Sobriety

In Ontario province, sobriety tests are something that police officers prefer to administer door-to-door. I was fortunate enough to catch a roadblock sobriety test on my way from one place to another, on my way to the Gardiner Expressway, which can be driven upon in very fast or very very slow manners.

Don't worry, i did not get a DUI or anything. It is just that it is never a good idea to be honest, and it's even less of a good idea when police officers are involved. But when the dude stopped me and asked if i'd had anything to drink, i said that i'd had a beer with dinner. I stopped short of describing the delightful hoppy flavour, which was hoppy.

The police officer had me pull over and meet him at his car. I was excited, because this would be my first time blowing into a drunkenness gauge on the side of the road in front of all manner of automobiles and pedestrians and other folks with rubbered neckses.

The police officer and i carried on in very boring and matter-of-fact ways. It was the most sober scene ever. I was proud of myself for the way i always seem very bored and unconcerned and melancholy even when i am not, because it is on rare occasions like this when it pays off because you are being tested for being drunk and reckless and recklessly drunk.

Anyway, i totally blew a 008 the first time and a 007 the second time. My drunkenness was decreasing by 001 every ten seconds or so. Although i could not see where the decimal point was in the dark, and the police officer was not giving any indication of whether or not i was in trouble, so this was cause for concern.

The police officer decided to be mysterious, and asked for my license and started writing information onto his carbon-copying pad. I continued to be sober and bored-looking and did not say anything. I am pretty sure that the police officer was wanting me to get bent out of shape and flip out about how i was innocent and only had one beer and this was ridiculous, and then he would be allowed to grab my wrist and snap my arm into two more pieces and slam my ribs into his cruiser and break as many of those as he could, too, and on and on until my Canadian life was ruined and i would have to go back to America to be splendourous, again.

But i did not get bent out of shape. Although i did ask about the possibility of getting a blood test, if this would help to confirm my innocence. This is not an offer i will make every day to just anyone, but all the same the police officer did not think that it deserved a response, and so did not say anything at all.

So i just looked around at streetlights as he wrote up the ticket, which turned out to not be a ticket. I was even nice enough to help condemn myself by iterating my license plate number for him.

So when he was done, i decided to ask in a very polite way, was i over a legal limit for DUI, sir?

The response boiled down to me being several factors-of-ten below the limit, which means that my decimal point moves slowly, and i could easily dissolve seventeen pints of fine ale into my bloodstream, and still be the best driver in four counties. This is not exactly what the police officer said, but i took a liberty in analyzing his conclusions.

All in all, it was a worthwhile experience, because i feel as if i am more seedy and less innocent, now. Soon, i may decide to start carrying a switchblade with me, as soon as i can find a decent switchblade holster.

Here is a Thanksgiving dialog

: Hello. Are you a turkey?

: Yes. I am a turkey with a capotain.

: What is a capotain?

: A capotain is a hat with a belt buckle on it. It was really popular in the 1600's and all of the hipster puritans would wear it.

: Why would a hat need a buckle?

: Go fuck yourself.

The frog was a prince the prince was a brick the brick was an egg the egg was a bird well haven't you heard?

For reasons undivulgent, i have been seeking a new spiritual advisor, whom shalt be my first ever spiritual advisor. I need a spiritual advisor because i would like to have someone tell me that i am "the shit" more often, even though no one ever says "the shit" anymore. Also, i like to have people who i deem competent who tell me what i should be doing, because i dislike thinking for myself.

My leading candidate for a spiritual advisor is Peter Gabriel, circa 1972.

I met with Peter Gabriel via meditative seance the other day, which is like virtual reality. The idea was to feel each other out about the whole concept. Peter Gabriel admitted having his doubts, since he does not consider me to be worthy of his counsel. (It is true, that people much truer than i do not even deserve such counsel, especially from PG circa 1972, but just as i am wont to do during interviews, i veiled myself in shantily fabricated confidence and plasticine humility.)

I will attempt to transcribe the session.

Peter Gabriel made his virtual entrance to the meditative seance interview wearing his "Watcher of the Skies" reptilian wings headband, and fluorescent paint 'round his eyes, which glows when there are blacklights nearby. Which there certainly were.

--

: "..........."

: "Hey Pete. How's it going?"

: " ... .......h e l l o ..."

: "Yeah... so.... so i've been looking for a new spiritual advisor..."

: "From life alone, to life as one, think not your journey done. For though your ship be sturdy, no mercy has the sea. Will you survive on the ocean of being?"

: "Oh.. .umm, hold on. Shouldn't we, like, decide if we want to be, like, mentor and student, or whatever, umm, before you start giving all of, like, umm, the advice, and stuff?"

: "I know a farmer who looks after the farm. And I know a fireman who looks after the fire."

: "Oh... you've changed clothes. So what i've been meaning to get clear in this session is, is it really a spiritual advisor that i need? And if yes, are you the right guy?"

: "A FLOWER?"

: "Hey! Another costume... Funny.. Hey, listen, maybe this is an inconvenient time to do this thing, yeah? You should let me know, because I know it's sort of late in, like, Wales, or Bath or wherever. And really, if it's better for you, then i can set my alarm for really early, like 5AM for me is 10 for you, right? So maybe that's a better time? Just let me know."

: "I've been waiting here for so long. And all this time that's passed me by, it doesn't seem to matter now. You stand there with your fixed expression casting doubt on all I have to say.. Why don't you TOUCH me, TOUCH me, TOUCH me NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOOOOWW!"

: "Okay, i am definitely leaving now. Now. Now. And stuff."

: "There's only one direction in the faces that I see - it's upwards to the ceiling, where the chamber's said to be. Like the forest fight for sunlight that takes root in ev'ry tree, they are pulled up by the magnet believing they're free. The carpet crawlers heed their callers: We've got to get in to get out, we've got to get in to get out."

: "Hey, i like that one. Also, your wardrobe is impressively varied. And close by. Anyway, i'm out. See you later, yeah?"

: "Still alone in o-hell-o. See the deadly nightshade grow."

: "Bye."

--

I also met with Robert Fripp, but he insisted on having a virtual curtain drawn between us as we "communicated". Robert Fripp insisted on communicating by drawing obscure runes onto parchment with feather quills, and passing the parchment between ourselves, underneath the curtain. He also insisted on complete silence, with the exception of a crackling fire, that needed to crackle not too little and not too much, but just enough, and if the crackling noises were outside of this narrow band of acceptability, then Robert Fripp would kick the fire, hard, and the fire would cry and whimper for a couple of minutes, and then it would get its fucking act together. Robert Fripp is too intense to be my spiritual advisor, i have decided.

Lastly, i met with Andrew Latimer, who puffed on a joint the whole time and had a good laugh anytime i opened my mouth, saying that i sounded like the "bloke in the Sopranos". He was slurring his words a lot, but i think he was also saying how it is pathetic to need a spiritual advisor, and he completely butchered a mumble which had something to do with a "stiff fucking upper lip", i think. And i decided he was correct.

This posting was more an excuse to put multiple pictures of a costumed Peter Gabriel all in one place.

Thank you,

-Tim.

p.s. The following was written thirty-two or more years ago:


4.30 pm. The tube train draws to a halt. There is no station in sight. Anxious glances dart around amongst the passengers as they acknowledge each other's presence for the first time.

At the end of the train, a young lady in a green trouser-suit stands up in the centre of the carriage and proceeds to unbutton her jacket, which she removes and drops to the dirty wooden floor. She also takes off her shoes, her trousers, her blouse, her brassiere, her tights and her floral panties, dropping them all in a neat pile. This leaves her totally naked. She then moves her hands across her thighs and begins to fiddle around in between her legs. Eventually she catches hold of something cold and metallic, and very slowly she starts to unzip her body: working in a straight line up the stomach, between the breasts, up the neck, taking it right on through the centre of her face to her forehead. Her fingers probe up and down the resulting slit; finally coming to rest on either side of her navel. She pauses for a moment before meticulously working her flesh apart. Slipping her right hand into the open gash she pushes up through her throat, latching on to some buried solid at the top of her spine. With tremendous effort, she loosens and pulls out a thin, shimmering, golden rod. Her fingers release their grip and her crumpled body, neatly sliced, slithers down the liquid surface of the rod to the floor.

SPLAT!

The rod remains hovering just off the ground. A flagpole without flag. The other passengers have been totally silent but at the sound of the body dropping on the floor, a large middle-aged lady, wearing a pink dress and matching poodle, stands up and shouts, "STOP THIS, IT'S DISGUSTING!"

The golden rod disappeared.
the green trouser-suit was left on a hanger, with a dry-cleaning ticket pinned to the left arm. On the ticket was written:-

NAME.........................................
ADDRESS.....................................
.....................................................
.....................................................
.....................................................

Virginia hams

I am still registered to vote in the Commonwealth, and so i have applied for my absentee ballot, in order to oust at least two evil and villainous incumbent Republicans.



I actually used to be a Republican. But then i turned fifteen. I also used to be a liberal, but then i started hanging out with liberals. And i used to be a libertarian too, but Bill Maher spoiled all of its hip. Now, i am a left-leaning Nothing. Maybe that means that i am a democrat. Actually i think that is exactly what it means. Cliques are everything.

Anyways.

I will include a heartfelt handwritten note to these two fellows, along with my absentee ballot. It will contain a list of employments that they may want to pursue once they are needing to pack their shit and move out of the DC.

I think that George would make an okay rancher, because once i saw a picture of him on a horse, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. Except i have a suspicion that he would be very mean to horses, and perhaps if no one was around, he would attempt to be romantic with the horses. You might be one of those people who would like to argue that maybe the horses enjoy that sort of thing every once in awhile, and if you are then you're weird. So instead of being a rancher, George should come to work in my office, and be my boss. He can fire me when the time is right. It is what we both have always wanted.

Eric is more difficult. Look at that fucking Tool. I bet he is one of those guys who are absolutely saccharin around the girls, and then when the girls are not around he is talking about what he would do with girls' anatomies in all sorts of ways that make us feel uncomfortable. Eric would probably do alright as a TA for a political science professor, even though some of the students would probably occasionally wear hoods and beat the shit out of him on Wednesday nights. And Eric would never get a clue, even at 8:59Pm on Wednesday night. Failing the TA gig, i don't know, i guess he should rifle through his kitchen drawers and find that silver-plated spatula, and head on down to Wendy's.

The Commonwealth shalt be more blue.