12 November 2017
Hate and War 2017 Edition
The only thing I insist on doing every fucking year no matter what is have a birthday so I am not one of the people you see near your neighbourhood cenotaph every November 11th. Took in the ceremony this year though as I was invited to both the ceremony and some after ceremony drinking.
And story telling.
It was Sal, the sister I do not write about as often as I ought to, and Jock, an old friend, if a Montreal Canadiens fan can ever be said to be a friend, of both of ours Sal has taken up with recently who invited Sonja and I out. There were perhaps a few thousand of us encircling the cenotaph. That would be 3% of the Steepleton population. Hardly an overwhelming number if you ask me.
The mayor spoke. They blew the bugle and shot off a rifle a few times. Mercifully, it did not rain until the event was in the books.
There were snipers watching over things from rooftops which I found more chilling than the rain I had anticipated. And the local SWAT’s armoured personnel carrier. And cops with rifles patrolling the perimeter. Undercover cops too most assuredly. Bit fucking much if you ask me.
Fucking cops and their fucking guns may make some people feel more secure but they have always had the opposite effect on me.
The pub’s atmosphere was, if still somewhat somber, considerably more comforting.
Jock and I chose whiskey this day. Sal white wine.
The subjects which drew our attention for the day were wide ranging. Harjan Singh, our country’s war hardened Minister of War’s once bright star quality had dimmed in our eyes to that of the furthest flung universal dark matter.
“Lying cunt,” was Jock’s straightforward summation of the Dope City South Liberal, referring to his embellishments to his personal war history.
Jimi was not there but we talked about his dad’s much shared war history. “We never understood why we were fighting the fucking Germans. We did not like the fucking Jews either. But our country said shoot that way and we did. Fried the fuckers in their hundreds with the flame thrower alone,” was how Jimi’s old man described his war time to me once. When winning wars it is important to utilize any and all means that may soon become war crimes. Hundreds more were sent to their graves with his tank’s gun.
Sal wished our dad, much younger than Jimi’s, had experienced war. “Telling war stories about a fucking mechanic based within walking distance of Dope City is not much fun. All his fucking war stories are about drinking 10 cent beer in the mess.”
“War is Hell is pretty much all there is to it,” Jock said. “A Hell not even 10 cent beer could fucking improve.”