Going Down

Jill’s daughter Jennie wrote a dirty novel, and Madonna bought the film rights. All Jill got out of it was free passes to insanely expensive New York gyms. At one especially nauseating lemon grass joint the only other customer was a dirty sweaty bottle blonde,

“But Mom,”said Jennie, “that was Madonna.”

3 Riots in One Good Year

On this day in 1968 my French Canadian girl friend took me to the Parade. It is Jean le Baptiste day, the Fete Nationale in Quebec. She kept saying the guys were at Parc Lafontaine, and that’s where we headed. Do I remember mounted police? There were definitely many police cars. For practice the guys turned a police car over and set it aflame. Then they tossed bottles with burning wicks filled with some liquid in the general direction of the review stand. And who was there? Oh. Him. That would be Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau. The idea made complete sense: Kill him! After all he opposed a free and independent Quebec. Vive le Quebec libre! Unfortunately the Molotov cocktails failed in their intent. And abruptly the resurgent authorities counter-charged. They drove us into the Parc. La mentalite Anglaise! my girlfriend cursed. Les maudits anglais! And this was, mind you, but the second of three excellent riots that year. The first was at McGill on one cold motherfucking winter night. The last was in Chicago, at the convention of the Democratic Party. 1968! What a great year!