As readers of Donovan Graham’s blog know all too well, Mr. Graham violated numerous ethical tenets in a recent entry. As a result, the Sun has been forced to publicly apologize to the people he offended.
To ensure that he understands the seriousness of his actions, I have decided to silence his voice for today. I will let him return to posting blog entries here tomorrow, assuming I’m convinced that he has matured significantly as a journalist.
The Eastport Sun owes the people of Grand Seal Island our most sincere apologies.
Yesterday, our Web site carried a column by Donovan Graham in which Mr. Graham attacked the town and the people in it. I’m sorry to say that we allowed Mr. Graham to post his column before receiving approval from a member of the editorial staff. Within half an hour after the column was posted to the Web, we received several disturbing telephone calls.
Previously, in Island Wars… Donovan Graham is young, green, and hungry for adventure. He snagged a job blogging for a small newspaper that sent him to Grand Seal Island to cover a military spat between the U.S. and Canada. During his short time there, he bought a derelict car, moved into a crumbling house, and partied in The Village, the hippie enclave that is home to the object of his lust.
The Stump, as I’ve come to call my little nest — thanks, George! — has only one door. I stand 6’1” tall. The frame of the door rises exactly six feet above the floor. It’s precisely that perfect height at which your eyes, your inner ear, and all the neurological mechanisms that keep your brain informed about your body’s relationship to the outside world conspire to convince you, despite repeated historic evidence to the contrary, that you don’t have to duck when you walk in.
The Village is a seriously happening place. Especially if what you’re hoping will be happening involves sex, drugs, or both.
I spent a chunk of time this morning sitting on the beach, facing out toward the open ocean, toward Iceland, toward Ireland and Hamburg and Kiev. I got to the cold granite of the island’s eastern rim a little while before sunrise, but I really don’t know why.
To understand the Island Car, you have to understand “Whirlpool” Eddie McCoy.
The first thing you have to understand is why he is called “Whirlpool.” It seems that when he was a young man, back shortly after World War II, he was something of a hellion. A wild thing. A daredevil. A world-class taker-of-chances. The girls loved him, the guys admired him, the police were in awe of him, and the entire town of Grayling, Michigan, struggled with the legal ramifications of renaming itself Eddie McCoyville.
Bo was welding the human ass at the end of the torpedo. The image of the blazing acetylene torch poking at this bulbous butt won’t leave me anytime soon.
He was silent for a long time as he worked, but that didn’t surprise me. Bo doesn’t believe in small talk. Trivial conversation, he insists, is an indication that you have abandoned deep and important thinking in favor of superficial, glittering cleverness and mundane, insignificant details. I’m sure he’s a blast at cocktail parties.
I have a home! A humble abode. A dwelling. A resplendent domicile that remains upright only because all the termites, cockroaches, and earwigs have agreed to hold hands and sing Nearer My God To Thee until the whole thing collapses like the one-horse shay.
After a remarkably mundane dinner at The Larboard — a dinner that consisted primarily of hot dogs, Shredded Wheat, and marshmallows — I decided to see what was happening in The Village. You know, journalistic inquiry and all that. It’s odd, though, that I rarely seem to wonder what’s happening in The Town. Maybe that’s because The Town is entirely predictable.