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February 26, 2006
Farts Like Gold: 17
"Naked and gorgeous," said Amber.
"Fantastic!" said Brendan. "Mind if I join you?"
Kathy poked her head around the tarp and stuck her tongue out. She held the tarp in place in front of her.
"Not unless you give us better land," said Amber.
"How about if I just give you a towel?" Brendan held out the towel to Kathy. She grabbed it with her teeth and shook it like a dog. She pulled her head back inside the changing area and flicked the towel at Amber. Amber took it and draped if over the tarp.
"Lucy," she called out, "Brendan brought your towel."
"Thanks."
"I've got your sweats as well," Brendan shouted. He sat on a stump just beside the pallet to wait for his turn in the shower. After a couple of minutes, Amber and Kathy came out from behind the tarp. Amber wore jeans, a tee shirt, and a thick polar fleece. Kathy wore a pair of big cotton parachute pants. She liked to think of them as her MC Hammer pants. She also wore three oversize hooded cotton jackets in yellow, green, and purple.
Lucy stayed in the shower and let the water warm her.
From where Brendan sat, he could make out the edge of her silhouette against the tarp wall of the shower. "You almost done in there?" he called out.
"This is the first time I've been warm all day. I'm not going anywhere." said Lucy. "You're welcome to join me, if you want."
"Oh, come on," said Brendan. "I've got work to do. Hurry up."
"I'm not moving," said Lucy. "I hope you realise this isn't a come on. But I'm still cold and the water's still warm. You can shower beside me if you want. We've seen each other naked before. It's no big deal."
Brendan shook his head. So far no one else had joined the queue for the shower. He looked down at his hands. They were caked with mud to the elbows. "Ah, fuck it." He stood up and rubbed his forearms together to knock as much of the dried mud off as he could. Then he rubbed his forearms against the legs of his jeans. He stepped out of his boots onto the pallet and stepped behind the tarp into the changing area.
"I'm coming in," he called out.
He took off his shirt and dumped it on a pile by the tent wall. He stepped on the toes of his socks one by one pulled his feet out of them and kicked them next to his shirt. Then he took off his jeans and underwear and added them to the pile.
"Last chance," he said.
Posted by YandaMan at 11:36 PM | Comments (1)
February 19, 2006
Farts Like Gold: 16
It took Lucy, Alistair and Cameron 40 minutes to walk back to camp. It had been raining all afternoon and it continued to piss rain on them the whole way back. The three of them walked straight into the dry shack. Wet socks and rain gear hung on lines everywhere. It was a bit like a nightmare where you are lost in a hall of mirrors. Only the mirrors are lines of filthy, muddy sopping wet clothes. Still, even if they were mirrors, they would still reflect pretty much the same picture - more sopping wet and filthy clothing slowly moving in response to external forces around them.
In the centre of the dry shack was an overworked homemade iron stove stoked to the point of red-hotness surrounded by a cluster of filthy planters. Lucy, Alistair and Cameron pressed their way to the inner circle of warmth. Other drier planters made way for them.
All of the planters stood staring at the stove. Cameron repeated "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" over and over again under his breathe and hopped gently up and down. Alistair jammed his hands down his bib overalls and inside the crotch of his pants. "Sweet Mother of grapefruit! My God, my balls are warm!" he said.
Lucy stood there with her shoulders stooped, staring at the stove. She was shivering. After a few minutes she got the energy to hold her arms out towards the fire. Raising her arms made the sides of her body suddenly cold. She dropped them again and shuffled closer to the fire. She raised her right arm slowly above her head and turned carefully to face her right side towards the stove. She stayed in that position for about a couple of minutes and then turned so her back was facing the stove. She dropped her right arm and raised her head. Water dripped from her hair on to her face. She sputtered the wetness from her lips and raised her left arm. She turned slowly and faced her left side to the stove.
Brendan came into the dry shack with an armload of wood. It was wet so he piled it up just to the side of the stove. He was caked in mud from the chest down. His face was speckled with mud. "Damn fine weather for ducks," he said.
"Or loons," said Alistair.
Brendan stuck his head under a line of wet socks and grimaced as they dripped down his neck. "Anyone showering?" he asked.
"Kathy and I are next," called out Amber. "There's no one after us though."
Brendan looked at Lucy. "You want to join them? I can wait."
She nodded, her left arm still raised towards the tent ceiling.
"I'm going to get my stuff," said Brendan. "Do you want me to grab your towel?"
Lucy nodded. She dropped her arm. "If you're going by Kent's tent, could you grab my sweats as well?"
"No problem." He backed out of the tent.
"I think I'll shower as well," said Alistair. "You?" he asked Cameron.
"Too cold."
Lucy took off her rain jacket. She shoved some socks over to make room and hung it on a line near the fire. She walked over to where Amber and Kathy were, stooping under lines of clothes on the way. They stood on a wooden pallet on the near side of the tarp separating the shower from the rest of the tent. She undid the bib of her rainpants and shoved them down past her boots. She stepped out of them on to the pallet beside the other girls. Her foot slid slightly because of the wetness of her socks. She took her socks off. One by one she wringed brown water out of them and then draped them over the top of her boots.
Two planters, Matt and Paul, came out from behind the tarp where they had been showering. They wore trousers and had bare feet. They carried the rest of their clothes in their hands. The three girls carefully traded places with them, as all five struggled to stay out of the mud and on the comparatively dry pallet.
Once behind the tarp, the girls started to undress.
Lucy stuck her head around the edge of the tarp. "Matt, if you see Brendan can you ask him to give me a yell so I can grab my towel."
"No worries."
The shower had three faucets nailed to the wooden frame of the tent. Plastic pipes provided the water. The shower heads were plumbing caps that had holes drilled in them to allow the water to spray out. One of the faucets was clogged. Lucy stood under one of the others. Amber and Kathy shared the remaining shower.
"Can I borrow your soap?" asked Lucy.
"Sure," said Kathy. "Just a sec."
Lucy stood under the shower and let the water warm her as she waited for Kathy and Amber to soap themselves up.
Kathy stepped over to Lucy and handed her the bar of soap.
"Thanks."
She rubbed the soap quickly over herself, then rinsed it off in the spray and stepped over to hand it back to Kathy.
The other girls finished their shower and started to get dressed. Brendan shook the tarp. "Are ya naked?" he asked.
Posted by YandaMan at 11:42 PM
February 12, 2006
Farts Like Gold: 15 -- Tracy Davenport
"Recordings," I said. "Don't you have any recordings of your band?"
"No," said Tony. "There was a girl in our band who didn't believe in them. She always said, 'Music is all about the moment. There's a reason they both begin with the letter M, she told me.'"
"Profound."
"Her name was Tracy Davenport. Come to think of it, she didn't like any music at all. I can't believe I forgot that. I told you it gave me amnesia, playing music."
"Maybe it's all part of the 'music as moment' thing," I said.
"Tracy Davenport hated almost everything she ever heard," said Tony. "She must really have known music. Maybe I really was good."
"Do you remember what she said about your music?" I asked.
"No. Just that music was supposed to be something you participated in. Recordings were artificial. She once told me, 'Music should be played, not heard, Tony.' I think she may have been some kind of musical genius."
"But nothing about how you played specifically?"
Tony leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He counted silently on his fingers to ten. "No. Nothing I can remember. Whether she did or not, I don't remember anything so either way it amounts to the same thing."
I watched the girl in pink. There were two mike stands. She was standing in front of the shorter one. The coffee was working. When I looked at Tony I could hear him perfectly. When I looked at the girl in pink, I could hear her perfectly. "Check," she was saying. "Check, check."
I looked at Tony. He wasn't saying anything. He was drinking beer, but I could hear distinct slurping sounds. I looked at the girl again. She was 20 metres away and I could hear every word across the crowded bar.
"Good evening," she said. "We're Easter Omelette and we're the house band here at the Commercial Hotel. It's open mike night tonight. Phil and the boys are here to warm you up and keep things rolling but it's your night. We've got a few names on the list, but we've still got some space left so why not join us. We can always fit a few more folks on the stage."
I looked back at Tony. "You have to play tonight," I said.
"I haven't played in years," he said. "And I don't have a bass. No one's going to loan me a bass. I mean, everyone here looks nice and all, but they're not going to loan me an instrument. There's being nice and there's being nice, you know. Besides I don't know any of the music."
"How do you know that?" I asked. "They haven't even started playing yet? It's open mike night. You can play whatever you want. It's just a big jam session."
"You are much more entertaining than I expected," he said. "There must be something about breaking a hand that makes people more interesting. You and Alvin -- both very entertaining."
"I am completely wired!" I said. "I don't know why but some mix of the drugs and the beer and the coffee means that my hearing is like a dog's, only better. If you play tonight, I'll be able to tell you whether you're any good or not. Absolutely."
"But I haven't played in years," said Tony.
"It's the perfect test!" I said. "If you are a musical genius, it won't matter. I guarantee I'll be able to tell. Look at me! Look at the way I'm vibrating! I'm a human tuning fork!" I held up my hand. "My hand's even full of metal! There must be a reason for all of this!"
Tony shook his head.
"Do it for me," I said. "Four days ago, I was in a camp. I was making good money. I had friends. I had somewhere to sleep. I had meals waiting for me when I got home. I had a girlfriend. I had a life and a purpose. Now I'm drunk and stoned and broke and wired on caffeine and my hand's busted and I have no idea what I'm going to do. Give me a reason for being. Let me tell you whether you should be a musician or not."
"I don't know, Kent..."
"Tony, what are you doing now? What's your job? You never told me that."
The band had started playing now. I didn't recognise the song, but then I wasn't really paying attention to it. I was focused on Tony.
"I work for Satfield Gas," he said. "I track what leases we're working on and who we need to pay for them and how much. It's an interesting job. You get some real characters sometimes on the other end of the phone. Just the other day I was talking to somebody who was a real live rodeo cowboy."
"Is it as exciting as being a rock and roll star?" I asked. "You've got to give it a chance, man. If not for you, then for me. Just for this night. I need to have a purpose. Let me be the one who tells you if you're any good."
Tony looked at the stage. He looked into his beer. Then he looked at my hand. "All right," he said. "If you can get me a bass, I'll go up on stage."
"No problem," I said. It seemed a fair deal. I do something for him. He does something for me. Then I do something for him. And then he does something for me. And then... well... It's all a big circle of life.
I looked around the bar. I couldn't see an unattended bass. Maybe there was a music store still open on Whyte Avenue. But that wouldn't work. I couldn't afford to buy a bass. I drank some coffee. There had to be basses here. It was open mike night. The place was lousy with aspiring musicians.
"You've got to help me out," I said to Tony. "My hearing is perfect but my eyesight is a bit fuzzy. Are there any basses actually in this bar."
Tony stood up. He turned around slowly. He sat down. "There's a few," he said. "Obviously, the skinny guy on stage is playing one."
I looked at the stage. "No good," I said. "I can't see past the girl with the pink head. Anything on stage might as well be invisible."
"Well, that guy has one," he jerked his head in the direction of a kid who looked about 16 with hair down to the middle of his back.
I shook my head. "He's an adolescent," I said.
"True," said Tony.
"An adolescent male," I said. "Never fuck with an adolescent male. No matter what species. They're all testosterone and growing muscle and they heal quick. If he takes offence he'll either kill us or try to mate with us. You see the same thing with bears, moose, and mice. Adolescent males are bad news."
"There are lots of guitar cases in the bar," said Tony. "But there's a very good chance they have guitars in them. Some of them might contain a bass I suppose. I wonder if there's some way to tell. Maybe by where they put the stickers or maybe there's some secret sign that a real bass player would be able to identify them by."
"You can't think that way," I said. "You are a real bass player. If there was some sign you could sense it. I'm sure of it."
"All I know is I can't tell," said Tony.
"Well, we'll just have to ask them," I said. "Get me another coffee. I need to be crystal clear when I speak to the masses. It might be an idea to get another pitcher of beer as well. Something's happened to mine and yours is looking mighty low."
Tony went to the bar to get the drinks. I went over to the stage and waved my broken hand at the girl in the pink. She winked and gave the clipboard at her feet a gentle kick. I picked it up. There were two columns, one headed by "name" and the other by "instrument". I wrote down "Kent" under the "name" heading and "Vox" under the "instrument" heading. Then I crossed it out and wrote "Bass". I put it down, then picked it up again. I crossed out "Bass" and wrote "Vox" again. I put the clipboard down just as the girl in Pink finished singing. There was a smattering of applause and one or two whistles.
"Thanks," she said. "Don't go away. I think we have a special treat for you." She bobbed down onto her heels and glanced at the clipboard.
"Kent," she said. "Are you ready to join us on stage?"
Her hair was painfully bright. Her corset was just as bad. I found myself staring between the two until I realised I was peering straight into her cleavage.
"What do you want to sing?" she asked.
Posted by YandaMan at 10:20 PM | Comments (1)
February 5, 2006
Farts Like Gold: 14
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a little wired."
"Hey! Honestly! It's no problem," said Tony. "It's just nice to have someone to talk to." Tony took a drink of his beer. "This is a great place. I bet Alvin would have loved it. Hey! There's a band! Cool!"
The band was setting up. An antennae-thin bald man was awkwardly adjusting a mike stand with a beer bottle clenched in his right hand. A girl with bright pink hair shrugged out of an army jacket and tossed it on of the amps. She was wearing a pink bustier and a black and white polka-dot skirt.
"I used to be in a band," Tony said. "It was ages ago. Back in school. I have no idea if we were any good or not. I was too nervous to judge. I don't just mean when we were playing in front of people. I was nervous all the time. I played bass. I might have been terrible or I might have been a genius. I might have been better than Tony Levin. I just don't know. Too nervous. Every time up I picked up the bass I would just blank out. It was like temporary memory loss."
"Didn't anyone else give you any clue about whether you were any good or not?" I asked. "No one ever said anything like, 'You suck!' or 'You rock!'?"
"No, not really. We were too young and they were all too polite. I mean, everyone said I was good but I didn't really trust them because I had no idea if they were any good or not. People who really care about music have such strong views, don't you think? I mean it seems the only way you can trust anyone who knows anything about music is if they hate most of it. I always find it a struggle to really hate a song. It all sounds pretty good to me. I mean, I know I'm supposed to hate Celine Dion, but, you know, sometimes her stuff is kind of pleasant. But the people who seem to care about music hate Celine Dion. They hate tons of songs. And usually they're far more interested in talking about what they don't like than what they do. So, because I didn't really hate anything, I didn't trust my own judgement when it comes to music. And most of the people I knew back then didn't seem to hate anything either. So I can't trust them."
I was beginning to lose focus. I drank some more of coffee. It had cooled down. I could feel the caffeine providing a gentle hum to the foggy organ that was my brain. I was grateful that the girl in the band had chosen a bright pink motif. It gave my eyes an easy focus point.
"Well, I think this band tonight is going to be fantastic," I said. "It's pink."
"Pink?"
"Pink," I repeated. "The band is pink. Look". I gestured at the girl on the stage. For some reason there was a glass of beer in my hand. Some of the beer spilled on the ground. I carefully put the glass down and examined my hand. How had the beer glass got there?
"Oh," said Tony. "I thought Pink was the name of the band. But you just mean the girl is wearing pink."
"And she has a pink head," I pointed out.
"I think it might be a wig," said Tony.
"We're not debating the reality of her hair!" I said, possibly louder than I meant to. "The significant aspect of the top of that woman is that it's coloured pink."
I looked around the table. Both of my coffee cups were empty. "I need another coffee," I said. "Do you want one?"
"No thanks."
"Back in a second." I brought the empty cups back to the bar. "I'd like a couple of refills," I told the barman. The bar was getting louder. It was getting harder to hear individual sounds. Maybe more coffee would help bring some clarity to the noise. I needed to have my senses sharp when the band began playing. I brought the coffees back to the table one at a time.
Posted by YandaMan at 10:50 PM