Day Four

Photo for Today

My boss looked at my red, half shut eyes as he handed back my keys after he found them hanging out of the lock at the back door of the office, then I noticed I had toothpaste all over my shirt. I retreated to the cafe 20 minutes after my arrival at work, and left my bagel on the counter as I walked out, lost in thought. It is day four, of seven straight nights of engagements. I can do this.

I have been at the same club two nights in a row now, each night I witnessed the house lights being turned up, and the obligatory, "drink up and leave!" being bandied about by the bouncer waiting for the few last patrons to leave. The bar was empty, but I wanted to stay forever rather than return to my humble habitat, which is succumbing to a series of 30 minute fashion crisis and late night crashes.

I was dancing with a woman wearing a pair of retro pumps and a grey tweed mid length skirt tuesday night, complete with that hosiery that has the black seam running up the back of the leg. I love hosiery. I excitedly told Leroy about my escapade the next evening when we were out for dinner. He knew her, and, unfortunately, he knew her boyfriend as well. Apparently he looks like The Rock. I felt a pang of lust mixed with disappointment and lonesome worry for the future. A flood of emotion between sips of a double whiskey soda. Why is it that I can only feel things for women I can't have? I have crushes, oh, I have crushes...

Tonight/Tomorrow

Hey There.

I'm sorry I tried to get everyone to drink excessively with me tonight.
You know that of course I'll try again tomorrow despite myself.
Please forgive me. Do not be afraid or irritated. Leroy is good.

Leroy


Time has gotten by on alibis and wine
- Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah!

There's nothing lovelier, gentle reader, than riding your bike with a large group of close friends on a summer night with a cold can of Heineken in your hand. Meandering in and out of the pack, speeding ahead, slowing down, and falling into Dragica's slipstream cutting a path through the air of a perfect night. There was no breeze to speak of, and as I looked up at the lights of the home town sparkling in the calm waters of the harbor, I stopped the entire procession heading south to take a picture, but my camera's battery was dead, so that moment will have to live on as just a memory. Forever.

...and the Waves

Paul McCarthy

As Knox would say, something about running full tilt into crashing waves, turning back in the cool water to face the beach, floating up and down, seeing that couple snuggle up against the log. Something about an empty apartment. Something about barfing at your friends place last weekend. Something about morning discomfort.

Leroy has been hiding away in the eastern part of town. He quit his job, he leaves his house in the west and goes to the eastern part of town to make art, and eat sandwiches. He surfaces at night to come and see us in the dark bar, or maybe in Remington's living room with a bottle of scotch. Tomorrow there is a curator from the biggest gallery in the western part of the country coming to see his work. It might be included in an upcoming show there. I am excited, of course for him, but also because I am a pathetic scenester looking forward to sipping champagne with my new white leather shoes on, and exchanging pleasantries with lovely ladies.

Leroy would be disgusted.

Transition

A replacement has assumed my former position quite nicely. No one seems to have noticed a thing.

I'll just slip on out the back.

II

and right now she just might come shining through
glory of love

-- Lou Reed

In like a lamb, out like a lion. Despite my proclamation that this would be the summer to end all summers, I must admit, it has taken time for things to reach the epic levels of the previous summer when I was drunk on Park Avenue in 300$ shoes and staring up at the Empire State Building at 4am, or running away in borrowed cars, and booking hotel rooms on remote islands to make art, or chatting all night with sophisticated and mature whores at the red restaurant with Tony while their clients looked over with a quiet confidence that they were the ones paying, and ultimately getting laid. I could go on, but you get the picture; last summer rocked, and maybe can't be matched, we'll see.

Rarely have I been at home this week, and often think that I would be better off renting a month to month hotel room on the east side instead of the downtown loft that I am living in now. But last night I came home around 2:30 and surveyed my place from the foyer after strolling through throngs of drunken, shouting. cell phone talking, sideways smoking bar patrons spilling into the streets, and looked out the open windows to the grid of glowing empty offices across the alley. I fancied having such an orderly environment waiting for me whenever I need it. My little square in the maze of concrete blocks known as the hometown.

I had drinks last night with Dragica, Nikolai, and Crissy. I need to work on my international travel, as I am often felled silent when the conversation turns to such matters. Nikolai was visiting from Croatia and was planning on living in Rome after August. What does one come back with after hearing something as romantic as that? I left shortly after the second pitcher of Margarita was ordered to meet Frannie and Tempest at the quiet bar. They are working together again after wrapping a Disney film two months ago. My mouth was flapping pretty well by the time I got there, and I am sure I said some stuff I shouldn't have but that is what the quiet bar is like. It's like drinking in someone's basement. There's nothing to do but fill the silence, and when people want to fill a silence with words they say things without thinking. I do it all the time but it doesn't bother me anymore. Frannie and Tempest were discussing how they required an assistant to tend to Hikike Roshika, the star of the new project they were working on. It paid 800$ a week, plus a car rental. It was basically looking after her dog, and dealing with her style consultant which apparently is with her at all times. Imagine that, being paid that much money to fetch a movie star, and a hot one to boot, various wants and needs like the dry cleaning, or picking up her her dog's shit, or fetching that handbag her friend was talking about from Chanel. I need someone like that for me, not the other way around, but it was the car that interested me. I would love to have access to a car for the rest of the summer. I want to pile my closest friends into a car and drive somewhere, anywhere, and a rental would be perfect. I have become obsessed with the image of Jack Kerouac's muse, Dean Moriarty in On the Road,wiping clear a spot in the windshield of his stolen hudson, not a dime in his pocket, hunkered over the wheel, the radio blasting jazz, commanding a posse of people that would be lost without the influence of a mad cap turning to them every so often over the front seat, and yelling something about digging life and staying together. Off they went like that, south, to New Orleans, leaving the cold behind. I would pick up anyone's dog shit to be able to do something like that.

I know I said I wouldn't see Vernice again, but she called me at work earlier in the week with an announcement that there were two bottles of wine and a six pack of cold beer waiting for me in her fridge, and that she was making steak for dinner. I just couldn't say no. We drank the beer with goat cheese and crackers, had the steak with the first bottle of wine, and decided to skip dessert to drink the second one in the bath with Vernice's heat flushed skin accessible under the water to my naked foot. We stayed in the tub till the water cooled. I put my wine glass down on the floor, got out of the bath, and went to the living room window, naked, to stand before the view of the city and smoke. I heard a crash from the bathroom, and figured Vernice had dropped a wine glass. If only it were that simple. She had stepped right onto my wine glass on the floor when she was getting out of the bath, and had crushed it into her foot. When I walked into the bathroom to see what was going on she was standing there with the blood pouring out of her foot in a steady stream onto the floor at such an alarming rate that she immediately told me that I was going to have to call an ambulance. I was completely useless at first, and totally lost. I buzzed around her apartment, running in circles looking for something suitable to stop the blood with while imagining sirens, lights, police, and a crowd standing in the lobby of her high rise apartment watching Vernice being carried out on a stretcher, hands covering mouths, whispers to neighboring ears. I had the insane hope and ambition to somehow patch up her foot so that we could avoid all that and continue on with our drinks, we were having such a lovely time. The bottom of the bathtub was filled with blood by the time I returned from my freak out in the living room, so I finally accepted that the situation was not going to fix itself, attained some level of calm and usefulness, carried her quickly to the couch, elevated her foot, and tied a tea towel tight around her ankle. This had at least stopped the bleeding long enough so that we could figure out what we wanted to do. Both of us were foolishly apprehensive about calling the ambulance. We were drunk, and confused. So I started calling everyone I knew with a car in the hopes of getting a ride to the hospital. Tony was the only one that answered the phone, and while his two seater convertible roadster wasn't exactly ideal for transporting people to the hospital, I thought it would do. I got Vernice into some clothes and ran downstairs to let Tony into the building. What conditions to meet someone for the first time under. I introduced Vernice to Tony as he looked at the blood covered apartment with a silent but worried look. We tried to lift Vernice to the car waiting downstairs, but as soon as she was elevated again, the blood began to flow, and it was just not going to be possible to avoid involving an ambulance. The call was made, and Tony waited downstairs to let them in while I stayed with Vernice. She started to lose consciousness, and I went in to full panic mode, calling the ambulance back and telling them to hurry while slapping Vernice in the face, and yelling at her to stay awake. The paramedics were let in, Tony disappeared into the night and I answered a barrage of questions while Vernice was finally tended to by professionals. We spent the rest of the night under florescent bulbs in a small room in the emergency ward, only three rooms away from where I lay just over a year ago, shot full of morphine from stomach pain while untold horrors were coming true all around me. And while it sounds like a disaster date, something about those few hours spent in that small room. with all sorts of machinery attached to the walls to measure the body's condition seemed entirely romantic. Coming off all that adrenaline and wine I told her stories about the bruises the past had given me, and she told me how she felt alone in this world while I held her hand as she was stitched up, and finally sent home.

Summer is here alright, it's just been so crazy I've barely had time to stop and notice. The theme parties have started. Tonight is the "drinking" party, not unlike the "dancing" party of this past spring, and similar to the "ping pong" party that is coming up in August. They are excuses to dress up, and tonight I have assembled a smoking jacket, ascot, and pipe. We will consume whiskey. I will be with my family of friends. If a little blood gets spilled, or some vomit trickles from the corners of our mouths in between guffaws, or if we say and do things that we regret, it's ok. It's summer and it will all wash away with winter rains and gusty winds, and thought of from time to time with fondness.

________-

how dare you destroy
and make new understandings
fallen on will, and
sent through the tunnels,
experience- it's in the eyes

seeing things
like they never had before
turning time, and
feeling the width- of open fields

you never ever come home
the stereo is still on
and the lights, they never felt like dying

PSA

Please tell my brothers I love them still...
-- Golden Smog

Dear Readers,

This is a public service announcement to inform you that Low's Stories Big and Tall will no longer be offering a comment section on the material posted here. My email address is lowsbigandtall@hotmail.com I would love to hear from you. Or if you would like to join the legions of idiots that take the time out of their pathetic existence to send me a nasty note, by all means please do so, as I love all forms of attention.

Your friend,
Low

Who I Want to Meet:

back in 76
you were folded in blankets,
and taken home

later

schooled in saskatoon
drunk in the hockey rinks at recess
scabs on your knees,
bubblegum under your desk

then

panties from zellers to entice your first love
rolling with the fellows to seven eleven
lunch breaks in food courts

soon

black on black throughout the closet
janes addiction in the tape deck
sun rays come through the side windows
filtered through swirling grey patterns of pot smoke,

now

your lips glisten in the setting sun
ripened with age
filled with knowledge
waiting for me
somewhere out there

Side Dish

I just finished the leftover Cassoulet for dinner tonight. I mention Cassoulet so often gentle reader, because it makes me sound smart, and rather international, doesn't it? It's all lies. Cassoulet is the first thing I have made since my steady diet of tinned soup began sometime around 2003. Savory, with just a little bit of heat, it was perfect, that Cassoulet. Perfect for all this dreadful weather that we've been having in the home town. Terrible, but I rather love it. So now that I am sitting by my open window and can hear the rain falling into the alley below; let me tell you why I made Cassoulet. A woman was coming over, or had you forgotten?

Vernice arrived right on time, with my guitar in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. My stomach leapt into the back of my throat on the site of the bottle because of the colossal hangover that I had; which only started to get better moments earlier when I had drinks in the bar downstairs while waiting for dinner to cook. Imagine that! The recovery; only two days. That's normal, right?

I greeted her in a newer black shirt and older jeans, my hair was still slightly damp from the shower I had before going to the bar. Vernice was wearing a black dress, simple, understated, and totally hot. It tied up at the back of her neck, and had a chiffon panel in the back with lace running over it. I love the LBD; so much so that I wish I could wear one myself. Vernice wore black shoes that looked like ballet slippers. On her left shoe was a little red rose where the smallest toe resides. The kicker for me though, which pulled everything together into a frenzy of excitement, which made me want to silently dance a crazy dance behind her on the way to the living room, was the taught string of pearls around her ankle. My friends had seen Vernice the night we met last month, and thought she was crazy. She was, but crazy is the new sexy, and I had my eye on her as soon as she walked into the restaurant. Eliza called her, "housewife on pills." Hearing that only made Venice that much more attractive. She had taken her panties off and thrown them at me later that night, when I was singing in a restaurant on the east side. Later, I passed out on her couch, left my guitar on her floor, and hadn't seen her until she was at the door for dinner that night about nine.

We had dinner, listened to Suicide, swapped stories, and drank wine. I mentioned the Cassoulet several times. She loved the food, she must have thought I was very smart and international for sure. She spent too much time on her responses though. They were calculated, I could tell she was hiding something, and sure enough, she was. Vernice told me just before desert, just when things were getting ridiculous with innuendo and it looked like I might be able to assume we would be kissing again, she told me she had a boyfriend. And in that little moment, the bottom fell out of the night, and "housewife on pills," just didn't seem that sexy anymore. So I finished my wine, moved through dessert, talked about the city, and the band, and pounced on her first test of the waters to see if she should get going or not. She seemed a little taken aback, but certainly wasn't going to investigate the matter further, it was pretty obvious. I told her I had a lovely time, and thanked her for bringing my guitar, and was back in bed my midnight.

I most certainly did have a lovely time, the Cassoulet was superb. It's from the south of France you know.

At the Edge

Jin-me Yoon: Group of Sixty-Seven, (detail). 1996-1997.

My thoughts on Canada Day come to you a little late dear reader, as I have just recovered from a near death experience, but fret not, we'll all be on the same page in a matter of moments, and I too shall join the legions of bloggers weighing in with their long weekend tales.

It all started innocently enough on Thursday, when Frannie called me at work in the middle of an MSN chat with Vernice, who was being weird and coy about the arrangement of a meeting to get my guitar back. Frannie had just returned from a fantastic jaunt around various North American culture centers during her break between contracts for the film studios in the home town. She had stayed with a group of artists in Quebec, smoked hash in a chic club that was owned by the fellow she was staying with in Montreal, had actually lunched in Manhattan with Je... Oh, wait, sorry, I wasn't supposed to mention that part. (ok just a hint, he was in Life Aquatic) She had seen the Decembrists in Toronto, and bought her brother the handsomest set of vintage cufflinks in Chicago, which at one time had been owned by an old blues great. I was listening to all this with a slight pang of envy when my eyes drifted off to the window and the Canadian flag flying over the home town's RCMP station was at half mast. I keep my eye on that flag, and always quietly note it's drop half way down the pole. I spend silly moments trying to picture who it was that died, and look at the skyline of the city thinking about the family who's sadness has been dictated by the height of that flag. But they are hidden within the walls of a skyline that is trying to touch the heavens with each and every building that graces its landscape. Vernice kept typing "Are you still there? where are you?????" And Frannie was killing me with tales from far away places I had never been when I maniacally cut her off in mid sentence, "Would you drink a bottle of wine on the beach with me tonight?" Time flew by after that, and within what seemed like a flash, I was sitting on the beach with Frannie.

The sun was setting, lazy tankers lay high in their bath of dark water after long journeys across the oceans. The lights of the city drew maps of progress all over the conquered mountain gorge with tiny dots of light; endless in supply. Frannie, to my surprise, was a pro at the beach party experience, and had a fire going in minutes. The waves were lapping at the fire, trying to put it out, and I thought that it was quite fitting to celebrate Canada Day at one of her borders. I was as far as one can go west without swimming. That little white line of frothy water trying to overtake my feet was the edge; and I was on it. We stayed there for hours, Frannie and I, talking about everything; our futures, our pasts, our hopes and dreams, and the 400$ dress she was going to buy at Betsey Johnson. We drank two bottles of wine, smoked a joint, got freaked out by rats trying to make it into their home that we unwittingly were blocking, and finally the fire went out, leaving us in darkness. We decided to head back to Frannie's place where she grabbed a third bottle of wine and invited me up to the roof of her apartment which showcased a dark mountain vista and the beach in all its sexiness. I was right pissed by this time, stumbling around the tiles of the flat charcoal colored roof. We had lawn chairs, we had wine, and we had the city staring us in the face. Eventually the sun began to peak up from the eastern side of the skyline which was my queue to get home. Frannie wanted me to stay, and I sensed an apprehension in her to face the long weekend alone after spending so much time traveling with friends in abundance, but I needed to endure my hangover alone.

I rode my bike over my favorite bridge, the sky was turning pink and The Fixx, Red Skies at Night was playing on my iPod. The streets were deserted, and I felt at that moment, that I had Canada all to myself for just a second, to wish it happy birthday of course. Which I did, by throwing a Canadian quarter with a beaver on it over the edge of the bridge, down into the water below as I rode home.

The official Canada Day, the one everyone else celebrated was a write off for me. I woke up sometime around 1pm. I had given my brother some of my clothes to sell at his garage sale; I was supposed to help out too. I stumbled to the phone, wondering if anything had sold, and if I could still get in on the BBQ later that day. He said nothing had sold. I imagined all these people picking through my clothes in my absence, deeming them unworthy. My brother said the festivities would kick up about 3 and to come down around then. We haven't spoken since, BBQ seems to allude me these days.

At this point I was feeling quite smashing, and looking forward to brown bottles and sunburns. I decided that I could wait till 3 to eat, seeing as the fridge was void of anything edible; so I lit up my pipe and jumped into the bath with my book. The fool I was! I was still drunk of course, and by the time 3pm came about I was in full blown detox. Surely I could still make my brothers BBQ by 3, and have something to eat, which would hopefully rectify things. By 4 though, things took a turn for the worst. My head was pounding, I was starving, and my brother was nowhere to be found. I heated up a can of chicken broth, lay on my face, and watched Finding Neverland, sobbing through the entire film. Finally, I gave up on everything, and just went to bed, headache, hunger, and all.

I woke up with a headache still. I had to get some medication, as this thing was just not going away. I thought I had damaged my brain and was slowly dying. Every time I tried to bend over to put my shoes on my head would swell, sending me back to bed. When I eventually made it to the store, I bought a V8 and some tylenol. The clerk looked at me and smiled looking at my purchase while asking me if I was hung over. I told him that yes indeed, he was correct, accept that I had celebrated Canada Day one day early, and my hangover was now two days old. He went silent, finishing the transaction while staring silently at the till. I retreated back to bed, and surfed the net in bed looking for dinner ideas. Vernice was coming over that evening, and I couldn't back out now, I had went through hell to get her to accept my invitation. I needed my guitar.

I decided on a Cassoulet. a dish that originated in the south of France around the 14th Century. I chose it because I felt so fucked up that I needed something I could throw together in a slow cooker and go back to bed. It worked out perfectly, giving me time to recover from the noon hour trip I had to take, running all over town for cannellini beans and the rest of the ingredients needed. All day the smell of chicken, kielbasa, cannellini beans, and tomatoes, stewing together in a brine made of dry wine and thyme permeated my place; which was looking ever so lovely with all thee warehouse windows wide open and the table set just so. I must say that I was feeling so cracking by the time that Vernice was due over that I decided to pop downstairs for a quick beer. With my new haircut and black shirt, it seemed like a tragedy to spend the whole evening looking so good, and never leaving the house. That, and I had to celebrate the fact that I wasn't a retard after all, that indeed I would pull through again, maybe just slightly dumber. But who needs smarts, when you have charm! I tipped my glass to health, along with a fellow that lived down the hall, and watched Neil Young on Live8, without sound. The bar downstairs has a rule that staff must always play the blues. It's a blues club damnit! Nothing else. I thought live8 wasn't for another month; perhaps I should get cable, or start reading a newspaper.

Vernice arrived, guitar in hand, looking lovely, and smelling even better. The memory of waking up at her place came back to me with the familiarity of her scent. She had not seen my place yet, and I could tell that she was impressed by the attention to detail that I had managed to put together under such distressing conditions. It was a lovely evening, and quite a story I assure you.

But I must save that for another time gentle reader. I feel like I a loud boisterous guest hogging the spotlight at someone else's party. This weekend belongs to that special lady that we all know so well, and to talk about anything else would just be rude. And I most certainly don't want to be rude, even if I am two days late for the party.