Gaston Wears His Habs Sweater On The Hawaii of the North

 Just north of Powell River lies Savary Island, called the Hawaii of the North for its beautiful beaches and tropical climate. All you do is drive north to the end of the road, 25 minutes away, hop in a little $11 water taxi, and presto, you’re there. It has a dirt road, a few cars, several dozen houses, but these houses have no electricity so generators, solar/wind systems, or propane are needed to enjoy those hockey games in the evening. Bluesman Colin James and family have a place here, and the word is Kevin Costner does too, but that may or may not be true.

 All I know is, the beaches are outstanding.

 So after Gaston’s recent ferry ride fiasco, he told me one night he’d like to get away for awhile, away from everything, and I suggested Savary. It’s not far, it’s relaxing, and I figured it was just what the doctor ordered for the little beastia.

 I drove him up to Lund and waved goodbye on the water taxi. He needs this rest and relaxation, I figured. Things haven’t been going well for him on the tour lately.

 The next day, Delores, a Savary Island local, showed up at my door a litle hot under the collar, and handed over a sickly Gaston to me. It seems he refused to take off his Habs sweater in sweltering temperatures and suffered a massive dose of sunstroke. Delores also informed me that Gaston crashed a womens’ beach volleyball game, propositioned the players, peed on a campfire during a group sing-a-long, threw sand in a couple of 90 pound weaklings’ eyes, stole a bottle of moonshine, drank most of it, and then lit it and set a big tent on fire.

 And in his drunken stupor, he proposed to Delores and tried to seduce her by singing old Mel Torme standards with no pants on.

 Now he’s got a hangover.

 Why do I put up with Gaston? Because he loves the Habs. Because he comes from a screwed up family tree. And because I need him for the tour.

 I took a photo of him when Delores showed up at the house. Here it is. Someday I hope he grows up.


One thought on “Gaston Wears His Habs Sweater On The Hawaii of the North”

  1. DK,

    I’m not a big fan of Freudian analyses. For example, in practical terms, if it’s principal therapeutic tool – abreaction (the process, technique whereby childhood trauma is unveiled, confronted and dispelled) – worked we wouldn’t all be sick and tired of Woody Allen yada yada yadaing about his mother. And patients don’t resolve these formative tensions acquired during their formative years (did Woody fall in the toilet when mommy was training him?) they either wear themselves out going round and round like the proverbial broken record and/or they simply get older and no longer have the energy to keep rummaging through their baggage . However, watching DK’s abusive one-way relationship with Gaston has obliged me to reassess, at least in part, my opinion of Freud. Perhaps there is some merit to some of his notions. Two dynamics seem to be in play whenever DK assails Gaston. The most obvious one is displacement (the kick-the-dawg syndrome) which is shown by DK’s overt abuse of Gaston – somebody in his youthful past was mean to DK and so Gaston will pay for that! The second, related dynamic is transference, in this case negative, which impels the `sufferer , i.e. Dk, to project intense feelings and attitudes about someone else onto another – they only `see’ what they want to see and confuse their target’s (yes, Gaston is a target, DK is the victim) appearance, behaviour, etc etc with another’s. Poor Gaston, cruel fate has doomed him to be the luckless target of the slings and arrows of DK’s outrageous Freudian fits. Alas, there is no end in sight. Not even a top-of-the-line couch accessorized with a Harvard-educated psycotherapist can exorcise the demons writhing inside DK’s outwardly calm breast. Will social services step in? Not a chance. And if they did they would take the wrong dood, they would put the grabs on Gaston when they should cart DK off to a padded cell. Poor Gaston, even winning the Stanley Cup will only delay the inevitable cataclysmic eruption when DK in the throes of unrequited inner tensions seizes his axe (the same one he used to off Gaston’s beloved uncle?) and turns Gaston into a year’s supply of customized Hab toothpicks to be callously used at his whim, for his pleasure and confirmation of is neurotic needs.


    (If you care ( and what feeling person cannot?) send cash to help save Gaston.

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