Saturday, September 25, 2010
My name is Taylor and I firebombed a major street from my backyard with a Molotov Cocktail when I was fourteen years old.
My punishment: I had to write two short essays about how I could of really really hurt someone. It was like my parents scolding me for being a foolish child. I'm certain things have changed now, fifteen years down the line with the rampant government induced terrorist paranoia and all. In these post 9/11 days I would be water boarded somewhere in the bowels of the Don Jail for tossing a Molotov Cocktail. Your last name is Nesbit you say? You don’t look English. More like a rogue Syrian chemist who has been hiding out in basements wearing custom made baby blue contact lenses plotting out the death’s of every North American one by one by poisoning the Great Lakes. The suburbs of Toronto seem like as good a place as any to get this Jihad thing rolling.
I was kind of like a terrorist before it was cool, before everyone jumped on the IED bandwagon. But you gotta be careful when you jump on the bandwagon that the road the bandwagon is going down isn’t full of IED’s. The first--and only time--I tossed a bomb it didn’t even clear my fence and it lay there in my backyard with the cloth burning, mocking me, daring me to pick it up again and send the infidels on a highway to hell. I thought about it for a split second and convinced myself that hell yeah I’ll pick it up I can’t leave a perfectly good Molotov Cocktail burning in my backyard. What would my parents think? I’m a no good quitter who can‘t see anything through? I remember sharply when I had quit piano lessons some years back when I was twelve. The Royal Conservatory of Music--isn’t that superfluously opulent? The day I expressed my disinterest in the formality of learning piano it was a feeling of supreme disappointment; you know when your parents are mad but they're so mad that there's an eerie calm about them? I tried to explain it wasn’t the instrument itself it was just the conditions: This stupid fucking class where I learned with these kids that I didn’t know and didn’t want to know. I don’t like being put in those situations. But the disappointment was etched across my parents faces, it screamed out to me like a 40 foot billboard on the Gardner Expressway of a father suffocating his child with a pillow. The kid frantically flailing his arms and legs violently in every direction, yearning for a pocket of air, gasping for life, and then slowly succumbing to the inevitable darkness.
I swear to god the first time I tossed it, the Flaming Homer, you know, the Molotov Cocktail or whatever it was, the thing ended up in my next door neighbours yard, not my backyard like I previously stated. I'm sorry but it's a crucial element to the story and I don't want to go back and edit the first part out. Anyways, the cloth I put in the bomb went up in flames so fast I just panicked and lobbed it instantly without thinking. Come on, I’m not fucking Muhammed Atta here, I didn’t know if it was gonna blow up in my hands or if a genie was gonna pop out, I’m a dumb-ass fourteen year old stoner. In a split second decision not unlike the aforementioned one I hopped my fence and ran into my neighbours yard to retrieve the as of yet undetonated bomb. It was sitting right by their picnic bench. It was lunch time, nobody seemed to be home so I wasn't freaking out. I pick up the bomb ever so delicately and toss it like a grenade circa 1941. In the air the flaming concoction looks like it will finally clear the fence and I can round the bases for a two run dinger. I had to throw it about twenty yards. My bomb floated through the air as if in slow motion. But what happens? I hit the fence about a foot from the top. A foot away from hall of fame glory. It just ain’t like the movies kids.
So then I frantically hop the fence back into my yard, run up to the still flaming IED and lob it overhead into the German bunker OR somewhere around the middle of Charlais Blvd. But talk about an anti-climax. It could have been two week old piss in that bottle the way it just shattered. No heaven full of vigrins for me. I did not slay any infidels. The impact of the bottle on the street extinguished the flame BUT the damage had been done. Some fucking douche bag, the stock boy from the grocery store across the street happened to witness the attack (yeah, I lived directly across the street from a plaza complete with a bar, grocery store, etc, etc, so it made the stunt that much more stupid unless I hatched a plan to kill any and all potential witnesses).
Like drunken monkeys trying to solve a Soduku puzzle we scrambled back into my house and made our way back to school. You see, all this took place during lunch hour. Nowadays, if I tried the same stunt the U.S. would want to extradite me to Gitmo and accuse me of being a teen genius who made top-notch IED’s and in my spare time was working on an environmentally friendly Kidney Dialysis machine for Bin Laden that was user friendly in remote Afghani caves.
My buddies and I got the hell out of my house anticipating the fuzz any minute. Sure enough, as we were walking through a field just off my street we saw two cop cars whizzing towards my house. One of them had 'Sargeant' scrawled across the doors. Didn't even have sirens. Shit this must be serious. Just like dealers are always late when you need them cops are always early when you don't.
And I swear this is true...in addition to my little bomb dillema I had about two ounces of HEMP, yes HEMP that we picked from some field and thought we could sell to some suckers. Well my friends thought that we could sell it to suckers but I secretly thought about smoking it. This HEMP was in my locker and as we walked back to school I told my friend Justin to take it out and hang on to it because I feared the cops would want to search my locker for more bomb making materials. Okay so now that I have that out of the way....
I'm sitting in class and the speaker crackles to life: "Hello Mr. Soandso, can Taylor please come to the office immediately?"
"Ah shit," I thought, "Busted!" But acted like, "Who, me?". The jig was up.
In the principal's office there were two well dressed men in trench coats. One white, slightly overweight and bald the other a younger Asian guy with all his hair. I think he was Chinese but they all look the same I'll admit. I figured they were detectives but you couldn't really be sure, could have been hitmen for all I knew. They started in with the questions. I was nervous, I'll also admit that. I pulled the old con card, DENY! DENY! DENY!
"What?" I said incredulously, "Someone threw a Molotov Cocktail onto Charlais Blvd? I hope no one got hurt," I somehow managed to say with a straight face.
"Were you at home during your lunch hour?" The Asian detective asked me. "Oh yeah, I was at home all by myself at lunch."
"Uh-hum. Well we have a witness, a neighbour, who says she saw you and three friends leaving your house moments after the incident."
I was caught in my lie, we both knew it. Cops like it when you admit the truth after you lie to them. "Yeah, sorry I was lying, my friends were with me. I just didn't want to get them in any trouble."
"I understand, I understand. What's going to happen know is we're going to go back to the station and ask you some more questions, okay?"
"Well I guess I don't really have a choice do I?"
With that the three of us got up and they asked me to put my hands behing my back. Getting cuffed makes you feel ten feet tall. I'm the MAN, I'm IMPORTANT, I'm DANGEROUS, I command RESPECT OR I WILL FUCK YOU UP. But really it was quite embarassing. They dragged me through the halls just after class ended and though one of the detectives neatly folded his jacket over my hands to conceal the handcuffs it was a dead give away to my classmates because I had these two well dressed adults walking right behind me and my hands are behind my back. Yeah...looked real natural. Nothing to worrry about guys, they're just my two interacial dads--now hurry up and get to class.
As I said before my punishment was to write two essays. Why two essays and not one longer one I'll never know. The actual charges were POSSESSION OF AN EXPLOSIVE SUBSTANCE.
That concludes my career as a terrorist.
I had a nervous breakdown once--and only once--if you want the Gods honest truth. It wasn't even that bad, but it was sad and painful nonetheless; A wake up call, perhaps. Yes, a wake up call to take prescription drugs to avoid working through any mental and emotional problems.
It happened after a party in January of this year and I simply couldn't function the next day as a human being. Incapable of the perfunctory routines of an urban man I found myself lying in bed not unlike Brian Wilson did. "Taylor, man! pull yourself together," A voice screamed in my head. "Boil an egg, you moron!"
The previous night I had drank RIVERS of beer and snorted an AVALANCHE of cocaine. There was a burlesque dancer at the party. Before her show we were on the front porch and she just finished a cigarette and pulled another one right out and gave it a lit. I've always told myself to be careful of those types; can't control their addictions. I love smoking, the act of it, the feel of the smoke in my lungs, exhaling it through my nostrils but I've never been able to smoke two cigarettes in a row. I have to wait. When you wait it tastes that much better. One needs to play certain games in this world to stay afloat, to stay sane. I will get addicted to substances and then torture myself by witholding the drug (in a teasing way, of course) until I finally acquiesce to my desires. So anyways this dance turned out to be what I was expecting, bending and slithering over a chair, the men whooping it up. She had tassles on her nipples and when she swirled her breasts they are supposed to go round and round and hypnotize you, I suppose. Mesmerizing.
I thought I'd give the tassle trick a go myself. I've got some man boobage. Actually, I have the breasts of a twelve year old girl. Girls! What do they think? I, a man, can't do what they can do? Shit, I can do it and then some. So upon exiting the washroom after just snorting Blue Mountain in January, I peeled off my shirt and exclaimed, "Hey, lemme give those tassles a twirl, honey." (Case in point of under thinking).
She got out the necessary glue and held them in place for a minute on my nips. The rest was up to me. I tried in vain to get the rhythm and momentum to keep the tassles spinning but I couldn't do it. I kept at it but the damn things just went from side to side, not round and round. I failed yet again, but at the very least I can scratch that off my bucket list.
Around 3am I lied down for a few hours of agonizing sleeping non-sleep. Thoughts racing mad all over the place. Nonsense, just never ending nonsensical thoughts piling on top of each other crumbling and building up again only to pile up to the same height as before and then crumble to rubble ad infinitum. Sisyphus, you got a smoke, buddy? Well that seemed to sober me up enough to drive home. Hadn't had a drop for a few hours. My mind cleared up and I didn't have any coke donuts caked around my nostrils. All that's left is to sneak out of the house while everyone else is passed out or shacked up...
I figure that I've been in about fifteen accidents in my life (most minor with no damage, but a couple major ones with lots of damage) but never, and I retype, NEVER did I get in a wreck while drinking. What kind of fool doesn't keep riding a hot streak? I ride my hot streak in a silver Chevy Cavalier circa 2001, thank you very much.
If they made drinking and driving an Olympic event there would be no doubt, I'd bring home some hardware. I'm the best drunk driver in this shit-stinking world! I'd make you proud Canada! I can just picture myself on the gold podium weeping, waving holding a bouquet of flowers. I would struggle through the jungle course but make up for it on the city course complete with pedestrians and cops roaming the streets.
Speaking of being proud I AM proud to say that I have not once gotten into my car while drunk since that night almost a year ago. Oprah, cue the gentle applause. I imagine my therapist would tell me it's good to be proud of myself if I had one (self or therapy?). Drunk driving seems to be the one bad habit I've successfully defeated.
The act of getting into a motor vehicle while intoxicated hasn't changed much since the 20's or 30's. Punishment used to be a slap on the wrist. The sheriff in town pulls you over and you both have a good chuckle about it, and you're sent on your way with a wink and a nod, "Drive home safe now, Mr. Nezbit." But now it's like you raped a toddler. After seven beers and half a bottle of wine, I get behind that wheel and the MAN would have you believe I'm some nutty Jihad fella, but really I'm just a silly old corksucker. Plus, I have really good eye hand coordination; I would win a medal, remember? If a sweet old lady or a woman with a stroller pops out of nowhere you can count on me to swerve out of the way at the very last second as she gasps in horror, "No, not without my baby!" And while smoking with NO hands NO less.
I'm almost home, I can practically taste the sweet relief of solitude, then, seemingly out of nowhere, a priest and a rabbi start crossing the street. 5:30 in the morning, too. Very strange. The good lord upstairs must have sent out the Bat signal. If they don't move I'll splatter their god fearing guts all over my windshield. Catholic and Jew parts all mixed up like some divine Frankenstein. I'm going at least 90k; my car slices through the night, through the fog. I slam my palm onto the horn, one long blast to distill the silence. Could have woke God himself up. They both look at me, horrified with the realization that this is it--their final moment. Though they are spiritual men, or maybe because they are, their bodies cannot move out of the way as fast as their minds can.
My lungs involuntarily lob out a sream and I slam on the brakes, but I know it's too late, the laws of gravity, cause and effect, are a real bitch at times like these. The priest and rabbi hit my front end and roll up the hood to make two distinct imprints into the broken glass of my windshield. The priest was slightly larger though, more cracked glass and a heavier thud on the pavement. The car finally comes to a screeching halt. I frantically clammer to get through the bubble of my airbag and out the door. There on the street, plain as day among the shattered glass are two bodies lying still in severe injury or death. Rivulets of rouge coat the streets. I wipe my nose with the cuff of my jacket, spit a thick one on to the ground, and try to make sense of it all. My car is a write off, smoke billowing out of from the hood adding another thick coating of fog into the night. I had to split on my own two feet and fast. They'll never catch ME though. I won't rot away in some prison. I'm going out on my terms. No warden's going to get an ounce of my soul or body. I'll never mop their dirty death row floors.
In the wreckage I noticed A small hardcover book, ancient looking like it could be appraised on Antiques Roadshow, was lying between the two bodies. For whatever reason I grabbed it, and fled the scene. Who knows, maybe worth something some day even though I'm suddenly running out of days.
I ran all the way to my apartment, got my guitar, got some clothes, got my passport, and got the hell out of there. Now where to? I know the man I AM is busted, my car left right at the scene and all. Not even F. Lee Bailey can get me out of this one. The law won't even send Colombo. This ain't no whodunnit, after all.
I have to get out of the country and start again. Create a new identity in a foreign land somewhere far far away...
I always wanted to see Los Angeles. Cops in cars, the topless bars. Never saw a twenty first century man-PUSSY so alone, SO ALONE! I have read many books set in L.A., I should at least see what all the words are about. IF I'm going to create a new identity what better place to do it than the land of make believe? Palm trees, BMW's in the sun. Looking out from the hills; a city of lights humming in the smog. That's the movie star view, right? But what I was always more interested in was the seedier side of Hollywood--the low lifes and bums--the degenerates hustling for a buck--because that's what I FEEL like, doc! That's who I identify with. The Hollywood of Bukowski, Tony O'Neill, John and Dan Fante. What do ya make A that, doc? Just another middle class white kid who has it all, has the world by the balls, but discards it in favor of the gutter view. Regality does not suit me very well.
I can't wait to take ironic pictures with my two thumbs up, crouching down in front of obscure stars on the walk of fame, like Za Su Pitts. I also can't wait to take a hot one Phil Spitalny's star.
L.A. it is then! A basin in the sun. I heard some news story recently that there are a shit load more stars in the universe than previously thought. L.A. is the only place in the universe you can see a star, a real bright one, covered in cocaine and puke in a bathroom stall.
I got a cab to take me to the airport...
On the plane I started slamming beers and by the time we landed I was quite drunk. I think my new identity was kicking in for I almost forgot my own name. the paranoia was dulled by the alcohol and I didn't give three fucks, two shits, or one good goddamn if these were my last moments of freedom or what. That, my fellow humans is the beauty of alcohol; puts it all in perspective.
While outside I gulped in my first breaths of La La Land and hailed cab. I threw my back pack and guitar in the trunk and settled into the back seat. Even though I'd never been to Hollywood I knew exactly where I was going. "Take me to Beachwood Canyon, my friend," I slurred.
I cruised by neighborhoods, palm tree fronds whizzing past shimmering in the sun. Endless sprawl, endless nameless faces. Every big city's the same. Humans shuffling around going some place with so much purpose, they all look like they're clammering to get away from each other only to run into more and more.
I always loved palm trees and L.A. is full of them. Short, stocky thick ones, or those really tall pencil neck ones that careen into the sky. I don't even know why I love them so much but if I could be a tree it would definitely be one of the palm variety.
But there's no time to become a palm tree...
Here I am in my last moments. Why bother trying to run, create a new life, I'm defeated, I can barely do my laundry for chrissakes. How am I going to put together this Bourne Identity type of guy? Though I'm in Hollywood this ain't like the movies, kid. Plain and simple, I'm a killer--in a vehicular sort of way. Only a matter of hours before the law gets to me; to stay one step ahead for the rest of my days, it seems too taxing. I don't have many options left, prison not being one of them. I remember a guy I once knew, a drinking buddy, Mel, who told me what jail was like when he did a Loonie in Maplehurst. He was in for punching a cop after they provoked him into violence by repeatedly slamming his head against the brick wall of his house. It all started with a noise complaint or something trivial like that. He warned the officer holding his head that if he did it again he was going to pop him. The cop snickered to his buddies and gave him another SLAM. Mel turned around and socked him good right in the cheek. He was seeing STARS. He staggered to his feet only with the help of two more cop buddies. All five or six of them then joined in and kicked and clubbed Mel until he couldn't walk right for a month. All in the name of justice.
The cab dropped me off at the top of a hill. I tipped large. When you have no time left, it is easy to wriggle out of the trappings of man--money, women, big houses, competition. It's OH so liberating to finally be free from it all. Though I didn't want to die, my mind was calm and lucid.
There was a convenient hole in the fence surrounding the "HoLLyWooD" sign and I crept through. I had my guitar on my back, my backpack in my left hand and climbed the wrungs on the back of the 'H' with my right. Once on top I pulled out my guitar and marvelled at the view. Is this what Peg Entwistle saw before she leaped to her death? Another broken star.
I tuned up and began playing, "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" as my last song. It was simply the first song to pop into my head. Fitting perhaps.
"Dragon clouds so high above
I've only known careless love
It's always hit me from below..."
And with that I took a step forward into the great starry night, into the abyss. I began falling, hurdling down to the ravine at the bottom of the hill, all the while still playing guitar no less.
The next day some hikers stumbled upon my body, the debris of my guitar and the belongings in my backpack which were strewn about the scene.
"Hey, Laurie, check this old book out..."
And upon opening it,
This is what
Saturday, September 18, 2010
I swear, one of these days you Toronto women are really going to fuck up my insurance rates.
To the girls of Bloor St: I don't know what Dolce & Gabbana are telling you but it's working. The glossy magazines are whispering in your ear and you are listening. Well most of you anyway.
To the girls of Bloor St not listening: It's definitely more than okay, don't get me wrong. I like you just the way you are. I think I'm in love with the girlfriend of the man who works at the full serve Esso station by my apartment. She just sits there with aviator glasses on; her boyfriend pumps gas into all the expensive cars and it's reflected in her eyes. Every so often a jalopi will roll in and I think to myself, What is WRONG with the universe? But this girl, she just sits there reading and watching the world go by. And I don't want to change the world, I just want to watch it go by too. Why can't we watch it turn together? The world is turning, yes, but I hope it doesn't turn away.
To the homeless girl at the Hwy 427 and Dundas exit: I drive by you often, I presume you're homeless, or maybe you just hang out at the Hwy 427 Dundas St. exit. What a healthy looking German Shepherd to keep you company too. You're dressed in dirty jeans and an old t-shirt but I know there's a woman under there! I was looking for a sign, a placard reading "WILL FUCK TAYLOR FOR FOOD". I roll down my window and ask you and your dog to hop in. "Put the bitch in the back, honey," I say opening the door AND smoking a cigarette with no hands. All a man like me needs is to be left alone and a decent piece of ass once in a while.
"Sure, you can use my shower while I'm at work; and here's some money for dog food. Buy the good stuff," I say, on my way out leaving a twenty on the table. I bet she'd give me a good blowjob when I came home after a hard day's work at the office. Better chance her than YOU the blonde woman in the BMW. So in love with yourself, when having sex you're really just using a human dildo.
Around this time my fantasy turns on me and I'll be at work--I CAN'T STOP thinking that this goddamn homeless girl is hoofing my computer and guitar to buy CRACK.
And really, what is it with crack lately? In the 90's it was an epidemic in the projects, poor black men on Cops proclaiming, "Those are my keys, but THAT'S not my CRACK." Obviously that's still happening but now it's au couture. Now celebrities are sucking on the end of that glass pipe like they're trying to get a golf ball through a garden hose.
I am the BOBBLEHEAD of Bloor St. Craning my neck, mining for that one look, a fraction of a second alone with the outline of that ass to put it in the bank. We could be so good together--I'd wash your BMW on the weekends, scrub off all the grime. Shining hot to the touch glimmering in the noon day sun. It has all the bells and whistles, sometimes I wonder if the car isn't driving you.
We'd go out for dinner with Tom and Cindy and then home and I'd give it to you just the way you like it. Instead I'm eye-humping you in a black BMW; in the mind it plays like a cheap porno movie, my cock slicing into you. You just want more more MORE!
How sharper than a serpent's tooth the pain is to have the blonde woman in the BMW disappear down the road and out of my life and into this blog.
Come to think of it, a woman's career in Hollywood has the same arc as one in the WTA (Women's Tennis Association). It's ovah by thirty five. Unless you're Maryl Streep. Can you BELIEVE I actually enjoyed Julie & Julia? The whole time I was watching it I kept telling myself, "Taylor this is horseshit, don't fall for this smarmy tale of life and love and cooking and hope and relationships and love, oh I already mentioned love, and parenthood, and blogs, and terrorism, no not terrorism you fool, though one of the characters dealt with insurance claims from 9/11 victims but that's as far as it went into terrorism, and food, how could I forget the food? Remember when Amy Adams cooked that duck? Oh brother, what a love story.
I watched the movie with my parents; Mom thought it was just okay and Dad was dismissive as he should have been as a real man but I was all choked up. WTF (What The Fuck)? I think it had to do with the song at the end, Time After Time. That damn song by Sammy Cahn. I swallowed those tears like a man though. Fought 'em back like Ali in the 12th or Tyson in the 1st.
And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm
So lucky to be loving you, the blonde woman in the BMW.