All That Blogging Should Be...

Bacon&EggsWithBaileys&BaseballInSliverville

WhoReallyNeedsBarbwireWithTheirLoveAnywayVille

Look.

Great writing is just that.

But when it is done daily, in digital form, it is great blogging pure and simple.

Which is what Mr. Beer 'N Hockey has been doing for sometime now.

And I know I have been trumpeting his stuff a whole lot lately, mostly because he has been making so much sense about a topical issue that really matters, both locally and globally.

But today's post slayed me on a whole lot of levels.

It starts out with one of Mr. Beer's slice-of-life observations on the comings and goings in a small part of his edge-of-the river town:

"...The old place has warm memories for both Sonja and I. There is something about having been in a place with steamy windows that sticks to you like resin. I associate the place with hot meals eaten before a night's work and hangovers only a plate of fried perogies and onions can settle; Sonja associates the place with devilled egg sandwiches eaten with her tea swilling girlfriends after a night of dancing at nearby Humper's Cabaret or rollerskating a few blocks away at the even noisier roller rink..."

Then comes the weirdness that is anything but, unless you are someone like Beer who actually pays close attention to the passing parade so that he can see what's really going on behind the pounding of the big bass drums, the glockenspiels and the twirling of the batons:

...We were just about to be served our breakfast when a whole team of slo-pitch players came in the door to join a couple of their team mates already holding a table for them beside us. Never seen a slo-pitch team away from the diamond anywhere besides a pub before. So right away I knew they must be Martians. Sent here to gather intelligence from where they expected to get the most fierce opposition when they finally make their spaceman move to take over our planet.

We gave up our table to the f*ckers and sat down a couple tables away from where I could observe them..."

All of which builds to a line like the following that, if you aspire to the writing life, punches you right in the solar plexus for all kinds of reasons that include the mechanics of, but are not limited to, the wordplay itself:

"...Never appease fascism, always appease Martians, that is the Anarchist way..."

****

Now.

When I got to the line above, and after I got my wind back, I thought the post was pretty much done.

Which meant that I was getting ready to leave a comment focussed purely on the power and the glory of the writing.

But then I kept on reading.

And when I finally finished I had both the shivers and mist roiling up inside me.

Because, in the end, Beer doubles-back to the beginning and finally lands on a whole other plane that all kinds of people, from Cyrano to Apatow, have tried their damndest to locate but, more often than not, never quite can.

In other words, the last third of Beer's post takes you on the greatest trip of all.

So stop reading my two-bit, tin-plated wordsmithing right now and head on over to Beer's place and read the entire thing, from top to bottom.

I guarantee that will not be disappointed with either the journey or the destination.

OK?

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