Monday, March 16, 2009

Every try to write a novel? It's impossible. So you end up writing crap like this:




There was a jam session at a nightclub in Newmarket ON called, oddly,A.J.'s Office.
I suppose if a carousing out-of-work executive wanted a phoney number to be called at, he could say, "Call me at the Office."

Bartender would Pick up phone and say, "AJ's office."
Always a wife or girlfiend. The out-of-work executive would wag his head, or put his finger to his lips. Il'm not here."
"No, Dave's not here."

So much like the "Dave's not here," out of Cheech and Chong.

Dave is just back from toking up in the washroom with five others "That is one fantastic washroom!"; he needs a beer and he sure as hell doesn't want to talk to his wife.

He smiles through the wafting marijuana smoke being now dissipated by the one of the large ceiling fans. Dave giggles." Next time she phones, tell her I don't want her to call me at The Office.

There is a jam session at the Office tonight.
It is led by a backwoods on-welfare singer named Tom Brown. His wife, also on welfare, will sing.
Sing for your suppah.
Ivan too, not having had his suppah.

"How loud can you sing?" asks Tom Brown....Myself, I am already drunk.

"Well, how loud?"

"Eek."

"You sure you want to be with us?"

"I got no other place to go."

So I pick up my guitar and join Tom Brown on the piano as he sings his original song, "Sometimes I feel like a hologram." Not like a Motherless Child, but a hologram.
It is the shank end of the Nineties and everybody's going high tech. We were learning terms like PC, DVD and the hologram that would surely come in the future. Talk about Surround Sound. You can have a virtual girl..
I wanted a virtual girl! Well, toinight Tom is just singing about being a hologram.
Tonight he sings about feeling spacey, inauthentic. "Sometimes I Feel Like a Hologram."
"A hologram I am," I echo.
"You Dr. Seuss or what?"
"You smoke too much weed, Tom."
"Dave's not home," he winks through his ponyail lock thrugh the smoke.
"Sometimes I feel like a hologram," he sings.
"Hologram," I echo.

....Jesus, I'm getting a second-hand buzz.

We seem to fit well together, Tom, his bosomy strawberry-blonde wife and me. She sings "Wayfaring Stranger."
"I'm bound to leave you," she warbles. I hope she doesn't mean me. I still want a hologram.
We somehow succeed as a trio. There is applause.
They are in! I am in.
We walk off the stage, people sort of nipping and tucking at us. I think I am definietely in
We play weekends. It is not easy. You have to be up all the time. On all the time. My bank teller friend is saying "You look spacey. ..Should really quit that job."
Well darn. Finally made it. Professional lounge singer.
Never mind when everybody says, "There is no money in music". But there was some in Newmarket ON. I had a job.
The bar owner would glare at us every Sunday as we lined up fer to get our pay. "Money-grubbers, miscreants, ne'er-do wells!"
But we did well. Every Friday, Saturday and Sunday we'd bring back the crowd, not a very well-heeled crowd, mostly on welfare and unemployment insurance, but then so were we. Like attracts like.
Gad, we could start a little Manchester, England here, home of grudge and grunge. I began back-combing my hair. Beatle boots.
Friggin' second childhood. I am fifty.
"Get a haircut!"
Someone yells.
Drunk, I yell back,. "Get a hair lip!"
Ah well. Where else can you get paid for being a drunken asshole who can barely play piano?
Why, at A.J's office.
It was a tough job. Somebody had to do it.
Eventually, AJ's closed down.
Fifty people homeless. Where were they going to spend their pogey money?
"You gonna play somewhere else man? We got nowhere to go."
So I join a splinter group from Glass Tiger.
Somebody else started another bar called, again, The Office. On Main Street this time.
Again,I had an "Office."
And the only reason I was any good was because Al Connely of Glass Tiger was doing riffs over my singing.
I discovered that you didn't have to be all that good.
Just have the Glass Tiger behind you.
I started to wear my hair even longer, affected eye shadow, as if to imitate former Glass Tiger leader Alan Frew.
Fuck off, said Alan. There is only one Glass Tiger.
"You can imitate the actions of the tiger, but you can't be the tiger."
Well, I had the face but not the talent. At least I looked like Alan Frew!

"Too bad," said the barmaid.
"It's just as well that you're mediocre.. If you go big, you go crazy. Stay small."
Heh. It wasn't hard to do.
Now, I'm back toking up in that same washroom that had belonged to AJ's club.
I laugh at a sudden non-sequitur, as all stoners do.
Last girlfriend had said," I am tired of blowing a little dope."
Who did she think I was, Stephane Dion?
I did try it once as a politician, hoping to be like our Stephane Dion. I lost the election.
The new girlfriend ... said she too was tired of was blowing a little dope.
I put on my best Alan Frew face.... He is one good-looking MoFo.
"Well, I'm not very smart, but I'm fancy." She softened.
"Ah, play that funky music, white boy!
I have always maintained that a fool or a knave with an electric dulcimer
Could somehow get by.
I could be William Hung.
Damn. I should be hung.

##

13 comments:

the walking man said...

Ivan take your guitar and set the open case on the sidewalk with a few loonies in it. Don't play any music but constantly act like you're on break and need to touch up your eye liner...I do believe that the TO'ians will think it a grand show and pay as they walk by.

ivan said...

Mark,

You mean my original stance as I have just reproduced above?

Midnight said...

"You can dance, if you want to...."

You can free your stricken mind.

You can prance if you wanna,

Leave the world behind.


For a price is the freedom,

Opportunity to shine

If a life is a breathun'

Then the future is sublime.

Charles Gramlich said...

"Get a haircut!"

I had one once. Didn't much care for it. Didn't find it amusing. Seemed like a waste of time.

Much like writing a novel.

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Charles,

I gues you are, er, hair-suit?

Midnight said...

Ok, Ivan, I suppose you're just as tired of my late-night-drunken poetic attempts as I am.

Fine ... Shakespeare (from memory) :


Hark thou pheasant, under my window, behold.

Your frozen Roses, can my plane not explode.

To wit your canopy, on fire (I'm told),

May just be flirting,

With my precarious sould.

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

A-well-a, everybody's heard about the bird
Bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, the bird is the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, well, the bird is the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, well, the bird is the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, well, the bird is the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, don't you know about the bird
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a

A-well-a, everybody's heard about the bird
Bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, don't you know about the bird
Well, everybody's talking about the bird
A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a, bird

Surfin' bird
Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb, aaah

Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa
Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow

Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Oom-oom-oom-oom-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-oom-oom-oom
Oom-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-a-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Papa-oom-oom-oom-oom-ooma-mow-mow
Oom-oom-oom-oom-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Well, don't you know about the bird
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word
A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word

Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow...

...The Trashmen - Surfin' Bird lyrics
The Trashmen - King Of The Surf lyrics

Midnight said...

Jeez, Ivan ... like,
I didn't mean to inspire you, like.

Oh well ... it's too late now....

We'll have to wing it.

Switchin' to Glide....

Midnight said...

Forgive me, for retracting my thoughts, to the last line of your above post:

"Damn. I should be hung."

... but, I think a fitting tribute (should I ever die), would be:

"I was almost hung."

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Funny.

If Yuck-Yuck's was ever held in a strip clob, the poor Asian guy would really get it.
"You call that hung?"

Midnight said...

Well, if everyone at the table gets a hard-on, the guy with the shortest dick, gets all the beer and drinks spilled his way.

Say, how's that novel going?

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

I guess I took the cue for the novel title from the picture of me the girls had doctored up above.
The title?
"Naked Came the Ukrainian."


........and I gotta get to bed.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Midnight said...

Not to worry.

Cowboys, and Kozaks

don't care.

Sweet Dreams.