A Cautionary Tail

Donald started sitting in with our band.  At first I was pissed because everything about him was sloppy, including his guitar playing.  He banged away with abandon, juking his head around like a rocker.  We played Irish music, not rock. 

I knew J.J. wouldn’t let just anybody into the band, so I didn’t say anything.  Saying something might lead to several days of stony silence from J.J., which I both resented and feared.

After a few practice sessions it dawned on me: Donald’s wild thrashing was nevertheless in tune and on time.  He provided the solid backbeat the gave our other guitarist, Dave, the room to solo. 

Dave was a respectable flat-picker. 
He also brewed killer ale.  Brewing back then was not the snobbish high tech fad that it is today.

In the ’70’s beer was made the regular way, with a largish ceramic crock, some water, canned hopped malt, regular beer yeast, and a layer of cheesecloth tied over the top to prevent wild yeast, bacteria, mice, and small children from getting in.

Once the beer began to “work,” making a disgusting cap of brownish foam on the top, caring for it became a collective labor among the residents of the house.  Whoever happened to walk by the crock, if there happened to be scum on top, he skimmed it.

But this is not a mere diversion.  The beer was what brought Donald in the first place.  It was at one of the delirious parties at Jacob’s.  Through a thick haze of Morgan’s Ale, his guitar playing seemed outrageous and just the thing.

Once J.J. brought him home to practice, it seemed like a done deal.

Only thing was, he was always doing disgusting things, like eating his boogers.  Jeezis, I cannot stand that type of thing.  If I were the vomiting type, there would have been even more of a mess.

How relieved I was when Donald announced he was going to Ireland to learn to play the concertina!  Thanks to all that is divine!

The night before he was to fly to Ireland, I am sorry to say, he came over to light farts with J.J. 

The Morgan’s Ale was flowing, and the two of them were in hysterics, making torches out of their asses.  I went upstairs to hide.

Suddenly violent screams burst out downstairs.  I ran down to see what the emergency was, and cheeses k. reist if Donald didn’t try to one-up J.J. by taking off his underwear! 

Now Donald had–HAD–a very hairy ass, which went up like a torch when ignited by his gas jet.  He received bad burns to his delicate parts. We transported him to the small town hospital in the back of the car, face-down, butt-naked on top of the sofa cushions.

He couldn’t change his plane ticket, so after his convalescence he booked a flight to Newfoundland.  I secretly snickered at that.  I lived in Maine for a few years.  One of the great Maine forms of entertainment was to trade Newfie jokes, like this one:

“If there are two kids playing in a sandbox, and one of em’s a Newfie, how do you know which one?”

“I don’t know, how?”

“It’s the one the cat’s trying to cover up…”

Both: “HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Well.

The moral is, if you’re going to light farts, keep your underwear on.

You’re probably wondering what ever did happen to Donald.

He enjoyed New Foundland so tremendously that he went for a hike in the interior, failing to bring with him any water, map, compass, or any other of the Ten Essentials.  Of course he got lost, was not found for several days. After an extensive search, he was discovered, dehydrated, hungry, and hypothermic.  It gets cold at night above the Arctic Circle.

We received letters from Donald (letters!) every few weeks.  Then the letters stopped.  In a very brief and scratchy transatlantic telephone conversation, Donald related how, by the time he recovered from his case of exposure, the sea ice had locked Newfoundland in.  No ships could get out or in.   Airplanes weren’t flying; it was too cold.  He would be back in the Spring.

Spring came, and no Donald.  Married a Newfie girl, gonna have a little Newfie of their own!

All’s well that ends well.

Just remember what I told you…

Weird Monday!

Here’s another weird animation from the National Film Board of Canada.  I love how Canada specifically supports independent film artists, especially short films and, of course, animation!

This incredible dystopian film starts with a silly argument between spouses, and ends with….

Weird Monday!

If this doesn’t weird you out…well…I can’t help you😆

Enjoy!

If you have time, look up the interview with the animation artist, Sally Cruikshank, creator of Quasi.  It’s fascinating and, to me, inspiring.

Happy Weird Monday 😉