Sunday, April 12, 2015

Potlatch Chapter Seventeen

It was while watching the Brown Thrasher that your writer of pulp came to the conclusion that Chapter Seventeen just has to endure a potlatch. Not pretty, it can get ugly, there is ennui, trepidation, resentment, pacing about, throwing things out the window, and the list is rather long. Nor does your writer of pulp share the Author of Red October's view that he's in the entertainment business. It's not his job to take people out of their lives and put them somewhere else. A coded message that might indeed have been uttered by the Brown Thrasher himself.

Either way, being a pompous ass is not just the preserve of those in the entertainment business. Who gives a damn about Sean Connery as a Russian submarine Captain, the man's Scottish for god-sake. And indeed it might be the height of arrogance to go round taking people out of their lives and putting them somewhere else. There used to be a word for that sort drug pushing activity. Yes indeed potlatch ceremonies are humbling, the great questions are posed and as a rule the answers are most unsatisfactory. In the old days of course potlatch was all about setting fire to bits of paper, now days it's a button pushing exercise followed by weeks of searching the incomprehensible auto-recovery files.

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