nb. * That's English. Look it up
I think I’ll name some saints.
Why not? If some guy named Frank, who hangs out in Rome, can do it, why can’t I? The whole deal is meaningless, so anyone should be able to decide on the lucky ones. Of course, the poor bastards have nothing from this “honor”, so naming privileges should be afforded to those around to have fun with it.
First, I would select categories, such as authors, artists, athletes (hockey players, mostly), teachers, and so on. Next, I would decide on criteria: the main being personal taste. Ain’t gonna be no saints I don’t like. Being alive is not important nor is being dead (which seems to be a sine qua non for that guy, Frank, in Rome). Notoriety is not important, as is race, creed, or tax bracket.
Jon Stewart, Bob Dylan, H.L. Mencken, Ambrose Bierce, Somerset Maugham, Dharma Finkelstein Montgomery, Fran Fine, Johnny Carson, Jacques Plante, Gordie Howe, Bobby Orr, Wayne Gretzky, Paul Simon, Beryl Markham, Antoine de St. Exupery, David Cornwall, Edmond Blackadder, Vinegar Joe Stilwell, George Marshall, My mother...
If I thought longer, I would extend the list, but I’ve lost interest..
One man’s sin is another man’s sainthood.
I’m not much for titles, to the point of finding them absurd. The worst is “saint”, which signifies for me something dodgy. And, then, I read this in the Daily Mail. Why does this revelation not surprise? Even back then, guys had good PR agents.
Prior to writing novels, the author enjoyed a multifaceted career: from decorated combat aviator to advertising professional to global communications director of a major consumer brand. He has traveled the world and met sports, film and television stars, political leaders, and royalty. He graduated from Middlebury College, is married, lives in Germany, and has two grown children.