Sinspiration

I've been reading about psychic poison lately in science fiction. It's an interesting concept whereby a trained assassin plants a mental suggestion in the subject that breaches the victim's internal fortifications to seek out and destroy any willingness to resist a nasty end (check out Frank Herbert's "Dune Messiah" for the discussion in Chapter One). The funny thing about all of this was that I realized it had happened to me already... and it started when I was four.

Listen, Sunday School teachers once had me believing that the Holy Ghost talks through people by filling us with warmth and upliftment when we do what is right or hear what is true. I thought that this was the most amazing thing I had ever heard, having felt the warmth and upliftment on many occasions at church during hymn singing. So, if the Holy Ghost was talking through me and acting as God's intermediary then the feeling I got inside was actually God talking to me. Right on, proof that God exists, I thought...that's bitchin'. It got so that I could talk to the Holy Ghost pretty much whenever I wanted while doing different things. '

Warmth and upliftment used to fill me until tear ducts spilled the excess whenever Dad told me a good story. The Holy Ghost used to come around for a chat every time I put my hand down my pants. I told my mom about that one and she spanked me so I learned to keep those conversations to myself. But I was just a kid and didn't understand the difference between fact and metaphor...I actually thought the feeling I was getting was the Holy Ghost speaking inside of me. I actually thought that I was doing right and hearing truth all over the place.

I started having my doubts at around seven. The first time I ever saw a naked woman, I told the friend who showed me that the Holy Ghost was saying this gash was right and true by filling my dingle with warmth and upliftment. Buddy pissed himself laughing. Honest, his mom sent me home so that she could change him. And it started me wondering why my Sunday School teachers never picked me to offer an example of the Spirit speaking to me after the time I told them that God loved Theoden, King of Rohan.


Why else, I advocated, would the speech he made to the Rohirrim before charging on Peleanor Field affect me so if not for the Holy Ghost communicating God's approval? They told me I was wrong. See, without knowing it, I had already realized that any number of unholy things could make me feel the same way as the "Holy Ghost" speaking to me. I was a sinner. What a fucking nightmare for the son of a father who stood true to the faith despite constant testing and daily trials. I'd also fallen for the line that I would die and come before God whose recording angels would have offered up an account of my life entire. All of my sins would be presented to the Lord of Hosts via Betamax and all of my dead relatives would be watching. The Holy Ghost began whispering God's shame and guilt every time He caught me tucked away with Tolkien and a meat sandwich. Masturbation was actually the Devil using my idle hands despite the warmth and upliftment. It was all too much for a kid to deal with. No wonder I left the straight and narrow way to cavort on the wide road down to Hell.


That was years ago - too many to admit and I stopped believing in Hell before I started getting laid. Nowadays I sit around wondering how I could have ever fed in to that whole line of shit and think about psychic poison. I've since built my life on a foundation of understanding that people can be inspired to do pretty much anything they damn well want and make others believe it's right and true. Look at Hitler and the Heaven's Gate - see how many people have tasted poison for one man's being inspired with warmth and upliftment. I doubt that it was the Holy Ghost goading Hitler and his psyched out minions to attempted genocide and I don't think God would have wanted Marshall Applewhite and his crew of martian loving misfits in Heaven with Him anyway. And the boy I was in Sunday School would hardly recognize the man I am today for all of the psychic poison he'd been fed about voices in his belly and the warmth and upliftment brought by God.

I wish that I could meet that kid I was...really and truly. Maybe then I could get to him before he realized the lies he was being fed would hurt him bad in the long run. I could tell him that the warmth and upliftment he feels when something rings true is body chemistry and nothing to do with a Father in Heaven. I could tell him to jerk it as much as he wants and that no one will get hurt so long as he does it in private. I could tell him that being inspired by what Dad calls sins is okay and that people will appreciate him for it some day (hint hint). I'd tell him to talk to someone about the despair he experienced every time something "bad" made him feel good and that contemplating suicide was nothing an eight year old should ever have to think about.

But I probably wouldn't have believed myself, that's just the kind of kid I was. Maybe it's better that I discovered the truth behind sinspiration all by myself. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to sit here and tell you all about it. But then maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing either. Meh...I'll always have Tolkein, meat sandwiches and masturbation.

Parents Strongly Cautioned

The only reason I took the plunge into French Immersion was for the trip to Quebec City in Grade Eight. Every year like clockwork Monsieur Arsenault would pack his students into a bus and pilot them eastward Joseph Conrad style - right into the heart of darkness. The stories from years past were the stuff of legends with plenty of deflowering by nubile Quebec girls and illicit drinking binges. Yes, for that kind of opportunity I would suffer to learn French.

I never got to go because we couldn't afford it. Instead I spent the week at my elementary Alma-matre helping Mamselle "Flat Chest" Farrell mercilessly beating her nose pickers at Zut! and other classic French class blackboard games. Reports filtered back from up the river that everyone was doing fine and enjoying the local culture - blatant propaganda as ever there was. The truth was much more sinister.


Sure, I can remember a few of them (mostly prissy girls who spent too much time holding on to Teacher's dick) coming back to civilization with airy tales of Old Quebec's cobblestoned streets and loading muskets on The Plains of Abraham. They made sure to rub that one in harder than a masochistic Thai masseuse when they saw me listening but my interest was only peripheral. See, the boys brought back something far more valuable, far more exotic than pretty spoken tales of a far-off land. The boys brought back music we'd never heard before, songs that could only be purchased in multi-cultural cities with links to vast trading partners around the world. And who knows, the music might have been decent but we were only interested in the tape case which held a notice that read: "EXPLICIT LYRICS: parents strongly cautioned."

Say what? Explicit lyrics? Whassat? Crack 'em open and let's have a listen. Oh, NWA's "Fuck the Police"...yeah that's explicit. Ice-T and Too Live Crew...pussies and drugs and me so horny...yup my parents should be cautioned about this. Hell, my mom would stroke out if she heard "Fuck Martinez" played at full volume. Where had these been all my life? Gimme more bad words and driving beats. Gimme the chance to live a little before a lifetime of religious service. Hell yeah...gimme explicit lyrics and caution my parents to stay out of my way, 'cause this boy's found his muse and it ain't got nuthin' to do glory, lauds and honour so much as surrender, slander and shame. more...More...MORE!!!

Now that I'm older and a tad wiser (no comments from the peanut gallery, please) I can safely say that I scraped through those years rather well. I never got anything pregnant, I never had any trouble with the cops (with one exception) and I did eventually beat my teen age alcoholism. I've also learned what not to do if I ever have children of my own...never let them out of my sight or else chaperon trips away from home. A little freedom goes a long way and can sometimes take a child all the way to the heart of darkness. Heck, I never even left the province and I still got into trouble...just ask Mamselle Farrell.

Tell her that her "petit chou" sent you...she'll remember.

The Khan of Khans

Good Arghun, tarry yet awhile.
I’ve plucked you from the rank and file
To take a place in history.
(Your songs of battle make me smile.)
The council’s done, our course is set,
That now, good Arghun, hearken yet,
It’s time to carve my legacy
In flesh with bloody ecstasy.

Before the west was pacified
I fought against a mighty tide
Of faithless fools and jealousy
That forced my hand to fratricide.
And since those days of living rough,
I’ve taken pains to take enough.
My sole regret was having none
To sing the work my blade had done.

When acts of vengeance made my name,
The seed for all my present fame,
I wanted men to bear its fruit
So flew my flag and many came.
They, daily, dwell in muck and mud
And sing my skill for shedding blood.
I’ve bled them too, they love me still,
By right their mouths are mine to fill.

Ambitions make me more than man.
I loot and burn because I can.
No mortared stone or timber wall
Has yet protected foes who ran.
Gone soft in shelter, safe and warm,
They shake before the coming storm
And soon the world will call me Lord
Or fall beneath my motley horde.

The afterglow of rout is sweet
As honeyed wine. Each tribe we greet
With steel is offered certain death
Or pledge my flag with no deceit.
With deep salaams and prayers of thanks
Mohammedans have swelled our ranks.
Betrayals meet with swift dispatch,
A smartly severed head to catch.

As nature bids me stand erect
The captured women genuflect
For all my earthly gifts are great.
They bare themselves to show respect.
But needs demand our next contempt
Of humankind for so I’ve dreamt.
We’ll turn towards the rising day
And boldly conquer gold Cathay.

I see the doubt behind your eyes
But fear no more, your Khan is wise,
We strike because the time is ripe.
Let yellow scholars criticize
We fighting men enduring pain
While non-combatants cast disdain.
But take some consolation thus:
Their livelihoods depend on us.

So long as men are ruled by kings
They’ll bend to breed distasteful things
Pretending everything is fine
And knowing why the caged bird sings.
My acts will likely touch a nerve.
It’s better far to rule than serve
Unless the folk you’re shitting on
Have sense enough to see the con.

"Gloria"

The title's in quotes to let you know that "Gloria" is a song title and does not name anyone from my past (although in this case I really wish I could name names). And to be clear, I'll be referring to Laura Branigan version as it's the only one I ever heard. In fact, if you don't know it then you might want to take a moment to find it and take a listen. You can hear it free online (via google) or if you've got a copy of "Grand Theft Auto: Vice City Stories" it plays on FLASH FM regularly - just don't start mowing down hookers willy-nilly while you do. I'll wait...


Good...not a bad song eh? It was recorded in 1982 so I would have been seven years old but I didn't hear it for the first time until I was ten. See, Mom had traded me and my brother to a fat guy in Eganville in exchange for a week of peace and quiet. Ostensibly, we were there to keep his three young niece's company but I think back and remember some strain around Dad's eyes and maybe there was some deeper current moving underneath. Regardless, the fat guy managed an holistic retreat in the wilds around Eganville and the girls were going stir crazy so he came with his brother-in-law to pick us up and take us in to meet them.

There were three of them...I don't remember their names but the oldest and youngest were sisters and the middle one was a cousin. I don't think they thought too much of us at first. My brother and I were devout Mormon boys and these girls were straight out of Babylon - we had no idea what to expect from each other. Anyway...we were left completely unsupervised for long periods of time in the main lodge with a big screen satellite TV and stereo system. The girls had a tape of 80's hits and "Gloria" was the first track on the A side. I'll tell you that what happened next changed my life forever.

See, they wanted to dance for us and said so with many giggles and sideways glances. (Apparently, this is something that girls do when they're together and feeling wicked...they dance.) They kept asking us if we liked dancing and if we'd ever seen girls dance for just us. For shit's sake, these were the first girls we had ever met outside of school and the prim confines of Church besides our sisters...we were ten and nine. I was totally in the fucking dark. But when I tried to ask my brother if it was OK he didn't even look at me...he kept his eyes on the oldest and nodded - completely stunned.

So they put the tape in and "Gloria" starts pouring out the speakers. Immediately the girls start light stomping to the beat and moving their hips. They must have danced to this song together before because they had a routine down. In fact, if you google videos for this song you'll find a Much More Music's Retro Video Dance party version of the song. Look it up and watch the lovely Miss Laura Branigan dance...that's what the girls were doing. They lip synced the song as well...at least the oldest did and whenever she sang along to the "and you really don't remember...was it something that he said...or the voices in your head calling Gloria" lines she'd do a little shirt lift and rub at her hair which (for some unknown reason) had me feeling pretty fine in my pants. Of course the supposedly stoic Mormon boys pretended not to like it but I, at least, refused to get up off the couch for a while after they had stopped. And when I finally managed (at the insistence of the oldest) it was only to accompany her out to the spring house for some exploring (wink wink, nudge nudge, how's your father).

I write this not as a brag but as a plea for help. See, I've always wondered what happened to those girls from that summer 25 years ago and I'm sort of ashamed that I can't remember their names. There's a hope burning in me somewhere near my pants that one of them will read this some day and remember the boys they met that week at Uncle Bob and Aunt Betty-Anne's place. Maybe then I could apologize to the middle one for going out to the spring house with her cousin and tell her that the quiet game of trivial pursuit we played under the pool table remains one of the strongest sense impressions of my life. Maybe all I'll ever have to remember of them is "Gloria."

But I hope not.

The Dungeon Master

He was the fat kid whose clothes never fit and whose skin never tanned. He had long greasy hair and a bumper crop of acne in the furrows on his forehead. No one but his younger brother would sit next to him on the school bus and a year of that was enough. There was one girl - a pretty little gamine with green eyes - who thought he was mute until the first day he was left to sit alone. But by then his backpack had become so stuffed with rule books, notes and miscellaneous magic that he needed the seat next to him. She asked what was in the bag and he told her in a way that had her bemused from Pet to the Broke and then asked why he wouldn't look at her. He said that mortals were forbidden to look upon perfection and she turned her countenance away - typical goddess behaviour.

There were always two or three guys to meet him when he got to school - sometimes as many as six. Times had been they'd be waiting to prey on him sure as wolves shit sheep only now he was their king and the keeper of secrets. He was their Dungeon Master. This fat loser would mediate disputes, settle accounts, offer advice gleaned from too much science fiction and too much time alone, basking in their attention where before he was shunned. Their tributes had filled his pack to bursting and they all carried a complete set of dice in either draw string leatherette bags or carved wooden boxes. They were ten in all with names like Merit Goodgrass, Slim Picker, Dirk Blackmoor and Siriadin Urktenuct and they saved his life with their adoration so he served as their God.

He worked harder at creating their afternoon adventures than at most of his subjects and would never advance past 11th grade math but he could add sums in his head as fast as he could roll the bones. There were hand drawn maps and painted figurines that earned him praise from his group and the art teacher. Adventure stories that earned him a trip to the Principal's office made for grim fun behind the Island of Pines by lunchtime. Weekends would see them all gathered at an ambivalent parent's house, huddled in the basement with pizza and soft drinks while they overthrew dragon ruled empires and spelunked into dank monster lousy dungeons. Buckets of blood and barrels of booty awaited the boys brave enough to endure the Dungeon Master's Company...

Until they discovered women and booze mixed together in a more compelling manner. And that was the end of the grand adventure. The Dungeon Master crawled into a bottle for lack of anything better to do. The Unwritten Laws of Primitive Teenage Society contained articles on fallen idols and lost glory. It didn't matter if you were jock or a nerd, a bad ass or a boy scout; the fall from grace is complete and absolute. You're lucky if you don't get beat up every day and ranked out by teachers. The best you can hope for is a quiet corner to eat lunch in and a nod in the hallway.

This was me.

And now they want me back. Not those same guys from school, no, they've all grown up and got jobs or kids - sometimes a bit of both. No, this is a new group still shifting and sliding to find their fit in the foundations of a new Company. They're single or still engaged with no kids but furry quadrupeds and one of them is a woman - an actual woman with breasts and everything. Yes, I wouldn't mind introducing them to Razkale Blackgob and Porcine Thunder or the Fey Knights of Thinwhistle Moore but I have also developed some self-respect over the years. My clothes fit better and I wash my hair daily, most of the acne's gone. I've brought women to bed and been taken...the game's gotten better. All that I have to do is forget all I've learned in the years since high school and I could be a Dungeon Master again.

We'll see...

Where There's Smoke...

There's a picture of me playing with fire when I was a year old. I know because it was taken at my first birthday party - the single candle told me so. In it I'm in a high chair, wide eyed and fascinated with a single pointing pink digit straining to touch the flame lit to celebrate successful completion of my first year of life. I say straining because the picture also shows a piece of my father holding me from being burned by a taut handful of my overalls. Whenever it's shown to my immediate family the inevitable "I told you so" looks and "We should have knowns" get passed around like joints at a Hip concert- freely and without consideration of offending. Or so I'm told after the fact. I'm always too captured by the glimpse back at true and perfect open wonder to notice.

So, I can be completely confident in my assertion that I have always been fascinated by fire. I can remember the first book of matches I found under the slide in the park behind the house before my sister was born and being caught with burned fingertips. Then there was a Sunday School class about Samson tying several pairs of foxes to a torch each and sending them pell mell through Philistine cornfields - I had a taste of what heaven's savour is rumored to be like that morning. (In fact, your Bible's chock full of bonerific burning imagery and it's a wonder that there aren't more devout Christian firebugs.) No sooner were we home from Church that day then I was out the back gate with a pilfered bic to spend the afternoon raining brimstone on sinning ants. Again, I was betrayed by burnt fingers and the blue plastic lighter was confiscated. Keeping fire away from me only fuelled my desire for more and I learned from my mistakes.

Lighting fires became a secret thing to be shared only with close confidences who would be in as much trouble as me if caught - mostly my brother. It was his idea to keep the fires small and us out of trouble and I complied in his presence. But I would argue that only containment was key to not being discovered and one day he relented. We filled a garbage can full of birch bark, set a match to it and didn't account for the wind. The rest of that day stays locked away in a sealed juvenile record. Two years later we were both in cubscouts where the same man who held me back from my first birthday candle and tanned my ass after court initiated me into the Art of the One-Match Fire. Soon I was performing in front of crowds and providing a service at the same time - like masturbating for a sterile posterity or nose picking to feed the homeless.

See, I've got a fire to look forward to. It's been raining for the past two days which means that there can be one out at the cottage this weekend. I can lay it, light it, feed it and kill it at my leisure - for my pleasure. I'll play the dutiful scout and be safe about it but the wide eyed, apple cheeked one-year old in me is always reaching for more. Only now there's no one to hold me back by my overalls and I'll be drinking enough to maybe let myself loose as well. Maybe I'll smoke a joint too many and imagine that fires get the munchies too. Let's just hope that I don't feed it the world.

The God Dilemna

Have you ever wondered who invented God? It has to be a man that did. And I don't mean that in a good way. I just can't see a woman perpetrating something so fundamentally flawed - not when they have the engine of perfect creation inside themselves. I have no trouble imagining early man kneeling before their creators and keepers of the secret of life to acknowledge female superiority. And I can imagine some spurned male (a malingering dreamer, more than likely, who would rather fake digestive distress than do an honest day's hunting) crawling off to his favourite sillyberry patch or magic mushroom ring after a good browbeating bent on getting his own back from a castrating woman. Shame, delusion and revenge sounds like a recipe for religion to me.

Really, all he'd have to do is stay away from the community for a while - long enough for everyone to start speculating of his fate. He could then return wild eyed from the wilderness, sunburnt and half mad from privation with a line of shit about visions imparted from by the maker of the WORLD - nay, of the very universe - to show his fellow MAN the error of their goddess worship. He would have planted whispers over the trench of ease, schemed in the sweet smelling smokey drugged darkness of the single men's shelter, goading the weak willed to admit his weakling's truth; a man made the world with women to serve his needs. There would have been his ordeal to consider and his former status to forget but I have no trouble imagining they bought it all in the end. The wild eyed wretch from the desert would be fed and sheltered in the most lavish style of the day for the rest of his life, provided he keep up the mindless chatter of a made up God.

Only, his disciples learned their lessons too well and took the game to a whole new level. No doubt there was a stronger, abler man who saw the prophet-weakling's work who wanted to reap the rewards for his own. He could have struck down the malingering puke and claimed God made him do it for the people's sake. His harsh, authoritarian regime would have upset more than a few willing dupes who figured that beating feet for greener pastures was the order of the day. These men could then impose the word of God with fire and sword upon pagan populations and perpetuate the vicious cycle for generations. Isn't missionary work grand? Believe me or die by the will of He who Created the Universe. Inevitably the view of who is God would mutate under the pressures of culture and geography until tribes fought each other to determine whose notion of God is more correct. They would have killed and enslaved each other over the musings of a subordinate male doper.

Just consider the world we live where "God is dead and we have killed him." Nations war with each other, all carrying the countenance of God, all his true and chosen people and people who don't even go to church cheer from both sides. Fundamentalism drives the faithful to divide their neighbours into groups who fight against each other over questions of free will, sin, freedom and the right to life itself. It's a world where those made with the engine of perfect creation inside have started to get their own back from those same men who once worshipped on their knees. Doubt, spiritual drought and indecision drive people to put their faith where they can. The flock has been disturbed by current events and longs for someone to show them a better way.

So, anyone want to help me start a new religion?

Incomplete Pass (for AJ)

The Emperor’s Palace Buffet House inhabits the gutted carcass of a K-mart that died when I was six. It’s been ten years since I’ve been inside and that star crossed night was a hell of a time that turned into eight years of hell. The cabbie lets me off as close to the front doors as possible, owing to an unruly crowd gathered outside. He keeps the change from my twenty with a smile and heads off to his next fare while I contemplate the scene before the source of mine. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for a desperate message waiting to be found in the oubliette that is my answering machine. Hearing the words playing back in my memory I shoulder my way through the crowd. People throw me dark looks like lightning bolts while others step aside at the sight of a fat guy in a tailored tuxedo – a sight seldom seen at the Emperor’s outside of Prom nights and it’s August.

Clear of the crowd I check myself in the front door. There’s a sign over my decidedly dapper reflection's starched white shirt proclaiming “Closed for Private Function” in a ten point font. The saffron garbed door flunky clutches his clipboard like it was an automatic holstered low on his hip and gives me the stink eye. I grin and give him my best cool-guy voice. “I’m expected.”

He’s unimpressed. “Name?” he orders.

I almost give him One-Nut and check myself in time. “Ronald Weaver.”

The clipboard comes up like a timed drill. He flips a sheet over and grunts. “You’re late.” I don’t expect him to wait for a reason and he doesn’t disappoint me. With a sharp about face he pulls the door open and steps back for me to proceed. I wave to the crowd, rubbing my belly as the smell of a million greasy meals wafts ambrosia into their disgruntled faces. There are a few protests before the door closes and I look back to see the door flunky’s hand on the automatic clipboard. I’m hoping none of them thinks their lives are worth the buffet when the desperate voice from my answering machine assaults me softly from the bar.

“I was starting to hope you wouldn’t show.”

“I can turn right around and leave if you want me to, Manon.”

There’s no time to wait for a response. She comes flinging herself into my arms and I wrap her up like a gift from the gods. She steps back to get an eyeful, not hating what she sees. Her laughing lights up her yes and they might have been dyed to match the short green dress she’s wearing. Manon is five-foot-fuck-all of gimme-some-of that wrapped around one of the sweetest hearts ever to pump life through meat. For this girl I’d stick what’s left of my little monster into a box of starving rats and she knows it.

“I can’t believe that you got my message,” she says, hugging me close again.

“Happy Birthday Manon,” I tell the lavender scented darkness of her hair. "I hope I'm a good present 'cause I didn't get you anything else."

She draws herself back, takes my hand and leads me towards the bar. “I was worried you wouldn’t get my message.”

“I almost didn’t.” I accept the cigarette she offers and glance towards the only occupied table in the whole place. Maybe ten people sit around it in uncomfortable silence. “Looks like Madame Tousseau’s over there.”

“They’d be more fun made of wax,” Manon grumbles. The saffron garbed bartender looks like the door flunky’s big brother only with an automatic pistol holstered under a sweaty arm pit but he makes two rye and gingers appear as if by magic when Manon waves her hand. A quick check of the room shows at least six other armed guards and it wouldn’t surprise me to find more. I know enough about Manon’s family to guess their significance. “Your Mamere must be here?”

I watch her face fall and wish I could call the words back down my throat. “She’s ill. Too sick to make the trip from Montreal.”

“Then who ranks having the heavy artillery?” I ask.

Manon smiles sadly and sips her drink before answering. “It was my mother’s idea. Doctors say Mamere might not last the week and no one wants to take chances that someone wouldn’t try kidnapping an heir apparent to get their hands on a juicy ransom.” She swirls the ice cubes in her glass to make a drunk’s favourite music. “I’m just here to celebrate my birthday with you.”

I raise my drink to her. “Here’s to a happy thirtieth.”

We touch glasses and some of the sorrow leaves her eyes. “My God, I hope so.” She nods to the bartender who reaches for our drinks and they follow us to the table where I seat Manon to the right of an over dressed woman at the head of the table. No one says anything while I seat myself, trying not to notice the cold looks I earn for sitting. There are a dozen of us all told. When our drinks are served and the server is out of earshot the overdressed woman nods to Manon with a benevolence born of bullshit.

“Mother,” Manon says like the word never meant love, “may I present to you and our gathered family, my dear friend Ronald Weaver, PHd.”

“Enchante,” the head lady offers a bejewelled hand which I touch. “I am Manon’s mother. My name is Eunice Champlain. My family and I welcome you to Manon’s birthday supper. I apologize that the surroundings are so poor.”

I can taste the flavour of the entire evening’s conversation on her words and sense Manon stiffen beside me. I decide to change the recipe a bit. “Our definitions of poor must differ wildly. I’ve never seen the Emperor look so fine.”

Madame Champlains smile doesn’t waver. “She assures us that great measures have been taken even if I can’t see them myself. I have been assured that the food is good.”

I give her smile back two-fold. “Sure, good and salty, good and starchy, good and cheap.” I raise my glass and Manon’s follows. “Vive l’Empereur.” The toast earns me a lion’s share of dirty looks from everyone but Manon who smiles and thanks me with her eyes. I’m here to make sure that she has a happy birthday and to hell with the rest.

“Shall we,” she says and I’m there to help her up off of her chair.

“Shall we what?” wonders a fat lobster faced man from the opposite side of the table.

“Strap on the old feed bag,” I flip back over my shoulder, already on my way.

“Who is to serve,” the red faced man wonders to his companions who shrug. “I am not accustomed to menial drudgery.”

“Then don’t eat.” I don’t know if he hears me but Manon and I have our plates already so he can screw himself for all I care.

The buffet concept is not lost on everyone else. Manon and I drift between steam tray islands, happy marauders on the high cholesterol seas while the others look down their noses like tourists put to shore on a third world food spill. It’s a plush spread by Emperor standards with more savoury meat dishes than I’ve seen in one setting. We heap our plates high with the choicest delicacies and make our way back to the table while the others pick and complain.

We sit and the red faced man casts hopeful eyes at the fruits of our first trip into the great unknown. I’m trying to make every morsel out to be the most delicious thing to ever hit my tongue and drive the poor man mad. The others are returning with their own plates and he throws the same imploring glances their way. He might be the unremarkable family dog for all the attention anyone pays him.

Manon’s playing right along with me. “The barbecued short ribs are so tender," she says before taking an orgasmic bite as proof.

“Pick up some of the sweet and sour chicken wings on your next trip,” I add. “You won’t be sorry.”

Red face sputters indignation all over the man across from him who lashes out at the behaviour. “God damn it Martin! Does mother still wipe up under you as well?” Martin goes even redder and stalks off for the islands not so blithe to the bounty.

Manon and I spend the better part of a half hour stuffing ourselves and ordering rye and ginger by the pitcher. Everyone else – except the young lady to my right – has deemed the food ultimately unpalatable despite Martin's scarfing massive helpings. Manon’s so busy drinking and ignoring her family’s snide comments to introduce me to my spoon-side companion, parts of whose face are familiar enough that I can’t put a name to the rest. Mme Champlain’s notices my divided attention and puts on a face pasted over with spite.

Her eyes find Manon. “My daughter,” she says the word like it never meant love, “has never told me how you two met.”

It’s an open invitation to play the dancing bear and I accept. “Funny story, we were at school together – apparently. In four years I never saw her until her Eddie section’s Christmas party. It was supposed to be a private function but I’d signed up for the drinking contest.”

I pause for a sip and await the inevitable question – supplied by my spoon-side companion. “Drinking contest?”

I nod. “Section 14's Forty under 14. It was tradition of some kind and there weren’t enough future liver transplant cases in her year to fill the roster. So they posted a sign up form and I wrote my name. I won, of course. And while you’d think that fact alone would draw any woman’s attention, it was my victory cigarette that brought us together.”

One of the aunts crows indignation. “Manon! How could you smoke?”

“Ma tente, let him say.”

Another sip during the exchange to savour the moment. “She didn’t smoke back then but she did save my life?”

Madame Champlain ships the inevitable this time. “She saved your life?”

"Yup, see, I’d kinda’ sorta’ cheated by growing my beard out before the contest. I let a little of each shot dribble down to get absorbed and when I lit my victory smoke up goes the beard in a pop of blue flames and the sickly sweet stench of burning hair and tequila. So, before the panic can start playing my brain like a chump this really cute chick down the bar tosses a pitcher of beer in my face – the contents anyway.”

“Manon!” bleats the other aunt, “drinking beer from a pitcher.”

“Ma tente, I was there with friends!”

I don’t mean to gap out but it's hard to forget one of those friends was Carol. It was Carol whose purse-slash-rucksack produced the lady shaver I used to mow my ruined whiskers. It was Carol who used a pair of scissors from same to even out my scorched hair. It was Carol who’s suggested we all go out to the Emperor for food after the bar. It was Carol who did me greasy in the men’s room and Carol who I gave my heart to and Carol who left when she couldn’t see me as more than half a man.

Everyone’s looking at me. “Anyway, that’s how we met.”

I recognize the anti-climax on their faces from long experience. Manon knows that something’s wrong in my head and forces the attention away. “Marie-France was there too.”

There’s the name to the rest of the face beside me – Marie-France. Someone surely paid out the nose for some brave plastic surgeon’s private jet to make me forget her. Remembering gives me a rare glimpse back through oblivion to see myself sitting between Carol and Marie-France and saying how I was a thorn between two roses. She had blushed and left the table.

“And once again I’m a thorn between two roses.” This time she does not blush or leave the table. Instead I’m treated to a stockinged foot running up my shortening pant leg. I hope it’s Marie-France and not the aunt across from me and gulp down the rest of my drink to cover my discomfort.

“Is drinking to excess still your habit?” asks Uncle Martin around the rim of his eighth glass of wine.

“Whenever it’s warranted,” I say topping myself off with the pitcher.

Uncle Martin nudges his unnamed brother. “ Maman never should have let her choose what school to attend. Look at what she’s reduced to.”

“Me!” chokes Manon. “Why you simpering...”

“Hush, child.” Mme Champlain hardly whispers and spares Uncle Martin by directing Manon's wrath at herself.

“I will not hush and I am not a child!” She yells like a spoiled little girl and I stay out of it. “This is my thirtieth birthday supper! I am an adult! I earn a living doing something I love! And I choose my own friends!”

Uncle Martin has recovered enough to rejoin the fray. “Like this one here,” he says dripping contempt on the plastic wrapped table cloth, “who lights himself on fire and doesn’t speak to you for years. Are you so poorly tried that you cannot find anyone of stature to present at our table? I’m glad my mother is not here to see this.”

Manon wants to ream him out, opens her mouth to do it and flings herself away from the table in silent tears instead. No one’s eyes follow her. No one rises to go after her until I stand up possessed of a chill calm that still can’t freeze my tongue. “Would you step outside with me Monsieur?”

Uncle Martin’s eyes bug out a bit. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beg your niece’s pardon. Answer my question with a question again and I’ll put a chair leg up your ass. Would you step outside with me?”

Maybe he’s thinking about the chair leg and that’s why he gives me the answer I'd expected. “There are ladies present.”

“And the best among them has left the table while the one she loves most is absent – no offense Marie-France.”

Mme Champlain sees fit to intervene. “You may absent yourself. We have no further business with you, Mr. Weaver.”

“And you may kiss my ass, Madame,” I say and stay long enough to watch her face pale with rage. Regardless, the only thing left to do is collect a weeping woman from the ladies’ and get her away from this scene that she can enjoy her birthday. I hear footsteps following me and my fist is up when I turn around.

It’s Marie-France. “I’m coming with you. I have my car.”

My grin shows teeth. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”

Marie-France stops me just short of going into the ladies' myself. I suddenly want to regale her with the story of a similar misadventure but the door closes behind her before I can get a word in. And before I can begin to regret it they're back out - Manon a little wet around the eyes and Marie-France with a wicked gleam in hers.

"Sorry about that, Ronnie," she says and takes my hand. "I really didn't intend to drag you into my own private hell."

"No worries, chere," I say, tilting her chin up so that she can see the sincerity in my eyes. "I always wondered what it might be like to grow up rich and powerful but aside from the armed goons it's just like growing up poor."

Manon tries not to smile, fails and leans into me for support. When I move to hold her, Marie-France moves to hold us both and it's an official group hug. We stand that way for a handful of heartbeats until Marie-France moves a step back and turns her wicked gleam on me.

"Take us to a real party," she says.

"Done. How do we ditch the goon squad?"

"Like this," Manon says and strides boldly to the bartender. Marie-France and I are swept along in her wake. He grins at her determination and bows his head when she talks at him. "I want to leave."

The bartender's grin grows to shit-eating proportions. "The Lady thought it might be so. I am under orders to let you pursue happiness today."

Now it's my turn to lead the way. I take a pretty girl's arm in each hand and head for the door. The crowd outside is dispersed and the way ahead is all clear. 'Where's your car?" I ask Marie-France who's fetching keys from her designer clutch.

"Right there." She pushes a button on her key chain and the resulting beep and flash of headlights draws my eye to a BMW z4 Coupe in the centre lot.

I'm not much for cars but even I can appreciate this low slung beast on wheels. "I just hope it fits me," I quip when the two doors dawn on me.

"Shotgun Ronnie's lap," Manon says when Marie-France starts handing her the keys. I haven't had enough to drink that I miss a cross little look flash on the driver's face.

I summon enough courtesy to wait until Marie-France has her own door open before piling in through mine. Manon wiggles onto my lap, slips off her shoes and daintily lays her feet on the dash. I half expect her cousin to object but she just starts the engine and looks past Manon to me. "Where to?"

She takes direction well and were out of the city in ten minutes. With my attention divided between telling her where to turn and Manon's sweet heart shaped ass urging the ruin in my pants to stir it's a surreal ride. 'We're not headed into the country, are we?" Marie-France asks worriedly when I direct her onto the highway on ramp but I've already thought of the car.

"It's a good road all the way there to a level gravel drive," I tell her and her hands relax visibly on the wheel. "And not far. Ian's place is just outside of town.

The farm is easy to spot from the highway all aglow in a sea of country dark. Every light in the big old house is on and there's a crescent of parked cars shining headlights into the filed but the fire's not started yet. Marie-France guides her Beamer gently onto the gravel drive and even with the windows up we can hear the music thumping from a hundred yards away. A few sullen stragglers glare at us through our opulent conveyance and one guys gives us the finger. The girls are nervous.

"Are you sure that we're okay here, Ronnie?" Manon asks.

"We're okay here," I assure her. "I learned how to drink on this place. Ian's had it for his own since his folks died starting the fire of '04 but it's always been the place to get shit faced."

"A bonfire party?" Marie-France sounds like the gleam is leaving her eye.

"Only for the hoi-poloi, chere," I tell her and Manon wiggles with glee at the ready-to-party tone in my voice. "There will be slightly more sophisticated entertainments in the manor. Park on the basketball court."

The car draws a curious crowd and if they care where we park no one lets on. I recognize a few faces and spot one straining under the weight of home brews on ice. Each of the girls takes an arm as I make a bee-line for the drinks. We catch them up quickly and the guy doing the heavy lifting turns when I call out, "Hey, Scammer, slow up a bit."

He turns fast enough to nearly drop his tub and his eyes light up at the sight of the girls. "Yo, Ronnie man. Thought you had another do tonight?"

"And miss a Fleming fire party? Check your head man, you may be concussed." He laughs while his eye's shift between checking out the girls, getting an eyeful of both. "Here, let me help you with that, " I say and his relief is shortlived whenI only remove three bottles from the ice. "So, what's on the burn this year?"

"Oh, we've had donations from all over the county, pile's almost as tall as the house. Plus, Ian's uncles brought twenty five gallons of old paint and the same of gas. It's gonna' be a good burn." He enjoys telling the story so much that he actually takes his eyes off of the girls long enough to look over his shoulder towards the unlit fire. "Come get a spot before the good ones are gone."

The invitation ios directed more at Manon and Marie-France than me but I answer for them. "We're fine here, thanks. I don't want them too close when that goes up. Just tell Ian that I made it, if you see him."

"Sure thing, One-nut." Scammer knows that he's been dismissed but he's too jazzed to let on. He turns back toward the pile of lumber, paint and fuel waiting to become the 2010 Fleming Bonfire while I open beer for the girls.

"Interesting guy, " Marie-France observes as her trudges away under his load. "But why'd he call you One-nut."

"Long story," I tell her while Manon preens for the crowd of onlookers. She's about to start an intimate relationship with her beer bottle when six and a half feet of man comes towards us from the fire site. "Ah, " I say with just a hint of regret, "here comes the pig-fucker himself."

Before the girls can ask what the hell I'm on about, Ian's got his arms around me and my feet leave the ground. "Weaver, you fuckin' guy! Scammer told me you were here with two gorgeous women and I didn't believe him." He sets me down none too gently and tips Marie-France a wink. But when he looks at Manon, his eyes glaze like he's had a ten pund sledge between the eyes. "Who's the little goddess?"

Manon blushes prettily while digging an elbow deep in my ribs. "Ian, this is Manon Champlain-Ducepe. Manon, this great hulk..."

"Yack, yack, yack..."

"Is Ian Fleming, our host." They shake hands and I can tell that they won't be letting go of each other for a while. "It's Manon's birthday today."

Ian's drinking a jug of homemade wine, tips it effortlessly up into his mouth, wipes it with a huge red haired fore arm and stares. "We then, mam'selle, how 'bout a tour of the place?"

"Yes please, " she breathes as she takes his arm to be led through the throng. Marie-France and I aren't spared so much as a backward glance.

"Well kid," I say to her, "it's just you and me."

She smiles. "Finally."

Really? "How's that beer treating you?"

"I'd prefer some herbal refreshment," she says taking my hand and pulling me close.

"That's not going to be a problem here," I say and wrap my arms around her waist. "This whole place was built on dope."

"Not homegrown shit," she says while nuzzling my ear. "I've got some good stuff. Is there anywhere we could be alone."

"Yeah, sure...no problem." She's tugging on my belt and I need to get my brain back up to my head when I see the farmhouse's blue painted back door. There's a laundry room just through it and down the stairs that would be perfect. Taking Marie-France by the hand I scan the crowd for any sign of Manon and lead the way. The door's open and there's sounds of some seruious merry-making but I take her right down stairs to the laundry.

"Does that door lock from the inside?" she asks, surveying the place.

"Yup," I say and it's done while I wonder at my luck.

Marie-France has already got one spun in her purse and I've got my light ready when she raises the spliff to her lips. She puffs and passes, easing herself up ionto the dryer, not trying to straighten her skirt which hikes up her thigfhs like an eager shirpa. We trade off in silence for a while before I take a seat on the washer next to her.

"So why did that guy call you One-nut?"

I toke before I talk, wondering if she really needs to know and half relieved that she's asked before finding out the hard way. "Because it's true."

"You mean that you have only one testicle?"

"Yup," I pass the joint back top her with a trembling hand. "But it's better than most of the other nicknames I've been saddled with since the accident."

"Like what?"

"Oh, Half-man, Half-sack, Burntballs, Frankencock, Roasted Weiner instead of Ronnie Weaver..."

"What happened?" passing the roach back to me and leaning back against the wall so that her brasts press against the sheer fabric of her blouse.

"You really don't know? It made the news and everything."

"Would I be asking if I knew?"

I toke a little more and decide not. Thinking about the past like this always makes me cringe a little but I'm fuzzy-headed enough to pretend like it doesn't matter. "It happened about four years ago. I got this lighter from my girlfriend..."

"Carol?" Marie-France asks rescuing the neglected roach from my fingers.

"The same. So she gave me this lighter, really just a fancy ass piece of jewellry, for my birthday and it's great. I carry it with me everywhere, people ooh and ahh whenver I bring it out, all that good shit. So one day I'm walking up Main Street, I've just lit a cigarette and I feel a hot spot in my pocket against my leg. It's high summer so I don't think much of it until I smell smoke. I look down and my pocket's on fire. And before I can pat it out or shuck my pants there's this loud snap-pop like a gunshot and I feel my right nut disintegrate. I'm on the ground twitching, too shocked to make a noise and five poeple step over me before anyone stops to call for help. But there could have been a surgical suite set up right there on the sidewalkb and it wouldn't have made a difference."

I usually throw the story off fast so that it doesn't sound like the most traumatic event in my life - casual like. Marie-France is just staring with the last scrap of joint smouldring between her fingers so I pluck it back and finish it off for lack of anything better to do. "That's terrible," she says as her eyes shift ever so slightly down towards my crotch.

I puff the last light out of the spliff and flick it into the corner. "This is the easiest telling I've ever done. But yeah, it was terrible. Third degree burns on your cock isn't something that you can pretend easn't terrible. Right testicle evaporated, surgically inserted cathertre, salves and unguents enough to drown a baby in and all the while never knowing if I'd ever be a functioning man again."

"And are you a functioning man?"

I smile, "More or less. I can get it up and make gravy but I'll never have kids. And it looks a gory mess to boot."

"Is that why Carol dumped you?"

"Yes and no. What it really came down to was that there was no common ground between us, just a gap we bridged on our backs." She looks like she wants to hear more but that's the only answer she's gonna get.

She accepts it and fold her hands in her lap. "I never liked her."

"Carol was a hard person to like and easy to love." Marie-France finally pulls the hiking hem of her skirt back down over the tops of her thighs and I scramble for anything else to say before she ditches. "I'm hungry." Good one.

Marie-France reaches for her clutch - so different from Carols old carry-all - and fishes out a pair of fortune cookies. "I took these after you left the table," she hands me one bfore cracking hers open eagerly.

I follow her lead, stuff both halves into my mouth, playing the clown so I don't have to think about anything else to say. She nibbles one half of hers while looking at the fold of paper she found inside. "So what's the wisdom of the ages?" I ask with a mouthful.

She smiles and reads, "'The only constant in life is change.' What about yours?"

I choke on the cookie paste in my mouth when I see my fortune. It's the same one I read ten years ago back at the Emperor. "'Happiness is sitting right next to you.'"

Her memory is as good as mine, "It's the same one you got the night we met."

"Yeah, " I mutter, " we - Carol and I - had a laugh about it before..."

Her memory is too good. "Before she followed you into the bathroom."

"That's right, buit that was then and now it's you sitting right next to me."

She smiles at that, a little sadly. "I was sitting next to you that night too."

And of course she's right, I just hadn't even considered her because of how she looked back then. It's not easy looking her in the eye but I mange it. "I was a different person then, a real jerk and Carol was easy...I was just going the easy way..."

She stops my mouth with a finger on my lips. "I was a different person back then too. But at least now we know that the only constant in life is change...the cookie told us so."

"Is that the same message you had back then too?" I ask in hopes that the subject will change from what a creep I was.

"No," she says, "that one said 'Even an ugly duckling can become a swan.' It was that message and your thornh between two roses comment that made me decide I wanted plastic surgery."

"I'm sorry about that comment and the way we - Carol and I - laughed about it. I was drinking and..."

"And nothing. You put your arm around me when you said it and it was the first time a man I wasn't related to ever touched me. You didn't say it mean, you just really weren't saying it to me. I realized then that guys like you would only ever look at girls like Carol and my cousin. I cou;dn't go through life like that."

I'm stuck on something she said, "Guys like me?"

She smiles shyly. "You know - smart, funny, sexy guts. I didn't want to be the girl who only gets attention when guys find out about my family's money. I want someone to love me and not invest in me."

"But, Marie-France..."

"But nothing." There's enough heat in her voice now to melt away any protest I could make. "You can say anything you want about inner beauty and personality and it would all be so much bullshit. I was an ugly duckling who wanted to be a swan and my money helped me make that decsion. I'm a whole new person from the girl you met that night...from the girl who didn't have the nerve to follow you into the bathroom."

I nod. "I didn't recognize you when I sat down tonight, not until Manon said your name."

"And you made the same thorn beween two roses comment."

"And you didn't blush or run away either." I remmber something else. "That was your foot unjder the table."

She smiles. "Mmm-hmm...I knew that you meant it this time."

She leans into me, eyes closed, lips parted, hem rising. I'm drawn to her like a straight line and find myself kissing a woman for the first time in two years. It starts lightly but soon intensifies to the point where her tongue becomes daring and traces my lips. The monster in my pants stirs and I break away. "Marie-France..."

Her eyes are glinting with kind of hunger that a fortune cookie can't touch. "I can help you forget her, Ronnie. I can make it better." She slips off of the dryer and slides over to stand between my legs, her hands on my chest. "I can make you happy."


Her hands are moveing - before I can say anything - down to my belt. She's locking eyes with mine, undoing the buckle. She licks her lips in case I had any mistake about her intentions. I should stop her but only to keep her going eye to squinting eye with my toasted trouser snake. But she's already got my fly down, already plucking at the stiff business in my boxers when I close my eyes. I can feel myself released to the air and hear her indrwan breath. "I'd understand if you don't..."

But she engulfs me with her mouth and words escape me even as she mumbles around my member. I look down to watch her head bob and lips do some of the greatest work I've ever seen. She's taking me deeper than anyone before and there's no one else in the world but the two of us. And when her pearly lacquered nails scratch the tops of my thighs I groan and die a little inside her mouth.

After I'm empty and twitching she slides her head off of me and smiles. I avoid looking at what's broken between my legs and concentrate on that smile. She rises up to me, pulling me forward, lips parting...

And spits my load back into my face. I scrub a hand across my eyes as she caws laughter. I'm blinded by spunk and clawing for my fly when I slip off the washing machine. The laudry room door opens and shuts while I'm tucking the truckered out monster away and all I can do is hope that it's not someone coming in to see what's gone down. I find something with a groping hand that might be roll of paper towl, tear off half a mile's worth and start mopping madly at my face. Hopefully there's nothing stuck in my beard but I need to know what the fuck that was all about.

I make one last swipe at my face and follow Marie-France out of the laundry room but it's way too late. News of the crazy French girl tearing off in the Beamer is already starting to trickle back to the house when I get oustide. There's a huddled shape on the steps leading up to the back door and it's Manon with no Ian Fleming in sight. If I'm secretly glad that she got ditched too it doesn't show on my face when I sit down next to her. I'm really just hoping that she wasn't in on any kind of set up with her cousin.

She just smiles. "So you got ditched too, huh?"

"Yup, where's Ian?"

"Oh, out in the barn fucking some pig." She says it like she's fetching the mail or some shit. "Did you know that it's custom to wrap your cock in electrical tape before fucking a barnyard animal. Over the counter condoms just dont cut it."

"I had no idea, to tell you the truth," I'm trying to make her smile bigger. "My experience with bestiality is limited to small mammals - hamsters and such - but then again you do end up wearing them like a condom."

She's not really listening to me. "He said I was a goddess." She lays her head on my shoulder.

"Yup, I heard that too."

"Why do I always have to go and run off with some boy?" she asks like I didn't just take skull from her cousin in the laudry room.

"Search me, Kiddo. Whay do I always fall for crazy chicks?"

Silently we agree that we're both fucked and get up to find somewhere better than the stairs to be. The fire's lit and looks ready to consume the world but there are too many people whooping and hollering, trying to get close without burning their hair off. I can't take that scene right now. Instead I commandeer a bottle of homemade wine from a passed out reveller. Without knowing how we're getting back to town we start walking. I just hope we don't get halfway there and start wishing we'd stayed on the stairs.

The gravel shoulder of the road slopes down into marshy ditched so I only take the inside when a car passes. I'd rather have her muddy and mad at me than bloody and dead after all. The wine's gone fast and when the bottle hits the ditch she's leaning on me for support. I'm content with the contact and the rhythm of walking when she decides to shatter the night with a question.

"Why do you call Carol every night at eleven and hang up when she answers?"

"What are you talking about, Non-non?" I ask with feigned innocence.

"Carol told me that she subscribed to call display because someone kept calling her at eleven o'clock every night. When I asked her how to get ahold of you she just said to try the number she sees. She didn't know if it was you or not and when I called it I half hoped it wouldn't be your voice in the answering machine."

"Do you want an honest answer to that question?"

"Just spare me your bullshit and, yes, answer honestly."

"Okay, I will, if you answer one of mine." It's a firm offer and she nods agreement. "Fine, after the accident, Carol used to always try for me when the news came on a t eleven. I wasn't ready for it and she'd stalk off to satisfy herself with the shower head. So I call her every night at eleven hoping to hear water running in the background."

She nods. "You're fucked. But it is your turn to ask me a question."

I can't help but sound suspicious. "Why did you want me out with you tonight?"

She stops walking without letting go of my arm and stops me in my tracks. She's looking up at me and I can see myself reflected in the moonlight trapped in her eyes. There is nothing stuck in my face. "I sometimes think about that night you set yourself on fire and how good you look without a beard. I wonder what kind of life I would have had if you hadn't signed up for a drinking contest. I wanted you at my birthday supper so that Mamere could meet you and say how charming you are, then maybe you'd remember and quit pining over a woman I was always jealous of." I think she's done but there's more. "And I wanted you to see how good I look inthis dress."

She does indeed. "You'd look better without the dress."

"And you'd look better without a beard."

I smile. "I'll shave if you shave."

She smiles back. "Way ahead of you, Ronnie."

I have to laugh at the dare in her voice and hope she doesn't take it the wrong way. "You're the perfect end to a shitty night. Did you know that?"

She pulls me down to her height and gives me a gentle kiss on the mouth. It's our fisrt kiss and too perfect for words. "Let's go," she says when it's over, "we have a lot of ground to cover."

That Fling Still Throws Me

I met her at friend's house after work (where I'd flipped a hundred or two pounds of beef for mass consumption) and she caught my attention right away. She was an inch or two short, sassy and curvy and as soon as she was offered up for my approval I wanted to get her top off. I'd never met anyone like her on the local bar scene (I've since learned that I didn't look hard enough) and the bold intoxicating lovely went right to my head before we had been properly introduced. From the moment I first took her into my mouth, there was no escaping. Or so I wanted to believe. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing so I dumped her on an August afternoon 9 years ago.

She was never really good to me. Even that first night was just a good first impression over a pile of shit. She took me for a ride up to the Wall and I came home used up, broke and without my shoes. It got to the point where keeping up with her was making me sick - spending time with her was killing me for real. Anyone who wanted a taste just came right on and took it and she let them. She would take all comers. Really, when I started having conversations with my splinter-selves trying to figure out the best course of action out of variouis plans of attack I knew there was something really wrong going on. But she smelled so good and her legs were great and I still couldn't look at her without wanting to take her top off. And she tasted like morning dew with a tang like something sweet left to sit somewhere wet too long.

And now she's back - I can't believe she's back after all of these years. After all of the effort I put in to putting her out of my mind - all of the fruitless obssessing - she comes grinding back in like the bad old days all over again. I'm stricken...I'm piqued - I'm flying to heights that will be too far to fall when I crash and burn again. There's no controlling her once she gets ahold of you. I know this from experience and thought that I'd understood what the trouble was. For the love of all that's good, I swear I had her beaten, broken and dealt with - put away forever. Good crap! I'm married now, I have responsibilities. This can't be happening but I want her so bad that driving for a break in reality sounds pretty fucking good right now. And she's sitting right in front of me, still an inch or two short, still curvy, still perfect. All I have to do is reach over and take her top off and everything's like it used to be.

I shouldn't. But I will and be damned. Fuck it and I don't care who knows.

Her name is Sawmill Creek Autumn Blush wine in the 1.7 litre bottle and I'm just lucky that I don't know any women like her (anymore).

A Six Pack of Sonnets

I might believe these words you’ve sent to me
Except that what I read are awful lies.
I doubt you know my depths of misery.
You’d know if you could look behind my eyes.
My life’s become a chain of lonely sighs
That echo hollowly within my head.
I miss your soft hellos and warm goodbyes,
I miss you lying next to me in bed.
And since you’ve left the only words I’ve said
Have lost themselves to waiting emptiness.
I haven’t slept or taken daily bread
Since losing you has left me in distress.
Believe me when I say my love was true.
I only wished to hear the same from you.

My losing you has crippled self esteem.
Regrets have left me pondering alone
Where once we lay conjoined as in a dream
Transcendant - we were more than flesh and bone.
I want these words, at last, to make it shown
That nothing will compare to what you meant.
I’ll sing of you with all the skill I’ve known.
I’ll sing until I’ve soothed my discontent.
Perhaps one day you’ll ask me to repent
This sin of song but I cannot forgive
The fact that I’ve endured abandonment.
What’s worse than what I’ve lost I have to live
Without the strength I had before we met.
You’ve weakened me and I cannot forget.

Perhaps I wanted nothing more than words
To learn by rote, repeat and pass the time;
A litany to show the milling herds
Of hoi polloi the meaning of sublime.
I need to write this down and make it rhyme,
To lay it out and have my thoughts unfold.
I don’t recall committing any crime
(Unless you count the contraband I sold).
I wasn’t ever base or overbold.
Incapable of holding any grudge
I treasured you more jealously than gold
And hoped you wouldn’t ever have to judge
If I was worth the time you set aside.
You said I was but now I know you lied.

I’d sometimes play on words that made no sense
And try, at once, to make them seem profound
And lunatic. Not knowing you were tense,
Unused to having anyone around
Who’d dive on down so pulse’s drums would pound
Their intimacy music in your ear.
And you were used to faking pleasure sounds
Without a meaning more than too much beer
And circumstance. If you detected fear
(I scared myself) I hoped to have it licked
By calling up the nerve to make it clear
That you, of all, were who I would have picked
To share the inner reaches of my mind,
To dive in deep. Alas, I’m left behind.

I don’t know what I did to make you leave.
You once complained I loved you from afar,
While other times you couldn’t quite believe
That love would let you stripe my back with scars
Administered in bliss. Those searing stars
Of ardour on my skin from fingernails
Grown long and sharp to show in local bars.
Or was it all my pretty spoken tales
Of gallantry and quests for Holy Grails
That made you think, perhaps, I was a fool
For wasting time on one whose face went pale
When she admitted dropping out of school.
You knew enough to spout hypocrisy
And taught me more than university.

For instance, I have learned that any pain
Will ease when given time enough to heal.
I’ve learned to sing without our old refrain
And judgements made are subject to appeal.
Another woman’s offered me a deal;
She’ll take my hand and walk with me a while
If I consent to tell her how I feel.
It’s easier than holding back the bile.
I’ve never seen a brighter, truer smile
Than what she shows me every time we meet.
I’ve found a girl who’ll go the extra mile
To share herself and make my life complete.
I’ve learned that hearts can mend when they’ve been torn
And burning love be, phoenix like, reborn.

Prophet of Sod

My Grandpa told me ‘fore he died,
"The greatest sin of Man is Pride.
Best never see the City, son,
Don’t ever leave this mountainside.
It’s yours since you became a man
Just make it pay as best you can,
Or someday it’ll all be gone,
A sacrifice to Babylon."

Since Grampa’ was a proper fan
Of God and all his Ten Commands
The parish loaned him resting ground
On proper consecrated land.
There’s some begrudge his little grave,
(Which others think befits a slave’s)
But it’ll grow as rich a lawn
As ever grew in Babylon.

I’ll credit him for dying brave.
He never bitched and wouldn’t cave
If life was tough, but he was strict,
And now it’s time to misbehave.
I’m planting up a sea of green,
The finest crop you’ve ever seen.
The guy who showed me how’s a con
Who shat some time down Babylon.

I’m more than used to living clean
But more and more that’s living mean.
Now sitting high on harvest time
I’m wond’ring how it coulda’ been
My ladies bloomed a pound apiece
With buds enough to spare for grease.
I copped a ride from Sullen John
And trucked it down to Babylon.

We talked about our newest niece
And kept an eye out for police
Before a pack of bikers showed
And took us for some lambs to fleece.
The city steamed from off a way
Its skyline’s shroud was filthy grey.
But hell if I’d become a pawn
To all the sins of Babylon.

The wicked men held us at bay.
I warned them there’d be Hell to pay,
"Repent yourselves and flee or else
You’ll never see another day."
So when they forced us to the ground
I prayed to him whom I’d been bound,
"Send lightning Grandpa! Cast it on
These scavengers from Babylon."

They might have fed us each a round
‘Cept right then straight from out the ground
A rumbling’ rose beneath our feet
And lightning from the sky unwound.
It made the wicked men explode
And rain down dead upon the road.
Towards the sun that brightly shone
We drove away from Babylon.

I never sold my mother lode.
Instead I used the grass to goad
My virgin brain along a course
Away from what the city showed.
A pliant mind is all it takes
To learn from all your life’s mistakes.
And now I needn’t scrape or fawn
For table scraps from Babylon.

There’s nights I dream, right wracked with shakes,
Of needing truths when stuck with fakes
Until the balance point is pressed
Then stilled and calm my soul awakes.
To visions of the other side
Where Grampa’s shade is satisfied.
Consider, friends, next risen dawn
What price you’ve paid to Babylon.

The Dad Label

I've had a few sober women tell me lately that I'd make a good father (because what guy would ever tell another guy the same thing without a few beers in him). Sometimes I say thank you - other times I play it down to their making nice. But it always gets me thinking; What man doesn't want to understand what it would be like to have a spliced bit of himself make it's mark on the world? Boy? Girl? It would make no difference to me because kids - as a rule - are a great idea. If you don't agree then maybe you're not cut out for having kids. Maybe you want to think about the ole snipperoo or give ligation a chance? In any case, I really don't think these women I know would have said what they did if they knew how I treat the kids I have now.

Before the rumour mill starts grinding away at the few grains of repute I possess, allow me to explain. There are no little splice bits of Hot Air floating around (that have made themselves known to me). And I am not talking about the grown men and women at work who call me Mom behind my back (and to my face). Rather, I'm referring to those products of desire, conception and gestation that I put to pages. The ones I have locked away in dark places under the bed would count themselves shit-ass lucky if they could see the scattered piles of DNCs cluttering up the place. The ones I doom to dusty neglect would turn cartwheels if they knew the state of those I'd kicked out of the house with no real structure or values. Some have survived to tell rambling stories, some trip around rhyming their heads off while others try too hard to be funny. Still more are deformed by the literary equivalent of foetal alcohol syndrome or fifth drafts disease. I sent a few off to live with mothers whose inspiration warranted their arrival into the world fully formed and passing fair though torn out. A few I've had committed to the flames when they grew out of my control. Some will never get from under my watchful eye. I don't even know how many there are. I just can't stop fornicating with my notebooks.

There's something in me that makes the act of putting pen to paper on a par with coitus, either way I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. I'm not much of an experimenter but I've made a few noteworthy discoveries along the way to literary fatherhood. First, a woman is not always necessary (though it helps). Yes, there is something to be said for inspiration and stimulation but the end result is usually purple. I believe that the finest products need to either be heavily revised test-tube adaptation or else glorious miracles of immaculate conception. Second is that creation begets regret and disappointment is inevitable. Sure, you might pop out an Atwood or a Fitzgerald on your first try but more than likely you'll find yourself denying they're yours at all. And third, it's almost always advisable to just put the cap on, walk away and save yourself the grief.

So why can't I take my own advice to heart?

Even now, sitting here, all I'm doing is cheating on my notebook by spilling seed into the ethernet cable in hopes that some of it will find a willing receiver. How many hordes of twitching homunculai will be smeared on these napkins I'm collecting? Sure, I share them out like they're foster children but what choice do they have. I'm the dad, I choose when to wear the pants and when to take them off but something about all of this smacks or irresponsibility. I just hope that these sober women I know have better judgement than I do.

But they are entitled to their own opinion.

Lie(u) Days

"The only thing worse than having a job is looking for one." These words ring in my ears with the same truth as The Sermon on the Mount and the lyrics to Dust in the Wind. I'm not sure if comparing The Kids in the Hall's Bruce McCullough with Christ or Kansas is kosher but truth is truth no matter he who utters it and I hate looking for work. I only make mention because my own job's taken on a sort of metamorphosis that won't be resulting in my emerging as a beautiful butterfly from the office chrysalus. In fact, I believe that my job's been trapped in a body snatcher pod and if I do emerge it will be as a staid and pre-programmed shell of a man (kinda' like me when I was still going to Church). I'm stressed out and there's no denying it. I'd love to quit but how would I feed my family? Who would look after my kids?

I search inside myself for the answer to these questions and find one in the 14 year-old paperboy I was, "Lie, man," he says. "Take a day, centre yourself and become fortified against the work-a-day onslaught."

Of course! It's clear again. No job is too terrible when you have no shame and sick days. Lies and deceit are the worker's most effective weapons against the capitalist oppressor. And how could I have forgotten the many faceted art of the sick fake. I was once a self-taught master of faking sick. I still have the recipe for brewing home-stewed vomit out of common household items (complete with pre-chewed food and genuine stank) that would make you want to throw the real thing into the mix. The 17 year-old bag boy, 22 year-old grill jockey and 25 year old coffee barrista in me all agree, "Take a Lie Day!"

Only one voice raises an objection, the 35 year-old PAR Team Leader. "You have responsibilities now. You have an active roster of 27 people who rely on you for support. Pay no heed to the rabble in your brain and do your sworn duty."

The retort comes pouring from my mouth like hot sewage on a Sunday afternoon, "It's your fault that I'm in this mess in the first place. Kansas! but we were happy as a phone answering monkey. It was a job we could have done in our sleep. The old lady configured us to be polite on the phone, for McCullough's sake! What else was all of that percussive maintenance good for? And sworn duty, my ass! The only swearing I do at work is under my breath so that I don't frighten the kids."

"Calm down," he says (the 35 year-old PAR Team Leader in me can be very soothing when necessary), "it's not as bad as you think. Go in, take an extra smoke break or two, put in a good days work and let job satisfaction be it's own reward."

Something about his smarmy, self-satisfied tone gets under my skin and my hands start acting of their own accord. Bringing up my work email from home is a programmed muscle response by now, I don't even have to think about it to make it happen. Thirty seconds later the 35 year-old Team Leader shuts his mouth and crawls back into his hole in my brain because we have access to something much better than a Lie Day.

See, being a salaried employee in a multi-national corporation means that you don't get paid overtime for working late or on holidays. Instead, you're entitled to Time in Lieu of Pay. July 1st was Canada Day and even though I wasn't scheduled to work I'm still entitled to a day off. That's why my hands knew to type, "Hello All, I will be using my July 1st lieu day on Thursday, July 15 in order to combat creeping malaise and a raging ennui. Kind Regards, Hot Air, PAR Team Leader, North Bay and Sudbury. Suck it, bitches."

Spell check...send. Done.

The Water Wants Me

I was born on the laundry room floor. Mom's water broke when she was shifting a load of whites from the washer to the dryer and out popped my head. My first conscious memory is seeing amniotic fluid running down through the flood drain and hearing my water mingle with the world's. Now, I don't know if it was fear of my preternatural awareness or what but when I fell all the way out while Mom was bending down to put in the dryer sheets I heard the water cheer my impending death. And I probably wouldn't be sitting here writing this if I hadn't landed in a basket of Dad's crotch stained underwear. The stink was stupefying, I cried and Mom realized I was out. Ever since that day, the water has wanted me and I always smell-test my gonch.

I went a couple of years thinking that I'd been the only one to hear that gurgling cheer from the drain but Mom must have heard it to and it stuck in her head. She was always trying to give the water what it wanted. Closing my eyes, I can see Dad pulling her away through a rippling film as I roll over from where she's held me down in the sink. I can hear my brother crying as she tries to force my head under during a mutual bath, "Don't cry, the water only wants Air." And through it all the water calls to me in a flowing liquid tongue that promises peace like in the beginning when the world was without form and void and darkness shone on its face.

No, this isn't about Mom, it's about the water. But she was the one who signed me up for swimming lessons and told me the lifeguards were water priestesses who did what it said all the time. She was the one who'd watch from the gallery waiting for the moment when I went under when she could start into histrionics and wail that the water took her boy. Bah, I used water-wings until the priestess-instructors made me stop but soon mastered the art of controlled drowning that some call swimming. When it came to the point where I actually looked forward to my lessons Mom knew I was beyond her reach and left the water to its own devices.

There have been many attempts since those days. The water has sent itself in rain to swamp me under while canoeing across Algonquin Park. It has tipped me into itself with rapid hands and held me under while exerting hundreds of pounds pressure. Always there's been someone to prevent my dying, always I walk away to make my own water in each offending body. The water doesn't like that, no indeed, and it has since found a much more insidious way to achieve its goal.

Water now acts as the vehicle for alcohol and oh what joy it must have felt when I finally turned my back on the god that kept me from drinking. It's grown patience and knows that eventually I will imbibe too much and meet my end through accident or self abuse. I can still hear it when I'm in my cups but faintly, like someone calling me from a long time ago. The water waits and I wait hoping that the world will end in fire and so deny it forever.