Mickey Mouse Burns

So. the google censors will probably ban this video due to the controversial nature of burning a revered corporate icon, but it is not going to stop me from trying to get the message out there that Disney is corrupting your minds with false promises and poisonous ethics. The days of Bambi are long gone and the Disney Whore Hannah Montana has usurped the power of nature and the accessories tainted with lead and mercury are flooding toy stores and oceans. Only we can stop it. See, the options are running out. There is no way that children will voluntarily decide to think for themselves when they have corporate rats thinking for them, just like if every single thing we buy comes in a package then there is no way all that packaging is going to end up in the dump. Nope...and the numbers have grown so that even a small percentage of 400 million people being addicted to Disney is too many. So, Disney must be destroyed since it contributes only prepackaged culture and wasteful accessories to the world. NOTHING CAN DEFEND THIS MINDLESS RAT MONSTER!*

So, the video, once it has been banned, is of me burning my Mickey Mouse Pillowcase and then pissing on the ashes. It's not graphic but it is supposed to offend and instigate and challenge and force America to abandon the weight of Disney and swim with their own flippers!

IF you want to Geo-tag this immolation of iconic rats...it took place in Main Brook, Newfoundland at an abandoned RV park. I was going to do a naked dance around the ashes but out of nowhere these kids showed up to drink beers...maybe that's a good thing.

*I didn't even know that a month ago World Watch Institute had posted their own essay pissing on the mouse. Good to know I'm in good company.

Harp Seal on Ice Flow

I love animals and this seal has so much personality that I'd have a hard time killing it. But something must make room for our fat guts so the seal's ancestors were hunted like the scourge of the world driven into nets, flensed with sharp knives, their skins were stretched and dried and worked until they could be worn over feet or Europeans could wear them in their hats. Somewhere along the line the pope, an old man in a funny hat who had never seen a seal, decided seals were fish (to encourage fish Friday dinners of seal?), so the industry was called the "seal fishery" but they are mammals. I thought about making seals the mission of my journey but they have many spokespeople. Too bad, because this video would've been emotional. IF I had seen a wolf on the ice that would've been something special...
I took this a week ago in St. Carol's Bay a little north of St. Anthony.

Summing up

I didn't find work in St. Anthony and September 1st was the day I planned on leaving for Gros Morne. So, here are some parting shots with which I display my sentimental bent. In Mexico, I was a broken man sitting, sweating, on the concrete steps of a baseball stadium somewhere north of Gurerro Negro, maybe in Rosarito, watching ball players who were 7 years past their prime struggle around the bases and overthrow the cutoff man. A grandfather, probably 50 years old walked off with his daughter and the moment she reached for his hand, unseen and without turning his head he reached for hers and together they trusted one another without words and I wept into my 10 peso beer and thought, 'Ah, Oggy, you may climb the highest peaks in the world but there is one happiness you will never know.' I did not take a picture of that moment but if you wait long enough your enemies with pass you in the river and lost memories will return on the wings of sinister storm clouds and here in St. Anthony I saw a boy and his grandfather walk toward the wharf and I grabbed that moment for my treasure chest of dreams...and as a reminder and reflective admission that I have not fooled myself of the source of true contentment.

The other picture is of Oggy trying to sew little dots of velcro onto a bug screen to keep the bugs from flying into the escape hatch. This failed for a variety of reasons but it also led me to another attempt that failed and now the third attempt will work if I want to sew 8 ft of velcro strips onto the screen by hand. That may take place on a rainy day.

The next is a picture of the van far off in the distance near the municipal wharf. The locals tolerate my presence there and I try to pay it back with litter picking and by fixing the toilet and plumbing around the grounds. But at least no asshole with his BMW has driven up and yelled, "WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING?" like happened many times in Los Angeles. I said, "As soon as I see the sign that SAYS THIS IS YOUR PRIVATE FUCKING PARKING SPACE!"

And they would mutter their bourguois responses, "Hippy pissing in the hedges, lazy, dirty, call the cops...etc..." and I would simmer my resentments in a miserable shirtless existence as I struggle with a rusted nut on the exhaust.

No, it's different here.

The last picture is of me on the Grenfell trail overlook where the doctor and his wife and a few key players in the hospital saga have been IMPLANTED INTO STONE because when you do what Grenfell did then you get to do whatever you want with your ashes.

Internet usage will be sparse for the next few days or weeks. I have a lead on a vacuum modulator in Cornerbrook, maybe the last in all of North America, so that is a future destination.

St. Anthony Street Clean-up a Success!

Dennison and I did our part to repay the hospitality of St. Anthony (We freely partake of their water and internet) by walking from the Marina to Fisherman's Point picking up litter. This is not "pollution", which is more like oil spills, but Tim Horton's (Dennison says, "Bloody Tim Whoreton's") coffee cups and straws and cigarette butts. We are a frivilous animal with coarse pursuits and it shows in our respect of the land and the resources. The sailors told of meeting floating metal cargo containers that fall off cargo ships. The ships can expect to lose 5% of their containers and maybe they will be retrieved or maybe a sailboat will run into one or maybe it will sink into the abyss. For what? So, Americans or Italians can trade shoes and belts and other gadgets. This is grotesque to me, a grotesque and irresponsible waste of resources and energy. The Chinese slave who sits at her table for 12 hours sewing Mickey Mouse Pillowcases will see her life's work drowned in the Caspian Sea. IT'S A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT@!

We gathered 5 bags of trash, some home insulation, a tennis ball, and the thanks of a local tour boat captain. Then Dennison served some pressure cooked beans in tomato sauce and I contributed moldy flaxseed bread.

In sampling the news in the aftermath of the storm I see nothing has changed in my absence; America is still obsessed with celebrity porn, internet comments still scrape the bottom of the barrel of civility, and the pot cooking the frogs is slowly reaching a boil while the frogs spit in each other's eyes with curses and venom. It's every man for himself and the funny thing is that it's been this way for a long time. I want no part of it.

Sinister Mystery Cloud

I was babbling to Dennison about hurricanes I've seen in Texas and Florida when a flash came back to me like a strange pain in the prostate that you can't explain...
And the flash was a vision, maybe a worm hole eclipse, of my brother and I in Maine or NH playing a game...I thought it was called Hurricane...but then I remembered, no, that particular game involved a hurricane or "sinister mystery cloud" but it was called "Bermuda Triangle". You rolled dice to move in that drunken circle and once in a while you would spin the board of something and depending on the outcome you would move the storm. And the storm was on a grid and if your boat was near the storm then magnets would suck the boat in and that was it for you and the crew. But you have more than one ship so you try again...

This was a memory that I guess I have kept safe in my box of nostalgia that women with their evil designs and men with their grotesque ethics CAN NOT OPEN. But since the reaper has knocked on my door more than once this trip I think I can safely share it. We're playing the game and my brother or father move the hurricane slowly across the grid and it nears my ship and my excitement, not anxiety or fear, but genuine excitement is greater than a class 4 Tropical storm named Oggy. Maybe I'm wearing Red Sox pajamas and maybe my mother is present nearby. I don't know. But my excitement at the ominous and inexorable movements of this storm fix me to the moment...it is life or death, the whim of the storm...the fate of Neptune, the delicate touch of God that may forever suck me into the abyss.

This game haunts me now in the reaches of my van. The rain came last night and I, naked, fought with it and the many leaks I can't fix. My eye is nearly clear enough to drive again though I would instantly take a job here in St. Anthony if offered. Maybe a population of 3000, honest folks, don't lock doors, work hard and raise families with neighbors working together. When your work only benefits your neighbor then there is never the class warfare that has carpenters on hourly wages for strangers who desire sun decks. That's an abomination that is foreign to the people of St. Anthony. The idea you would bid on a job to work for a stranger who made their money in E-commerce is grotesque to them like the idea of private property is to the Esquimaux. I'd open a music shop with free lessons with any purchase of instrument. The streets would be filled with penny whistle melodies and concertina tunes.

For now, I await the destiny of the mystery cloud to pass and possibly suck my metallic 1969 econoline van with all its leaks and flaws and flakes of flesh dug into the worn Indian rug. Will it pass close enough or allow me to pass with a roll of a 5 or 3?