WELCOME TO THE PAGES of my third, wait a minute, it may be my fourth… fifth… maybe umpteenth book
Yes. Really.
This book used to be called Poutine. Then it didn’t. It had been put on the shelf for more than a decade. It became dated. I dusted it off. I like dated.
I wanted to write it with friends. Neediness? Yes.
Friends suck. I had to off them all. Except for the good ones, of course.
Why do people feel the need to spoil perfectly good silence and announce how much of an ignorant fucking racist they are?
Al K. or if you prefer: A. Kuhar. I don’t want to out him.
This book used to be called Poutine. Then it didn’t. It had been put on the shelf for more than a decade. It became dated. I dusted it off. I like dated.
I wanted to write it with friends. Neediness? Yes.
Friends suck. I had to off them all. Except for the good ones, of course.
Why do people feel the need to spoil perfectly good silence and announce how much of an ignorant fucking racist they are?
Al K. or if you prefer: A. Kuhar. I don’t want to out him.
Hey World.
Yes.
This virus shit is heavy, isn’t it?
Yes.
Are you interested in a solution?
Don’t worry about it, by the time this is published you’ll either be dead or there will be a vaccine.
So, you don’t want a solution?
Humour me.
You don’t have to be such a dink, World.
Sorry. You guys are screwing me up, what with all this fracking, deforestation, and on and on and on...assholes.
Hey, most of us are only living. We don’t run the game.
But you do buy the products. Consume. Consume. Fucking consume, I only have so much to give.
Yes.
This virus shit is heavy, isn’t it?
Yes.
Are you interested in a solution?
Don’t worry about it, by the time this is published you’ll either be dead or there will be a vaccine.
So, you don’t want a solution?
Humour me.
You don’t have to be such a dink, World.
Sorry. You guys are screwing me up, what with all this fracking, deforestation, and on and on and on...assholes.
Hey, most of us are only living. We don’t run the game.
But you do buy the products. Consume. Consume. Fucking consume, I only have so much to give.
What’s that Al, you’ve got something to say?
“The virus started in China. It’s now in Iran. Now that’s some serious cross breeding. Chortle. Chortle. Chortle.”
Al glances my way in search of approval.
I throw a vial of COVID-19 at him. It smashes on his cheek, splattering liquid death into his mouth and up his greasy nostrils.
Why, prey tell, do I have virus-vials handy? For moments like this.
“The virus started in China. It’s now in Iran. Now that’s some serious cross breeding. Chortle. Chortle. Chortle.”
Al glances my way in search of approval.
I throw a vial of COVID-19 at him. It smashes on his cheek, splattering liquid death into his mouth and up his greasy nostrils.
Why, prey tell, do I have virus-vials handy? For moments like this.
Mike is 93 years old, if he’s not 94. His funeral is today. He’s tired.
I receive a call from a client. They need three workers. I tell him I’ll make a few calls.
I call Kelly. Kelly told me less than an hour ago he could round up five workers in a heartbeat.
The day before Kelly came into the office announcing, “Do you know what Surrey needs? They need Trump.”
I strongly suggested he stop talking. He didn’t.
“I love Hector in the Big City Office. Say hi to him for me.”
I remained silent.
“Say hi to Ditto as well.”
“His name is Ricco.”
“I love Ricco. Oh, don’t forget to say hi to Tim. And, don’t forget Carver. Say hi to them all for me.
I receive a call from a client. They need three workers. I tell him I’ll make a few calls.
I call Kelly. Kelly told me less than an hour ago he could round up five workers in a heartbeat.
The day before Kelly came into the office announcing, “Do you know what Surrey needs? They need Trump.”
I strongly suggested he stop talking. He didn’t.
“I love Hector in the Big City Office. Say hi to him for me.”
I remained silent.
“Say hi to Ditto as well.”
“His name is Ricco.”
“I love Ricco. Oh, don’t forget to say hi to Tim. And, don’t forget Carver. Say hi to them all for me.
"NO"
Kelly said he could round up five workers. I need three. I phone him.
“Kelly, you said you could get workers.”
“Yes. Hold on. Stay on the phone…” KNOCK – KNOCK – KNOCK “Do you want to work? You can’t, you’re on your period…You can’t, you are having heart surgery today…You can’t, you are a recent amputee…You can’t, ewe, you’ve got diarrhea…” KNOCK – KNOCK – KNOCK.
Hmm. Sounded hollow.
“Mike, open your eyes. I will open your home. You’ll come. You have nothing better to do today? Taran, I’ve got two of us. Be there in 10-minutes.”
10 MINUTES LATER
“Kelly, I can’t send Mike to a job.”
“Why not?”
“Look at him, he’s two-hundred years old. I won’t send him.”
“You must.”
“I won’t.”
“Your Big City Office sends out heroin addicts. Give him a chance.”
“No.”
“What’s Mike supposed to do all day; sit around waiting to die?”
There was a reason Mike’s door rang hollow. He was being loaded into a hearse. He was surely to expire on the way to the cemetery. Kelly woke him.
“Hey Mike. I know this is your last day. You’re farewell so to speak. But wouldn’t you feel better about yourself if you gave another hard worked 8 hours? Wouldn’t you?
“Kelly, you said you could get workers.”
“Yes. Hold on. Stay on the phone…” KNOCK – KNOCK – KNOCK “Do you want to work? You can’t, you’re on your period…You can’t, you are having heart surgery today…You can’t, you are a recent amputee…You can’t, ewe, you’ve got diarrhea…” KNOCK – KNOCK – KNOCK.
Hmm. Sounded hollow.
“Mike, open your eyes. I will open your home. You’ll come. You have nothing better to do today? Taran, I’ve got two of us. Be there in 10-minutes.”
10 MINUTES LATER
“Kelly, I can’t send Mike to a job.”
“Why not?”
“Look at him, he’s two-hundred years old. I won’t send him.”
“You must.”
“I won’t.”
“Your Big City Office sends out heroin addicts. Give him a chance.”
“No.”
“What’s Mike supposed to do all day; sit around waiting to die?”
There was a reason Mike’s door rang hollow. He was being loaded into a hearse. He was surely to expire on the way to the cemetery. Kelly woke him.
“Hey Mike. I know this is your last day. You’re farewell so to speak. But wouldn’t you feel better about yourself if you gave another hard worked 8 hours? Wouldn’t you?
|
The sun beats down on the Prairie roasting the sidewalk like a tinsmith working his craft.
I want to play tennis.
I phone the G brothers. Momma G answers. She puts RG on the phone.
“RG, want to play tennis?”
“I can’t.”
I drop 5-minutes of profanity into the phone line. Mostly focusing on the f-word.
“Put KG on.”
I drop 5-minutes of profanity into the phone line. Mostly focusing on the f-word.
All the while, Momma G listened on the other line. What’s an: other line? The next time I saw her, she threatened to wash my mouth out with soapy water.
18 YEARS LATER
The entire G Clan visit Vancouver. They ask me to meet them for drinks. Momma G has brought soap. The evening is filled with reminiscing. We catch up on where some of us have been. Perhaps, what’s next. I refrain from motherfucking profanity.
RG is married with two little ones. KG is married, a second time, with children. I have a partner. I don’t talk about my partner, a product of a world where if you don’t fit the perceived norm, it’s often more comfortable letting them guess.
TIME TO GO
Farewell. Farewell. Farewell. Kelly says hi. Farewell.
Almost a clean get away. KG has questions.
“Linds, do you have a girlfriend?”
“No. I’m okay.”
“What? No girlfriend? What are you, gay or something?”
“I have a big dick.”
I want to play tennis.
I phone the G brothers. Momma G answers. She puts RG on the phone.
“RG, want to play tennis?”
“I can’t.”
I drop 5-minutes of profanity into the phone line. Mostly focusing on the f-word.
“Put KG on.”
I drop 5-minutes of profanity into the phone line. Mostly focusing on the f-word.
All the while, Momma G listened on the other line. What’s an: other line? The next time I saw her, she threatened to wash my mouth out with soapy water.
18 YEARS LATER
The entire G Clan visit Vancouver. They ask me to meet them for drinks. Momma G has brought soap. The evening is filled with reminiscing. We catch up on where some of us have been. Perhaps, what’s next. I refrain from motherfucking profanity.
RG is married with two little ones. KG is married, a second time, with children. I have a partner. I don’t talk about my partner, a product of a world where if you don’t fit the perceived norm, it’s often more comfortable letting them guess.
TIME TO GO
Farewell. Farewell. Farewell. Kelly says hi. Farewell.
Almost a clean get away. KG has questions.
“Linds, do you have a girlfriend?”
“No. I’m okay.”
“What? No girlfriend? What are you, gay or something?”
“I have a big dick.”
Murray is 5. Murray has 2 older brothers + 2 older sisters. His dad drinks scotch by the pint.
“Don’t be such a sissy, Murray.”
“Murray, you’re acting gay.”
“Murray, do you want to play with my dollhouse.”
“Murray, mom needs you in the kitchen. She wants you to learn how to bake cookies.”
“Fag.”
“Pansy.”
“Pussy.”
“Murray, try on this dress.”
Murray is 15. Murray has 2 older brothers + 2 older sisters. His dad still drinks scotch by the pint. Murray is artistically gifted. Murray is an athletic phenom. He excels at every sport he touches. He chooses figure skating and synchronized swimming. I think Murray is fucking with his dad’s mind. Murray is popular with girls. Murray is an excellent chef. Murray dates boys.
First Boyfriend, Billy.
They kiss once.
Second Boyfriend, Tony.
They kiss once.
Twentieth Boyfriend, Stu.
They kiss once.
Murray dances with girls. He attends slumber parties. His siblings call him faggot. His father calls him a pussy. The high school football and basketball coaches call him a sissy. His girlfriends call him, friend.
Murray is 18. Murray has 2 older brothers + 2 older sisters. His dad still drinks scotch by the pint, double fisted. Murray is graduating with honours. He’s the class valedictorian. He has been accepted to Yale. He needs to talk to his parents. He needs to come clean.
Before he does--
His twenty-fifth boyfriend, Josh.
They kiss once.
“Josh, it’s not me, it’s you.”
“I know Murray, it’s time to be you.”
“Mom. Dad. We need to talk.”
Dad grabs a bottle of single malt. They plop down on the Sofa.
“I have something to tell you. I don’t want you to get mad.”
“What is it Murray? You can tell us anything.”
“Yes, my dear pansy boy, anything?”
“I’m straight.”
“WTF. How? All these years. Are you sure?” His mom thundered.
Dad pours scotch into his pint glass. It overflows. He breaks into hysteria.
His mom’s demeanor stiffens.
“Get out. Get out now. Never come back. You are the shame of this clan. I now only have two sons.”
Murray ran out the door, never to go home again.
“Don’t be such a sissy, Murray.”
“Murray, you’re acting gay.”
“Murray, do you want to play with my dollhouse.”
“Murray, mom needs you in the kitchen. She wants you to learn how to bake cookies.”
“Fag.”
“Pansy.”
“Pussy.”
“Murray, try on this dress.”
Murray is 15. Murray has 2 older brothers + 2 older sisters. His dad still drinks scotch by the pint. Murray is artistically gifted. Murray is an athletic phenom. He excels at every sport he touches. He chooses figure skating and synchronized swimming. I think Murray is fucking with his dad’s mind. Murray is popular with girls. Murray is an excellent chef. Murray dates boys.
First Boyfriend, Billy.
They kiss once.
Second Boyfriend, Tony.
They kiss once.
Twentieth Boyfriend, Stu.
They kiss once.
Murray dances with girls. He attends slumber parties. His siblings call him faggot. His father calls him a pussy. The high school football and basketball coaches call him a sissy. His girlfriends call him, friend.
Murray is 18. Murray has 2 older brothers + 2 older sisters. His dad still drinks scotch by the pint, double fisted. Murray is graduating with honours. He’s the class valedictorian. He has been accepted to Yale. He needs to talk to his parents. He needs to come clean.
Before he does--
His twenty-fifth boyfriend, Josh.
They kiss once.
“Josh, it’s not me, it’s you.”
“I know Murray, it’s time to be you.”
“Mom. Dad. We need to talk.”
Dad grabs a bottle of single malt. They plop down on the Sofa.
“I have something to tell you. I don’t want you to get mad.”
“What is it Murray? You can tell us anything.”
“Yes, my dear pansy boy, anything?”
“I’m straight.”
“WTF. How? All these years. Are you sure?” His mom thundered.
Dad pours scotch into his pint glass. It overflows. He breaks into hysteria.
His mom’s demeanor stiffens.
“Get out. Get out now. Never come back. You are the shame of this clan. I now only have two sons.”
Murray ran out the door, never to go home again.
GO ON
I’m tired. Not Mike tired. I look at life from both sides. Up and down. But still somehow. An illusion appears. What’s it all about? Why do I have to pay attention?
BECAUSE
Have you cursed me? Or is it blessed? LOOK. I am.
Mike is 93-years old. His funeral is today. Mike was still willing to give it one more day.
I have a friend who married a man named Spike. This Spike is about 40. My friend, unless he’s divorced when this comes out, may choose to no longer be my friend.
I wrestled with sharing this story about a second Spike.
No, I didn’t.
Anyway, Spike hasn’t worked in about 10-years. He is leaching off his husband H. Not part of the clan. H allows his blood to be sucked. He used to complain about Spike. His complaints were met with strong opinions. H stopped complaining.
Spike once said to me, “Anyone who doesn’t work, they are all freeloading losers.”
Spike hasn’t worked in about 10-years. In that time, he’s ballooned to over 300 pounds.
H’s hometown in Kansas was hit by a devastating tornado. Spike and H happened to be visiting at the time. Spike latched on to H’s legs just as the tornado was about to whisk them away.
The tornado gave up.
That might have been the nastiest punchline I’ve ever written.
Mike was willing to work one more day. Spike hasn’t worked in almost 10-years.
I’m tired. Not Mike tired. I look at life from both sides. Up and down. But still somehow. An illusion appears. What’s it all about? Why do I have to pay attention?
BECAUSE
Have you cursed me? Or is it blessed? LOOK. I am.
Mike is 93-years old. His funeral is today. Mike was still willing to give it one more day.
I have a friend who married a man named Spike. This Spike is about 40. My friend, unless he’s divorced when this comes out, may choose to no longer be my friend.
I wrestled with sharing this story about a second Spike.
No, I didn’t.
Anyway, Spike hasn’t worked in about 10-years. He is leaching off his husband H. Not part of the clan. H allows his blood to be sucked. He used to complain about Spike. His complaints were met with strong opinions. H stopped complaining.
Spike once said to me, “Anyone who doesn’t work, they are all freeloading losers.”
Spike hasn’t worked in about 10-years. In that time, he’s ballooned to over 300 pounds.
H’s hometown in Kansas was hit by a devastating tornado. Spike and H happened to be visiting at the time. Spike latched on to H’s legs just as the tornado was about to whisk them away.
The tornado gave up.
That might have been the nastiest punchline I’ve ever written.
Mike was willing to work one more day. Spike hasn’t worked in almost 10-years.
|
Vern needed a job badly, his life had taken a hard right, south. He came to me asking for help. I landed him a gig on a local development. He was to start today.
He arrived at the office early. I walked with him two blocks to the site. I introduced him to the Superintendent, Jesse. I let Jesse know Vern is a dear friend. He’ll do well for you, I said. Take care of him for me.
I returned to the office. 15 workers were waiting. Walking Vern made me 20-minutes late.
The office filled. I fired workers out the door. A man I had never seen before entered the room. He slammed a chair against Owen’s back. Owen is a huge man. Owen is an asshole. Owen may be a sexual predator. The man stormed out the door. The remaining seven workers, following Owen’s lead, chased after him: tackling him on the meridian. Owen slammed a screwdriver into the man’s left eye socket. The man bled out. I woke up to relieve myself.
That certainly turned dark.
He arrived at the office early. I walked with him two blocks to the site. I introduced him to the Superintendent, Jesse. I let Jesse know Vern is a dear friend. He’ll do well for you, I said. Take care of him for me.
I returned to the office. 15 workers were waiting. Walking Vern made me 20-minutes late.
The office filled. I fired workers out the door. A man I had never seen before entered the room. He slammed a chair against Owen’s back. Owen is a huge man. Owen is an asshole. Owen may be a sexual predator. The man stormed out the door. The remaining seven workers, following Owen’s lead, chased after him: tackling him on the meridian. Owen slammed a screwdriver into the man’s left eye socket. The man bled out. I woke up to relieve myself.
That certainly turned dark.
I wanted to write with friends. They had other things to do. My day job is exhausting.
Don’t worry, you’re training your replacement. He knows a lot of about insensitivity.
A gaggle of beautiful topless women (do women come in gaggles?) were brutally slaying any man wearing rugby pants and polo shirts. They’d corner their prey on rooftop parkades, throwing them over the edge to gruesome demises.
I shook my head. Hiding inside my dream was an even more extravagant dream. I lay in bed with Bob Newhart + both of his television wives + an albino pony |cute| + three Gremlins + the Domino Pizza’s Noid + all the Fly Girls from In Living Colour |Color| + Wyclef Jean, Missy Elliot, a microphone, two woofers, some drums, a case of Dockers; and some guy named Willie. Willie had an erection. Gross.
GET OUT, I screamed.
Everybody left except for Bob’s second wife, the case of pants, and the Fly Girls.
I pondered.
Missy + Wyclef (The Preacher’s Son) and their gear could stay if they agreed to sit in the corner and perform. Whilst I performed: A Dockers fashion montage.
SLAP
I came back to life. My dream within a dream was indecipherable. I ran to a bookstore to buy a book on the meaning of dreams, gleefully skipping. I stopped for Ice Cream. I returned to bed, sans the book.
I had deduced dream experts were likely drunks with nothing better to do—I poured myself a tumbler of Vodka. I vowed to never to sleep again. I drifted off to sleep. My book Poutine didn’t exist yet. I cooked up a bunch of fries. Simmered gravy. And grated cheese.
I sloshed back the tumbler and started tapping the keys.
I merrily typed and typed and typed. My words flowed like fine wine. Not two-dollar spew-able crap. But instead, Pauillac or a fine Riesling that would leave the commoners panting like dogs for a chance for a mere tipple.
My stomach growled. I guzzled half a bottle of liquid perfection. My dinner must have been foul. I wretched. I fought the urge to projectile. My cheeks bubbled red. I guzzled a second time. The same wine. The essence of the grape danced on my tongue.
I typed and typed and typed. My manuscript began hemorrhaging into a literary gem. A breadth of delicious, at times Kafkaesque, stories. Some. Real. Others. Perceived. All. Me. Occasionally dipping into pope culture.
Oops. I accidentally typed POPE.
I wonder: What would it be like to meet the Pontiff?
What are you, gay or something?
It’s Sunday morning. Saturday night I overconsumed. Wine. Wine. Something more illicit. I hallucinated. I began licking a stranger’s arm. He didn’t mind. I arrived home. It’s 8:30 AM. I’m fiercely horny. I don’t think it was the wine. A man walks past me wearing a Sumo Suit. He’s wrapped in bubble wrap. I thought that was overkill. He’s donning opera glasses. His legs were made from fan blades. I don’t think he was real. I’m hard.
There’s a knock on my door. I open it. On the other side in full regalia stood the Pope.
L
Hello, Mr. Pope, my name is Lindsay.
P
Hello, pleased to meet you, I am the ruler of the Holy World.
L
Cool.
P
How are you, Lindsay? You look happy to see me.
L
Well, if I can be honest—don’t you hate it when people announce they are about to be honest? —anyway, I’m altered, skewered, slaughtered. I hear you don’t believe in condoms.
P
Not Particularly.
L
I’m wearing one now.
I blinked. Mr. Pope was gone.
I took off my condom. It was full.
I don’t think me and the Holy One, had anything in common. His garb was kind of cool. |In a White Supremist sort of way|. Kind of an icebreaker. But a little too attention-needy for me. Time to search the personals for a different more carnal type of God.
I hope I’m funny. I also hate the word hope—isn’t hope a given?
Don’t worry, you’re training your replacement. He knows a lot of about insensitivity.
A gaggle of beautiful topless women (do women come in gaggles?) were brutally slaying any man wearing rugby pants and polo shirts. They’d corner their prey on rooftop parkades, throwing them over the edge to gruesome demises.
I shook my head. Hiding inside my dream was an even more extravagant dream. I lay in bed with Bob Newhart + both of his television wives + an albino pony |cute| + three Gremlins + the Domino Pizza’s Noid + all the Fly Girls from In Living Colour |Color| + Wyclef Jean, Missy Elliot, a microphone, two woofers, some drums, a case of Dockers; and some guy named Willie. Willie had an erection. Gross.
GET OUT, I screamed.
Everybody left except for Bob’s second wife, the case of pants, and the Fly Girls.
I pondered.
Missy + Wyclef (The Preacher’s Son) and their gear could stay if they agreed to sit in the corner and perform. Whilst I performed: A Dockers fashion montage.
SLAP
I came back to life. My dream within a dream was indecipherable. I ran to a bookstore to buy a book on the meaning of dreams, gleefully skipping. I stopped for Ice Cream. I returned to bed, sans the book.
I had deduced dream experts were likely drunks with nothing better to do—I poured myself a tumbler of Vodka. I vowed to never to sleep again. I drifted off to sleep. My book Poutine didn’t exist yet. I cooked up a bunch of fries. Simmered gravy. And grated cheese.
I sloshed back the tumbler and started tapping the keys.
I merrily typed and typed and typed. My words flowed like fine wine. Not two-dollar spew-able crap. But instead, Pauillac or a fine Riesling that would leave the commoners panting like dogs for a chance for a mere tipple.
My stomach growled. I guzzled half a bottle of liquid perfection. My dinner must have been foul. I wretched. I fought the urge to projectile. My cheeks bubbled red. I guzzled a second time. The same wine. The essence of the grape danced on my tongue.
I typed and typed and typed. My manuscript began hemorrhaging into a literary gem. A breadth of delicious, at times Kafkaesque, stories. Some. Real. Others. Perceived. All. Me. Occasionally dipping into pope culture.
Oops. I accidentally typed POPE.
I wonder: What would it be like to meet the Pontiff?
What are you, gay or something?
It’s Sunday morning. Saturday night I overconsumed. Wine. Wine. Something more illicit. I hallucinated. I began licking a stranger’s arm. He didn’t mind. I arrived home. It’s 8:30 AM. I’m fiercely horny. I don’t think it was the wine. A man walks past me wearing a Sumo Suit. He’s wrapped in bubble wrap. I thought that was overkill. He’s donning opera glasses. His legs were made from fan blades. I don’t think he was real. I’m hard.
There’s a knock on my door. I open it. On the other side in full regalia stood the Pope.
L
Hello, Mr. Pope, my name is Lindsay.
P
Hello, pleased to meet you, I am the ruler of the Holy World.
L
Cool.
P
How are you, Lindsay? You look happy to see me.
L
Well, if I can be honest—don’t you hate it when people announce they are about to be honest? —anyway, I’m altered, skewered, slaughtered. I hear you don’t believe in condoms.
P
Not Particularly.
L
I’m wearing one now.
I blinked. Mr. Pope was gone.
I took off my condom. It was full.
I don’t think me and the Holy One, had anything in common. His garb was kind of cool. |In a White Supremist sort of way|. Kind of an icebreaker. But a little too attention-needy for me. Time to search the personals for a different more carnal type of God.
I hope I’m funny. I also hate the word hope—isn’t hope a given?
Dearie blossom
I've gone down to old rock bottom
Now I know the love in my heart was true!
Divine sorrow
I thank you for the joy that follow
Back then my friend
If only you knew
It is harder when you love beyond belief
But I'm a fool to let you go
So this is for you my love!
- Wyclef Jean "Divine Sorrow"
Me and Clef on this track what you want
Heard you wanna battle us both I hope you don't
Hand me my mic, two woofers in my trunk (huh)
Sound like gonk-ga-gonk-ga-gonk-ga-gonk-ga-ga-ga-gonk
- Wyclef + Missy Elliot "Party to Damascus"
I've gone down to old rock bottom
Now I know the love in my heart was true!
Divine sorrow
I thank you for the joy that follow
Back then my friend
If only you knew
It is harder when you love beyond belief
But I'm a fool to let you go
So this is for you my love!
- Wyclef Jean "Divine Sorrow"
Me and Clef on this track what you want
Heard you wanna battle us both I hope you don't
Hand me my mic, two woofers in my trunk (huh)
Sound like gonk-ga-gonk-ga-gonk-ga-gonk-ga-ga-ga-gonk
- Wyclef + Missy Elliot "Party to Damascus"
