A Review of the Old Town “Katahdin” Canoe

Mary Phillips-Sandy

In Tender Buttons, Gertrude Stein wrote (under the heading SUGAR) that “a canoe is orderly.” I might have filed this observation under a different heading, like WATERPROOF VESSELS or TROUT, but her point is well taken. Few forms of water transport are as serene and orderly as the canoe, and the Old Town Katahdin is certainly the most orderly canoe I have ever paddled.

Many people assume that modern canoes, like olden-time canoes, are made of wood and/or birch-bark. You can still find classic wooden canoes, and you are welcome to make a birch-bark one yourself, if you have the time and trees, but there have been significant advances in canoe technology over the past few decades. The modern Katahdin is made of lightweight fiberglass, making it ten pounds lighter than a wooden canoe of similar size. Ten pounds may not seem like much at first, but it will later when you are trying to lift the damn thing in or out of the water by yourself, barefoot, with mosquitoes biting your back.

Novice canoeists generally have two concerns. The first involves capsizing and the second involves running aground or smashing into a rock. The Katahdin is a reassuringly stable boat for novices and children, as it is impossible to tip over. I have tried, without success, to capsize the Katahdin. I have turned sideways toward large waves on the lake where I canoe, and the Katahdin simply rolled up and down like a duck. I also tried putting my large and excitable dog (Gypsy, a tri-color collie) in the canoe with me and paddling very quickly away from shore. Gypsy lurched back and forth, side to side, and the canoe rocked a little but did not tip over.

The Katahdin’s fiberglass hull is capable of withstanding any sort of wear and tear the average lake or river canoeist might encounter. I have tested this, accidentally, several times, once by missing the dock and hitting the rocky shoreline (it was getting dark) and once by running aground in a pebbly area (I was not paying attention). The boat was fine. You can hardly see the scratches marring its dark green sides. I hauled it up, flipped it over to dry, and went inside to eat corn on the cob or fresh tomatoes or something like that. My God, I need a vacation.

The design of a canoe is intrinsically minimalist – orderly, even – with two small seats and a bar called a yoke across the center. The Katahdin adheres to this basic blueprint, but I appreciate the small touches that lend it a touch of class. The seats, fore and aft, are made of woven cane and are not unbearable for long periods of time. The yoke is sturdy ash and the Old Town company name is inscribed along the sides of the boat in gold leaf that does eventually flake off. Since canoeing is a quiet, solitary sport involving one or maybe two people and long empty expanses of water, it is nice to have these details to contemplate.

It is also worth noting that the Katahdin can carry up to seven hundred and forty pounds of people, animals, and gear. Seven hundred and forty! That means that I, weighing in around one hundred twenty pounds, could safely climb in the Katahdin with twelve cans of B&M brown bread (no raisins), an electric can opener, a toaster oven, thirty-six copies of Walden (hardcover, annotated), a forty-three inch plasma TV, a cotton-rope hammock, a wooden paddle, a dog-sized life preserver, a dog (Gypsy, tri-color collie), an adult-sized life preserver, Grover Cleveland, and still have room for a five-pound bag of SUGAR.

A Review of My Erections Past and Present

Chad Pollock

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” 1 Corinthians 13:11 KJV

I still find the sight of a woman’s ankle extremely titillating, but when I was all of 14, Amy Crowder’s exposed ankle brought me an instant, agonizing, and embarrassing hard-on. This was in Social Studies. We were watching a film strip, and I thought I could hide my excitement in the darkness. Unfortunately, the stiffy didn’t leave me through the entire class, and I was forced to rise from my desk and prepare to leave. I tried an old trick of hitting my aroused member on the desk as I rose. Sometimes the shock was enough to send him back where he came. But those ankles…oh those ankles. My penis simply refused to stop seeing those ankles. Amy Crowder sat right behind me, and as we rose to go, she had to pass by me to get out of the class. I thought maybe she wouldn’t notice, but such was never my luck. There was I, a lank lad with an obvious protrusion, trying my best not to look down at her ankles. As she angled past me, she did what I was afraid to do. She looked down. And when she did, my penis did a little leap of excitement. She saw my condition, and she laughed a scornful laugh. Damn those ankles.

Back then it didn’t take an exposed ankle to get my penis a-growin’. In fact, it took little or no stimulation at all. Was it purely hormonal that throughout the day, little Sparky would want to come up? Sparky didn’t wait to be asked. Sparky didn’t even demand to be spanked. He simply wanted to say, “hello, I am here.” Is this nature’s way of alerting males that puberty has arrived? Was this the sexual awakening? It didn’t always feel purely sexual.

Church was the worst place for spontaneous erections, and it seemed I was always in church. There was something about those thin slacks that I only wore to church. They were loose and soft. They created a gentle, pleasing friction that denim never did. Merely moving in those pants was a lesson in sexual frustration, the light fabric brushing ever so softly against me, and before I knew it, I was strolling into Sunday School with the devil’s party going on in my pants.

That’s what I thought back then. I had an adversarial relationship with this protruding unit. I loved it, but thought it was evil. God is in the details, but Satan was in my pants. In Sunday School there was many a lesson on the dangers of sex, and always those lessons aroused more than my intellect. We called it the “church wood,” my friend Rick and I. The church wood found the thought of Bethasheba bathing on the roof very interesting indeed, but he was equally aroused by the preacher’s vivid descriptions of hell. He was indiscriminant in the topics he found arousing. Rick taught me a good technique for conquering my personal church wood. When the wood arose during a church service, then you could simply place a Bible in your lap and lean forward. This was uncomfortable on Mr. Wood, and if you were successful, then by the time you rose to sing the final hymn, you could hold your head high because your penis was not.

I haven’t had to use this method for a long time now. This is not only because I never attend church anymore. Each successive year finds me a little less at odds with my sexuality, a little less aroused by a woman’s ankles—though not entirely so—a little more in control of Sparky than he is of me. Do I miss those spontaneous erections of my youth? Sometimes, yes. But I think what I miss more was the sheer potentiality of it. I had no idea then what a joy sex could be, nor how different sex really is from those shadowy images of excitement that used to dance in my mind like Salome dancing for the head of the Baptist. The erections of my youth were beautiful for their very youthfulness. They were unguarded. They were as open to pleasure as to pain. They had not yet learned that life is hard, and not in the way that a penis likes it hard.

While I would never trade the experience I have gained over the past two decades, when I wake in the morning and find Sparky staring at me through his one good eye, I cannot but help remember a time when he was less jaded and a little less sinister. Like me, Sparky has learned to take care of himself. Necessary lessons, but from time to time, he and I both remember that there was once a time when all was new, when he stood like Adam’s rod, and unashamedly announced to the world, “I am here.”

 

A Review of My theedwardsociety.com Rejection Email

Jason Jordan

A few authors I know submit pieces to various publishing outfits in order to be rejected. Often, they’ll pen a composition knowing that it is terrible, and will “revise” it to make it more outlandishly horrible. These same authors tend to frame their rejection letters, and practically plaster their walls with myriad “no thank-yous.” Unfortunately, The Edward Society does not adhere to the practice of sending rejection letters, which complicates matters greatly – for me, anyway. In other words, I was looking forward to being formally published and recognized; or, I was anticipating receiving the proverbial rejection letter, care of the United States Postal Service. Neither instance took place.

Upon reading, considering, and (probably) praying about my submission – entitled “The Emergency” – Mr. Dickens e-mailed me a very short e-mail in which he explained his disinterest. Now, at first I believed “The Emergency” to be too avant-garde for the likes of The Edward Society, but I later realized that Mr. Dickens simply felt like flexing some electronic muscle. Fine by me. The rejection e-mail, though succinct, was too informal. Mr. Dickens stated that he was “gonna have to pass on this one.” The former also said something akin to: “Feel free to submit something in the future.” Well, my friend, I give your originality a 0 out of 10. As far as letting me down easy, however, your effort can be reasonably extolled; I would pinpoint that as an 8 out of 10. But, the aforementioned matter nary simply because I did not receive a formal, rejection document.
So, while Mr. Dickens is not devoid of sincerity, The Edward Society – as a whole – is far from adequate when it comes to the practice of rejecting young writers, and subsequently crushing their dreams. Much improvement is needed.

 

A Review of Daylight Saving Time

by Jenn Onofrio

It came and went this Spring with such zest and zeal that many of us missed it altogether, forcing us to spend the entire afternoon catching up to the rest of the waking world. I was, of course, among the unfortunate handful who missed their yoga class/church date/Sunday morning infomercials/"Meet the Press" because I showed up at the wrong hour. So I say to my readership: something's gotta give. That's right folks. I think it's time she finally put in the towel. Daylight Saving Time just isn't what she used to be.

The concept was originally conceived by Benjamin Franklin in his 1784 essay "An Economical Project." One should always be weary, in my opinion, of anything that takes its base in nature and goes unprotected, only to be raped and pillaged by a crusty old white man. Franklin's essay, alas, had no immediate bearing, but by the time the Great Depression rolled around, the masses were abuzz. The concept of saving energy by the means of manipulating the sun sounded brilliant. Or better -- why not manipulate TIME -- a thing no one can see -- so we can make our lives even easier and not really have to explain it?!

The effects of Daylight Saving Time were whole heartedly appreciated when we found ourselves pulled into a war we didn't really want to be involved with (that'd be the second World War). Americans grew to appreciate Daylight Saving Time because it kept our country afloat. There was more time to work, more time to produce the necessary materials with which we could better focus on making airplanes to drop bombs and artillery to spray people with (those things are important... right?). Yes! It was a good thing. We were Proud-to-be-Daylight-Saving Americans.

Now, though, I wonder how it really benefits us. Most people don't look forward to the daylight because it means visiting a nine-to-five that they're desperately dreaming of getting away from. If you want to give the farmers the benefit of the doubt and say that it helps them to better utilize the sun time, take a survey of farmers. Go ahead. I bet they don't really enjoy riding their tractors, the sun beating down on their lizard-like, thick-skinned necks. Then again, this is just a city girl talking ("where's my mochachino?").

In the year 2004, there is one giant flaw in the Daylight Saving Time programme: we look like imbeciles for following it. Not even half the population of the United States can show up for a general election, yet we can all agree to turn back or forward our watches whenever everyone else tells us to. We continue to orchestrate a confusion of nature and vow to do it together -- every last one of us -- because, hey -- nobody wants be left behind. But now people are so seemingly brain-fried that more and more of us can't even follow the instructions anymore ("Is it Fall forward? Spring where??! At two AM? Three?")

Yes friends, Daylight Saving Time is a sham. If anything can mend this reviewer's achy heart, it'll be the day she doesn't have to hear people mispronounce the name of a shoddy calendar event (Daylight SAVING; not Daylight SAVINGS) because it'll be the day that event ceases to exist.

 

+++++

 

Review of Kill Bill Vol. 2 movie trailer [approved for all audiences]

by Chris Dickens

For those of us who saw the enticing teaser trailer for Kill Bill Vol. 2 weeks ago while waiting for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to begin, the anticipation for the full-length trailer has been intense. We were expecting a lot, and we’ve not been let down. Tarentino’s trailer starts slow, with an Uma Thurman voice over, a lonely Southwestern guitar, some dust, and lots of feet walking slowly toward what we assume is at least a verbal showdown. The feet belong to The Bride and to Bill, and what ensues is a two second on-screen face-off that almost hurts to watch it’s so confrontational. Uma sets up the story, giving a quick overview of the preview for Vol. 1, but not so much that those of us who saw it grow bored. So if you’re worried about seeing this trailer, but haven’t seen the trailer for the first movie, don’t worry, you won’t be lost as long as you’re aware of one fact: that The Bride (Uma Thurman) thought she lost her baby when Bill and his gang almost killed her, but in fact she did not. Her daughter is still alive.

The music builds with orchestration over more dusty scenes, mostly in remotely located churches, and it really starts to get good fast. In the next scene The Bride (Uma) is speeding down a gravel road lined with palm trees in a little white convertible, her sword occupying the passenger seat next to her, and saying, “I’ve killed a hell of a lot of people to get to this point, and I am gonna kill Bill.” Not only do you think, heeey, that’s where they got the title, but you also simply can’t not believe her.

At one point the trailer does take an unpleasant turn for four to six seconds. We see a Tarentino’d version of Mr. Miagi, with HUGE white eyebrows and a stupid laugh, training The Bride for the big showdown with Bill. This man bothered me.

It picks up again though, and Stupid White Eyebrow Sword Master is easily forgotten. We see a fast montage of characters, some who weren’t in the trailer for Vol. 1 at all. Each of them are reminiscent of earlier Quentin films and their trailers, decked in cowboy hats and eye patches but also brandishing swords, and this is not a bad thing at all. There is the short clip of a sword fight from office chairs that we saw in the teaser, and this is even more exciting the second time.

Something you might miss the first time through this trailer is the cars. There are a lot of cool old sports cars, mostly from the 80’s when fast cars were a really big deal. There’s definitely a Camero and one of those cars with the doors that open upwards that was in the Back To The Future trailers.

Just before the moment you think you’re going to start getting bored, everything stops and on screen is The Bride’s daughter, the one she’d thought was dead until the end of the first film (not shown in first trailer for obvious reasons). The music builds again to a tear-jerking climax and the timing of the next few shots is impeccable. We see graves being dug, The Bride’s smoldering vengeful face as she holds her daughter and wind blows her hair, some text in a cool yellow font on a background of billowing red-tinted smoke, people alive in caskets while nails pierce the wood, a woman with an eye patch on a telephone, and two dirty women running at each other with swords. Who wouldn’t want to watch this?

Even with the stupid eye brow master guy, this trailer is great. The performances given by Thurman and Carradine are stunning, and as always Quentin’s motifs and execution are flawless, even if somewhat overdone and on the verge of getting old. See this trailer!

 

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