If you're going to believe all the bull shit they're telling you about these SEALS than you're crazy as bat shit.
What I'm talking about is, I keep reading the phrase, "Bin Laden lunged for his weapon," and it doesn't seem plausible. I mean he must have had at the very least...minutes, if not a great many seconds considering his life is on the line to lunge/grab/pickup/brandish a weapon while the SEALS were clearing out the 1st and 2nd floors. Did he not hear the commotion? Did he not hear the Blackhawks? The gun fire? He must of had time to sit there cradling his AK like a despondent puppy, waiting for daddy to come take it away.
I'm no expert, obviously, because last time I checked there weren't any SEALS injured in the raid so OBL must not have been packing heat (a couple weeks later as more details emerge, it appears he was armed with two women). His gun was probably in the room somewhere but that's beside the point. This was a kill mission, pure and simple. Look at all the other occupants in the house: Left cuffed for the Pakistani cops to clean up the SEALS' mess. I can picture them showing up and seeing all these dead bodies and people cuffed and Osama's mastermind all over the floor and it was like the devil swept through the house and disappeared into the night.
How in the hell could America detain this megalomaniac and give him a trial, and a fair one at that? Shit, he got his trial alright and the judge was a red snapper. Don't some people just deserve to die anymore? I can think of ten people off the top of my head. Give me some time and eventually you'll end up on that list too. Don't you long for the good ol' days, not even that long ago, when folks were holding placards outside the prison where Ted Bundy was being executed that advertised Bundy Burgers?
I want a Bin Laden Burger and I want it now.
Personally, If I was Obam--I mean, cough cough, Osama, I would have popped out of the shower, toweling my hair and pretended like nothing was wrong, like one casual dude. "Bin Laden? Never heard of 'em," I'd say in a thick Texan twang. "I'm just another ex-pat in Abbottabad, pardner. A simple computer programmer, that's all I am. U-S-A---U-S-A--" BAP! BAP!---a bullet hits his chest and then a bullet hits his head just above his left eye and blows bits of his skull and brains out. Skrains maybe? Maybe not. Take it however you like. You could touch the brain matter and it would still be hot from the electricity of life, from being where it should be--in a head.
Does the brain think for a few seconds even though it's not in the head? I would think the brain would think, "Ohhh, I'm a brain, I'm so smaaart, I can solve problems and tell the body what to do, I control the body like a slave, but how am I going to get off the ground and back into my cozy head?"
I am just too fascinated with this story. I can't get over it. It's great reality TV. I watched an animated clip posted online by NBC, I believe. Goddamn thing was only a minute long. I want the whole raid animated. Is it that hard? It wasn't like the animation was top notch.
Now, there's even a video game where you can play any character. Can I play the courier? Please? Please? Or maybe a goat? Ah well, at least the courier fired a few rounds before the SEALS shuffled off his mortal coil. That must have been nice.
Unlike that jerkoff lead singer in Fallout Boy, Patrick Stump, who doesn't think that it's morally proper, or some such righteous catchphrase, to celebrate the death of OBL, I have a feeling in my gut which tells me to disagree. I only know about this Stump guy from reading a little blurb in the Entertainment section, and also his pseudo-mediocre music if I'm to be totally honest. It's certainly alarming that Patrick Stump from Fallout Boy is the go to guy for a quote about the death of the most wanted terrorist in the world. Perhaps more than the actual death of Bin Laden. I want to know what Gary the Retard thinks a hell of a lot more than Patrick Stump, don't you? Stick to churning out dried turds in hot dog buns for people to put shove in their ears, kid.
Stump and OB. Sounds like a hard hitting Fox News Show. Fridays at 9pm.
How about the SEAL who grabbed the woman and pulled her away from the other SEALS when they entered the room containing OBL so that he could absorb the blast if she was wearing a vest. He will gladly accept total annihilation for his brothers. A lot of people talk the talk but it's a hell of a lonely walk. I can only grasp at the mental fortitude required of a SEAL.
On second thought, maybe I am a hero. I squash a centipede in my bedroom and I think, how dare he mess with the king of Nezbitland? I rule with an iron fist. My giant swatter doles out justice! I stamp out any revolution against the Nezbit government before it begins! Damn the rebels! There will be no change! The streets will run with blood if the infidels attempt to overrun me! Dictator Nezbit will not tolerate insubordination in his homeland!
Some of the centipedes' many legs were stuck to the wall, writhing like a fiver in the greasy fingers of an old timer down on pervert row.
The gall!
Spiders, too beware. There was once a huge monster of a beast right outside my bathroom window. He was always there waiting for me every night when I took a shower. Always flinched when I turned on the taps, too. He was a sensitive one, that spider. I couldn't get at him though; he was just outside the gates of Nezbitland. It appeared as those he hovered in mid air, this leader of the rebels. Big Daddy I called him. Come rain, wind, hell or high water there he was. I had fantasies of my own reconnaisance kill mission...
I consulted with my top officials and we resolved to purchase insect repellant that shot a massive concentrated spray. You see, my screens are permanently in place, I cannot open them and use my giant swatter. Unlike the Bin Laden raid where the intelligence had a high percentage of probability that he was inside that compound, I knew 100% damn well this sonofabitch was right outside and there was fuck all I could do. I pressed my mouth to the screen and gave a good long blow but that only made Big Daddy mad. I didn't want to piss him off. I wanted him to give him the illusion of safety until I attempted an ambush.
I never did get the repellant that shot the fire hose of death (general apathy maybe?) and Big Daddy just kept living the dream, taunting me with his very existence outside of my gates. This Cold War lasted six months. I mean I only saw or was near him for ten minutes every night as I showered and then I forgot about him, so that can explain the lack of initiative. The plans got lost in the bureaucracy of the Nezbitland government and I as ruler, unlike Obama, never pulled the trigger on the operation.
Then one day Big Daddy just disappeared and I never saw him again. I had long ago incorporated him into my routine and was now neurotic that he wasn't there. Now....I didn't know where he was. Big Daddy has escaped! Sound the alarms! I put Nezbitland under a nine o'clock curfew and checked all the nooks and crannies in my bathroom. Has the hunter become the hunted?
One of the funnier headlines in recent days, was "Disney wants to trademark Bin Laden killers."
When they go after Al Qaeda's number two man, Ayman Al Zawahiri, the SEALS will have Mickey Mouse ears on their helmets.
I wait for the day.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Man Who Clapped Too Loud
(The following events took place in Apr of '09)
It has been exactly one week since I marched into the doctors office knowing the worst was yet to come. It has been exactly two weeks since Rene broke up with me.
She was a beautiful blonde haired girl of twenty one that I was dating. Had all the right measurements. Smart, artistic, rich parents, lived in a suburban palatial estate in Georgetown, complete with her own basement apartment and separate entrance. She out drank me and we fucked like rabbits. Life was too good.
The first time we had sex I came over to her place for dinner. I only knew her a few days at this point. On the night we first met there was an intense makeout session on my friend's porch and I masterbated in front of her (at her request, of course). This was at 4am, but a nosy neighbour decided to take his dog out for a walk and that put a stop to that before I could finish. Even though I was in a drunken stupor there was still an ounce or two of shame as I bent down to pick up my pants which were around my knees. Then there was the additional shame of having a raging hard on as I did this. I really had to pull my pants UP and OUT to zip up! I was standing there with a goofy look on my face and this cock monster pressing against my jeans, sticking out like a broken bone. It was getting late and she had art class or something in the morning so I drove her home and we made a date for the next night.
I brought condoms and a bottle of wine to our first dinner. I didn't show her the condoms though, I'm a gentleman. After we ate her carefully prepared veggie samosas and garden salad we started going at it and oh boy! It was hot.
We moved to her bedroom and proceeded to tear our clothes off--and it wasn't to play doctor. My heart was racing, my head was spinning. I hadn't had sex for a year, and when you wait that long you fear that the shooter won't work or you'll pump once and explode--something's bound to going to go wrong. What if I couldn't perform up to this lovely young woman's standards? There was only one way to find out. Somehow I stopped kissing her long enough to suggest that I had a pack of condoms. Real suave.
I thought I was being sexually responsible but she was some care free hippie girl. "I don't want to use a condom, it feels better without one, no? I'm clean, I just got tested like six months ago," she said.
"Yeah, I'm definitely clean too," I said. "I was tested recently." I just met this girl a few days ago and already my first lie. I guess there was one good thing about not getting laid in a year: 100% disease free!
Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, gee, a lot can happen in six months but my judgement was clouded with passion and I was all in.
I sliced into Rene (stayharddon'tcumstayharddon'tcumstayhard) and we quickly found our rhythm. The greatest feeling is when you allay the sexual fears within; then one can sit back and enjoy the natural pleasure of a woman's flesh. Instantly Rene and myself had great sexual chemistry and our love making turned into a Dionysian frenzy. I Put one of her legs up and hit that hip bone like it owed me money. "Shuuush..." Rene whispered, "We have to be quiet, my Mom's upstairs."
Be quiet at a time like this? It was near impossible. I slowed down a little but I was building up to climax so to hell with her Mom and all her rules about being quiet. I can't help that your daughter is a beautiful nymph with an ass that could stop traffic. You know, one day subnormal worms and gophers and other underground creatures will be feasting on my skull and then where did those rules get you? And besides, this was a huge dream house like the ones given away on that t.v. show with that guy who has the amazingly techni-coloured pretty boy hair. Anytime you see a guy with a $75 haircut with all the bells and whistles you can guarantee he's a douche with a soul like barndung. I hope he goes bald. I need him in my life like a barricuda needs a bike. But anyways, back to the story...
I was so proud of myself. I finished on Rene's stomach like a good little boy and we bathed in post coital sunshine.
"I bet you want to sleep over, huh?" She said, sensing my desire. Read my mind.
"Su--" I was about to answer, "But you can't, my Mom won't let guys sleep over."
I slipped out her screen door and took a cab back to my friend's place where I was staying that night. The perfect date. I laid in bed and kept replaying the night over and over, her moans of pleasure reverberating through my head. "Still got it, kid," I thought to myself. This is what living's all about, baby!
For some reason, after a month of dating, she didn't want to see me any more. She was always over at my place, neglecting her friends, her school, getting drunk and having sex with ME. She came to her senses. She cut me off so suddenly, with no warning, I was ill prepared. My heart fell into my feet and my head into my hands. She said I was a bad influence; that I brought out the destructive side in her after she just got cleaned up. Baby, I was thinking the same thing, but give me some honesty to chew on.
I quietly took my seat in the waiting room, leafed through an old fashion magazine, looking for women that resembled Rene. I was called in after just a few minutes; an unusually slow day.
“Taylor!” The nurse exclaimed to the mostly empty room, and to this day I still feel slightly awkward hearing the sound of my name. Taylor Nezbit. It’s kind of a pussy name isn’t it? Not something luxurious and suave that rolls of the tongue like Rock Hudson now is it? Even though the man is gay as the day is long, hell of a masculine name isn‘t it? I go into the doctor's office and sit and wait some more. My eyes are fixed on the bland décor consisting of ‘sunset landscapes’ and ‘wild animals staring into the distance’. Nice touch.
Dr. Grant comes in and we make some small talk--turns out he used to live with his immaculately perfect family (pictures on his desk tell me so) in the same neighbourhood as I now reside in--The Kingsway. He I'm sure occupied one of the stately homes directly to my north, not one of the low rise apartment buildings right on Bloor St in my own personal hell.
After the small talk we got down to business. Now the questions that I’ve been waiting to pop for about a week are going to be answered (that’s how long it took to get a goddamn appointment). Now that I had my moment it didn't feel right, the whole situation felt funny. “So, I...uhh have had to pry my penis hole open every day for the last week when I want pee. I grab the head of my penis with my index finger and thumb and pull it open with a pincer grip; and once, the other day, there was the littlest speck of blood right in the tip. BUT, just a little down there means a lot, right? I have no discharge but there is a slight pain and uncomfortable feeling. It just looks a little bit swollen inside there,” I said--'there'--being the INSIDE OF MY FUCKING COCK!
It’s not Halloween but that’s scary stuff. Getting a disease in your brain or your cock has got to be the worst. So the doc gets up and says, “This is going to be torture. Drop ‘em!” I knew exactly where this situation was going.
I had to drop my drawers and lay down on my back. He was putting on the gloves. Nothing good comes when the doctor puts on the gloves. I shudder to think. I’m laying on my back and nervously laughing and panting as he gripped my flaccid member (with a pincer grip), “ha..ah..ha.ah..ha...Just give me a second to mentally prepare doc!”
He didn't wait. This is our health system at work. It's a whole fucking sack full of swift medical justice let me tell ya. He stuck some kind of swab about an inch down into my penis and I let out the yelp of a lifetime. “AHHH!!!” The scream only lasted but a second and it was done, but let me tell you, everyone in that waiting room heard this beastly wail of mine. The nurses too. "Just another clap test," they’d say as they passed each other in the halls.
Boy it was painful. Like getting pierced or like a bee stinging the inside of your pipe. I hope my worst enemy doesn’t have to go through that. I hope they go through much worse but that is neither here nor there.
I was worried there would be a week delay before I got the results of the swab and this disease, whatever it was, would be left to fester inside me. I was actually getting worked up the night before, "I know I have a goddamn STD, I don't want to wait for your goddman tests to tell me!" I pictured myself yelling at Dr. Grant. But that was not the case.
“Taylor, you have Chlamydia. It's common, don't worry. I’m going to prescribe these pills; take them all at once. There’s four small ones and one big one. The big one stays in your system for ten days.”
How easy is that? Medicine takes care of our problems so we don’t have to. Sounds good to me, doc! I mean seriously, kids look at what happens when you get Chlamydia: You go home and take these four small pills and one large pill. All at once, not one this day, two tomorrow. There’s no routine involved--just gulp ‘em down. I gulped mine down with red wine. That Chlamydia will be gone in a week!
It really is quite a benign disease in the grand scheme of things. Not like genital warts which lasts forever or, obviously the HIV, so I think I lucked out. Chlamydia is the most common says my doctor. See, I’m educating myself too. I look at it like this: In the family of STD’s the Clap is the favourite uncle who always gives you the coolest birthday presents compared to HIV who is your absent father who sodomizes you and says he’ll never do it again but after a few months does it again anyways and now you‘re caught in a vicious cycle. Kind of like that. If you’re forced to choose...I mean come on it’s a no-brainer.
The real drama began when I left the doctors office. I swear I was almost happy getting the Clap so I had an excuse to call Rene. Yes, getting the Clap was just a simple worthwhile excuse to call and hear her voice. If I didn't know what love was, it was definitely something like that.
She seemed mildly surprised when I called and told her. Well to be fair, she called me (because I texted her first when she wouldn’t answer her phone). I texted that I had to tell her something ‘important about our health’. What the fuck could that be she must have been thinking when she called five minutes later.
“Hey, how’s it going?” She said in a slightly friendly, slightly detached voice. I couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or just didn’t give a fuck about talking to me anymore. Maybe she didn’t think twice, but it’s alright.
“Well, it’s going okay I suppose. I only want to rip my fucking eyeballs out, chew them up and spit them out at passerbys. I’ve been falling down drunk and high on blow, smoking like a chimney the last two weeks. Everything reminds me of you. I just want to obliterate any memory of you. I think that if only I didn’t go to the bar that night I would never have met you. If only my friends and I left and I never approached you and commented on your jacket. Sometimes I can’t even eat. You believe that? I haven’t felt like this since I was a teenager. I would still fuck you even though you have the Clap. Hey I have it now too so who fucking cares? Heck, I’d still fuck you even if I was clean and I knew you were poisoned. I just can’t get enough of you. I just can’t get you out of my head and no I will not make a Kylie Minogue reference here. How did it come to this? From a soaring peak to a cold hard rock (Hudson?) bottom. How’s that generic tramp stamp on your back going to look in thirty years when you got a cigarette hanging from your mouth, a bottle of Jack in your hand, and a dick up your ass? You're only twenty one and you've already sat on a mile of cock. You’ve been with--and I quote--twenty-five to thirty guys. Twenty five TO thirty? You actually gave me a five person range. It could be twenty six but it could very well be twenty nine. That’s disgusting, and you’re a disgusting vile girl. May you go blind and become infertile from the Chlamydia that you infected me with.”
“It’s going okay,” I muttered instead.
“I have something kind of important to tell you.”
“Oh, okay.” She said.
“Yeah I think you should go to a clinic and get checked out because I think I got something from you. The doctor said it was Chlamydia.”
Jackpot!
I just laid it out there--it was the loudest silence for but a second, right after I dropped the C bomb. I’ve been waiting for that screaming silence all week. She really wasn’t too phased by the whole thing. Damn, cold as ice.
Obviously, she was a little shocked: “I’m going to go to the doctor tomorrow.” Then she mentioned that she was going to have to make a few awkward calls tomorrow to the--ahem--two guys she thinks infected her. Who fucking knows if that’s true or not; I try not to even think about those little details.
It’s ovahh! We exchanged a few pleasantries about how we find this whole situation funny in our dark little way.
"You sure do have bad taste in men," I said and it was the second last time I heard her laugh. The last time I heard her laugh was when I asked her: "Does a group of people in a room together who all have the Clap constitute as applause?"
I just wish we could enjoy the laughter together instead of the tears...well, my tears. There was a change in the way she spoke to me, a terrible finality during that last call. It can never go back, the spell has been broken. She'll never look at me again with those green eyes and flash a coy smile. Everyday that seeps into the past we get farther and farther away from getting back the magic we had. That’s the lingering sadness now some month and a half since our break-up. Why, oh WHY does it have to end (screaming on my knees with outstretched hands). I don't want it to end Mommy!
Why do relationships die? Two people make an investment together on a long shot and sooner or later one of the parties wants to cash out. Is it better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all? A question of the ages. I'll let the Immortal Bard sort that one out. In this case I can, at this moment, say that I wish I never met Rene. Now I try to forget but trying to forget is impossible so I give in to the thoughts and exhaust them until they have no raw nerve endings left--they’re fried. I’m starting to feel the heal of time and it itches. What is a person to do but drink and smoke the pain away (scratching) until some other lucky lass hitches her wagon to mine and the whole process begins anew.
It has been exactly one week since I marched into the doctors office knowing the worst was yet to come. It has been exactly two weeks since Rene broke up with me.
She was a beautiful blonde haired girl of twenty one that I was dating. Had all the right measurements. Smart, artistic, rich parents, lived in a suburban palatial estate in Georgetown, complete with her own basement apartment and separate entrance. She out drank me and we fucked like rabbits. Life was too good.
The first time we had sex I came over to her place for dinner. I only knew her a few days at this point. On the night we first met there was an intense makeout session on my friend's porch and I masterbated in front of her (at her request, of course). This was at 4am, but a nosy neighbour decided to take his dog out for a walk and that put a stop to that before I could finish. Even though I was in a drunken stupor there was still an ounce or two of shame as I bent down to pick up my pants which were around my knees. Then there was the additional shame of having a raging hard on as I did this. I really had to pull my pants UP and OUT to zip up! I was standing there with a goofy look on my face and this cock monster pressing against my jeans, sticking out like a broken bone. It was getting late and she had art class or something in the morning so I drove her home and we made a date for the next night.
I brought condoms and a bottle of wine to our first dinner. I didn't show her the condoms though, I'm a gentleman. After we ate her carefully prepared veggie samosas and garden salad we started going at it and oh boy! It was hot.
We moved to her bedroom and proceeded to tear our clothes off--and it wasn't to play doctor. My heart was racing, my head was spinning. I hadn't had sex for a year, and when you wait that long you fear that the shooter won't work or you'll pump once and explode--something's bound to going to go wrong. What if I couldn't perform up to this lovely young woman's standards? There was only one way to find out. Somehow I stopped kissing her long enough to suggest that I had a pack of condoms. Real suave.
I thought I was being sexually responsible but she was some care free hippie girl. "I don't want to use a condom, it feels better without one, no? I'm clean, I just got tested like six months ago," she said.
"Yeah, I'm definitely clean too," I said. "I was tested recently." I just met this girl a few days ago and already my first lie. I guess there was one good thing about not getting laid in a year: 100% disease free!
Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, gee, a lot can happen in six months but my judgement was clouded with passion and I was all in.
I sliced into Rene (stayharddon'tcumstayharddon'tcumstayhard) and we quickly found our rhythm. The greatest feeling is when you allay the sexual fears within; then one can sit back and enjoy the natural pleasure of a woman's flesh. Instantly Rene and myself had great sexual chemistry and our love making turned into a Dionysian frenzy. I Put one of her legs up and hit that hip bone like it owed me money. "Shuuush..." Rene whispered, "We have to be quiet, my Mom's upstairs."
Be quiet at a time like this? It was near impossible. I slowed down a little but I was building up to climax so to hell with her Mom and all her rules about being quiet. I can't help that your daughter is a beautiful nymph with an ass that could stop traffic. You know, one day subnormal worms and gophers and other underground creatures will be feasting on my skull and then where did those rules get you? And besides, this was a huge dream house like the ones given away on that t.v. show with that guy who has the amazingly techni-coloured pretty boy hair. Anytime you see a guy with a $75 haircut with all the bells and whistles you can guarantee he's a douche with a soul like barndung. I hope he goes bald. I need him in my life like a barricuda needs a bike. But anyways, back to the story...
I was so proud of myself. I finished on Rene's stomach like a good little boy and we bathed in post coital sunshine.
"I bet you want to sleep over, huh?" She said, sensing my desire. Read my mind.
"Su--" I was about to answer, "But you can't, my Mom won't let guys sleep over."
I slipped out her screen door and took a cab back to my friend's place where I was staying that night. The perfect date. I laid in bed and kept replaying the night over and over, her moans of pleasure reverberating through my head. "Still got it, kid," I thought to myself. This is what living's all about, baby!
For some reason, after a month of dating, she didn't want to see me any more. She was always over at my place, neglecting her friends, her school, getting drunk and having sex with ME. She came to her senses. She cut me off so suddenly, with no warning, I was ill prepared. My heart fell into my feet and my head into my hands. She said I was a bad influence; that I brought out the destructive side in her after she just got cleaned up. Baby, I was thinking the same thing, but give me some honesty to chew on.
I quietly took my seat in the waiting room, leafed through an old fashion magazine, looking for women that resembled Rene. I was called in after just a few minutes; an unusually slow day.
“Taylor!” The nurse exclaimed to the mostly empty room, and to this day I still feel slightly awkward hearing the sound of my name. Taylor Nezbit. It’s kind of a pussy name isn’t it? Not something luxurious and suave that rolls of the tongue like Rock Hudson now is it? Even though the man is gay as the day is long, hell of a masculine name isn‘t it? I go into the doctor's office and sit and wait some more. My eyes are fixed on the bland décor consisting of ‘sunset landscapes’ and ‘wild animals staring into the distance’. Nice touch.
Dr. Grant comes in and we make some small talk--turns out he used to live with his immaculately perfect family (pictures on his desk tell me so) in the same neighbourhood as I now reside in--The Kingsway. He I'm sure occupied one of the stately homes directly to my north, not one of the low rise apartment buildings right on Bloor St in my own personal hell.
After the small talk we got down to business. Now the questions that I’ve been waiting to pop for about a week are going to be answered (that’s how long it took to get a goddamn appointment). Now that I had my moment it didn't feel right, the whole situation felt funny. “So, I...uhh have had to pry my penis hole open every day for the last week when I want pee. I grab the head of my penis with my index finger and thumb and pull it open with a pincer grip; and once, the other day, there was the littlest speck of blood right in the tip. BUT, just a little down there means a lot, right? I have no discharge but there is a slight pain and uncomfortable feeling. It just looks a little bit swollen inside there,” I said--'there'--being the INSIDE OF MY FUCKING COCK!
It’s not Halloween but that’s scary stuff. Getting a disease in your brain or your cock has got to be the worst. So the doc gets up and says, “This is going to be torture. Drop ‘em!” I knew exactly where this situation was going.
I had to drop my drawers and lay down on my back. He was putting on the gloves. Nothing good comes when the doctor puts on the gloves. I shudder to think. I’m laying on my back and nervously laughing and panting as he gripped my flaccid member (with a pincer grip), “ha..ah..ha.ah..ha...Just give me a second to mentally prepare doc!”
He didn't wait. This is our health system at work. It's a whole fucking sack full of swift medical justice let me tell ya. He stuck some kind of swab about an inch down into my penis and I let out the yelp of a lifetime. “AHHH!!!” The scream only lasted but a second and it was done, but let me tell you, everyone in that waiting room heard this beastly wail of mine. The nurses too. "Just another clap test," they’d say as they passed each other in the halls.
Boy it was painful. Like getting pierced or like a bee stinging the inside of your pipe. I hope my worst enemy doesn’t have to go through that. I hope they go through much worse but that is neither here nor there.
I was worried there would be a week delay before I got the results of the swab and this disease, whatever it was, would be left to fester inside me. I was actually getting worked up the night before, "I know I have a goddamn STD, I don't want to wait for your goddman tests to tell me!" I pictured myself yelling at Dr. Grant. But that was not the case.
“Taylor, you have Chlamydia. It's common, don't worry. I’m going to prescribe these pills; take them all at once. There’s four small ones and one big one. The big one stays in your system for ten days.”
How easy is that? Medicine takes care of our problems so we don’t have to. Sounds good to me, doc! I mean seriously, kids look at what happens when you get Chlamydia: You go home and take these four small pills and one large pill. All at once, not one this day, two tomorrow. There’s no routine involved--just gulp ‘em down. I gulped mine down with red wine. That Chlamydia will be gone in a week!
It really is quite a benign disease in the grand scheme of things. Not like genital warts which lasts forever or, obviously the HIV, so I think I lucked out. Chlamydia is the most common says my doctor. See, I’m educating myself too. I look at it like this: In the family of STD’s the Clap is the favourite uncle who always gives you the coolest birthday presents compared to HIV who is your absent father who sodomizes you and says he’ll never do it again but after a few months does it again anyways and now you‘re caught in a vicious cycle. Kind of like that. If you’re forced to choose...I mean come on it’s a no-brainer.
The real drama began when I left the doctors office. I swear I was almost happy getting the Clap so I had an excuse to call Rene. Yes, getting the Clap was just a simple worthwhile excuse to call and hear her voice. If I didn't know what love was, it was definitely something like that.
She seemed mildly surprised when I called and told her. Well to be fair, she called me (because I texted her first when she wouldn’t answer her phone). I texted that I had to tell her something ‘important about our health’. What the fuck could that be she must have been thinking when she called five minutes later.
“Hey, how’s it going?” She said in a slightly friendly, slightly detached voice. I couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or just didn’t give a fuck about talking to me anymore. Maybe she didn’t think twice, but it’s alright.
“Well, it’s going okay I suppose. I only want to rip my fucking eyeballs out, chew them up and spit them out at passerbys. I’ve been falling down drunk and high on blow, smoking like a chimney the last two weeks. Everything reminds me of you. I just want to obliterate any memory of you. I think that if only I didn’t go to the bar that night I would never have met you. If only my friends and I left and I never approached you and commented on your jacket. Sometimes I can’t even eat. You believe that? I haven’t felt like this since I was a teenager. I would still fuck you even though you have the Clap. Hey I have it now too so who fucking cares? Heck, I’d still fuck you even if I was clean and I knew you were poisoned. I just can’t get enough of you. I just can’t get you out of my head and no I will not make a Kylie Minogue reference here. How did it come to this? From a soaring peak to a cold hard rock (Hudson?) bottom. How’s that generic tramp stamp on your back going to look in thirty years when you got a cigarette hanging from your mouth, a bottle of Jack in your hand, and a dick up your ass? You're only twenty one and you've already sat on a mile of cock. You’ve been with--and I quote--twenty-five to thirty guys. Twenty five TO thirty? You actually gave me a five person range. It could be twenty six but it could very well be twenty nine. That’s disgusting, and you’re a disgusting vile girl. May you go blind and become infertile from the Chlamydia that you infected me with.”
“It’s going okay,” I muttered instead.
“I have something kind of important to tell you.”
“Oh, okay.” She said.
“Yeah I think you should go to a clinic and get checked out because I think I got something from you. The doctor said it was Chlamydia.”
Jackpot!
I just laid it out there--it was the loudest silence for but a second, right after I dropped the C bomb. I’ve been waiting for that screaming silence all week. She really wasn’t too phased by the whole thing. Damn, cold as ice.
Obviously, she was a little shocked: “I’m going to go to the doctor tomorrow.” Then she mentioned that she was going to have to make a few awkward calls tomorrow to the--ahem--two guys she thinks infected her. Who fucking knows if that’s true or not; I try not to even think about those little details.
It’s ovahh! We exchanged a few pleasantries about how we find this whole situation funny in our dark little way.
"You sure do have bad taste in men," I said and it was the second last time I heard her laugh. The last time I heard her laugh was when I asked her: "Does a group of people in a room together who all have the Clap constitute as applause?"
I just wish we could enjoy the laughter together instead of the tears...well, my tears. There was a change in the way she spoke to me, a terrible finality during that last call. It can never go back, the spell has been broken. She'll never look at me again with those green eyes and flash a coy smile. Everyday that seeps into the past we get farther and farther away from getting back the magic we had. That’s the lingering sadness now some month and a half since our break-up. Why, oh WHY does it have to end (screaming on my knees with outstretched hands). I don't want it to end Mommy!
Why do relationships die? Two people make an investment together on a long shot and sooner or later one of the parties wants to cash out. Is it better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all? A question of the ages. I'll let the Immortal Bard sort that one out. In this case I can, at this moment, say that I wish I never met Rene. Now I try to forget but trying to forget is impossible so I give in to the thoughts and exhaust them until they have no raw nerve endings left--they’re fried. I’m starting to feel the heal of time and it itches. What is a person to do but drink and smoke the pain away (scratching) until some other lucky lass hitches her wagon to mine and the whole process begins anew.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
God Blessed Me With Two Virginities
Everybody has their story--the night they lost their sexual innocence. Maybe it was to a high school sweetheart on the Mexican Riviera, maybe it was to a $35 (full service) crackwhore in a Vancouver alley. My story is the latter...at least I think. You see, I'm not quite sure when or where my first time happened. Maybe, just maybe, God himself made a mistake, like a bank error in my favour, and he ended up giving me TWO virginities. Thanks big timer. And so it follows there are two competing narratives that run through this story...
The year was 1997. The month was July. I was sixteen years years old, on a summer road trip with my high school buddy Sean and his folks. For the drive we brought two albums: Paranoid by Black Sabbath and L.A. Woman by The Doors. Jim Morrison's drunken voice blared through the speakers as Sean's dad navigated the steep mountainous roads. I particularly liked L.A. Woman. I pictured a bearded and bloated Jim sauntering into the studio and laying down his vocals in one take as he sat on the toilet with a bottle of Jack--
Cops and cars
The topless bars
Never saw a woman
So alone
SO ALONE!
We stopped over in the Rockies on the way to Vancouver for a white water rafting adventure. Apparently it was one of the most difficult rivers to navigate for non-experts; I read that on a brochure. I could not suppress the knots in my belly, they were pulsating and ebbing, tightening up as Sean and myself donned our life jackets and the instructor began his spiel. He had to yell over the endless whooshing of the river, and ultimately it boiled down to, "Paddle like hell when we reach the rapids." Words to live by.
When we arrived in Vancouver, Sean and myself were like feral zombie beasts let loose on the population--specifically the prostitute population. We immediately resolved to get away from his parents, hunt down some pot and mushrooms and get some whores. You have to prioritize!
We asked a cab driver where all the hookers were. "Downtown Eastside," came the answer. So to the Downtown Eastside we went. I don't remember much about the neighborhood but it sure was seedy, with women in short skirts dotting each intersection. Somehow, I wandered away from Sean like a kid in a candy store and ran into a rail thin 30ish brunette walking in the middle of the street, seemingly lost in her own world. I approached her and she gave me a smile, a conmans smile--it's like a stuffed animal, warm and fuzzy on the outside but dead on the inside.
"You wanna come with me, honey?" She said in her best come hither put on, but it could scarcely cover the years of hard living. Nonetheless, I followed. "Yeah, let's do this," I said trying to sound casual. She started having a coughing fit, hacking up a fucking lung and said, "Don't worry, it will feel better than it sounds."
That was reassuring.
We went to a nearby alley and I handed over $35. It wasn't beneath her to ask me for some change too; I handed over some nickels and dimes. The money disappeared up her black leather skirt. She would not be meeting the queen anytime soon.
After a sub par two minute blowjob she got up and so did her black leather skirt. I had my appetizer and now it was time for dinner! With this being my first time and with the alley being so dark, I couldn't really get it in. Couldn't hit the mark. I don't think the problem was me, (I had a raging purple turnip) but she was dryer than a pile of dead leaves. I made a feeble attempt to grab her hips and connect my USB cable to her port; I don't really know if I made a connection. It might have slipped in for a second, maybe just the tip. Is that all there is to sex I wondered after a minute or two of dry humping. She stood up straight, pulled down her skirt and said she had to go. Boy, she was busier than the Pope--AND she just made $35 and change in five minutes or so (including travel time). She must be rich!
Is that my virginity gone with the wind? That was not the earth shattering experience I was hoping for. Maybe if you do it with a lover and not a body seller it feels better? Hey lady, can I have a refund? No fucking condom either. I mean, I know I was a sixteen year old stoner grunge rocker Kurt Cobain all the way but I did have common sense regarding STD's. In school I learned that women working the streets lead a riskier life than Janice down the street and therefore one has a greater chance of contracting a disease if you have sex. When you don't put your knowledge to good use what good is that knowledge in the first place? Well enough of that...
My primary dilemma after I had zipped up and bid adieu is I couldn't find Sean. It was like he disappeared. He simply got lost in the mix while I was busy on my first lap around the inter-course.
What a night, I definitely maybe just lost my viriginity (does the tip count?) and I was high on life (adrenalin and pot) and I wanted to yenta it up with my buddy. I couldn't find him anywhere so I did the logical thing: I began running like a madman down unrecognizable streets. The more I did that the more tangled I became in the web I had spun.
"SEAN! SEAN!" I was screaming and running frantically. Prositutes and clients playing the oldest game in the book were looking at me like I was crazy. My other dilemma was that I might have stuck my penis in a crackwhore with no protection. AIDS kept screaming at me over and over in my mind like the news ticker at the bottom of CNN. It keeps scrolling by on an endless loop ---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE HIV WHICH WILL SOON BECOME AIDS---AND YOU CAN'T FIND SEAN---PADDLE LIKE HELL---Running, running, down this road and that road. Lost downtown in a city far from home. To further complicate the situation I had no clue where the ground level loft apartment was that we were staying at. No phone number or anything. No cell phone to call Sean. In short I was fucked. I wanted to crumble to my knees and scream to the heavens.
I turned a corner and this greasy looking guy in a muddy pickup truck rolled down his window and pulled up along side me. He must have seen me running wildly through the streets. A teenager in distress. What a good samaritan to stop and offer help.
"Hey, what chu doin' kid? You'se lost or sumpin?" Now that he was stopped beside me I got a good look. He was short, dirty, bald but still grew his hair out long in defiance of his baldness. Not a good look.
"Yeah, I'm just trying to find my buddy mister. What's it to you?"
"Well, get in, let's go find him!" I ran around the side of his pickup and swooped myself in and he he sped off down the street.
"Hey, my name's Bobby P. What's the matter anyway kid?"
"Well, I can't find my friend, I'm running all over the place trying to find him. Plus I think I may have just lost my virginity, but I don't know for sure."
"Yeah, the first time's tough, huh?"
"You're telling me. I couldn't even find the hole!"
The two of us drove aimlessly down side streets yelling, "SEAN! SEAN!" out of our respective windows. "I know these streets pretty well, don't worry we'll find him--he couldn't of gone too far. Hey, I got me a pig farm a few km's down the road. You should visit some time, we'll get some girls and slaughter a live pig and roast it." Wow! The people in Vancouver are much friendlier than Toronto. I had been here but one night and already made a friend. "That sounds nice Bobby, real nice."
After a few more minutes of driving and chatting we miraculously spotted Sean jogging slowly, weighed down by exhaustion. Bobby saw him first and proclaimed, "There he is!" He was right. There he was.
Sean was stunned and relieved to see me. Perhaps a little confused seeing me roll by in a pickup truck caked in mud with a bald guy with long hair at the wheel. Very confusing indeed. Surely Sean didn't think this was my date? I hope not.
"Case closed!" Bobby yelled. "Well thanks a lot, man you're a life saver."
The rest of the trip turned out to be great. We had dinner with the some of the guys from Doug and the Slugs (I had never heard of them either). Then we went to a hippie drum fest. The only thing I remember was a slogan on someone's bag that read: My body is just a cage for my soul.
The year was also 1997. The month was September. I was in grade 11. Brampton Centennial Secondary School. It was lunch time and I was walking to my locker to grab my jacket and then walk the 5 minutes to my house, eat Chef Boyardee (Ravioli if I remember correct) and watch the Crocodile Hunter. Upon closing my locker, my friend Max appeared with Sabina, this intriguing blonde girl from our art class. She was the girl in the class who seemed to be such an adult. Whatever that was. She was so mature, had so much life experience. Drinking, older boyfriends, fake i.d's, bars. Drugs? Hell, she probably tried 'em all, O.D'd on smack, went to rehab, and lived to tell the story. All by the ripe old age of sixteen. I could tell immediately that she was totally hammered. Drunk by lunch--wow, I couldn't even fathom such a thing--what a creature!
"Sabina's going to come to your house for lunch," Max said conspiratorially. Something was up.
"Uhh sure," I uttered semi-awkwardly. What girl wouldn't want to lose her virignity to me? I was a scrawny, pimply-faced grunge rocker. I'm sure that day I had my brownish plaid shirt on (unbuttoned) with a Mudhoney shirt underneath. Winning!
Little did I know--and probably Sabina too--that in half an hour she was going to bust me loose from the prison of my virginity. But, as you have come to know, this was a liminal phase in my sexual adventures; had I achieved insertion in Vancouver with that hooker in the alley? The answer lies somewhere, whirlpooling around in the synapses of my fickle memory. God only knows.
I don't remember who got Sabina first but she was ready to go. She led me upstairs and it felt like I was walking up to the gallows. A lamb being led to the knife. My God! Are we gonna like...DO it? Mommy! Mommy! I just want to eat my Chef Boyardee. SHIT CHRIST FUCK, will IT work? Will IT work? I mean I've test driven my car many times but never taken it off the track. We went up the stairs...almost at the top. Is this the right time? WHAT? Of course it is, I'm a man goddamnit! You just stick it right in and shuck and jive your way through it.
I rolled off Sabina and we laid there; I breathed a sigh of relief--the sound of a boy becoming a man. Is that ALL there is to sex? I'm a believer. I opened the drawer by my bed and we shared a cigarette, just like in the movies. She didn't seem too impressed but she didn't seem disappointed either, she just seemed drunk. I snubbed the smoke out and we got dressed. For whatever reason she laid down on my bench prench set in my room, lifted the bar (with about 85lbs on it) and after pulling it down to her chest she couldn't get it back up. That seems to be the hard part in love and bench pressing--getting it back up.
I helped lift the weight off of her and we went downstairs and the three of us made our way back to class. When we got back to school my new nickname was'minute man' because I blabbed that I only lasted that long. Not bad, really, when you think about it considering the circumstances. All the guys and even a few girls were laughing--a minute! What a loser! But really, on the inside most of the guys were thinking, "Shit, I've unloaded after one or two pumps." In the days of high school there is a constant pressure beating down on you to go along. Go where? Who the fuck knows, but you don't want to go out on a limb and stand up for someone who's getting their balls busted, you simply have to bust along with the rest of 'em or shut the fuck up. I prefered to shut the fuck up.
I imagine losing your virginity is similar to turning 50. You await the moment and when it passes nothing really changes. There is no great revelation and you feel pretty much the same as you did yesterday. Although when you turn 50 you damn well know it's the same old story without a new ending. You don't grow another limb or acquire super powers like you may have thought once you lost your virginity. You gain experience--some intangible unit of memory and eventually it turns into words.
The year was 1997. The month was July. I was sixteen years years old, on a summer road trip with my high school buddy Sean and his folks. For the drive we brought two albums: Paranoid by Black Sabbath and L.A. Woman by The Doors. Jim Morrison's drunken voice blared through the speakers as Sean's dad navigated the steep mountainous roads. I particularly liked L.A. Woman. I pictured a bearded and bloated Jim sauntering into the studio and laying down his vocals in one take as he sat on the toilet with a bottle of Jack--
Cops and cars
The topless bars
Never saw a woman
So alone
SO ALONE!
We stopped over in the Rockies on the way to Vancouver for a white water rafting adventure. Apparently it was one of the most difficult rivers to navigate for non-experts; I read that on a brochure. I could not suppress the knots in my belly, they were pulsating and ebbing, tightening up as Sean and myself donned our life jackets and the instructor began his spiel. He had to yell over the endless whooshing of the river, and ultimately it boiled down to, "Paddle like hell when we reach the rapids." Words to live by.
When we arrived in Vancouver, Sean and myself were like feral zombie beasts let loose on the population--specifically the prostitute population. We immediately resolved to get away from his parents, hunt down some pot and mushrooms and get some whores. You have to prioritize!
We asked a cab driver where all the hookers were. "Downtown Eastside," came the answer. So to the Downtown Eastside we went. I don't remember much about the neighborhood but it sure was seedy, with women in short skirts dotting each intersection. Somehow, I wandered away from Sean like a kid in a candy store and ran into a rail thin 30ish brunette walking in the middle of the street, seemingly lost in her own world. I approached her and she gave me a smile, a conmans smile--it's like a stuffed animal, warm and fuzzy on the outside but dead on the inside.
"You wanna come with me, honey?" She said in her best come hither put on, but it could scarcely cover the years of hard living. Nonetheless, I followed. "Yeah, let's do this," I said trying to sound casual. She started having a coughing fit, hacking up a fucking lung and said, "Don't worry, it will feel better than it sounds."
That was reassuring.
We went to a nearby alley and I handed over $35. It wasn't beneath her to ask me for some change too; I handed over some nickels and dimes. The money disappeared up her black leather skirt. She would not be meeting the queen anytime soon.
After a sub par two minute blowjob she got up and so did her black leather skirt. I had my appetizer and now it was time for dinner! With this being my first time and with the alley being so dark, I couldn't really get it in. Couldn't hit the mark. I don't think the problem was me, (I had a raging purple turnip) but she was dryer than a pile of dead leaves. I made a feeble attempt to grab her hips and connect my USB cable to her port; I don't really know if I made a connection. It might have slipped in for a second, maybe just the tip. Is that all there is to sex I wondered after a minute or two of dry humping. She stood up straight, pulled down her skirt and said she had to go. Boy, she was busier than the Pope--AND she just made $35 and change in five minutes or so (including travel time). She must be rich!
Is that my virginity gone with the wind? That was not the earth shattering experience I was hoping for. Maybe if you do it with a lover and not a body seller it feels better? Hey lady, can I have a refund? No fucking condom either. I mean, I know I was a sixteen year old stoner grunge rocker Kurt Cobain all the way but I did have common sense regarding STD's. In school I learned that women working the streets lead a riskier life than Janice down the street and therefore one has a greater chance of contracting a disease if you have sex. When you don't put your knowledge to good use what good is that knowledge in the first place? Well enough of that...
My primary dilemma after I had zipped up and bid adieu is I couldn't find Sean. It was like he disappeared. He simply got lost in the mix while I was busy on my first lap around the inter-course.
What a night, I definitely maybe just lost my viriginity (does the tip count?) and I was high on life (adrenalin and pot) and I wanted to yenta it up with my buddy. I couldn't find him anywhere so I did the logical thing: I began running like a madman down unrecognizable streets. The more I did that the more tangled I became in the web I had spun.
"SEAN! SEAN!" I was screaming and running frantically. Prositutes and clients playing the oldest game in the book were looking at me like I was crazy. My other dilemma was that I might have stuck my penis in a crackwhore with no protection. AIDS kept screaming at me over and over in my mind like the news ticker at the bottom of CNN. It keeps scrolling by on an endless loop ---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE AIDS---YOU HAVE HIV WHICH WILL SOON BECOME AIDS---AND YOU CAN'T FIND SEAN---PADDLE LIKE HELL---Running, running, down this road and that road. Lost downtown in a city far from home. To further complicate the situation I had no clue where the ground level loft apartment was that we were staying at. No phone number or anything. No cell phone to call Sean. In short I was fucked. I wanted to crumble to my knees and scream to the heavens.
I turned a corner and this greasy looking guy in a muddy pickup truck rolled down his window and pulled up along side me. He must have seen me running wildly through the streets. A teenager in distress. What a good samaritan to stop and offer help.
"Hey, what chu doin' kid? You'se lost or sumpin?" Now that he was stopped beside me I got a good look. He was short, dirty, bald but still grew his hair out long in defiance of his baldness. Not a good look.
"Yeah, I'm just trying to find my buddy mister. What's it to you?"
"Well, get in, let's go find him!" I ran around the side of his pickup and swooped myself in and he he sped off down the street.
"Hey, my name's Bobby P. What's the matter anyway kid?"
"Well, I can't find my friend, I'm running all over the place trying to find him. Plus I think I may have just lost my virginity, but I don't know for sure."
"Yeah, the first time's tough, huh?"
"You're telling me. I couldn't even find the hole!"
The two of us drove aimlessly down side streets yelling, "SEAN! SEAN!" out of our respective windows. "I know these streets pretty well, don't worry we'll find him--he couldn't of gone too far. Hey, I got me a pig farm a few km's down the road. You should visit some time, we'll get some girls and slaughter a live pig and roast it." Wow! The people in Vancouver are much friendlier than Toronto. I had been here but one night and already made a friend. "That sounds nice Bobby, real nice."
After a few more minutes of driving and chatting we miraculously spotted Sean jogging slowly, weighed down by exhaustion. Bobby saw him first and proclaimed, "There he is!" He was right. There he was.
Sean was stunned and relieved to see me. Perhaps a little confused seeing me roll by in a pickup truck caked in mud with a bald guy with long hair at the wheel. Very confusing indeed. Surely Sean didn't think this was my date? I hope not.
"Case closed!" Bobby yelled. "Well thanks a lot, man you're a life saver."
The rest of the trip turned out to be great. We had dinner with the some of the guys from Doug and the Slugs (I had never heard of them either). Then we went to a hippie drum fest. The only thing I remember was a slogan on someone's bag that read: My body is just a cage for my soul.
The year was also 1997. The month was September. I was in grade 11. Brampton Centennial Secondary School. It was lunch time and I was walking to my locker to grab my jacket and then walk the 5 minutes to my house, eat Chef Boyardee (Ravioli if I remember correct) and watch the Crocodile Hunter. Upon closing my locker, my friend Max appeared with Sabina, this intriguing blonde girl from our art class. She was the girl in the class who seemed to be such an adult. Whatever that was. She was so mature, had so much life experience. Drinking, older boyfriends, fake i.d's, bars. Drugs? Hell, she probably tried 'em all, O.D'd on smack, went to rehab, and lived to tell the story. All by the ripe old age of sixteen. I could tell immediately that she was totally hammered. Drunk by lunch--wow, I couldn't even fathom such a thing--what a creature!
"Sabina's going to come to your house for lunch," Max said conspiratorially. Something was up.
"Uhh sure," I uttered semi-awkwardly. What girl wouldn't want to lose her virignity to me? I was a scrawny, pimply-faced grunge rocker. I'm sure that day I had my brownish plaid shirt on (unbuttoned) with a Mudhoney shirt underneath. Winning!
Little did I know--and probably Sabina too--that in half an hour she was going to bust me loose from the prison of my virginity. But, as you have come to know, this was a liminal phase in my sexual adventures; had I achieved insertion in Vancouver with that hooker in the alley? The answer lies somewhere, whirlpooling around in the synapses of my fickle memory. God only knows.
I don't remember who got Sabina first but she was ready to go. She led me upstairs and it felt like I was walking up to the gallows. A lamb being led to the knife. My God! Are we gonna like...DO it? Mommy! Mommy! I just want to eat my Chef Boyardee. SHIT CHRIST FUCK, will IT work? Will IT work? I mean I've test driven my car many times but never taken it off the track. We went up the stairs...almost at the top. Is this the right time? WHAT? Of course it is, I'm a man goddamnit! You just stick it right in and shuck and jive your way through it.
We quickly disrobed; she was a true blonde, and to my relief IT did work! What was the ryhthm of sex and love and life but the simple back and forth thrusting into one another? There was no thought to use condoms, I just got on top of her, hesitated for a second because I didn't really know what to do and she guided me in. There was no romance or dinner by candlelight, I sliced into her like a rugged caveman. But like a cavemans life the experience was short. It felt absolutely magical. Her guts! I'm in HER GUTS! I'd say I lasted a solid minute and when I reached that point of no return I just unloaded my universe right inside her. Incredibly stupid in hindsight wasn't it? Almost as stupid as having sex with a crack whore without a condom. I look at it like I'm a soldier in the war of life and I managed to do a couple tours and then come to my family without any serious injuries.
I rolled off Sabina and we laid there; I breathed a sigh of relief--the sound of a boy becoming a man. Is that ALL there is to sex? I'm a believer. I opened the drawer by my bed and we shared a cigarette, just like in the movies. She didn't seem too impressed but she didn't seem disappointed either, she just seemed drunk. I snubbed the smoke out and we got dressed. For whatever reason she laid down on my bench prench set in my room, lifted the bar (with about 85lbs on it) and after pulling it down to her chest she couldn't get it back up. That seems to be the hard part in love and bench pressing--getting it back up.
I helped lift the weight off of her and we went downstairs and the three of us made our way back to class. When we got back to school my new nickname was'minute man' because I blabbed that I only lasted that long. Not bad, really, when you think about it considering the circumstances. All the guys and even a few girls were laughing--a minute! What a loser! But really, on the inside most of the guys were thinking, "Shit, I've unloaded after one or two pumps." In the days of high school there is a constant pressure beating down on you to go along. Go where? Who the fuck knows, but you don't want to go out on a limb and stand up for someone who's getting their balls busted, you simply have to bust along with the rest of 'em or shut the fuck up. I prefered to shut the fuck up.
I imagine losing your virginity is similar to turning 50. You await the moment and when it passes nothing really changes. There is no great revelation and you feel pretty much the same as you did yesterday. Although when you turn 50 you damn well know it's the same old story without a new ending. You don't grow another limb or acquire super powers like you may have thought once you lost your virginity. You gain experience--some intangible unit of memory and eventually it turns into words.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Turbo Homo Bang Gang
There was this guy I once knew, Marty, used to have a band back in Brampton called Turbo Homo Bang Gang. On stage he wasn't Marty though, he was Tony Spigoni, his rock n' roll alter ego. He'd play these mad live shows at all the tired old bars and some of the lively ones, the few that there were.
He showed up at the clubs as Tony, decked out in snake skin boots, leather jacket and a tight fitting collared shirt only halfway buttoned up thus exposes a lean muscular torso and taught pecs to go nicely with a thick thatch of hair sprouting from his head. It was the kind of hair God himself would bequeath upon his own head. Tony snorted a gorilla finger of cocaine just before each show to get him pumped up, a line the size God himself would put up his nose. A bottle of Jack later and he really became Tony Spigoni.
On stage the crowd provoked him because they knew Tony had a short fuse and also because humans enjoy swilling booze and provoking violence. But he provoked the crowd too; not afraid to say anything to anyone. The way a real man doesn't take shit, never backs down from a confrontation. Maybe his confidence was propped up by indulging but so what? The crowd seemed to love Sammy Sosa and Mark Mcguire hit it out of the park.
After the first couple songs Tony began hurling obscenities at the crowd in between--and sometimes during--songs. He didn't give a shit if he forgot the lyrics, just soldiered on. Coldplay he was not. His lips were red and licking wet with booze and vitriol:
"Look at you two fat fuckers," (He targeted a couple of regulars near the front who obviously had never seen a THBG show). "You both got belly buttons like BOMB craters! I'm gonna come down there and slap all four of your BITCH tits!"
"Yeahhh?" One of them countered, "Why don't you meet us outside in the parking lot after the show and I'll show you something alright!"
"Yeah, like what? Your stamp collection, or butterflies under glass?"
And with that these two fat drunks rushed the stage and tackled Tony. Fists were flying like napalm. Tony landed a couple good ones but ended up on the wrong side of the beating. Security pulled the two heavyweights off and kicked them out of the club and the show continued, as it must.
Blood was dripping off Tony's face and pooling onto the stage below. A huge welt was already bubbling up on his forehead, his left eye bruised, soon to become technicoloured. The crowd was ROARING asking for More! More! More! Go! Go! Go! You could really feel it reverberating through the audience. A feeling of pure excitement. We go through our days filling up calendar squares with appointments/dates/meetings/birthdays and then it's over. Life just burns away and there's not much to remember most by.
"Next month I'll be on the cover of Town & Country," Tony remarked to the crowd before cueing the band into the next riff rock sludge tune. Something about zombie chicks on the moon in bikinis struggling to build a spaceship to travel back to earth to exterminate the male species:
Just another show, par for the course. The lights went up and the stereo started playing music softly, almost imperceptibly; you thought you knew the tune but couldn't be sure. As Tony settled down for a drink Jerry Stone, a crazed out hanger on to the scene came up to him and said, "Hey man, great show...as usual." "Yeah yeah, alright man."
Jerry Stone was one of those guys who was always around at every show. No one really knew where he came from. But like when neighbours describe someone after they commit a mass murder, he seemed 'odd'.
"Aren't you curious about the dreams of Amazonian tribesmen who have never ventured outside the jungle or whatever? You know, the ones you see in National Geographic documentaries?" "Sure, sure man," Tony said, looking around somewhat disinterested.
"Sometimes," Jerry continued, I dream that I'm a Brazilian tribesman who lives in the rainforest, one of these Arapaso people with poison tipped arrows and all that jazz. Then I fall asleep in the dream as one of these guys, ya know, just a regular hunter or whatever. But I can never remember those dreams. If I could, man I'd have it ALL figured out."
Jerry shuffled out of view and then some sunglass lowering caliber girls made their way over to Tony and now his attention was focused on them. Just because the band had the word 'homo' in their name the only thing homo about Tony was the milk in his cereal. He liked pussy--all kinds of it. Damaged goods were all good. Groupies mainly. Shit, why do you think he started a band in the first place?
One night while I was on assignment doing a write up of one of THBGs' show for a local paper Tony confided in me. We were always fairly close, got along pretty well, known each other a long time. We knew each other before he became Tony Spigoni. I came to the realization he enjoyed my company; we were drinking buddies even though I was a journalist. I saw him do some pretty wild things but he trusted in me, or perhaps, he wanted me to see him as some crazy rock n roller and write about it. Do some myth building for him. Sometimes we went to an after party together and it was at one of these after parties he solemnly related to me--perhaps as Marty--that he had an acute problem of a sexual nature--all that coke and all that booze, he could rarely keep it up when he was with a woman. He feared that there was talk going around amongst his groupies that he was a bad lover. Definitely wasn't Tony Spigoni in bed. Couldn't go all night. Shit, couldn't even go once.
"Man, it's no good. I'm all jazzed up and wasted, I just don't even care about fucking these beautiful women. Even if I DID, the bathroom is out of service Jake. I can't get the motor revving. And hey this off the record, huh?"
"Yes, yes for sure man, don't worry. Well," I said, a little stunned by his ED confession, "maybe you should try just staying sober, at least until after you know, get your rocks off."
"Yeah, I know but it's always after a show and poppa needs his meds before he can go on stage. The meds make me impotent. I mean, the irony just kills me: The very thing I need to perform is the very thing that won't let me perform."
"It's a wicked world isn't it?"
"It's getting to the point where I don't want to even go home with anyone. I'm actually in the middle of writing a song right now called, " Lately, I'm Only Writing Rain Checks". It's a real departure from my usual stuff. A real tear jerker. I'm sick of this shit, night in and night out. these bars Jake! I'm telling you, it'll be the death of me! All these distorted guitars ringing in my ears all fucking night. And for what? A couple hundred bucks? A night of cheap pussy? Do you even know what I do 9 to 5? Fucking manual labor. I got a head full of bumble bees. Assembly line bullshit. Well pretty much-- unloading containers full of all sorts of shit--mushrooms, spaceship parts, keyboards, humans. Why do you think I'm in such good shape? In ten years I won't be able to stand up straight."
"I always wondered what you did," I said.
"It's our dirty little secret," He said.
Just at that very moment his pocket vibrated. He pulled his phone out and unclamped it: 'INCOMING CALL FROM ALLISON CHAINS' the screen read.
"Oh hey, I gotta take this. I'll come back in ten minutes. Remember," Tony said, walking away, "Off the fucking record!"
"Do you even have to ask?" I said.
Tony came back to me and clam shelled his phone shut, put it in his tight leather pockets. They were so tight I didn't know how he tucked the phone in there but somehow everything fit just right. "This chick, Allison I think I really like her, and not in that pump and dump kind of way. The true test of love is if you don't hate her guts after you bust a nut. I can lay there peacefully with her without a care in the world and watch the smoke from my cigarette curl up into the bedroom. I tell ya that's when I'm at peace Jake. No boss man telling me to speed it up, no band bitching at me to get to practice. Life consists of humans grabbing at your hours to give themselves more.
"Ain't that the truth."
He showed up at the clubs as Tony, decked out in snake skin boots, leather jacket and a tight fitting collared shirt only halfway buttoned up thus exposes a lean muscular torso and taught pecs to go nicely with a thick thatch of hair sprouting from his head. It was the kind of hair God himself would bequeath upon his own head. Tony snorted a gorilla finger of cocaine just before each show to get him pumped up, a line the size God himself would put up his nose. A bottle of Jack later and he really became Tony Spigoni.
On stage the crowd provoked him because they knew Tony had a short fuse and also because humans enjoy swilling booze and provoking violence. But he provoked the crowd too; not afraid to say anything to anyone. The way a real man doesn't take shit, never backs down from a confrontation. Maybe his confidence was propped up by indulging but so what? The crowd seemed to love Sammy Sosa and Mark Mcguire hit it out of the park.
After the first couple songs Tony began hurling obscenities at the crowd in between--and sometimes during--songs. He didn't give a shit if he forgot the lyrics, just soldiered on. Coldplay he was not. His lips were red and licking wet with booze and vitriol:
"Look at you two fat fuckers," (He targeted a couple of regulars near the front who obviously had never seen a THBG show). "You both got belly buttons like BOMB craters! I'm gonna come down there and slap all four of your BITCH tits!"
"Yeahhh?" One of them countered, "Why don't you meet us outside in the parking lot after the show and I'll show you something alright!"
"Yeah, like what? Your stamp collection, or butterflies under glass?"
And with that these two fat drunks rushed the stage and tackled Tony. Fists were flying like napalm. Tony landed a couple good ones but ended up on the wrong side of the beating. Security pulled the two heavyweights off and kicked them out of the club and the show continued, as it must.
Blood was dripping off Tony's face and pooling onto the stage below. A huge welt was already bubbling up on his forehead, his left eye bruised, soon to become technicoloured. The crowd was ROARING asking for More! More! More! Go! Go! Go! You could really feel it reverberating through the audience. A feeling of pure excitement. We go through our days filling up calendar squares with appointments/dates/meetings/birthdays and then it's over. Life just burns away and there's not much to remember most by.
"Next month I'll be on the cover of Town & Country," Tony remarked to the crowd before cueing the band into the next riff rock sludge tune. Something about zombie chicks on the moon in bikinis struggling to build a spaceship to travel back to earth to exterminate the male species:
Just another show, par for the course. The lights went up and the stereo started playing music softly, almost imperceptibly; you thought you knew the tune but couldn't be sure. As Tony settled down for a drink Jerry Stone, a crazed out hanger on to the scene came up to him and said, "Hey man, great show...as usual." "Yeah yeah, alright man."
Jerry Stone was one of those guys who was always around at every show. No one really knew where he came from. But like when neighbours describe someone after they commit a mass murder, he seemed 'odd'.
"Aren't you curious about the dreams of Amazonian tribesmen who have never ventured outside the jungle or whatever? You know, the ones you see in National Geographic documentaries?" "Sure, sure man," Tony said, looking around somewhat disinterested.
"Sometimes," Jerry continued, I dream that I'm a Brazilian tribesman who lives in the rainforest, one of these Arapaso people with poison tipped arrows and all that jazz. Then I fall asleep in the dream as one of these guys, ya know, just a regular hunter or whatever. But I can never remember those dreams. If I could, man I'd have it ALL figured out."
Jerry shuffled out of view and then some sunglass lowering caliber girls made their way over to Tony and now his attention was focused on them. Just because the band had the word 'homo' in their name the only thing homo about Tony was the milk in his cereal. He liked pussy--all kinds of it. Damaged goods were all good. Groupies mainly. Shit, why do you think he started a band in the first place?
One night while I was on assignment doing a write up of one of THBGs' show for a local paper Tony confided in me. We were always fairly close, got along pretty well, known each other a long time. We knew each other before he became Tony Spigoni. I came to the realization he enjoyed my company; we were drinking buddies even though I was a journalist. I saw him do some pretty wild things but he trusted in me, or perhaps, he wanted me to see him as some crazy rock n roller and write about it. Do some myth building for him. Sometimes we went to an after party together and it was at one of these after parties he solemnly related to me--perhaps as Marty--that he had an acute problem of a sexual nature--all that coke and all that booze, he could rarely keep it up when he was with a woman. He feared that there was talk going around amongst his groupies that he was a bad lover. Definitely wasn't Tony Spigoni in bed. Couldn't go all night. Shit, couldn't even go once.
"Man, it's no good. I'm all jazzed up and wasted, I just don't even care about fucking these beautiful women. Even if I DID, the bathroom is out of service Jake. I can't get the motor revving. And hey this off the record, huh?"
"Yes, yes for sure man, don't worry. Well," I said, a little stunned by his ED confession, "maybe you should try just staying sober, at least until after you know, get your rocks off."
"Yeah, I know but it's always after a show and poppa needs his meds before he can go on stage. The meds make me impotent. I mean, the irony just kills me: The very thing I need to perform is the very thing that won't let me perform."
"It's a wicked world isn't it?"
"It's getting to the point where I don't want to even go home with anyone. I'm actually in the middle of writing a song right now called, " Lately, I'm Only Writing Rain Checks". It's a real departure from my usual stuff. A real tear jerker. I'm sick of this shit, night in and night out. these bars Jake! I'm telling you, it'll be the death of me! All these distorted guitars ringing in my ears all fucking night. And for what? A couple hundred bucks? A night of cheap pussy? Do you even know what I do 9 to 5? Fucking manual labor. I got a head full of bumble bees. Assembly line bullshit. Well pretty much-- unloading containers full of all sorts of shit--mushrooms, spaceship parts, keyboards, humans. Why do you think I'm in such good shape? In ten years I won't be able to stand up straight."
"I always wondered what you did," I said.
"It's our dirty little secret," He said.
Just at that very moment his pocket vibrated. He pulled his phone out and unclamped it: 'INCOMING CALL FROM ALLISON CHAINS' the screen read.
"Oh hey, I gotta take this. I'll come back in ten minutes. Remember," Tony said, walking away, "Off the fucking record!"
"Do you even have to ask?" I said.
Tony came back to me and clam shelled his phone shut, put it in his tight leather pockets. They were so tight I didn't know how he tucked the phone in there but somehow everything fit just right. "This chick, Allison I think I really like her, and not in that pump and dump kind of way. The true test of love is if you don't hate her guts after you bust a nut. I can lay there peacefully with her without a care in the world and watch the smoke from my cigarette curl up into the bedroom. I tell ya that's when I'm at peace Jake. No boss man telling me to speed it up, no band bitching at me to get to practice. Life consists of humans grabbing at your hours to give themselves more.
"Ain't that the truth."
"Allison picked me up a few weeks back in Guelph to take me home after a show. I hadn't seen her in a week. I missed her and was surprised by how emotional I was when I met her outside the club. I didn't want to let her know I was overcome so I kept a front of cool indifference. During the drive back to Brampton I stole glances of the way her hair just rested softly on the back of her neck. It just gets to me sometimes--but, you never let a girl know you love her too much Jake or then she'll kill you. You don't want to get caught in her trap."
At another show, Tony got a midget, put him in a cage and fed him booze, ecstacy, and cocaine throughout the set. But not necessarily in that order. He was trapped right in the middle of the stage. He was male, thirty-ish, with one of those goofy oversized heads and stubby limbs. Gods little joke. He went by the name Stephen Dwarf.
Tony bent down beside Stephen's cage and offered him a bump of the devils dandruff, "It's feeding time!" he exclaimed.
Stephen sniffed it up. Just another cranked out midget in his underwear, confined to a cage, forced to take drugs and vomit all over himself for the crowds amusement. You don't notice it sometimes, and it can happen when you're not looking, but Christ, life can get away from you. What was I doing here watching this atrocity? I suppose it beat watching American Idol.
God is a madman with an AK47 firing indiscriminately into the crowd. Stephen wound up getting hit--most don't. Be thankful for that.
At one point he was lying on his back convulsing in his little bird cage. There he was, barely enough room for him to writhe around in for chrissakes; rolling back and forth his flesh screaming against the cage wires. Eventually he found his wits and the show continued...
The guitarist began swaying to the groove in time to his chunky power chords and Tony turned to him and yelled into the mic, "Don't you show an emotion! You show an emotion and I fire you!"
Jerry Stone came up to me and started spitting in my ear about some bullshit dream he had: "There I was having sex with this girl. I was sitting down and she was riding me, her back to me. My cock was so overstuffed and HUGE in her tight pussy I was afraid every time she came down on me that it was going to bend in half and snap like a twig! And you know who was right beside me? That fucking douche nozzle from The Jersey Shore, The Situation. He was crouched down beside me with his immaculate hair and bronzed awesomeness just watching me fuck this girl. I had to be careful because his hair--it was so gelled up it--it was like there were thousands of pen knives jutting out of his skull. Weapons of mass seduction I'm telling ya! Ha! Ha!"
"Right, Jerry sounds great," I said sucking on a bottle of Moosehead.
"Then The Situation told me I had a nice spoke. That's the word he used for my cock: Spoke. I've never heard anyone call it that before. I thought it was a little odd."
"Well dreams usually are."
Back on the stage Tony pulled the key to Stephen's cage from an ass pocket and held it up for the crowd. The band laid down a slow groove behind him. Stephen looked at Tony menacingly and shook his hands to say, No! No! No! but Tony swallowed the key and chased it with a swig of Jack anyways. They had been through this routine before. Tony gave him a cut of the door. It was all for show but the next day Tony really did have to shit the key out, fake or not. The bartender had the real key and took Stephen out back after the show and released him into the night like a dove on a wedding day. The barkeep was a guy everyone called Base Pipe Billy. Pulled a quick beer so he was good in my books. Apparently he tried to cop a feel on a few of my friends late at night when not many people were around. Lured them in with the promise of free booze. Some part of me was a little disappointed that he never tried to fondle me, it would have been good for my self esteem. Maybe I wasn't there too often or he didn't know me well enough, the hermit that I am. Yes, once he got to know me he would most definitely fondle me.
Right after the show ended, with the distortion still gnawing at my brain, I went out a back entrance to grab my pack of cigarettes. I stood outside the back door and lit one up. At that very moment Base Pipe Billy came out holding the cage with Stephen in it.
"Christ, get me outta here!" Stephen demanded.
"Yeah, yeah yeah." Base Pipe knelt down , placed the cage on the ground and unlocked it. His joints cracked, he was getting old.
"Hey Jake you gotta smoke buddy?" Stephen asked me, stretching his miniature limbs, free from his cage and into the prison of the world. "Sure, here ya go," I said fetching one out of my pack. "You want one to Billy?"
"Sure, thanks Jake."
The three of us stood there--Base Pipe Billy, Stephen Dwarf, and me smoking in total silence as the night surrounded us.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Teens Do The Darndest Things
Since Terrorism is in vogue I thought why not detail my one and only experience with the genre.
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.
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 Can't Wait To Never See You Again
I have a lot of problems, I'm not going to lie. Not too proud but that's just the way it is. Anxiety, depression, over thinking, under thinking etc., etc. In other words a twenty first century modern male PUSSY. These problems may be real or they may not but as old Neil once sang, "Just because my problems are meaningless, that don't make them go away." Sometimes a man just crumbles under the weight of it. All I can do when that happens is violently type these words before you. I would commit other violent acts but I don't know of any except typing.
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..."
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
Was
Inside.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
To The Blonde Woman in the BMW
To the blonde woman in the BMW: At the red light I stole glances of your red lipstick and when the light went green:
ROAD/FACE/ROAD/BREASTS/ROAD/LIPS.
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.
ROAD/FACE/ROAD/BREASTS/ROAD/LIPS.
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.
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