The Unswung Bat

Friday, July 09, 2004
 

Eh Tu, Charlie?



I bring you the following:

"No mustard is worth this!"

"You don't sleep now either?
"No, I've given up all my bad habits."

I just biked by from my man Finbar's hizouse, a route that took me along a certain stretch of Adelaide. It lies between Front St and Queen, and is the crack in the hobo's ass of Downtown Toronto. I will say one thing for it: it smells like piss. I didn't say that I'd say anything good.

Now Bird is on tv. He found one of his old band mates playing rock and roll in a big spangly outfit. Bird grabbed his sax after the show, took off into the alley and flew it around a little bit. The sellout ran after him with his buddies and wrestled the sax back. Bird said "I just wanted to see if it could play more than one note at a time." Then he walked away, and the rock and roll guy didn't say nothing.

-----

I don't drink coffee. Hate it. It turns you into someone who you aren't. Gin I drink. It tastes like a homeless man's blanket and leaves you exactly who you are, no more and no less and fine with that. This is why a man who doesn't smile is called sober. But a sober man is what it takes to get drunk. A drunk man's content to sit on his condition as it is, it's always the sober man within who pushes it. In our sobreity lie the seeds of waste. Which brings me back to gin. Everything to the east of it is for cowards, everything to the west for masochists, and neither of these deserve any consideration in thoughts about human beings.

So when I've tended my field and brought to fruition the vine of stupor, it's nothing else I'll drink.

Not that I do that much. I don't want to make it sound like I'm off pushing it that way more than once or twice a year. Mostly I am in an interim state. I lie fallow, welcome new rootlets, harbor dandelions and grubs. I smoke too.

I don't know what that does to me, but I don't have a choice. Everyone is up against a wall, from a certain angle. I believe I could do worse. When I do smoke I drink tonic water along with it. It's a horrible combination. The former reminds me of the evils of abusing sickness, the latter those of abusing health. Of course it's a stupid thing, but of course I couldn't enjoy it any other way.

This is what I'm doing in a bar right now, somewhere on a beach, and this has been what was guiding my thoughts. I am at the beach because it agrees with me and my notions of lying fallow. A beach is a purified expression. Human development there is a costly illusion, and this is the core of the attraction. The primitive ocean is such a force that it will permit neither order nor stupidity, and imposes nature on everything there with its every motion.

Nothing could possible interrupt me more than a windchime, and why this ridiculous joint has one is suddenly beyond me when the steel ring excites every angry nerve in me. Turning around, however, would necessitate putting down the glass of tonic water, which is precariously full and held in the same hand as the cigarette, and all I would do is glare, so it's not until

- - - - -

You're cut off! I'll see later if I feeling like doing more with this guy or not.

Good night, Sydney!



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