This is my 110th entry, which means that, in accordance with the traditions of the tiny Maritime town I grew up in, I must now celebrate "Happy One-Ten, nowcomeoverherebyjesusillpaddleyourassrightgood," a strictly exoteric ritual performed with a bat by an angry drunk old man down by the wharf. It's a good thing for me that I don't have to participate in the ritual. I simply get to celebrate it. Happy One-Ten usually happens on a boy's eleventh birthday, when his angry drunk dad beats him for sneaking off under the wharf and drinking the old man's beer. Then they go home pissed drunk, the old man reeling and the boy stumbling, and set the fire to the house while trying to cook a steak. They rescue the dog and the collectible spoon set on the dining room wall, but all the rest goes up in flames. The old man falls to his knees and sobs, cradling the spoon set in his arms. The eleven-year-old boy wonders what happened to grandma. I celebrate by relating the tragic story, then dancing around the flames, dancing, dancing. The old man can't see me, but the boy sees my long shadow leaping away from the flames, along the walls of neighbours' houses, across the lawn and faintly flickering on the water. I dance because I haven't lived in that stupid town in fourteen years and two months, and I can celebrate being 3600 kilometres away, married to the woman I call The Lotus. So "Happy One-Ten, nowcomeoverherebyjesusillpaddleyourassrightgood," everyone! Celebrate in the home of your choosing!

parode - exode