Sunday, March 30, 2008
Finally Leaving Toronto - Part 3 of 7
"[God] said, before it had really begun, 'I prefer the one about my son. I've been wading through all this unbelievable junk and wondering if I should have given the world to the monkeys.'" --Elvis Costello
Sitting in a Guelph garden watching a Siamese miniature eat grass. Like Buster and Oilrig, this Siamese was a crack baby, breath cosmetic shallow and first-time lover rapid. But he’s blue-eyed cute and innocent seeming, tentative and frightened, moving in chicken-like spastic progressions from the concrete back porch to the greenish lawn. His love and affection for me is unabashed.
Before I got here Merlin welcomed me with one sustenance potion and one medicine potion. Next thing I knew I had joined the all-night Nintendo hockey circuit, where due to limited skills I played the goon-game for $135,000 US a year. The money and a masochistic stubborn need to win (and score puck bunnies) kept me hooked to a job I hated until bleary-eyed 3:00 AM.
Yet in the morning I managed to become the rookie of the day Ultimate player, with an interception and an assist, your winded hero. I’m out of shape from too much alcohol, caffeine, acids, spices, and chocolate. Of those, only caffeine is not addictive. It’s the taste of coffee I need, not the buzz. But I’m a good eater, with almost no meat and I’m trying to cut down on dairy too. Plus I’m always the first to finish with my bubba-ganoush chin and mustard t-shirt.
Lodowne was good enough to bring me to KK's after Ultimate, together we watched a movie about the beauty of big and the weak of small, the insignificance of non-English speaking entities, unless they breathe fire or walk upright. A right funny summer flick – we all peed our pants.
I later discovered that it was a true story, when I encountered 50 confined clucking hens to three fighting cocks, pens one through 13. In pen number seven rooster number three (P7-R3) got his erectile red comb caught on the chains of the feeding trough and dropped a pint of blood and an ounce of flesh.
KK cried out “Somebody come quick my rooster’s in pain!”
The vet sauntered by saying “You – come here! I got no car! All my cotton swabs and iodine are here. Bring da rooster here!”
So we circus clowns chased the wounded rooster down. You should have heard the sick squawk he made when KK grabbed him: “Mmmcklawwk!” I’m only just learning roosterese but for all you English junkies, I believe that means “Noooooooooo!”
Some dead men walking go like lambs. Our rooster once busted accepted fate with the neutrality of the Gita, eyes complacently glossed. The vet poured iodine on, shoved cotton in the open wound, and sprayed puke-yellow Bleedstop over the gauze while KK held the rooster and I pushed his head down, making him watch rows of caged pencil-necked liverless egg-chickens insanely punching the clock, squawking and balking saying “Eat free-range or don’t eat eggs at all!”
Back in the hen-house # 7, Hen # 36 (P7-H36) had the chunk of red rooster comb in her beak and was running around while the others tried to steal the secondary erectile flesh. KK, with dextro-advantage, won the game. The hens resumed pecking the tail feathers off of each other – just killing time you see – and the wounded rooster went back to the feed trough lickety-split.
Meanwhile, in the Ontario parliament, the Premier (OP-MP1) was accused of calling a Minister of Parliament (OP-MP15) an ‘A-word’. An apology was demanded. The house speaker (OP-SH) said he had missed the insult, and asked OP-MP1 to “please repeat what you said.” OP-MP1 said “Fuck you I never called him an asshole!”
“Sorry OP-MP15,” said OP-SH, “But I didn’t hear it and he denies saying it, so I can’t make him apologize.” OP-MP15 proceeded to peck OP-SH on the bum; OP-MP1, not wanting to be left out of the parliament house trivia game, started pecking OP-MP15 on the bum, and OP-SH took up the peck on OP-MP1’s bum, forming a neat little pecking triangle. The rest of the Ministers played follow the leader, and are probably still pecking away.
Meanwhile, outside, Ontario’s on fire and we can’t find any water to put it out because it’s all been shipped to Texas – those poor Texans have never even heard of Walkerton!
And with a narrative to make Kerouac proud.
Your style is developing into quite a creative hydra. I can't wait to see how many new heads it sprouts next.
Think I'll unpack the old Guitar and pretend I'm Sonny Terry doing that old li'l' Red Rooster song.
But I still eat chicken.
Toast: well if it's free range chicken maybe not so hypocritical. during this trip i filled 5 journals with hypocrisy, my own and that of others. our society is contradiction, so there's little room between hypocrisy and fundamentalism.
That's some quote by Costello.
I was once pressganged to teach philosophy. Trying to explain Liebnitz' theory of monads, as it may apply to primates. "The monad of a human being may be an ape?" I was speculating in class.
"Got your monads mixed up with your gonads," some academic upgrader yelped.
I sometime wonder why they reward welfare failures with an education in Canada.
And they were all in my class that year!
Saw a couple of them writing FOK on the bathroom walls.
That's after I tried to explain what a syllogism was.
This somehow excited them.
Ah, what the hell. My wife had sent me out to teach becaue I'd spent all the money.
Toast: ho boy.