Two

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody

- J.D Salinger Catcher in the Rye

Finally, after what could have been 15 minutes or three hours, Low stood upright and continued on his way towards his bed on the fourth floor of what used to be a liquor storage facility. Odd how it became difficult to leave behind such a vile place as the underbelly of a viaduct, but some sort of change within him had occurred in the indeterminable time that he had spent there, and he realized that he would forever think of that pile of dirt, those buzzing yellow lights and the concrete sky that enveloped it all.

Then even more hours passed, and the synthetic yellowness of the night was replaced by the sunlight of another Saturday. Low despised the weekend days, and would often spend them sitting in the darkness of the cinema. He always sat in the front row, so that the small rips and scratches that covered the screen exposed themselves in the white canvas that stretched from corner to corner, acting as an imperfect barrier to that which he would never be able to achieve. To Low, the calendar was just and endless cycle repeating over and over again, the weather seemed to be the only thing that ever changed. Rising from his bed, his bare feet took him across the cold floor towards the oversized windows, and as he stood in his briefs that were stained from mishaps with bleach, he wondered if there was a matinee playing that he had not already seen. His usual routine had begun, and so the day started with overcast skies, the cafe across the street, and the morning paper.

Low poured over his regular columns of the national newspaper that he read every Saturday. He obsessed over the little pictures that accompanied the regular contributors' names that he had come to know so well. His favorites were women generally, he had fantasized about having relationships with each and everyone of them. There was the straight haired blonde in the ribbed turtleneck sweater that was irritatingly sexy even though she was entirely too conservative for him, so it annoyed him that with each Saturday edition he became increasingly smitten with her. Obviously he had no control over his attractions, because what he really wanted to do was fall in love with the dark haired poet. She was his favorite. The intense stare, the slight smirk of her smile, her borderline bad haircut, everything coming from the 2 inch square photograph that seemed to be in a different section every week wreaked of passion. Regardless of what section she was in, every Saturday she was there, usually in the morning. Low envisioned dining late at night with her, swapping gossip about the inhabitants of the packed dining room with seductive glances only the two of them could decipher. He thought of her nails scratching his back, and his belongings being thrown out of a window by her in a rage of drunken jealousy. It would be a fast and fleeting thing, he thought, as he sat in the cafe which was almost always empty. Their tumultuous affair would end finally when he was completely consumed by her need for experience, eventually winding up as the subject of numerous literary ventures. Low's existance in the real would effectively be over he thought. The paper however would still arrive daily, and on Saturday's, she'd be be in it.

Low took his eyes away from the object of his desire's photograph and set them upon the words that spawned from it. Today she was writing about the murder of John Lennon, and of course about Salinger's Catcher In the Rye. She described the book like no one else had been able to do for him. Pointing out its underlying theme that made an ideal manifesto for the longing of the past and a realization of ones own mortality. There Low sat, holding his "Grande Americano," in the franchised environment which he took measurable comfort in, with the memories of when he accused his grade 12 teacher of forcing them to read a meaningless, boring book. Oh, how he wished for that naivete again. Boozy, but not hung over, and having read everything that interested him, and seeing as he didn't have enough money to go to the movies, there was nothing left for Low to do but check his email and go back to bed.

To Be Continued...

Lonely/Lovely

Glue Pour - Robert Smithson

St. Patrick's day started out in earnest when I awoke from a post work snooze to the sound of the phone ringing from across the room. It was Dragica calling, she was drunk, and in her signature drawl that resembles a comedian in the midst of telling a dirty joke, she announced that her and four of her girlfriends had been at the bar since three and wanted to come over. Without a moment of hesitation I obliged her invitation and jumped into an excited scramble around to tidy up, get dressed, dust of the grey monk pinot noir that had been sitting on the counter for the past three days, dim the lighting, and turn on some music. And what started out as a rather dreadful and lonely evening quickly turned itself around by 8pm when I found myself sharing the couch with 5 lovely ladies one of which I was quite smitten with.

There is a great sequence in the the film The Odd Couple with Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, when they decide to invite two women over for dinner that live together in the same building as the newly appointed bachelors. "Felix! There's Gurls coming over tonight, get ready my boy!" The thought of Walter Matthau running around the apartment changing his shirt with manic excitement at the prospect of women coming over came to mind as LeRoy and Remington arrived within a half hour of each other. Remington had pizza, and Leroy had beer. It was a party, with gurls! Remington started moon walking, Dragica stole a moment with me by the fridge to say that the ladies thought I was quite charming, and LeRoy was in righteous laughter about my "lord of the fuck" story, which by the way garnered more fan mail than I've ever gotten from a single post. Thank you very much everyone that wrote to me.

It was getting later and the women departed, so Remington, LeRoy, and I grabbed a cab to the bar with the couches and no windows. As we were standing out on the street waiting for a cab, a tall blonde haired woman approached us, and as she walked past nearly fell right into LeRoy. We stood there watching her walk away, zig zagging all over the sidewalk, her chin up and eyes forward trying to maintain a certian level of dignity; it was a dangerous sight. The place was packed but we somehow managed to find three seats right at the bar. LeRoy ordered round after round of Irish whiskey while we sat there surveying the crowd that was working the only bartender into a feverish sweat. There was a truly wondrous energy swirling all about us as we sat there in complete comfort, drinking, and talking about everything from Remington's writers block, to LeRoy's disgust at the shit eating grin of that scenester that everyone knows with the glasses and the clashing outfits. I took my friends, I put my arms around them and stared out overtop the bottles and pumps behind the bar. I told them that I wanted to remember this moment forever, because it was truly a moment to behold. Then I announced that I was in love with a woman that didn't even know my name, and I tipped my glass to the buttermilk flesh of her neck; and at that point I fell backwards off my barstool and into the fine folks chatting behind me. I was promptly cut off and handed a glass of water.

Sometime nearing 4am, I found myself walking home alongside the big 30 thousand seat arena's that are all on one street. Underneath the viaduct that takes cars in all different directions at a high rate of speed, I stopped to look up at the roof of the bridge that I was walking underneath. It was covered with a grid of bright yellow lights, and it lit the entire area in a moment of artificial daylight. The sound of the buzzing lights was overpowering and I couldn't go any further. I decided to sit upon a pile of dirt by the side of the empty road. Staring at the fabricated sky buzzing above me, burning, and lulling me into a hallucinatory complacency, I leaned backward in my utmost leisure, and I thought about my predicament.

To be continued...

Lord of The Fuck

Pink Floyd Dark Side of The Moon

Leroy and I woke up within a half hour of each other on the floor of Dragica's living room. We lay there in our own makeshift beds made of couch cushions talking and looking up at the clear blue sky out the window beside us. It was early morning, and we had been drinking scotch just a few short hours earlier and taking pictures of spoons stuck to our foreheads until 5:30am when the sun finally showed itself above the pointed roofs of the tall houses to the west side, warning us that it was time to go to bed. We had a long conversation about the show we had played with the rest of the band the night before, how tense I felt watching the new Woody Allen movie one Sunday afternoon, and how hilarious it was that the reason Frannie finally wound up dating another guy instead of me was because I often didn't have enough money for bus fair so I could see her, let alone keep up with her little jaunts to Montreal or Vegas every three weeks. We giggled like kids on a sleep over and eventually fell back asleep until Dragica, Chic, and Remington woke up later in the afternoon so we could spend all the money we made the night before on dim sum.

I had barely slept a wink though, and when I finally did make it home in the early evening, rather than mind my body and treat it to some rest, I phoned Veridian to see if I could make her some dinner. She came over with a bottle of pinot and I served a simple salad that we ate in the light being cast from the empty office buildings across the alley, leaving us to finish the wine while looking up at the scattered lights of the high rise hotel and the other tall buildings above the horizon line. Before long though my stomach took a sudden turn for the worse, and cramps sent me reaching for my wine glass three times faster than I should have. The bottle was quickly emptied and I started popping these little round orange pills that Veridan had in her bag that she said would do the trick. Since I drank all the wine and hoping that the crisp air would make me feel better, we walked over to the new beer and wine store that had just opened. I smoked a joint before I left, and by the time we returned and cut into the second bottle, I was a drunk, stoned, prescription drugged, overtired, bellyaching mess that was balling his eyes out to a scene in the Charlize Theron movie, North Country, with a hot water bottle on his stomach.

I did make a dashing recovery by the end of the film so I took Verdian to bed where we majestically shagged to both sides of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of The Moon in its 43 minute entirety. I once got the strangest call of my adolescence when a friend called me one evening years ago. He and his girlfriend had obviously just started to experiment with sex, and wanted my expert advice as to what music to fuck to. Without thinking I blurt out, "Dark Side of The Moon," and hung up. No wonder then, a year later, long after the adolescent lovers had broken it off, I wound up in bed with my friends girlfriend. I was completely confused, she wasn't my type at all, nor was I hers. It was finally revealed to me last night, as my hips were pressed against Veridian's backside, with her black hair spilling out amongst the cracks between my fingers, that Dark Side of The Moon really is a fantastic album for amorous activity, and that my friends girlfriend had obviously been impressed by my suggestion, leading her to think that I was some lord of the fuck, and that I should be given a twist. Sometimes it takes years to figure these things out.

The Great Gig In The Sky - Pink Floyd

Shorts

I don't deal well with even the smallest change to routine, and react poorly when things don't go according to plan. I am unable to adapt without complaining and whining about it. I am not reliable. My actions are often governed by spite, and anger. I have very poor eating habits, potato chips being the main staple of my diet. I'm immature. I model my behavior after the hero in the last movie I've seen, or the anti-hero, the protagonist, whatever. When I was younger, I wanted a drug problem, because everyone I admired had a history of substance abuse in their past or present; well, I've got one. I've thought about having sex with just about every woman I've ever met. My hair is falling out, and I am forgetful. I also have trouble concentrating when people talk to me. I am not a good listener. I am selfish. I wouldn't say that I am compassionate either, instead, I am oversensitive. I hold grudges.

In short, I am a failure, and since you come by here on regular basis, you might as well know the reasons why, so I have listed them for you in no great detail. I don't think I will ever be able to escape these behavior patterns, they will only intensify, and my folly will become even more grande as I age. I am a bad person, and I don't suspect that I will do well in life.

This is what I was thinking as I waited for Remington in the bar downstairs last night as I proceeded to get trashed after work. Sometime around 10pm, we went to another bar where a friend of Remington's was turning 26. For a Monday, the bar was packed, and Remington and I decided to sit in the back by ourselves, but before long we somehow managed to gather a group of about 8 people we barely knew at our table, most of whom were female. I spent most of the evening chatting with a cocktail waitress that works nights, sleeps into the afternoon, and writes for three hours everyday before she goes to work. "A reality novel," she said. She was blonde, young, and wearing knee high socks overtop her fishnet stockings. I told her I get drunk, fuck as many girls as I can, and write about it. This seemed to impress her. The young are so foolish. I invited her to the show that the band I am in is playing later in the week and walked home in the rain sometime around 230am blasting Deerhoof, which I am slightly obsessed with right now.

Today, I spent most of the day gripping the keyboard in a white knuckled trance, trying to stop the office from spinning in circles while listening to the BBC. Tony called and we went for a drive in his convertible and had some udon noodle soup for lunch. By 5 I was feeling much better, and was looking forward to having a nap before going to band practice. Just as I was about to leave work, Veridian called and asked me for a drink. She had just returned from San Francisco and wanted to give me a gift. I was just getting over my hangover, and I hadn't seen her in almost 3 months, so I was hesitant, for about 30 seconds. I told her to meet me at the bar that I live above, where I ordered two ceasars, and two pints of pilsner from the same bartender that had served Remington and I the night before. I had to be at practice by seven, and by 6:15 Veridan and I were in bed. The phone started ringing repeatedly while she was giving me my present when I realized that she had changed the clock by my bed while I was in the shower and I was actually almost an hour late. I threw my clothes on and grabbed a cab to Chinatown, where I rocked out like someone on their last legs of this shit life, just like Keith Richards would have done it, man.

I am embracing my defeat. I will pay dearly for my behavior, it will get worse. This is only the beginning.

Milk Man - Deerhoof

Meet Me in Montauk

From: carroll R ailyn
Date: Sunday, February 26, 2006 12:28 PM
To: lowsbigandtall@hotmail.com
Subject: iwantyou

hi lowsbigandtall i hope i found the right guy you are veryhot saw your picture ontheweb let get together and have fun ,my msn messenger
is natalie86msn add me please

cary
caryl
caryn
rebecca

Normally I would be typing my stories in bed, tucked beneath the covers with my laptop resting on my torso and my head propped up on a collection of pillows that need replacing. The iBook is in the shop again though, and unlikely to come out unless my office decides to foot the $700.00 bill for its repair. The sleek new macbook seems like the better choice, and if things go according to plan, I'll be able to join you from the comfort of my bed by the end of the month. While that situation resolves itself, I am forced to spend time with you in my living room, on my old IBM Aptiva, while seated in my grandfathers black leather lounger that he bought sometime around 1968 when he sold hi-end furniture for the Hudson Bay Company. Gosh my living room really is quite lovely, I rarely spend time in it though, such a waste. A couple weeks ago I was drinking pints of beer at a White Spot of all places and it overlooked the hometown's flagship Hudson Bay store. Every major city in Canada has one, dotted across the national landscape, built around the same time; all of them similar, yet slightly different. Sitting in the White Spot that evening, I couldn't take my eyes off that 6 story dame lit up bright over one of the busiest intersections in the province, taking me away from the conversation at the table into a quiet contemplation of thoughts past. Sipping tea and watching an old soap opera called The Edge of Night with my mother and grandmother after our weekly shopping trip to The Bay when I was a kid, running into the main store in downtown Calgary one morning stoned out of my mind with the notion that I should buy my newborn daughter a Barbie doll, and unloading $100 gift certificates on 6 dollar socks to collect the left over cash to pay for the hotel I was staying at when I was only a visitor to Vancouver. The architecture of that building took me to all these flashes of memory as I repeatedly tipped the cold beer into my mouth that night; flooding my white teeth with cold copper beer, tuned out to everything else around me.

I haven't been on a date in almost three months now, and I am beginning to get used to being alone. Being comfortable with yourself is a powerful thing. I apologize if things have been a bit slow around here, there really hasn't been much happening, except for a party that I went to with Frannie in which Dick Van Dyke and Ben Stiller were in attendance, and I didn't even feel like writing about it. You understand, don't you? Things were getting out of hand. Stumbling through the nights out of control, brash and unapologetic to the appetite of my want. Girls I had told to fuck off screaming up to my window in the alley, notes slipped under the door from the neighbor telling me to stop using the back stairwell as an exciting place to screw. I needed a break, and as hard as it has been to be alone on the Sundays, when everyone else has a place to go; I have been rebuilding, and its starting to pay off.

I was offered a new job yesterday at a studio overlooking the mountains, the sea, and the railroad tracks leading into the city. I turned it down because I know better offers are on the way. Jacque has a show in Barcelona in July and wants me to come with him to the opening, and he's secured a place for us to stay. My art collection is growing from the web sites that I've been building for artists, and it has been suggested that I should get some insurance after the latest addition to my collection is a 6X4 inch painting worth $1700.00 of which Belinda Stronach owns the other 2 in the series. There's the band, the articles and songs I've been writing; under my real name of course and the summer is coming.

I have three weeks holidays coming up and the sun is starting to linger longer in the sky sending golden rays shooting into the dark alleys that I traverse alone on a regular basis. Things inevitably will heat up around here, because I haven't exactly been just sitting here doing nothing. No, I've been busy, from the safety of my chair, or my bed, recruiting the characters that will inevitably entertain you as yet another dry season begins to align itself amongst the buildings and memories that make up this city, and I assure you gentle reader, I am here, waiting for it to all unfold.