March 2006 Archives

"Thanks," said Tony. He beamed and poured me a half and half - coffee and beer.

"And now you'll have to excuse me," I said. Something was happening to my focus. I didn't feel well. I stood. But that didn't feel quite right, so I sat down again. No, I definitely needed to get to the toilet. I stood again. I grabbed hold of the table to get my balance. I could feel my gorge rising. I wasn't going to make it. I reached out with my good hand and yanked the beer pitcher away from Tony. It spilled. He hadn't finished pouring his own glass yet.

"Hey!"

I swayed there for a second. My right hand braced myself on the table. My left hand held the beer pitcher. "Sorry," I said. "Beer's easier to clean up." I dumped the rest of the beer onto the floor. Then I threw up in the pitcher. My hand slipped off the table and I dropped to my knees. I concentrated on not spilling the pitcher. My chin hit the table on the way down. I threw up again into the pitcher. It was about half full now.

"Kent, Are you okay?" Tony asked.

I tried to nod, but the movement prompted me to throw up again. I sat back on my heels and closed my eyes, hard. When I opened them, the bouncer was standing in front of me.

"I'd leave if I could," I said.

"Get up," he said.

I pulled one leg out from under me and gave it a try. "Just give me a sec," I said. I threw up into the pitcher.

I braced my right elbow on the edge of the table and wiped my mouth with the arm holding the pitcher. I tried to stand up again but sank back down on my butt. And then, miraculously, I was standing. The bouncer was holding me up from behind. And then I was moving backwards towards the door. I looked down. My feet weren't doing the propelling. Tony was in front of me, following me, carrying our coats. It wasn't him. It must be the bouncer. I turned my head around to try to look at him.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't spill," he said.

There was a loud bang as we went through the doors. The bouncer was surprisingly gentle when he let me go. He waited until I had my feet under me then propped me up against the wall. I offered him the pitcher.

"Keep it," he said. He turned around and went back into the bar. "Keep an eye on him," he told Tony.

"Absolutely," he said.

I offered the jug to Tony.

"I think you should keep it for now," he said. "You might need it. Good thinking pouring the beer out, by the way."

"A choice had to be made," I said.

"I really want to thank you," said Tony. "That was fantastic!"

I looked down at the pitcher. I was puzzled.

"Not the puking," said Tony. "The music! That was much better than playing in Tracy Davenport's basement. I wonder if Tracy ever dyed her hair pink. Hey, do you think I should dye my hair pink? It might make me look a bit edgier. Do you think that tall guy ever worked in the circus? He was really tall and really thin. Maybe he even knew Alvin. I think I might dye my hair pink."

"Tony, don't dye your hair pink. At least not tonight."

"You're right. I shouldn't grab the first gimmick I see. I need to think about the colour. There's pros and cons behind pink as a hair colour."

"Tony, it's been a great night, but I think I need to go home now."

"Right. Of course. What am I thinking? I'll get you home." He held out my coat.

I shook my head. "Can you carry it for me?"

"No problem."

He grabbed my arm and gently pulled me up from the wall. I swayed a bit but things were definitely looking up, balance-wise. I gestured with the pitcher of puke.

"It's that way," I said. "End of the block. The Strathcona."

Tony held me as we walked. "You know, a pink bass might be pretty cool," he said. I didn't answer.

We got to the hotel. I made it up the stairs and through the door. The desk clerk looked up from his paper but his expression didn't change.

"Can I have my key, please? Room 203."

Tony went to the desk. I hid the pitcher behind my back. The clerk gave Tony the key.

"No guests," he said.

"Oh, we're not together," said Tony.

"No guests," the clerk repeated.

"No problem," I said. "He's just helping me upstairs. I broke my hand." I held it up for proof.

The clerk went back to his paper. Tony helped me up the stairs. They were trickier than I expected. I couldn't hold the banister with either hand. One was broken and the other was holding the pitcher. I staggered up the middle of the stairs with my arms spread wide and Tony kept me propped up from behind. There were a couple of unsteady moments but we made it in the end.

Tony opened my door for me and steered me to the bed. He put my coat beside me and tried to take the pitcher.

"I want to keep it. It's useful," I said.

"No problem," he said. "You hold on to it. Do you want to put it down? Do you want some help getting into bed?"

"No, I'm fine," I said. "Thanks for everything. I'll be fine now. I'm just going to sit here for a bit and then I might have a piss."

Tony patted me on the shoulder. "Good. You sure you're going to be okay? You've got that narcolepsy problem, you know. You don't want to fall asleep and spill that thing." He pointed at the pitcher of puke.

"I'll be fine," I said. "I just need a moment to get my bearings."

"Okay," he said. "Well, give me a call some time." He turned around and opened the door.

"Tony?" I said.

"Yeah?"

"Don't dye your hair pink. At least not until you've thought about it."

"Don't worry. I won't."

"Good," I said. Tony left. He closed the door.

>> Farts Like Gold: 22

Antennae Man launched into the opening riff. Tony followed his lead. Thank God. It sounded like he could actually play. I didn't really trust myself to sing. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep in tune. I looked out at the audience. They seemed friendly. I looked at Antennae Man. He smiled at me and repeated the intro. I looked at Tony. He was completely focused on playing. He had a dreamy expression on his face. He usually looked like twelve year old accountant but now, at least, he looked like a stoned 12 year old accountant. To my ears it sounded like he might have the goods.

The only problem was that I didn't.

But I knew what I had to do. There was no way I could sing like Robert Plant, but I could definitely sing as well as William Shatner. I didn't need musicality. I needed diction and chutzpah. As Antenna Man began the intro for the third time, I stepped into the light and looked down at my feet.

This time I hit the cue dead on. I raised my head and glared at the audience. "I should have quit you baby," I said. "long time ago."

I didn't sing. I just played Shatner. I pictured the audience filled with McCoys and Spocks and Scottys. "Yeah, a long time ago," I told them. I enunciated every word clearly. "I wouldn't be here, my children, down on this killing floor."

At the words, 'killing floor' I jumped down onto the dancefloor. Someone in the crowd whooped. My first whoop. Fantastic!

Antennae Man played a solo. I headbanged my way in the general direction of the whoop. The mike didn't reach the side of the stage so I moved back to the centre. "I should have listened," I told Spock. "To my second mind".

I could hear Tony getting into it now. Soon we were at the bridge and he and Antennae Man traded solos for a good five minutes. Maybe Tony really was a musical genius. I lay on the floor and punctuated their riffs with the occasional shout of "I should have listened, baby!"

I stood up to finish the rest of the song. I told the audience about my troubles. I asked them to squeeze my lemon. And then we were at the bass solo. There were more whoops now as Tony stepped up to the centre of the stage. I could sense my rock and roll moment approaching. This was my favourite part of the song -- when Robert Plant sings "baby baby baby" over and over again. If ever Bill Shatner and I were ever going to be taken seriously as artists, we were going to have to go for it.

I sang; I actually sang!

I sang "baby, baby, baby" over and over again as Antennae Man wailed on the guitar. I let myself sink to my knees as I ran out of breath. Many many whoops. I climbed back up the stage. It seemed much easier this time. I jumped up and down to the last frenzied guitar solo. I held my hand up and the band cut on my signal.

"I'm gonna leave my children," I told them, "down on this killing floor."

I turned my back on the audience and handed the mike to Pink Girl. The crowd went wild. Tony gave back his borrowed bass and we walked off the stage. We bowed briefly in the middle of the dance floor.

The Pink Girl gestured down at us, "Kent and Tony!" We waved and went back to our table. The bartender sent over a pitcher of beer and two coffees. He gave us a thumbs-up to say it was on the house. I raised my broken hand in triumph.

"That was fantastic!" said Tony. "Were we good? Do you think we were any good? People clapped. That's a good sign, right?"

I poured myself another glass of half beer, half coffee. "You were good," I said. "Really great."

"And what about you?" asked Tony. "I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention. I was just trying not to screw up. Were you good?"

I thought about it. "I was focused," I said. "I think I gave a good performance."

"So you were good, then, Right?"

"No," I said. "I was terrible. And I should never go near a musical stage again in my life. But I gave a good performance." I grabbed Tony's shoulder. "You, on the other hand -- I honestly think you can play. I have to admit I did get a bit distracted out there. But, still, I can tell you this much. You did not suck."

>> Farts Like Gold: 21

2.3Mb mp4 movie of the night	More pics on Flickr

(Updated on 21 March)

I turned 42 yesterday. According to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy this is the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything.

Accordingly, tonight, we're having a Rubik's Cube party. The principal behind the concept is simple, yet profound. We are all here to play a part in the great puzzle that is life. Everyone arrives wearing different coloured clothes. By the end of the night, they need to end up wearing clothes of all the same colour. This is accomplished by trading articles of clothing with fellow party attendees.

The event has not begun entirely auspiciously. My Crazy Landlord, who is usually the principal host in events at this house, went out on a bit of a tear last night. He arrived home at 2:30 in the morning in the company of a man named "McFuck". I heard sounds of merriment and disaster throughout the night. About 5:30 in the morning they went to bed. When I saw John (aka Crazy Landlord) the next morning, his foot was roughly the size of an elephant testicle - roughly the same shape and colour as well.

After a greasy breakfast he went to the hospital where they told him it was sprained and he should keep off of it for a while.

This has been translated in his hungover brain to "go home and treat all of your housemates as slaves".

Hopefully within a couple of hours we should have a few guests who can coo over him and rub frozen peas on his foot.

***

I think the party was a success. There are links to some pictures and a movie of the event above. The elephant testicle foot didn't seem to affect the Crazy Landlord overly much. There wasn't nearly as much nudity and swapping of clothing as I hoped for, but perhaps that's a good thing. Age is beginning to take its toll on all of us.

The next day a few of us who attended the Rubik's Cube party and a number of others had a posh brunch in Bank Aldwych which I think I enjoyed more than the actual party. No doubt another sign of age and wisdom -- or at least sloth and gluttony.

"Tony man, We're up!" I picked up the coffee and was about to knock it back when I remembered my run-in with the bouncer. "Is it hot?" I asked.

"It's definitely hotter than the beer," said Tony.

"Of course," I said. The world was getting clearer and clearer. I poured the coffee into my empty beer glass and topped it up with beer from the pitcher. What the Hell. They were both going to the same place. I sipped. The taste was irrelevant. What I needed was the chemical effect and not to burn my mouth. "Perfect!" I finished the glass.

"So, what can you play?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" asked Tony. "I play the bass. I told you that."

"No. What songs do you know?"

"Oh. Ah. I can play the Lemon Song," he said.

"The Lemon Song?"

"Yeah. You know. Led Zeppelin," said Tony. He played some air guitar in front of me. "I should have quit you," he sang. "long time ago..."

I shuddered. "Are you sure you can play the bass?" I asked.

"No," said Tony. "That's what we've been talking about all night. I'm not sure at all. Maybe I can. Maybe I can't. It's been one of the formative dilemmas of my life."

"Right. Right," I said. "Let me put it another way. Do you think you can sing?"

"Oh," said Tony. "No, I'm certain I can't sing."

"Thank God!" I said. "You are absolutely right about that. Let's go. We're on. I've got you a bass. It's all golden. Take the jug."

I made a bee-line for the stage. Somehow I ended up at a table to the left of the stage. Fortunately it was sturdy and I was able to push off from it and propel myself towards the girl with the pink head.

"Lemons!" I told her. "I'm going to sing about lemons!" I flung my arm back towards Tony. He stood directly behind me holding the pitcher of beer. "That man needs a bass. We're a team."

Tony addressed the girl in pink and Antennae Man. "Do you know The Lemon Song by Led Zeppelin?"

The Antennae Man nodded. He leaned back and said something to the other band members.

The girl in pink turned to the crowd. "Are you ready for some Zeppelin?" she shouted. There may have been a response from the crowd. It may have been something like a cheer. I was focused on getting onto the stage. It seemed ridiculously high. Somehow Tony was already up there and Antennae Man had found him a bass.

I turned around and gave a little hop and landed sitting on the stage. I let myself flop backward between the mike stand and one of the monitors. I rolled onto my left side and crawled forwards until my knees were fully on the stage. When I stood up, Tony handed me a piece of paper. "What's this," I said.

"It's the words," he said. "Just in case."

"Good thinking," I peered at the paper. "You've got very neat printing," I said. "Tony, are you sure these are all the words? There aren't very many of them. What am I supposed to sing when they run out?"

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Do you remember the song?"

"Yeah, I think so," I said.

"Well, just ramble and repeat yourself a bit."

"Of course!" I said. "It's rock and roll! Rock on, baby!" I peered out at the lights. "Pink Girl! Give me my mike! I've got some lemons to squeeze!"

>> Farts Like Gold: 20

Brendan stepped behind the tarp and stood under the unoccupied shower. He glanced at Lucy. She was definitely naked. She stood under the spray with her head bent forward and the water pounding on the back of her neck. Her arms hung by her sides. Hunched over as she was, he couldn't entirely see her breasts. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. They were amazingly white, what he could see of them. She was mostly pale all over. Just her arms and shoulders and face and chest were tanned. She had bands of redness where the tops of her rubber boots had rubbed on her calves. And similar marks on her hips from the planting bags. Her hair obscured her face so he couldn't tell if she could see him looking at her or not.

He turned away from her and scrubbed himself down. He shouldn't really be looking at her anyway. We're both just people, he told himself. There doesn't need to be anything sexual about this.

Damn, she's got beautiful legs, he thought to himself. He involuntarily snuck another quick peek and immediately regretted it. She was staring at him and untangling her hair with her fingers under the spray. He could see her breasts clearly this time. There was a mole on her left breast, at about two o'clock from the nipple.

Brendan gave a wry half-smile. "Sorry," he said.

Lucy shook her head as if to say "don't worry about it."

Brendan picked up the shampoo bottle and thrust his head under the spray. He squeezed a dollop into his hand and put the bottle down again. He washed his hair and then reached for the soap. He rubbed it under his armpits and over his arms. He didn't feel comfortable facing Lucy, and he didn't feel comfortable facing directly away from her, so he stood facing away from her at 45 degree angle. He washed his legs and his feet. He felt awkward about washing his butt in front of her but it had to be done. He turned so he was fully side on to her which meant that she could see his penis. But rather that than see him with his hand jammed between his ass cheeks.

Besides, it wasn't like he was getting an erection. He felt obscurely proud of that small victory. But then immediately regretted the thought. As soon as he lathered up his scrotum he could feel the pressure start to build up. No need to panic yet. He just had to turn away slightly and think about something unpleasant.

What am I doing in this shower with Lucy Lison, anyway? he thought to himself. Oh right, the quad got stuck. Ended up battling for an hour to get it out. God damn rain. Ah that's better. Think about the weather. That'll make you wilt. The rain sure is loud on that roof of the tent. Nights like this are great for sex. With everyone's tent so close together it's about the only time you get any real privacy. Ah shit! That's the wrong thing to think about.

Brendan turned a bit more away from Lucy and stuck his head under the water again. He rubbed his face furiously and thought of the quad. He glanced down at himself. He wasn't exactly wilting but he wasn't growing either.

Joe came into the dryshack. "Brendan, you in there?"

Brendan didn't say anything, he just glanced over his shoulder at Lucy.

"Anybody in the shower?"

Lucy called out, "I'll be out in a minute."

"Oh, it's you," said Joe. "Just looking for Brendan. See you at dinner."

"See you."

Brendan stood frozen for a couple of minutes. Well at least that made me wilt, he thought.

He quickly rinsed himself off and gathered up his soap and shampoo and went back to the changing area. Lucy followed him.

"Lucy," he said, "would you mind waiting until I've changed. There's just not that much room here."

"No problem," she said. She stepped back around the tarp. Brendan could hear as she stepped back under the shower. He put on his camp jeans and a sweatshirt and a pair of recycled socks and stepped into his spare boots. He pulled on his rain jacket and picked up all his muddy clothes and ran back to his tent. He dumped everything under the tarp and ran all the way back to the cook shack.

Joe was doing tallies at the office table.

"Sorry," said Brendan. "I got a bit stuck today. Totally covered in mud. And thought I'd have a shower."

"Yeah, no worries," said Joe, "I thought you must have been in there. Must have just missed you."

>> Farts Like Gold: 19