MOM
Via a queer alchemy in the combination of my new rimless glasses and the advancing jowls that age is bringing to the architecture of my face, I have somehow developed a slight resemblance, at certain angles in certain lights, to the nefarious imprisoned Quebec motorcycle gang leader “Mom” Boucher. This is not to say that I am looking tough or hard or bad these days. Quite the opposite, for Mom Boucher looked more like a suburban businessman than a villainous biker. His look, like his nickname, was in direct contrast to his occupation. I frankly miss the days of his last trial, when the newspapers could be counted on to deliver daily the delightful double whammy of that face and name next to the lurid allegations of his doomed underworld kingdom.
Monday, February 16, 2004
IN MY BROTHER’S HOUSE
I take on the mien of my brother, nestled here in his Montreal eyrie high over memory lane in a quiet moment, listening to Oscar Peterson and reading about figs and persimmons. I wear the mantle of my brother, eating reeking artisinal French cheeses with gusto and reading the New Yorker in his collapsable beaver-hair top hat while he’s away, sunning in Mexico. I assume the aspect of my brother, owly, growling and jowly, shaking my fist at the snow, remembering a painting I saw in the arcades of the Uffizi. I adopt the demeanor of my brother, sleeping poorly but full of knowing.
