I am stuck on my documentary project, whose provisional title is Bowling for Welfare.
Here, all these years, I studiously practised my three-step approach, got to have a pretty good eye, won a few bets--and the next thing I do is bowl for welfare.
I had fallen in with some pretty baroque company--certainly not as heinous as the trenchcoat guys in Columbine--but bummy enough to be real dipsticks and sh*tkickers.
Actually, I'm pretty comfortable with dipsticks and sh*tkickers.
Really smart people can be a threat, can make your a**hole snap at fifty paces, they're so smart. They end up with jobs in government and they can do crossword puzzles in fifteen minutes, organize little assembly lines in copy centres at work and spell just about any word in the encyclopaedia.
I mean, a dipstick is pretty well on the surface. He isn't up to very much save maybe break into somebody's apartment and take not only the poor man's pornies but the cleaning lady's fifty bucks as well, the money sitting there nestled inside your old Air Force drinking cup.
I lose more pewter drinking cups and Paris Hilton tapes.
Don't know why, but Paris is my favourite skank.
And then she is developing a sense of humour: "You know, like most women, I like to shop. Shop a lot.
"But then I also like to turn a trick every once in a while"
Anyway, I fell in with some really strange company. Fifty years later and they still affected "boogie cuts", sideburns ducktail haircuts and pegged pants balloning at the knees. Blue suede shoes.
Sh*tkickers. "Marty" type from the old movie.
And all of them bowlers.
The bowling alley nearby has been open for 50 years and it still seems to have most of its original clientele.
The women in their silk bowling windbreakers and skirts hemmed just over the knees, the men, some of them in porkpie hats and "strides", the ballooning pants. There was a tendency of this set to boogie. No, not Saturday Night Fever boogie, actual jitterbugging.
That's when they weren't bowling.
I wondered what most of them did for a living.
Apparently not much.
One day they pooled all their welfare cheques together and the winner would have access to one.
I bowled like I never bowled before.
Some poor kid is going without his breakfast and some dad without his ciggies, but I had been dumpster diving for some months and he seven hundred dollars was first payment for an apartment.
And I got on local cablecast as the guy bowling for welfare. Pooled welfare money.
Fame at last. King of the a**holes.
The closest thing to this kind of success was at summer camp, when I was the first kid to whistle after eating a box of crackers.
And I ended up with real Crackers.
As I say, I am trying to put together a documentary on all this, but I am at a loss to find a camera man and a soundman.
They are actually in my circle of dipsticks, sh*tkickers and bowlers.
The soundman, with his beard down to his chest had been fired by Magna for being a fire hazard, and the cameraman was probably the guy who stole my Paris Hilton tapes.
There are so many of the disinherited and the fired in my bowling group.
I finally traced the stolen the Paris tapes to the cameraman, but decided to let him keep the footage. I needed his services. So together, we'd watch Paris and her trick with the salami.
He ejeculated halfway through, lost interest in my project and said "I don' want to read your stupid book anyway."
Ah the problems of a budding documentary maker.
Another evening of bowling tonight. I still haven't even started on my shooting script.
The problem, as always, is in the writing.
I did know an author who had fifty book titles in his hip pocket. Also a film script. He had been fired by the CBC
for not being able to spell. This was before the days of spellcheck.
I noticed that when he was bowling, some folded pieces of paper fell out of his hip pocke
I plucked them forth after his team was through.
I mean, this is serious business.
Sometimes when you're stuck on a project, you have to steal.
I mean, I'm a pro at this.
I am not fooling around here.
I am bowling for welfare.