitterness of yet another day on this seemingly never ending plain of existence.

I am looking forward to (or maybe I already am) becoming this second type.

This is because if the truth be known, they are the only ones who actually have any fun and it is quite possibly the only time they can have such fun because when they were children they did as they were told and when they were working adults they continued to do as they were told. But when they retire and then they get old, all that goes by the wayside and they become that which they were meant to be all along.

The problem with this whole thing is that not many people can accept the new you. Where once you used to say, “you’re making the perfect decision for you,” now you say “are you out of your ever lovin’ little mind?” Where once you would smile kindly at store clerks, now you glower and complain about sticker prices and the quality of the avocados. Where once you turned the stereo up to feel the furor and passion of heavy metal music tinkering at your bones, now you demand a certain peace so you might actually think and dream and remember. Where once you watched TV with detached amusement, now you just rage and scream at it because the whole thing is full of blithering infantile idiots who don’t know what they’re talking about. Where once you relished a familiar face, now everyone reminds you of someone else and so you’ve met them all somewhere along the line and don’t care to meet any more.

And because not many people can accept the new you, more often than not you are surrounded by those who apologize for you because they are still young and still do what society tells them to do. “I’m sorry Great Aunt Matilda brought the room’s attention to the size of your nose. She’s a little senile and didn’t mean it at all,” they say with a red-faced stutter. “It’s his medication,” they say to the angry waiter at the restaurant. “She’s been like this since her parakeet died,” they say hoping for some sympathy.

Oh my. Oh my. It sounds quite dreadful doesn’t it?

Not at all! There’s nothing better than a tirade on a gloomy grouchy day when all the world is young and you are old. There’s nothing more satisfying than misery that doesn’t like company but seeks it just the same. Oh the joy! Oh the knobby-kneed muckabouts of another bitter day on this small little planet of foolishness. Oh what fun it is! And by all your shenanigans you have assured yourself enough attention into your old age to know you are indeed to be remembered. That was the whole point of it all anyway now wasn’t it!

Green Ham and Humbug

The Cover of my New Book Available now at fine bookstores, (okay, some sort of bookstores, probably not the finest but certainly adequate) near you and at Amazon.ca. Barnes and Nobels is offering this book at a considerable discount I've just noticed. A 46% discount to be exact.



This weeks feature video: This video is a clip of Richard Gervais's discussion on the existence or non-existence of God. It kind of reminds me of Woody Allen who asked, "How can I believe in God when just yesterday my tongue got caught in the typewriter."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBdhnmnLnUc

BIDDING ON THE LOUIS STORY IS NOW CLOSED
The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 is now closed. Winning Bid: $107.22 G.R. Chelsea Monday, December 2, 2011. I'd sincerely like to thank everyone who bid on this story. It gives this writer much encouragement. Thank you all. To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->


This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post December 2010.

Green Ham and Humbug

“Christmas…” I said to George who was standing at the hallway mirror intensely examining himself with a vague look of horror as if he had somehow sprouted a set of antlers on his way in from the mailbox, “Christmas is becoming ridiculous.”

“Yes dear,” he said, “and why would that be?” He had gone into the bathroom and re-emerged with a hand mirror, which he was now swiveling above his head in front of the hallway mirror as if it were some kind of antenna and he was searching for signals.

“Christmas has become soulless and exhausting,” I said thoughtfully “and furthermore I like your bald spot. It’s a sign of intelligence or testosterone… One or the other… Certainly not both, I don’t think…”

“You’re such a comfort dear,” he said, “and Christmas was always exhausting.”

“True, “ I said. “And now it’s also politically incorrect and carnivorous. And if you didn’t have a bald spot, I’d have nothing to do when I went by your chair on the way to the kitchen. You know how much I like to fondle your bald spot.”

“It’s growing you know. Soon I will have little tufts of hair in the middle of my head and nothing on either side. Just like my father!” he pronounced morosely. “And no one likes Christmas. They all just pretend to. It’s part of our culture.”

At this point Frederick showed up at the door looking for a piece of wood. He had the harried look of a man desperate to prevent wildlife from invading his garbage box. Again.

“They chewed right through the bloody plastic on the recycling bin and there wasn’t even anything edible in there!” he insisted. “Well, maybe some candy canes. I freakin’ hate Christmas.”

“Your father,” I said to George, “was a legendary ladies man. He had three women at his funeral all claiming the front row. And this was with even less hair than yours! Frederick, if you look in the closet next to the front door, there’s a piece of wood and squirrels love candy cane and weren’t you supposed to bring those to put on the tree we haven’t yet bought? “

“Bah, humbug!” exclaimed Frederick from the depths of the front closet.

“You’re the one,” muttered George, “who insisted we leave the tree to the last minute because the cat ate the needles last year and we had an emergency vet call on Christmas Day. I thought that wood was for the shelf in the basement, wasn’t it? My father couldn’t help the fact that women just loved him. Did you or did you not say we were having dinner? I can’t possibly go Christmas shopping on a muffin and a bag of chips you know.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I used the old cutting board as a shelf and it would have helped immensely if you hadn’t spilled the catnip on the pine needles. All I have is some leftover ham from I-don’t-know-when.”

“Right through!” exclaimed Frederick. “Not just a nibble! Right the hell through to the other side. How come this never happens to anyone else?”

“Do you have any of those candy canes left Frederick?” grumbled George who was looking at the apparently now green ham even more intently than his bald spot.

Jennifer arrived with two-year-old Nicholas in tow. He was dressed in striped mustard-colored pants and matching sweater with a pointed hood.

“Hello Nicholas! Have you seen Santa Claus yet?” I asked brightly to which he buried his chin on his chest. “Jennifer, do you really WANT tofu turkey or are you just being trendy? “

Jennifer was in a post-consumer meltdown. “Oh the toys! The toys! And nothing recyclable! Oh the noise! The noise!” Jennifer said, breaking into Dr. Seuss.

“Yeah sure! Everyone loves Santa Claus because he had a full head of hair!” mumbled George.

“Has! Has a full head of hair! He’s not dead yet you know. And, “ I said answering the door to Mabel who wanted a tea, “I read somewhere that raccoons have been known to actually symbiotically help squirrels break into garbage cans. We need plum pudding so we’re going shopping George. Here’s the tea, Mabel.”

“Whatever happened to the spirit of Christmas?” asked Mabel philosophically.

“Humbug,” said Frederick.

“Santa,” said Nicholas.

Zombie Daze

North Country
S. Shawcross / Oil on hardboard /22 x 28 / SOLD

This weeks feature video: Thoughts on Cheese. I've just discovered these youtube clips from British show QI. We may be seeing alot of them here. :)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=OYGDPbzljvI

The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $93.17 G.R. Chelsea Monday, October 31, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->



This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post Autumn 2011.

Zombie Daze

Every Sunday night it’s the same thing. Every Sunday night I find myself watching the TV series “The Walking Dead.” I regret every single second that I watch it even though I don’t see much of it because I’m always covering my eyes at the gruesome bits (of which there are many). Every Sunday night I ask myself, “What kind of a person would watch a show like this?” as if me, myself and I had nothing to do with the fact that me, myself and I are sitting there in the comfy chair watching it. It’s not what I intended. I bought the comfy chair with visions of cuddle snuggling down to read a Jane Austen novel or an Agatha Christie mystery maybe. Perhaps even Tolstoy. Yet there I am every Sunday night in my comfy chair watching ghastly green, grey and red zombies devour people in Technicolor.

I figure this is all being done completely against my will. I absolutely know I do not wake up in the morning thinking I need to see severed bodies hanging from trees or being dragged across the lawn with that scrabbly rasping howl noise the filmmakers invented to make it all so much worse. I know this and yet, there I am.

At first I thought watching this show highlighted my idiosyncratic limitations as a human being, who can only plumb so far into my inner reasons for ‘doing what I do’ before going into happy denial where everybody else lives. This realization has led me to believe that I do not know what on earth I’m watching this show for, but delving into the personal reasons “why” I’m watching it would be more horrifying than “actually” watching it. That’s what I thought at first.

But the question really is, why are these things so popular? It can’t just be me. This growing popularity of gruesome vampire, zombie, monster movies out there hell-bent on realism is undeniable. Of course you can argue it’s always been that way. We need to be scared now and then for some reason because it makes us feel better. Back in the fifties and sixties horror shows were great fun, full of popcorn and nervous laughter. First you screamed then you laughed at yourself for screaming. Life, we used to say to ourselves, can’t be that bad because at least there is no black and white funny zombie out there somewhere ready to jump on us.

Now we say to ourselves, at least there is no flock of rasping bleeding grey green zombies smearing themselves with trailing entrails on the front lawn while munching on cats and raccoons and threatening to come through the picture window by the comfy chair. Apparently this is what it takes now to make us feel better about life in this day and age. This just can’t be good no matter what way you look at it. And to add insult to injury, you can’t even eat popcorn with all that blood and guts going on. It’s just not right.

I figure it’s only a matter of time before they make a 3D version of a zombie movie whereupon I will very likely promptly have a heart attack and die… because me, myself and I, like half the population, “will” go see it. It’s just inevitable. If they make it, I will probably watch it: completely against my will of course.

Einstein between the sheets

Wheel of Life
S. Shawcross / Oil on hardboard /20 x 28 / $295

This weeks feature video: Growing old gracefully can be a challenge. I mean if you try and do anything other than eat chocolates while watching Coronation Street. No one was actually harmed or injured in this compilation so rest assured.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXMSpKezjcQ

The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $93.17 G.R. Chelsea Monday, October 31, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->

"I wish I could do this forever, I can't though." --Andy Rooney



This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post Summer 2011.

Einstein between the sheets


"George," I said to Himself who was slouching in the big chair watching a documentary on the probability of alien life forms living inside volcanoes. "Do you know why we're together?" I asked as I folded yet another sheet from the stack of laundry on the couch.

"Why would that be dear?"

"Because I needed help folding sheets. Folding sheets is an intimate social bonding activity of such high importance that indulging in it can prove in a court of law that we are indeed a couple." He was not actually listening to me because apparently one of the alien life forms was a multi-celled purple-green entity perfectly capable of both sexual and asexual reproduction and was, in fact, also capable of sustaining life in the atmosphere as we know it. "This sheet," I said, ensuring I wrangled the thing out far enough to cut off the edge of his view of the asexual amoeba like thing, "is my most favourite sheet. It's the softest cotton I've ever felt!"

For some reason this perked up Amoeba Man. "What's the thread count?" he asked. Just like that. Amoeba Man asked me what the thread count of the sheet was, as if it was the most perfectly natural thing in the world.

"What's wrong?" I asked, deeply concerned. "You just asked me what the thread count of this sheet was. That's entirely out of character!"

"Believe it or not dear, I actually do know about thread counts because you taught me somewhere along the line. Whenever we go shopping for pillowcases you rave on and on about thread count. Thread counts obviously hold some kind of deep fascination for you."

"I'm not sure what the thread count is for this particular sheet. I don't even know where this sheet came from to be honest." This realization was actually starting to bother me: How could a person end up with a sheet they didn't know the origins of? We'd been sleeping on this sheet for years. How do things like this happen? Stray sheets make no sense! They’re not socks after all.”

"Is the thread count so high it's approaching maximum density?"

I knew I was going to regret this entire conversation. "Yes. Maybe."

"You know," said George, who was now pleasantly engaged in conversation because there was a commercial on TV about toilet tissue and bear's bottoms. "There are probably little universes of black holes in that sheet. If you flip it the wrong way, you could possibly warp time and space. You could time travel even."

"For some reason I think since our ancient washing machine isn't capable of adequately washing two socks it's highly unlikely it is capable of rinsing and spinning entire universes of black holes. Although, come to think of it, it might explain what happens to lost socks.”

"Maybe the current String Theory of the universe has more to do with threads than strings.... Maybe thread count is more significant that we can imagine."

"Yes and that's precisely why thread counts on sheets have fascinated me all these years. Now, on the off chance I'm wondering if there is any room in your current Thread Theory of the universe that allows your physical body to help me fold these sheets?" I asked, hopefully if not somewhat sarcastically.

"Wrinkled sheets in a ball would provide more fertile ground for Chaos Theory."

"You know what? I think you're right. Let's just roll all our sheets into balls and stuff them into the shed out back. In fact, let's just distribute them randomly on lawns throughout the neighbourhood so we can test this new theoretical question I have."

"And that would be?"

"If, by not helping fold sheets, will people, driven out of their homes, sleep on their own lawns or someone else's?"

“That’s not Chaos Theory. That’s just silly. Chaos Theory would be just leaving the sheets where they are and allowing me to go back to my program. Whoever said a folded sheet was better than an unfolded sheet anyway? Who are these people? A folded sheet takes up as much room as an unfolded one. It’s all just a distribution of space that’s different. As Einstein said, ‘matter can neither be created nor destroyed’ which is why he always wore little tiny hankies on his head to illustrate the curvature of space.”

“I presume then I don’t need to fold these sheets as you will be wearing them on your head then.”

“Yes dear.”

Your Guide to Cocktail Parties 4: The Apocalypse is not a competitive sport

Red Pears and Teapot
S. Shawcross / Oil on hardboard /16 x 20 / $275
Be sure to visit our painting blog: http://thedeadpearsociety.blogspot.com

This weeks feature video: We've hit the 7 billion mark in population. Here's a celebratory video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hooid1LJ9Kc

The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $93.17 G.R. Chelsea Monday, October 31, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->

"I wish I could do this forever, I can't though." --Andy Rooney



This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post Summer 2011.

Your Guide to Cocktail parties: Part IV
The Apocalypse is not a competitive sport

You're prepared now right? You've been following my columns and now have your handy list of the seven reasons for everything and the even handier list of how to make a graceful exit while attending cocktail parties when you've made a dreadful faux pas.

I guess you think people won't remember how you suggested that cats and rabbits can breed and these crabbits, being such prolific breeders, are going to destroy the entire world's crop production by 2013. This for heavenssakes is why I created the list of seven reasons for everything! Here are the seven reasons for everything: 1) Shifting Poles 2) Global Warming 3) Global Cooling 4) Teenagers 5) New World Order Depopulation Efforts 6) Pollution 7) China. Do you see crabbits anywhere on that list? Of course not! Why didn't you say China! Everyone would have understood. You could have blamed crop failure on teenagers! There would have been murmurs of deep agreement.

Oh what's the use! I try. But really, if you don't listen to me then why on earth am I doing this anyway!? It's all for your benefit. It's certainly not doing me any good doing all this work for you to just sally on out to cocktail parties ill-prepared with all your own ideas. Do you think I'm being paid enough to deal with such difficult people as yourself!? Not on your life. And what about my reputation? Did you think about that? No. No. You just had to go out there with your silly unscripted diatribes! Well... I guess you've learned your lesson now haven’t you! Anyway... Don't forget the list the next time.

Now, that being said, I guess I'd say you've been hiding long enough now and it's high time you got back into the cocktail scene. If people ask you about the crabbits, just say that teenagers made you say that. They will all understand.

There is one thing I've not yet covered so pay attention. All cocktail party conversations are about the Apocalype. It’s just the way it is and if they aren’t you must gently steer the conversation in that direction. It’s the right thing to do. The only problem that may crop up is that during conversations many people, particularly males competing for the attention of the females, often get into dueling matches over who knows what when it comes to extinction level events. My advice is stick to your list! Do NOT wander away from your seven reasons for everything. If the women at the party do not recognize your good sense for suggesting that New World Order Depopulation efforts are causing financial instability in the world markets then they weren't worth the effort. Do not get into arguments about solar flares and how the Hadron Particle Accelerator is a precursor to the Second Coming. Nobody will believe you even if it's all true. Such verbal sparring is simply gauche. Don’t go there.

Oh I know. The truth is always stranger than fiction. Just because some guy has impressed the gathering with his declaration that giant underground burrowing squid are causing earthquakes, typhoons and volcanic eruptions does not mean you need to interrupt with the truth. Maybe you and I both know that purple reptilian people from the planet Nibiru disguised as humans and living among us and whose homebase is deep beneath the Arabian Sea have called in the mother ship to destroy us all with gamma x-ray radiation so that they can harvest the plastic from China... well... maybe “we” know that but I guarantee you, spouting such truths will cause everyone to suddenly find a reason to look for the hors d'oeuvres table. This is not good and it may mean you have to pull out your list of how to make a graceful exit. Again!

Now I don't think I have to tell you this again but I will. Do not start repeating your list of graceful exits. People might be somewhat dense but they're not THAT dense. You can only set off the fire alarms so many times before they stop inviting you. Suffice to say, if you've reached this point there's not a lot I can do for you. You'll have to change cities and start the cocktail party circuit all over again. I hear the cocktail parties in Farrellton are excellent. Now it won't all come to this if you simply remember that the Apocalypse is not a competitive sport. Write that down.

Privates Sector Growth

Rest
S. Shawcross / Oil on hardboard /18 x 24 / $120

Be sure to visit our painting blog: http://thedeadpearsociety.blogspot.com

This weeks feature video: Sometimes it's important just to laugh and nothing else.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4Y4keqTV6w

The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $93.17 G.R. Chelsea Monday, October 31, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->

This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post, October 19th, 2011. It's a little bit irreverent but the scientists make me do this. Really they do... I've changed the names to protect the guilty here.


PRIVATES SECTOR GROWTH

My dear Dr. T.W. of the University of H.,

May I call you Ted? Of course I can. This is because, in having read your research paper published in July entitled "Male organ and economic growth: Does size matter?" I believe I've become more than intimately familiar with you, on a purely academic level of course. Such language used in your paper certainly bridges the distance between strangers wouldn't you say? I imagine you've received many many letters from strangers since your paper was published. One cannot print things such as "The aim of this paper is to fill a scholarly gap with the male organ," without expecting some distinctly interesting feedback.

My letter of course is different. In fact, I have no interest whatsoever in the topic of your research, at least at the economic level and feel instead, that I must help you address some perhaps delicate matters. I sometimes tend to forget that there are indeed people in the world, scientists even, that are actually "not" familiar with my Institute for the Rehabilitation of Misguided Scientists. Of course it's not just for scientists. Just last week I had a real breakthrough with an engineer working for CIMA who had, without any apparent self-awareness, no control over his freudian slips when announcing himself at meetings. "I'm Jean, from semen," he'd say. Poor poor man. He was just disabled with humiliation. I taught him how to macrame. It took many many months but I have to say, the man is changed! He no longer works for Semen but he's on his 134th hanging pot holder. And he's very very happy indeed. But I digress...

My dearest Ted--your nights must be very long indeed. How can you possibly be sleeping well after discovering that "countries that averaged smaller penis sizes grew at a faster rate than their larger counterparts between 1960 and 1985." Oh you poor poor man. Some things, I always say, are not meant to be discovered. Indeed some things are better left to the murkiness of mystery. Imagination after all has a place. But of course it is understandable to some degree that you felt a deeply intense urge to bring some exuberance into the fertile fields of economics. Economics is, after all, acknowledged to be deadly boring and populated by mostly men who never got over their teething experience. Even still, as you say in your paper, "the male organ hypothesis put forward here is quite penetrating an argument."

When I read that "every centimeter increase in penis size accounted for a 5 to 7 percent reduction in economic growth," my heart simply went out to you. How miserable you must be, there alone in your bed with perhaps only your penis to keep you company and naturally, the bags of gold coins under the bed. Am I right about that? Now, there's no need to feel ashamed. I've dealt with many such persons as yourself. It's not like "everyone" would be so observant--I just happen to have a knack for these things. Rest assured, your secret is very much safe with me.

It is interesting how you conclude your study by suggesting that "penile length and income are both factors that contribute to an individual's level of self-esteem, and if a person has more of the former, he'll need less of the latter." As I've often found with many of you scientist types, you are one inch away from diagnosing yourself but have yet to, may I say, make that special thrust to enlightenment.

My dearest Ted, why did you feel such a need to completely discount the entire female gender in your studies? Why, in other words, do you hate your mother?
And how would you account for this sudden economic decline in North America? Surely something like that would be in the news? I mean, millions of men suddenly funding their private hedges?

If you would like to discuss this further, or perhaps make a generous donation to the Institute for the Rehabilitation of Misguided Scientists, please feel free to contact me. Would you agree that even a rich man with a small penis deserves some happiness in this life? I look forward to your reply, S. Shawcross

Origins and Origami

LOOK FOR MY NEXT ENTRY OCTOBER 31st! I'm on vacation! Yay!

















A couple of days late this week. It's been a busy thanksgiving!!

Les toits sous la neige (d'apres Caillebotte)
S. Shawcross / 30" x 36" / Oil on canvas / $795
Be sure to visit our painting blog: http://thedeadpearsociety.blogspot.com

LOOK FOR MY NEXT ENTRY OCTOBER 31st! I'm on vacation! Yay!

This weeks feature video: Sometimes only George Carlin will do when you're just annoyed at the world. This classic piece discusses class distinctions and what really makes us all equal. It's the little things. Isn't it always? WARNING: Carlin is deeply disrespectful and has very colourful language. Be well advised if you are easily offended.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILwOQV32rHg

The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $91.00 Wednesday, August 24, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->

ORIGINS AND ORIGAMI
CURRENT COMMENTARY: What a good sport Dr. D. was in the publishing of this piece. He said he was pretty much used to the ribbing he has received and approved the copy for publication. This piece was published in the West Quebec Post.

My dear Dr. D. of the Southwest Research Institute:

Hello. I am pleased to be writing you as I feel I may be of some service to you.

As I understand this, correct me if I am wrong, you have conducted experiments by hoisting up into the air with 40-foot cranes, two 2,800 lb granite balls which you proceeded to smash together in order to “test whether the coefficient of restitution would be the same across a wide spectrum of ball sizes, verifying current asteroid models.” In other words, I believe you smashed the balls together to see what they would do.

This “to see what they would do” concept of course, is understood by us lay individuals to be the prime motivating force for the activities of all scientists. It is how that is manifested which becomes important. That is why I am writing to you.

Now it would appear most of the press coverage you have received thus far has deeply titillated reporters who are apparently delighted to write extensively about the size of your balls. Not to mention the references to asteroids, Uranus and their possible derivatives. I don’t want you to feel bad about this, as most scientists of your most high calibre have no clue what nefarious things reporters can do with a turn of the tongue and a twist of a phrase. Nor I imagine do you realize what they mean when they say you had big balls to do what you did. I realize as a scientist that you live on a higher intellectual plain than we and this is certainly understandable given that you probably understood high-school calculus and this fact alone left you no alternative in choosing a career. Understanding calculus is not your fault. We understand.

But never mind all that. The thing is Dr. D., you could have used square pieces of granite, even rectangular, octepussal or polygamous bits of granite. I say this because I believe it is understood that after the creation of the Universe most of the bits and pieces mucking about in the vast nothingness were not actually round initially. Asteroids in fact seem to be rather lumpy and irregular in shape. They are not spheres in other words in nature so the question (the seemingly innocent question) would be: why, if you were attempting to duplicate conditions in space in order to test your theory… well… why did you have to use balls and indeed such big big round smooth balls to conduct your experiment?

In my effort to help scientists such as yourself I have created a Society for the Rehabilitation of Misguided Scientists. I don’t mean to brag of course, but just so you know, I believe with my help many many scientists have taken up needlepoint and given up their foolish experiments. They are much happier than the engineers doing macramé so I know how happy you might be.

Most of the individuals I have helped are indeed not as smart as you and so I don’t believe I need spell it out for you. Here is a hint: what do large balls and the creation of the universe have in common? I think you know. The big big smooth balls were simply representative of your pursuit of learning what happened in the Big Bang. You might not be aware of the colloquial use of that term but it’s a dead away about your particular “issue.” You see, many male scientists have not figured out that they are men first, and scientists second. In order to repress your need to experience the Big Bang, you not only created big big balls but then bashed them together. This is not healthy way of doing things.

I know you must be amazed at my diagnostic capabilities. What can I say! Now you must not be shy. It happens to the best of men. Not that there are many who have actually manifested their sublimated sexual needs in quite such a grandiose fashion, but if we search hard enough there have been some I’m sure. In other words, you are not alone… I don’t think. Well… Maybe you are “somewhat unique” but it doesn’t mean you can’t be happy. Please don’t hesitate to write back.

Sincerely yours,
S. Shawcross.

Pinecones and Paperweights

What matters
16 x 20, oil on masonite
(The horizon is actually straight on this. It's the photograph that makes it dark and crooked.

THIS WEEK'S VIDEO: Finally! A perfectly rational explanation for how Irish dancing began
http://videos2view.net/irish-dance.htm

THE LOUIS SAGA CONTINUES.
Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $91.00 Wednesday, August 24, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->

THIS WEEK'S COLUMN was published in the West Quebec Post, August 18, 2011


Pinecones and Paperweights

I haven’t seen a decent movie in years. There are two reasons for this. The first one is because apparently plot, dialogue and character development in movie scripts has been supplanted by special effects, cartoon actors and slack-jawed monosyllabic grunts. I meet these monosyllabic grunts on a daily basis because this is what constitutes communication now at the vocal level ever since they developed the Blackberry and other such nonsense. I’m beginning to get used to the idea. I mean, what choice do we have?

I know the day when the finesse and credibility of movies started to decline was the day that Kevin Costner started getting starring roles. The man cannot act. He and Brad Pitt are about as convincing as actors as pinecones would be as paperweights. They are basically pretty boys, eye candy for the feminine persuasion in the audience and a diversion from the reality of ridiculous scripts covered up by even more ridiculous special effects. They have become so desperate in the department of special effects that now they are bringing out 3D movies with scratch cards so we can smell the roses so to speak. I suspect that eventually the chairs we sit in at movies will start gyrating as we pretend to ride horses and will throw us out into the aisles as the horses buck. I wouldn’t put it past them, these movie people. They have to do something to compete with on-line movie rentals. What else are they going to do with dwindling audiences at their movie theatres? Maybe they can turn them into community centres? However, I digress.

The second reason I haven’t seen a decent movie in years is because of Rhonda. I hate Rhonda. I don’t hate Rhonda just because she’s seen every movie ever made. I don’t hate her because she sees every movie the instant it comes out. I hate her because she tells me about it. Rhonda is a walking talking movie spoiler. She will greet you with a punctilious smile carefully orchestrated to invite discussion. You think you’re going to talk about the weather but she will then immediately launch into why you need to see the movie she’s just seen. It is apparently so darn good that she must describe it to you in infinite detail from beginning to the bitter end. And no matter how much you protest about how you don’t want to know the ending she always finds a way. You can do whatever you want to distract her but it won’t work. The woman is a master spoiler.

“Would you like a coffee Rhonda?” you will ask on the way to the kitchen after having stated in no uncertain terms that you would like to see this movie and would she please keep the ending to herself.

“Oh yes. I’d love some coffee! That’s just like the character in this movie. He was drinking coffee at the bar in Come-by-chance, Newfoundland where he went to escape the Mexican mafia drug cartel after he killed the man with the limp (which was caused by a barrage of shrapnel during the blitz in Guatemala) by poison dart tattoos when he was trying to rescue the woman that he--this man at the bar in Come-By-Chance--fell in love with over tuna fish sandwiches with artichokes in that cave near Luxembourg. So after he drank the coffee he killed himself by throwing himself off the cliff in St. John’s.”

“Would you like some cream with that coffee?” I ask.

“Oh. I’m sorry I did it AGAIN.” She laughs. She ALWAYS laughs at this point. “It’s such a good movie! I just can’t help myself!” And of course she’s right. She can’t help herself: it’s an itch that needs scratching, a ritual that needs ending, and a deed that needs doing. Just like how I usually add the cream before pouring the coffee over her head.

“I just can’t help myself,” I say sadly. It’s just a deed that needs doing. That’s the way it is. It hasn’t worked yet with Rhonda but I live in hope. Maybe I’ll add sugar next time.

I'm baaack....

Portrait of S. Spence, 2009, Chelsea $550
Published here with the model's permission and forgiveness.
She actually loves this portrait.

VIDEO OF THE WEEK: Sometimes you need the muppets. Here's a video dedicated to the stretch of Highway 105 between the Smokehouse and Les Fougeres and thems that are supposed to fix it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoJHMHGSWXA

THE LOUIS SAGA CONTINUES.
Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 continues: $91.00 Wednesday, August 24, 2011 Bidding closes midnight Friday, December 2, 2011 To bid send an e-mail to nevermind07@sympatico.ca Chapter Two of The Memoirs of a Hairy Plotter: Louis Lapin L'Amour "Lost in Walmart" is HERE!!! See below this post. To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->

THIS WEEK'S COLUMN:

Einstein’s Time Management Seminar

S. Shawcross

This column is no longer available on the website. It is contained in the new book available for a mere pittance from Amazon.ca.



THE MEMOIRS OF A HAIRY PLOTTER: LOUIS LAPIN L'AMOUR



Chapter 1: I Am Born

I never knew my father. My mother said he was a hare of uncommon valour but not too bright really even though he had a pedigree as long as twelve sheets of paper. She told me that the fluffy crown of black and white hair on my head was from him. It was like a badge to my family line that she told me stretched back to the days of the Vikings and before. Long before. That crown of hair was a Celtic mark that some say the witches made on a Spring night during the vernal equinox and any rabbits with such hair were always set apart in some way. It was because it was hair and not fur like the rest of their bodies. It grew and grew and never seemed to shed and so, ashamed by their anomaly, they would secretly gnaw the hair down to stubbles on each other at night in the burrows.

You see, in the beginning the families born with litters of babies sprouting hair there would hide away knowing that these offspring were some kind of freaks. Some even tried to murder their own children, eat them at birth even, but eventually over time they grew proud of that hair. Some took to braiding it and curling and piling it on top of their heads in great twirls and twists. It was the witchery in them that made them that way my mother was convinced. Many of them died out because of it: unable to escape the hounds in a hunt because of their coiffures catching in the briar or hindering the entrance to their burrows. Oh the poor vain things. My mother said my father who was so brave and wild trimmed his hair in a crew cut so he could never be caught. He needed freedom more than mousse. Freedom more than anything... well except that other thing, my mother said.

Sometimes when I gaze into the mirror, as I do often because I'm a fine specimen if I do say so myself, I see what my father must have been: a hare with hair. He escaped from the lab before I was born there in that shabby little place, in that wretched pen in the basement of that mad man who would call himself a scientist. He was no scientist. He had no board of ethics. He had no paper war or funding proposals to write. He didn't even take notes. He was just a mad man doing genetic research beyond his own capacity to understand. My mother hated that man. She would bite his fingers when he fed her carrots and choice bits of cantaloupe but at the end, when I made my escape she stayed behind. She knew he needed her. I think though that it was because she'd grown accustomed to biting him. It gave her some kind of perverse reason to go on everyday. I think that hatred can work that way sometimes.

So many times I asked my mother why she did not want to escape and find my father whom she says she loved in her hare-brained kind of way. She said, "Louis, a rabbit's life is not easy. We sleep around. It's the way we're wired. And this man. Well, he provides me with lots of bucks and I have loved each and every one of them. Your father perhaps most of all, but it is not in a rabbits nature to remain faithful. We're just sluts and we always have been. But Louis, you're different. You have your father's heart. It is brave and strong and pink. You will only give your heart to one and only one. You're like your father that way. He drove me crazy really with his constant oppressive attention. I'm telling you, if that buck brought me one more bloody bouquet of four-leafed clovers I think I would have just gone crazy but you know, now sometimes I kind of miss it. Well... I miss the clover anyway. They say that only dogs can be bitches Louis but your mother is a bitch and a rabbit and proud of it. It's in my nature. He loved too much that bloody rabbit so I bit his ears until he left.

"Never forget Louis that you're a French Lop rabbit. They don't come any bigger than you and you are a giant among cabbages and kings. You will play the fields of grasses but you will only love one. I'm trying to say you're also a slut but one with heart.

"You are also the product of genetic engineering. That man that mixed you. That man that I bite. He made you intelligent. More intelligent than I ever was and something your father would never be. Not that I ever needed him to be at the time really. Anyway, this intelligence is something no other rabbits have because that man of course didn't keep any notes when he was doing his concoction. Silly bastard. No matter how hard he's tried since then, all he's ever produced are mutant misfit hares that don't even like escargots or singing in the morning. I have lived among these mutants for a long time now and I know it is not for you Louis to live this life of tedium and procreation. You are a hare above that.

"Louis my favourite: You were a lone rabbit born to me on a Spring night during the vernal equinox. There were no others in the litter. And I was known to have large litters. It was a sign Louis. The witches and the mad man made you, mixed you up in a vial of possibilities on that dark and crisp and star-clustered night. I was just a vessel for your amazing birth. You were born singing Louis. You were born to be strong, free, wild and utterly eccentric." And then she'd say, "And wealthy! Always remember, 'Never accept a carrot when a karat will do!'"


Oh my dear mother. I miss her still. She gave me everything including most of all my delusions of grandeur. I'll always remember her last words to me, "Louis, clip your hair but don't clip your wings. Fly!" she said. "Fly!"

And I did. As much as a rabbit could fly. I gnawed through the metal wires with my fine fine buck teeth and I scuttled around to the back of the desk and when the man came I bit his ankle hard (with my fine fine buck teeth) and then I flew. I flew. I flew like the wind in a winter's gale out through the door. Away from the snug fur-lined nest and the soft cooing snuffles of my mother and my 203 step-siblings. Out into the wilderness that was. Out into my destiny. I had to find my father. And I had to find my love. My real and most perfect love. My Veronica. And I also had to find a harem or something like it. Really soon.


Chapter Two: LOST IN WALMART

I was young. A young rabbit freshly sprung into life and I could run, swift as the wind, silent as the night.

No dog could catch me although they would try. No cat could escape me. You have to understand I found no other rabbits in the city and so cats became all I had. I was young but my appetite was ancient and overpowering. To be truthful, I had them all: the tabbies, the persians, the siamese with their delicate cream fur and sly glances, the wicked wild alley cats with their lusty exuberance. Yet as clever and voluptuous as my lustrous lovely felines were, they were only playthings; it was my fascination with people that would be my downfall.

They were nothing like the scientist who reeked of dry paper and chemicals and cabbage soup. These humans were all dramatically different from each other, unlike rabbits. And they all smelled differently. The further out of the suburbs I'd go, the sweeter they would smell. The more trees there were the more they would smell like fruit or newly opened flowers. But in the suburbs most were tainted with the acrid stench of sweat and sorrow and cement.

I was always drawn to them. I blush remembering my young self there watching from behind little shrubs and the dark shadows at the edges of buildings, my nose forever twitching, twitching. I would rush out and touch their heels and then run. The little ones would laugh and their delight drew me closer and closer, made me braver in my antics. Eventually I was caught by a little girl who smelled like buttercups and alfalfa and the innocence of newly-formed moss on an open tundra. She enticed me into her knapsack where I snugged down for a light nap.

When I awoke I was in a new world without grass or sky. She had taken me to Walmart shopping with her mother and left me on a shelf between a box of laundry detergent and a roll of paper towels. She never did come back although I waited for a very long time, always returning to the knapsack at the break of day to hide inside its promise.

Whenever I drink too much now, old rabbit that I am, and particularly the rich potato Vodka of the Steppes, I recall my Walmart days and find myself confessing that it was these very days that formed the essence of who I was to become. My character was forged by the smell of the plastic, the uneasy flutter of florescent lighting and the taste of generic gerbil food and genetically modified lettuce. I would never want that again.

I would forever seek out the scent of natural materials, the glow of candlelight and the exotic taste of vegetables fresh sprung from the belly of the soil. But at the time I did not know better. Oh how I shudder to think of it. At the time I grew fat and pallid with all that I could eat without effort. I munched on bags of anemic carrots and limp spinach. I ate without relish, or mustard for that matter, the bags of gerbil food only because I liked the picture of the gerbil. And as painful as it is to admit, I drank coke because they always stored that on the lowest shelf. Once I even tried the frozen vegetarian pizzas but I hated the tang of cold which tingled my toes. When the mood hit me I went to the toy department.

It only took me two days to find the toy department but when I did I knew I had died and gone to rabbit heaven. Not that I knew much about heaven and hell, being philosophically naive at the time. All I knew was the happiness. Pink and blue and plush furry little things all waiting for me. They didn't run away. There was no sport of the chase when I had my way with the teddy bears but it was always interesting. If I pushed a button or two they would sing and sometimes talk and I would feel less lonely.

My most favourite was a giant pink stuffed rabbit that sang "Somewhere over the rainbow" so sweetly sometimes I would forget about everything and fall asleep in its cotton arms and wake when the store opened. Then I would have to spend twelve hours staying absolutely still while little children pawed through all the stuffed toys. There was never any danger they would pick me because I was mute and didn't sing or dance or smile with fake human teeth or play on little imitation drums. The whole store would have stopped in silence if I sang. For I can sing. Yes I can sing. Angels choirs have nothing on my talent for I have gift that is beyond heaven. But anyway, at times like that, cowering in the plush toy section of Walmart, it wasn't hard to stay still because fear captured me, paralyzed me to the spine and down to the end of my wee little tail.

It wasn't the humans. It wasn't even Raoul the cleaner who kept spying me now and then as he depondently pushed his mop up and down the aisles. He would put out poisoned pellets thinking I was stupid. We danced around each other all that time. He grew to hate me. He'd curse and swear at me and vowed my death but I would only laugh at him. He could not outrun or outsmart me for I was Louis Lapin and Louis Lapin could run and outsmart anyone! Of course I could read by then. I learned from a toy computer in the electronics department. Big Bird taught me the ABCs and Oscar taught me numbers but I learned the most from sleepily listening to the wicked conversations between customers and of course the Walmart Greeter. He taught me how to swear. One day I found a block of arsenic-laced alfalfa and a note that read DIE RABBIT DIE. Silly Raoul. I kept the two things just for fun in a mayonnaise jar in my knapsack. No, Raoul didn't scare me that man. But even still, there among the plush toys I was terrified.

I was terrified of the shopping carts. It was the memory of the cage in the scientist's house that always came back to me. I would watch in horror as my dear delicious Friday night favourite, the purple Teddy bear with the top hat was carted away in one of the walking cages. On the day they took away my pink rabbit I cried as I know now only rabbits can cry, my nose twitching, mouth wide to the sky and a howl of sorrow that bounced off the metal ceiling and scuttled the moths high in the rafters. No being can cry like a rabbit.

I vowed never to grow close to any of my conquests after that until Veronica the cat. Despite my growing seductive wiles, I never wavered on that commitment to indifference when it came to love. Lust was good enough. On that day I built a little innocuous looking pile of boxes beside the doors to hide under and when they opened the store I swept out into the parking lot and into the world again. I ran like my mother told me. "Fly!" she said. "Fly!" And that is what I did. Even though the hair on my head had now grown long beyond reason because I had no other rabbit to trim it, I managed to fly despite how it kept getting tangled in my feet and in front of my face.

I didn't know why then but I took with me the knapsack the little girl had brought me in, all rolled into a bundle. Behind me the bored employees of Walmart in the smoking tent near the building remarked to each other about the strange sight of a rabbit carrying a bundle stumble-rushing through the parking lot. Perhaps they even thought they should chase after me but then they likely all agreed they had to get back to work to rule.

Next: Louis discovers the nightlife of Hull

The LOUIS stories

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Bidding is now closed on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George."
Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1.

Bidding closed midnight Friday, December 2, 2011

The Winning Bid: $107.22 G.R. Chelsea, Quebec. CAN

If you are wondering what on earth this is all about, scroll down to the text below item number 11.

Questions concerning this bidding process:
1) Is this just a ruse where people think they're just getting an essay but I actually give them Louis, the rabbit, as well? Answer: No. But that's a good idea...

2) How often are the bids updated on the website? Answer: As long as I'm at the keyboard I'll update as I receive the bids so you know what you're up against eh? If you will, before bidding, it is best you check the latest bid on the website. I will inform you by email if your bid is not higher than the highest already pledged. Did that make sense? God I hope so.

3) As much as I love the bid offering $20 and a rifle with bullets, I'd like you to know that only the monetary amount pledged will actually count. Rifles, carrots and recipes for rabbit lentil soup, don't get me wrong, are very nice bonuses and will be taken into consideration in the event of a tie.

4) Do I have to have my initials (first and last names) put on the website with the bid I made? Of course not. You can provide me with an alias if you like, always keeping in mind of course that this is a family-oriented website... kind of...

5) Isn't this all just a money-grabbing vicious horribly manipulative ploy by a cantankerous old biddy who wants to make an actual (and not pretend) living as a writer? Answer: Yes. And your point would be?

6) How could you be so mean by not sharing the finale of Louis and his Crimes and Misdemeanors with everyone who fell in love with him? Answer: Don't blame me. Blame the highest bidder. They and they alone will have the story to distribute as they like :)

7) Who does this writer think she is?!? Answer: Hell if I know but when I do, I'll let you know.

8) Why do you think we give a rat's ass about Louis? Answer: Because you are reading this.

9) I hated the Louis stories. Should I bid anyway? Answer: Yes.

10) Why? Answer: One day. Oh one day long from now, maybe when I'm dead and gone and the grey shadows of all my yesterdays as a struggling writer have long since past, maybe then I will become famous and YOU, yes YOU will have the only ONLY copy of the Louis adventures signed by the author. You will be rich beyond imagination. Princes and Kings and Queens and Captains of Industry will be in a bidding war for this object and you will remember back to this time, when you bought this sad little fable for but a pittance in comparison. You will smile ruefully to yourself then. Yes, you will spend all that lovely money knowing that rightfully it could have been mine, the author, if only I'd lived beyond my own demise. Yes, I will of course have long since died in poverty and obscurity on the day you sell my essay but I believe, yes I do believe you will remember me. And that, in this day and age is all that a writer can ask for. Lord knows we can't ask for a living really. I only know that Louis will live on.

11) No. You can't bid in half cent increments. For heavenssakes!!!



This website will be updated in September on its regular basis. Until then, the Louis story, wherein I try to get rid of a rabbit in the Wakefield News classifieds has taken on a life of its own.

Here is a picture of Louis after being chastised for chasing Veronica the cat AGAIN... He didn't stay under the chair for very long.

1. MONDAY / WEEK ONE
I have a rabbit in the bathroom. This rabbit arrived at 10:00 p.m. in the evening at the back door and would not go away causing a furor with the dog so I brought it in. It seems to be tame. Are you missing a rabbit? I live in Chelsea PQ. If you can identify it please since I don't want any French chefs calling. I will never eat Lapin a l'orange again. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis peers longingly through the screen door.
2. TUESDAY
The rabbit, now named Louis Lapin, continues his adventures on my back deck. He has discovered the cat door and is now sitting on a table by the window inside the house looking at me. He is a very big rabbit and it is a very small table. Are you missing a rabbit? nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis, left alone, finds solace gazing at himself in the glass.

3. WEDNESDAY
Once Louis the rabbit made it to the table through the cat door he was effectively able to take over the house. We didn't have a chance. Louis is everywhere. But it isn't us who suffer. It is the cats. And the dog. Our dear adorable large golden-like retriever dog. Louis loves them.... in the way of the flesh so to speak. The cats are now peering down from high up on top of the fridge with a look of abject horror on their wee furry faces. The confused and desperate dog, unluckily tied to the ground, can find no respite. I had to put Louis Lapin L'amour back in the bathroom to save the dog's sanity if not virginity. But never mind all that. Louis is a lovely rabbit who is litter trained and very affectionate. When he is not fornicating, he likes lying in the sun and eating lettuce. Apples are his favourite food. He would make a lovely household pet for a large rambunctious family who do not mind rabbits rutting dogs and/or stuffed animals and/or cats and/or blankets in the living room... or any other object in any other room for that matter. If you or someone you know would like to adopt Louis, contact us immediately... I mean immediately! nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis discovers the dog.

4. THURSDAY
Louis L'Amour will be running for Ward 3 Council in Chelsea, Quebec. Louis does not like playing hockey but might like soccer. This newcomer to the scene has impeccable credentials. He will be for keeping Chelsea's rural character, eliminating all the roads and putting in an extensive organic lettuce farm. Louis promises to live permanently at Municipal Headquarters if you vote him in so if you want to see even more hare-brained ideas from your Council vote for Louis the rabbit! Yay! Louis! Louis! Louis! nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis stands on his hind legs to further discover the dog.

5. FRIDAY
I have for sale a delightful little pink plastic bowl made in China. It is about four inches tall and 3.5 inches in diameter at the base and about 6 inches at the rim. This lovely bowl can be yours for a mere $1.20. In fact, if you call right now I'll give you a $1.00 discount! That's right! Only 20 cents for this lovely plastic bowl. But that's not all! I'll fill the bowl with corn flakes if you contact me in the next 10 minutes! AND I'll double that offer! That's right! For the mere price of .20 cents I'll give you TWO lovely lovely pink plastic bowls made in China filled to the brim with genetically modified cornflakes courtesy of Monsanto! In fact I'll give you the whole cereal box! Two even!!! And that's not all!!! If you call now I'll PAY you 20 cents to take these bowls off my hand. That's right. I'll PAY you! And if you call right now I'll throw in, at absolutely no charge to you, a very large rabbit named Louis L'amour. Absolutely free!! You heard me! ABSOLUTELY Free! Don't miss this once in a lifetime opportunity. Contact me now! nevermind07@sympatico.ca. Did I say contact me now?! This offer won't last forever.... Hopefully....

Louis is chastised by the dog.

6. IT'S MONDAY AGAIN. WEEK TWO
Attention Gatineau Valley Historical Society: I understand you will be conducting an antique auction in the near future and are looking for donations. I have this rabbit. I think he is very very old. I'm sure he's very very very old. In fact, I don't mean to brag about having such a rabbit in my possession but I believe this rather large rabbit has provenance with the French kings at Versailles. Louis XIV I believe owned a rabbit of which this rabbit is a direct descendant. I seem to have misplaced the papers proving this however there are paintings in the Louvre I believe depicting a rabbit that looks just like this one cavorting about in the Palace with a gold and emerald collar and munching on cake. I don't have the collar unfortunately. But I do have the rabbit. Alright.... So what if it's not the original! There's always a place for imitation: a royal rabbit revival if you will. Besides, nobody will be able to tell the difference and I won't tell anyone if you don't.... I'm absolutely convinced that this rabbit is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. You could start the bidding at twenty cents if you like. You can keep all of the proceeds for your good cause. Please let me know when you would like to come and pick him up. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Rebuffed yet again by his four-legged friends, Louis seeks human comfort.

7. TUESDAY
To the person in the last classifieds who was offering the free cardstock which I will be picking up: Look, I just don't feel right taking this without giving you SOMETHING, so here's a rabbit. No need to thank me. Really! nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis tries to reason with the dog to no avail.

8. WEDNESDAY
Look at this rabbits face! Just look at him! See the sad brown eyes gazing at you. See the long drooping ears hanging listlessly from his fuzzy big head. See the large paws and the huge thumping hind legs that should be dancing in the clover instead of scratching about on my nice hardwood floors. Louis has no home and no other rabbits to mount endlessly. What future does he have? What can poor Louis do with such a sad existence? Chased away by dogs and spit at by cats, Louis' sole hope lies with you! You can make a difference in Louis' world. You can help Louis lead a full rabbit life with opportunities to fornicate in the fields like other rabbits do. Without a hutch and no hope Louis will probably fade away into a dark and deep depression and it will be too late then. Once the dog figures out how to climb up on top of the fridge with the cats Louis will be all alone here. The Louis as we know him will be gone and just the shell of a rabbit will remain huddling in the corner of the couch watching Jeopardy like he always does. What is money anyway! Nothing but vanity and vexation and taxes. Your pointless meaningless existence on this planet will end happily if you help dear little Louis the rabbit. If you help Louis, your life will have meaning and how many people have real meaning in their lives these days? Yes. Discover your purpose. For twenty cents I will give you Louis. Just take the 20 cents and you can help change this poor sad rabbit's life. Contact me now. I'm standing by any time night or day just for you to adopt little Louis. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis tries to steal a sweet moment with Veronica.

9. THURSDAY
Did I mention that if I don't receive $15,000 immediately I will have to shoot the rabbit. That's right. This poor dear little... well big... rabbit will die a dreadful death unless you give me $15,000 within 24 hours. That's right. This lovely velvety bundle of Easter delight named Louis who loves cuddling and well... other things... will die unless you pay up. If that is not possible, I will of course pay you 20 cents instead. Please don't make me kill Louis. I don't even own a gun. I'll have to strangle him. Bring small unmarked bills. Come alone. If you contact the Humane Society I will know and the rabbit dies. I will know because I talk to them everyday and apparently they haven't had anyone looking for a rabbit in about seventeen years. Which is not to say I don't try and call every day. They know me now so don't even THINK about contacting them. I WILL know. The rabbit WILL die. Save Louis now! Don't make me kill Louis. Louis deserves to live a full and rich rabbit life procreating in the fields. Save Louis! Send money now! (or let me give you 20 cents). Remember, if you want to see this rabbit alive you have 24 hours only. The clock is ticking. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Prostrate with love lost, Louis lies alone and forlorn on the cold hard ground.

10. FRIDAY
I killed Louis. I told you I would. It was a terrible death too! Don't you feel guilty now!!! You'll have to live with this on your conscience for the rest of your born days. And all for the sake of 20 cents (Canadian) ! Really. How can you live with yourself! Poor Louis the rabbit. Poor little lecherous Louis. Wait. I'm just teasing. I didn't kill Louis. You can still save yourself by adopting Louis. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis' fuzzy head is all in disarray and deep despondency.

11. YES INDEED. IT'S MONDAY AGAIN. WEEK THREE
RE: Performance by Florquestra Brazil sextet. You put on a fabulous show on July 23 at La Grange in Wakefield. Have you ever thought about expanding your act? Louis Lapin L’Amour has excellent percussion skills when he thumps his back leg and being a rabbit of such constitution he could easily contribute to the sex part of the sextet if he's provided with appropriate props. He could wear a hat. Please contact me right this instant because I hear “Echo and the Bunnymen” are frothing at the bit for a dancing rabbit… We’re offering him to you first because Louis prefers rutting to dancing and, because we’re attached to Louis in a deeply disturbed kind of way, we want him to be happy with his work. Really. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis begs Veronica who shows only disdain.

12. TUESDAY
To the person who was wondering if Louis Lapin L’Amour the rabbit is related to Louis L’Amour the cowboy/romance writer. But of course! Louis himself has been writing novels for years. He has written some classics: The Great Grain Robbery, The Good, the Bad and the Snuggly, Have Bunny Will Travel, Bunny the Kid, Little Big Hare, No Country for Old Rabbits, Butch Rabbitty and the Bunnydance Kid, The Treasure of the Sie Hare a Madre, Hare with No Name, Rabbit Ballou, Lonesome Rabbit, and of course his most famous—Dances without Wolves. If you would like to adopt the author of these books or if you would take the rabbit and 20 cents (Canadian) please contact: nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Undaunted, Louis steals a kiss in passing.

13. WEDNESDAY
Single white male looking for a companion or companions. I am new to the Hills and need some place to call home. I like early-morning runs, watching television, high-jumping and fornicating. I’d love to go out for a salad. If you think you’d like to take me in, contact Louis L’Amour at nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Tormented Louis searches for Veronica everywhere and anywhere. Day and night. Night and day.
14. THURSDAY
I’m wondering if anyone out there knows what to do about my cat Veronica’s problem. She’s been coughing up hareballs. This has been happening mostly since Louis L’Amour’s arrival. Do you think there’s a connection? (Okay, I know that was really bad…. Even I can’t forgive myself for that one. My only excuse is that desperate times call for desperate measures: Louis is now eyeing the neighbour’s cats.) If you would like to provide some relief for Veronica’s chronic problem by adopting Louis please contact nevermind@sympatico.ca




Louis peers through the screen door hoping to catch a glimpse of the fair Veronica.

15. FRIDAY
GARAGE SALE this weekend. Items available: Elastics multi-colored. Those little plastic tabs they close bread bags with. Toenail clippers a little rusty but they can be cleaned up. Some vitamin C just a little past the expiry date. A book of crossword puzzles mostly done in pencil. Mirror broken but just at the corner. A pair of nylons with runs only above the knee. Two plastic margarine containers. A very big rabbit free with anything you buy or steal. Oh, I almost forgot: The margarine containers do come with lids. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

Louis, his twitchy little nose crinkled in frustration wonders where he went wrong.

16. MONDAY WEEK 4
I seem to have lost the e-mail address from the woman who was complaining that Louis L’Amour had his way with her cat. Look, I do apologize. Louis got away just that one time! Louis couldn’t help doing what he did to your prize-winning Blue Persian. It is in the nature of rabbits, of which by the way, Louis is a most splendid example with very large feet. We do seem to have a serious situation on our hands. I don’t know if you realize how deeply serious this is. I’m sorry to have to tell you that no matter what everybody else may tell you, cats and rabbits do indeed breed. Yes, you are going to be a grandmother! Now, how could you let these little baby crabbits live without a father? It grieves me terribly because we are very very fond of Louis in a twisted kind of way, but for the sake of these wee baby crabbits yet to be born, I will give you Louis. No need to thank me. Really! nevermind07@sympatico.ca

16. TUESDAY
Attention people at the Black Sheep in Wakefield. Why sheep? When was the last time you saw a sheep in Wakefield?!? Really! What’s wrong with, oh I don’t know, say for example, rabbits? There are lots of rabbits around about Wakefield. Even white ones. So it’s high time you changed the name to The White Rabbit Inn and since you’ll need a white rabbit to live on the premises, Louis L’Amour is here for you. He is clean and somewhat tidy and doesn’t drink… much… A few Harvey Wallbangers now and then maybe with a celery stick… Just a few. Contact me immediately. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

16. WEDNESDAY
Are you interested in paper-making? Some of the finest (and most expensive) examples of paper in the world are made from the dung of elephants on a wildlife preserve in Africa. This paper is very popular with artists however the surface is actually quite coarse and doesn’t lend itself to fine details. The search is on for the development of a finer grade of paper made from truly natural ingredients. Imagine the quality of the paper made with, oh I don’t no, say for example, rabbit dung. If you need a dung-making rabbit for your paper-making needs contact: nevermind07@sympatico.ca

19. THURSDAY
To the person who sent me the emails concerning the impossibility of cats and rabbits breeding: Now, what colour are the moons on your planet? Please don’t be silly! Everybody knows crabbits exist. Please do not e-mail anymore with long attachments concerning your work on genetic manipulation and interspecies procreation. Crabbits are not chimeras. They are just naturally occurring crabbits. Really! You must get yourself some help. However, if you need a rabbit to donate some male seed on a regular basis for your genetic research Louis might be interested provided he can live at home with you. nevermind07@sympatico.ca

20. FRIDAY
To the man complaining about the loud noises last night coming from the house on the 105: I’m afraid it’s Louis again. I do apologize. It seems that Louis, spurned continuously by the cats and growing more and more despondent over the lack of a hare-m, has turned to religion for some comfort. Even though it’s rather difficult to persuade Louis of anything when he’s in this frame of mind, I’ll try and ensure he lowers his voice when chanting Hare Krishna in future. If you would like to adopt a devout rabbit: nevermind07@sympatico.ca

21. MONDAY WEEK 5
Attention NASA. I understand you send small mammals out into space for the betterment of humanity. I can imagine it would take a very high calibre animal to be so honoured. This is why I'm offering up Louis the rabbit. I wouldn't normally part with dear Louis who has become so much like a member of the family. I mean, this rabbit is very special to us in a deeply macabre way and I will so seriously miss his fuzzy little head bobbing up and down while he ruts the stuffed teddy bear but I understand that all this is for the betterment of humanity. It will be a far far better thing he has done than he has ever done before. And he's done all the cats and the dog so another little adventure might just be what Louis needs. Contact me nevermind07@sympatico.ca

22. TUESDAY
To the woman who sent me an e-mail, which I have purposely misplaced, concerning the accusation that Louis had his way with her Chihuahua. Why are you blaming Louis? Louis, aside from cats, only likes large dogs or as some would call them—big-boned dogs: Great Danes, Border Collies and particularly Nova Scotia Duck-trolling Retrievers. For heavenssakes woman! I will not be paying damages and that’s final. I have it on good authority that the episode with Louis and the maid’s French poodle in that hotel in Paris would not be taken into consideration by the courts as evidence. Louis has friends in high places. Just so you know. (If anyone would like to adopt a well-connected rabbit contact: nevermind07@sympatico.ca) butnevermindallthat.blogspot.com

23. WEDNESDAY
Are you pregnant? How will you ever “really” know without a rabbit? Louis Lapin L’Amour nevermind07@sympatico.ca butnevermindallthat.blogspot.com

24. THURSDAY
To Whom it May Concern: As a result of the hard-hearted lack of interest out there in the welfare of this most unfortunate rabbit, for the sake of Louis Lapin L’Amour and his desperate deeply pathetic search for a home before the bitter winds of winter arrive, I will be putting myself, the husband, the dog and the cats up for adoption. We don't need "fixing" at the vet but at this point in time counselling would be a good idea I'm thinking... and hot rum toddies. Lots of hot rum toddies. If you or some one you know would like to take in this amazing family please contact nevermind07@sympatico.ca

25. FRIDAY
A writer's gotta do what a writer's gotta do when a writer's gotta do it. So... Want to know what happened to Louis and his reluctant owners after five weeks (yes… count’em! Five weeks ! 25 days!) of classified ads? Up for auction--the next installment in the life of Louis Lapin L’Amour (and quite likely the last for heavenssakes!)(… but then again, you never know….). The highest bidder by midnight Friday December 2, 2011 wins the 1,500-word essay entitled “Tell me about the rabbit George.” This story will be a hard-copy--handsomely bound and signed by the author. No other such bindings will be made. No other copies will be made. It will be yours and yours alone to know the immediate fate of Louis and his unrequited lust for love. You may share or not share as you choose: the secret of Louis’ adventures will be safe with you and I. (And George of course.) I will announce the highest bid (I mean… if there “are” any bids) regularly on this website. The bidding starts at 20 cents… Canadian… To bid: nevermind07@sympatico.ca

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And to answer the question out there if I actually have a rabbit: Yes. I do. He arrived on the back deck after making his way somehow along the side deck through the gate. In the dark we couldn't see his dark coloured ears so the creature at our screen door looked a bit like a disfigured dog maybe or a mutated raccoon and it took some nerve to go out and investigate. It proved to be a very big rabbit. There he stayed by the screen door peering longingly into the house completely oblivious to the frenetic barking of the dog on the other side of the screen. Little did I know at the time that he wasn't looking so much for a home as for something else. He appears to be in love with Veronica my cat. I picked him up and brought him in. Why I did this I'll never know but I figured a white rabbit in the dark is great fodder for owls, fishers, wolves and the like and a tame rabbit must be somebody's pet. Regular routes in advertising for a lost rabbit came to nil. The Humane Society says many people often get rabbits as babies and unfortunately let them loose when they start growing out of the cuddly stage. Louis is a French Lop rabbit I gather: the largest you can get.

A dear friend of mine has told me that a white rabbit arriving on my doorstep on the eve of a full-moon in the year of the rabbit can only be good luck. Of course Veronica the cat might disagree with this.

In this post I present all the initial ads. I will update daily if and when I write them. I've actually had three offers to take Louis. Two have fallen through. The third offer was from a meat producer. Well. We are deeply attached to Louis in a seriously unhealthy way and could not bring ourselves to part with him in this manner. Even if he just spends his time with the females, well... his children you know... Anyway, it was never my intention to create such a ruckus but lazy days in summer tend to feed my silliness... and everybody else's by the looks of it...


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THE MEMOIRS OF A HAIRY PLOTTER: LOUIS LAPIN L'AMOUR



Chapter 1: I Am Born

I never knew my father. My mother said he was a hare of uncommon valour but not too bright really even though he had a pedigree as long as twelve sheets of paper. She told me that the fluffy crown of black and white hair on my head was from him. It was like a badge to my family line that she told me stretched back to the days of the Vikings and before. Long before. That crown of hair was a Celtic mark that some say the witches made on a Spring night during the vernal equinox and any rabbits with such hair were always set apart in some way. It was because it was hair and not fur like the rest of their bodies. It grew and grew and never seemed to shed and so, ashamed by their anomaly, they would secretly gnaw the hair down to stubbles on each other at night in the burrows.

You see, in the beginning the families born with litters of babies sprouting hair there would hide away knowing that these offspring were some kind of freaks. Some even tried to murder their own children, eat them at birth even, but eventually over time they grew proud of that hair. Some took to braiding it and curling and piling it on top of their heads in great twirls and twists. It was the witchery in them that made them that way my mother was convinced. Many of them died out because of it: unable to escape the hounds in a hunt because of their coiffures catching in the briar or hindering the entrance to their burrows. Oh the poor vain things. My mother said my father who was so brave and wild trimmed his hair in a crew cut so he could never be caught. He needed freedom more than mousse. Freedom more than anything... well except that other thing, my mother said.

Sometimes when I gaze into the mirror, as I do often because I'm a fine specimen if I do say so myself, I see what my father must have been: a hare with hair. He escaped from the lab before I was born there in that shabby little place, in that wretched pen in the basement of that mad man who would call himself a scientist. He was no scientist. He had no board of ethics. He had no paper war or funding proposals to write. He didn't even take notes. He was just a mad man doing genetic research beyond his own capacity to understand. My mother hated that man. She would bite his fingers when he fed her carrots and choice bits of cantaloupe but at the end, when I made my escape she stayed behind. She knew he needed her. I think though that it was because she'd grown accustomed to biting him. It gave her some kind of perverse reason to go on everyday. I think that hatred can work that way sometimes.

So many times I asked my mother why she did not want to escape and find my father whom she says she loved in her hare-brained kind of way. She said, "Louis, a rabbit's life is not easy. We sleep around. It's the way we're wired. And this man. Well, he provides me with lots of bucks and I have loved each and every one of them. Your father perhaps most of all, but it is not in a rabbits nature to remain faithful. We're just sluts and we always have been. But Louis, you're different. You have your father's heart. It is brave and strong and pink. You will only give your heart to one and only one. You're like your father that way. He drove me crazy really with his constant oppressive attention. I'm telling you, if that buck brought me one more bloody bouquet of four-leafed clovers I think I would have just gone crazy but you know, now sometimes I kind of miss it. Well... I miss the clover anyway. They say that only dogs can be bitches Louis but your mother is a bitch and a rabbit and proud of it. It's in my nature. He loved too much that bloody rabbit so I bit his ears until he left.

"Never forget Louis that you're a French Lop rabbit. They don't come any bigger than you and you are a giant among cabbages and kings. You will play the fields of grasses but you will only love one. I'm trying to say you're also a slut but one with heart.

"You are also the product of genetic engineering. That man that mixed you. That man that I bite. He made you intelligent. More intelligent than I ever was and something your father would never be. Not that I ever needed him to be at the time really. Anyway, this intelligence is something no other rabbits have because that man of course didn't keep any notes when he was doing his concoction. Silly bastard. No matter how hard he's tried since then, all he's ever produced are mutant misfit hares that don't even like escargots or singing in the morning. I have lived among these mutants for a long time now and I know it is not for you Louis to live this life of tedium and procreation. You are a hare above that.

"Louis my favourite: You were a lone rabbit born to me on a Spring night during the vernal equinox. There were no others in the litter. And I was known to have large litters. It was a sign Louis. The witches and the mad man made you, mixed you up in a vial of possibilities on that dark and crisp and star-clustered night. I was just a vessel for your amazing birth. You were born singing Louis. You were born to be strong, free, wild and utterly eccentric." And then she'd say, "And wealthy! Always remember, 'Never accept a carrot when a karat will do!'"


Oh my dear mother. I miss her still. She gave me everything including most of all my delusions of grandeur. I'll always remember her last words to me, "Louis, clip your hair but don't clip your wings. Fly!" she said. "Fly!"

And I did. As much as a rabbit could fly. I gnawed through the metal wires with my fine fine buck teeth and I scuttled around to the back of the desk and when the man came I bit his ankle hard (with my fine fine buck teeth) and then I flew. I flew. I flew like the wind in a winter's gale out through the door. Away from the snug fur-lined nest and the soft cooing snuffles of my mother and my 203 step-siblings. Out into the wilderness that was. Out into my destiny. I had to find my father. And I had to find my love. My real and most perfect love. My Veronica. And I also had to find a harem or something like it. Really soon.


Chapter Two: LOST IN WALMART

I was young. A young rabbit freshly sprung into life and I could run, swift as the wind, silent as the night.

No dog could catch me although they would try. No cat could escape me. You have to understand I found no other rabbits in the city and so cats became all I had. I was young but my appetite was ancient and overpowering. To be truthful, I had them all: the tabbies, the persians, the siamese with their delicate cream fur and sly glances, the wicked wild alley cats with their lusty exuberance. Yet as clever and voluptuous as my lustrous lovely felines were, they were only playthings; it was my fascination with people that would be my downfall.

They were nothing like the scientist who reeked of dry paper and chemicals and cabbage soup. These humans were all dramatically different from each other, unlike rabbits. And they all smelled differently. The further out of the suburbs I'd go, the sweeter they would smell. The more trees there were the more they would smell like fruit or newly opened flowers. But in the suburbs most were tainted with the acrid stench of sweat and sorrow and cement.

I was always drawn to them. I blush remembering my young self there watching from behind little shrubs and the dark shadows at the edges of buildings, my nose forever twitching, twitching. I would rush out and touch their heels and then run. The little ones would laugh and their delight drew me closer and closer, made me braver in my antics. Eventually I was caught by a little girl who smelled like buttercups and alfalfa and the innocence of newly-formed moss on an open tundra. She enticed me into her knapsack where I snugged down for a light nap.

When I awoke I was in a new world without grass or sky. She had taken me to Walmart shopping with her mother and left me on a shelf between a box of laundry detergent and a roll of paper towels. She never did come back although I waited for a very long time, always returning to the knapsack at the break of day to hide inside its promise.

Whenever I drink too much now, old rabbit that I am, and particularly the rich potato Vodka of the Steppes, I recall my Walmart days and find myself confessing that it was these very days that formed the essence of who I was to become. My character was forged by the smell of the plastic, the uneasy flutter of florescent lighting and the taste of generic gerbil food and genetically modified lettuce. I would never want that again.

I would forever seek out the scent of natural materials, the glow of candlelight and the exotic taste of vegetables fresh sprung from the belly of the soil. But at the time I did not know better. Oh how I shudder to think of it. At the time I grew fat and pallid with all that I could eat without effort. I munched on bags of anemic carrots and limp spinach. I ate without relish, or mustard for that matter, the bags of gerbil food only because I liked the picture of the gerbil. And as painful as it is to admit, I drank coke because they always stored that on the lowest shelf. Once I even tried the frozen vegetarian pizzas but I hated the tang of cold which tingled my toes. When the mood hit me I went to the toy department.

It only took me two days to find the toy department but when I did I knew I had died and gone to rabbit heaven. Not that I knew much about heaven and hell, being philosophically naive at the time. All I knew was the happiness. Pink and blue and plush furry little things all waiting for me. They didn't run away. There was no sport of the chase when I had my way with the teddy bears but it was always interesting. If I pushed a button or two they would sing and sometimes talk and I would feel less lonely.

My most favourite was a giant pink stuffed rabbit that sang "Somewhere over the rainbow" so sweetly sometimes I would forget about everything and fall asleep in its cotton arms and wake when the store opened. Then I would have to spend twelve hours staying absolutely still while little children pawed through all the stuffed toys. There was never any danger they would pick me because I was mute and didn't sing or dance or smile with fake human teeth or play on little imitation drums. The whole store would have stopped in silence if I sang. For I can sing. Yes I can sing. Angels choirs have nothing on my talent for I have gift that is beyond heaven. But anyway, at times like that, cowering in the plush toy section of Walmart, it wasn't hard to stay still because fear captured me, paralyzed me to the spine and down to the end of my wee little tail.

It wasn't the humans. It wasn't even Raoul the cleaner who kept spying me now and then as he depondently pushed his mop up and down the aisles. He would put out poisoned pellets thinking I was stupid. We danced around each other all that time. He grew to hate me. He'd curse and swear at me and vowed my death but I would only laugh at him. He could not outrun or outsmart me for I was Louis Lapin and Louis Lapin could run and outsmart anyone! Of course I could read by then. I learned from a toy computer in the electronics department. Big Bird taught me the ABCs and Oscar taught me numbers but I learned the most from sleepily listening to the wicked conversations between customers and of course the Walmart Greeter. He taught me how to swear. One day I found a block of arsenic-laced alfalfa and a note that read DIE RABBIT DIE. Silly Raoul. I kept the two things just for fun in a mayonnaise jar in my knapsack. No, Raoul didn't scare me that man. But even still, there among the plush toys I was terrified.

I was terrified of the shopping carts. It was the memory of the cage in the scientist's house that always came back to me. I would watch in horror as my dear delicious Friday night favourite, the purple Teddy bear with the top hat was carted away in one of the walking cages. On the day they took away my pink rabbit I cried as I know now only rabbits can cry, my nose twitching, mouth wide to the sky and a howl of sorrow that bounced off the metal ceiling and scuttled the moths high in the rafters. No being can cry like a rabbit.

I vowed never to grow close to any of my conquests after that until Veronica the cat. Despite my growing seductive wiles, I never wavered on that commitment to indifference when it came to love. Lust was good enough. On that day I built a little innocuous looking pile of boxes beside the doors to hide under and when they opened the store I swept out into the parking lot and into the world again. I ran like my mother told me. "Fly!" she said. "Fly!" And that is what I did. Even though the hair on my head had now grown long beyond reason because I had no other rabbit to trim it, I managed to fly despite how it kept getting tangled in my feet and in front of my face.

I didn't know why then but I took with me the knapsack the little girl had brought me in, all rolled into a bundle. Behind me the bored employees of Walmart in the smoking tent near the building remarked to each other about the strange sight of a rabbit carrying a bundle stumble-rushing through the parking lot. Perhaps they even thought they should chase after me but then they likely all agreed they had to get back to work to rule.

Next: Louis discovers the nightlife of Hull