obituaries or obitrees

pople ar losin leters arond hre!

Today is a break from the book of wrong answers.

I’m getting old.

These days?

I have people in my life who,

If I don’t hear from them for a while they might actually be dead.

Clients. Friends. Colleagues.

Approaching fifty has its drawbacks.

Losing friends is one of them.

So, once a week I check the obituaries.

I have to.

I’m not really on social media - more on that later.

Hell. How about now?

Social media is the worst.

Everyone there is yelling.

Even when they aren’t.

They share things that when they shared them?

They were likely upset.

They likely thought that other people should know about this bullshit.

Right wing people are screaming about unborn babies while sending the born ones to the electric chair.

Left wing people want to include everyone but the mainstream and the middle.

All of them are right.

All of them are certain.

All of them are special.

All of them are assholes.

So, I have a really simple social media policy?

If you post ANYTHING political at all? I mute your ass immediately.

Problem is?

Every person I know posts something political.


Except my 90 year old Nanny.

And The Far Side Group.

Because of this?

I have unfollowed pretty much everyone.

If you’re reading this and we’re friends on Facebook or I follow you on the instagrams?

You’ve likely been muted, un-followed and placed on ignore.

I think I have three people who haven’t driven me away by politics.

My mom?




Friends and their spouses.


Your wife?

Yes. Even my wife.

All that’s left are a few bot based meme generators, the Far Side fan club and my 90 year old Nanny.


I don’t follow my friends because their social media self makes me like them less than I normally would.

Conspiracy theories about whatever?

I don’t care.

Some youtube expert told you what?

I don’t wanna know.


You’ve read some websites about some theory and now you’re inviting us into the deranged rabbit hole that that the algorithm of doom has cast you into?

And you’re getting sucked into all of this by blue thumbs and pink hearts and the next suggested follow?


Seriously. The fragmentation of meaning and truth that’s impacting pretty much everyone that I know is really alarming.

But the people that I know and love?

In person?

I love them.

Their internet selves?

less so.

This creates a problem.

If any of these assholes die, I won’t know it.

So now?

I go online to the local site and check the obituaries.

It could be worse.

I could be like my parents.

My parents?

They get up in the morning.

They go outside.

They actually leave their house.

And they go to their driveway and pick up a newspaper.

It’s a funny thing.

A ‘news paper’, filled with stuff everyone already watched on tee vee last night and read about on twitter yesterday morning and happened 23 hours and 59 minutes ago.

This news paper was physically delivered, by a human, to their house, so they could read the obituaries.

It blows my mind really.

And my parents?

They rush for the obituaries.


Something seems to happen to people around these parts when they get old.

In addition to losing their marbles and spending their time immersing themselves in grief before breakfast?

They are losing letters.

People around here lose letters.

It’s true!

Something terrible happens to the alphabet when a Nova Scotian ages.

Take my mother for example.

She taught grade three.

Well… she started there, but as she aged, not only did she get shorter but she got moved down to kindergarden.

We’re sorry Mrs. Dalling but we need to put you in a room with people more your size.

Sorry Mrs. Dalling, you’re getting older? Yeah. Better minimize the damage, going to send you down a league or two until you get the idea…

But yeah.

They’ve started to lose letters.

Those o b i t u a r i e s that I read?

My parents do not.

They read

O b i t-t r e e s

What in the white hot flying fuck is an obit-tree?

Is this some sort of large fallen plant that big dogs carry triumphantly around in their mouths?

It gets worse.

My mother, who used to be responsible for teaching little chidlers how to read and spell and talk without their fingers stuck up their nose?

She’s losing letters faster than ever.

Growing up, she would take me to the library.


Jimmie, I sent the kids to the lie-berry.

Lie Berry? Mom. I’m confused. I need to know something: What sound do you make when it’s cold?



I know that she can make the ‘BR’ sound.

What happened?

When did the place we get books from become a deceitful piece of produce high in anti-oxidants?

Go to the lie berry.

Lie berry?

Hey now. I won’t tell you what it is but it delicious and a great source of essential nutrients.

Who the works in these places - lie-berry-anns?

Are they from Lie-berry-a?


I spend my time mostly on facebook marketplace

In my version of reality?

The world is nothing but bikes, surf boards, old cars, rusted tools and firewood for sale.

I spend a lot of time looking at antique axes.

I might even start collecting them.

What does you version of reality look like?

Let me know.

I’m axeing ya

Axe to grind party

I’m going to host a workshop. In person. This one is for angry people.

They say, let it go.

They say, you’ll be happier if you do.

These people don’t know me.

Forgiveness is a screwed up thing. It puts all the pressure on the person who has been wronged to ‘forgive’ the other their transgressions because it will be ‘better for them’.

Fuck that.

Forgiveness requires that the other party make efforts to make amends, say sorry or do something to repair or restore the relationship.

My childhood bullies? Fuck those guys. I’d piss on their graves with their families watching. Those pricks never apologized. They don’t get forgiven. They do not deserve that.

Nor do they deserve my energy.

There is however another approach if you have a long, lingering, burning story about being pissed off. A hurt that you won’t cry for, nor will you forgive.

If you have a story like this that haunts you, that revs you up and gets you going at the very thought of it?

You’ve got an axe to grind.

As such I’m gathering together 9 other imbeciles. Together we will to learn to grind actual axes. As we grind, we’ll share the stories in a way that might change how we experience them.

When will this happen?

Thursday July 22 from 7:30 till 9:30

Location: My studio - 2 Wallace Street

Cost: Forty dollars per person plus materials.

Bring your own axe / hatchet.

If you don’t have one, someone near you does.

Build community. Get an axe from someone.

I’ll get the sharpening materials for you.

Who is in? Send me a message and let me know.


I’ll likely talk about this more as the time approaches.

Let me know if I get irritating please.

Remarkably Foolish Video of the Week

This is fun and interesting. Siskel and Ebert reviewing Monthy Python’s The Life of Brian.

There’s so much here.


One Derful Thing

Imagine you are one of the women, dressed as men in order to be vicious as in the clip shown above from The Life of Brian.


How could you throw today?

Enter a room as though you are either throwing or being thrown in.

What’s the difference to you?

When you speak, how can you make the action of speaking sound like a throw feels?

How can you pitch to have impact, power, speed, control, movement, deception or reach?

How can you make your voice skip?

How can your voice spiral?

How do you throw yourself?

How do you get thrown?

If we’re thrown in the oats do we hurt our throats?

Pictures at eleven.