The Political Cluster

My friend Al Zheimer | The press

I am currently in Nova Scotia. We spend the week with my friend Daniel at our old friend Al Zheimer, as his wife Sheree calls him.

Posted at 6:00 am


In a lost and debilitated bleed in the north of the province. minimum population. The place is very beautiful because the sea is omnipresent and rural at the same time. Acadie in tugboats, to the picture.

Otherwise not many sights.

My favorite, a distillery that makes excellent whiskey, believe me. I try to do my big part to encourage local buying when I’m there…

Otherwise the classic memorial to local fallen soldiers. One church for every 50 inhabitants, I’m hardly exaggerating, several phalanxes of Christianity here. And originals trying to create country fairs and charms to snare tourists in their lobster cages, as a former prime minister has said.

We’re a trio of old bad guys from the Quebec suburbs. More than 50 years of friendship. We celebrated our fiftieth anniversary well, as did each of the 49 others. We have merry wine and drift to a strong beat.

I’m competitive, one of the three who won the cancer derby. But Al, proud as can be, managed to make it even better. He decided to pass the sponge on, snub us and quietly forget about us, us and the rest. In the beginning he had the art of subtlety. But as I write to you, things are getting a little complicated. It’s also faster, shall we say.

I am telling you about this because he allows me, as he has allowed his friend, Sheree Fitch, an English-Canadian author, who has written on the subject. He wants us to know more about this dirty karma, this disease that at 65 is ruining his third period.

Coincidentally, he was on leave of absence from Sheree. Al occupied. Go away, Miss! way, breathing space. She needed it. We, for a couple of years, make sure we come at least every six months. We are aiming for every three months there, and more if necessary. And it’s not bad…

A so-called early case. Medicine had forecast five years before it started slipping a little faster. Punctual ! They were right, the sorcerers.

But no question of whining about his fate! We will not change our relationship. When we arrive, we tell him that we are happy that he still recognizes us. And then we give him a test to understand what stage he is in. So let’s play Cribble. He was there until the last visit. But this time we didn’t dare…

Al moved from Quebec over 35 years ago. The Maritimes for a long time and then Washington for more than 10 years. CTO of a large network there, including New York. The guy moving his Square Meter camera on the White House lawn he shares with a distant cousin, Al Jazeera. And retire, become a true maritime again. Separated from Quebec, a guy who doesn’t know Les Cowboys Fringants.

son of a carpenter. He knows how to build anything, he does wonders. Hereditary. A useful spouse, he, not like me.

Sheree once wrote: He builds, I write. It sums up your couple and adds to them the integral, visible, unconditional love. You built a dream. In the background a row, a magic: Mabel Murple’s world. A colorful universe, especially purple. A library. And horses, donkeys, goats and chickens. Delicious. The kids don’t want to move out.

What he suffers from, progressive and thankless amnesia, he saw his mother die from it after she lost her dignity. He swore it wouldn’t happen to him, that he would control the ending of the story. But it’s not that easy. The brain discards the most recent memory and so on. We’re both fine for a while after 50 years. But the most evil thing would be losing his second language, the one he uses to communicate with Sheree. Do you see the complication from here?

Of course, she crouches and shoots migraines at us, forcing us to discuss—muy lento—in our language in her presence. phew!

We had found a solution. French immersion for her, with lessons. We rented them an apartment in my Saint-Roch neighborhood of Quebec. I had her in mind. Everything was fine, Sheree was making progress. But he, a doctor and a textbook, choked. They left. Al missed his donkeys… We thought it was super nice for both of us! But like old donkeys, we don’t give up our place, it seems to me.

Here we are, a little annoyed. what else to do

We’re finally there. We collect bullshit with him. We take steps, we go back in time, we recap with the little dark cloud that follows us. We cook food, we drink, he thirsts with us. But he survives less late. And we watch over the body a little later and talk behind its back.

We should tell him we love him when we leave… Hm! Not sure. We would surprise him, and we would. He might take it badly, it might feel like goodbye.

Play Nirvana Unplugged Come as you are… Memoria… Memoria…

Cobain we miss.

I’m trying to make a link, me there…

My heart is suddenly in the water…

Fuck Al Zheimer!

Between us

I would like to thank all of the artists and personalities who have joined the Procure 2022 Bowvember campaign.

Let’s fight prostate cancer in style.

Participate with elegance.