So we says to the guy...

Thursday, December 21, 2006


Well, we’ve finally done it; only it’s real for this time. Ross and I finally pulled a Simon and Garfunkel: I just started my very own blog separate from this one and just like Garfunkel, I will set off to bring my career to fantastical heights while leaving my counterpart to sink into obscurity.
Just kidding. I’m in Ukraine right now and I figure it will be a while until this crime-fighting duo goes back to blowing minds and seats off pants. So it’s if anyone wants to check it out.
Ross, did you have anything you wanted to add?

What the fuck…? Ukraine? I thought you said you were going down to the IGA. Guess that explains why I haven’t seen you in three weeks; I just figured you’d had a dizzy spell and forgotten how to get home again. Aww man, does this mean that I’ll have to wait even longer for my dinosaur-shaped noodles?

You are correct to believe that I had one of my dizzy spells. When I finally came-to I realized I was in the cargo-hold of a flight heading to Kiev with a can of spaghetti-o’s in one hand, a plane ticket in the other and for some reason I had about 50 kilos of premium oregano hidden up my ass. Sorry man, I ate the can of noodles, but I’ll make it up to you by buying you something nice. And yes, I realize that every time I go somewhere exotic you always ask me to bring back the exact same thing: a human head. But not this time, I’ll get you something else far better.

Mmm, like a human torso trimmed with the most aromatic of herbs. Sold on that.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

FINAL SCENE: I'll fiction your faction

Ross, you there?


I can hear you breathing.

I’m holding my breath, you liar.

C’mon, seriously…our little project in fiction is over. You don’t have to pretend we’re fighting anymore.

Sorry, force of habit. How did you find Project Break-Up?

…horrible. I now think fiction is a terrible, terrible thing. How about yourself?

Fuckin’ loved it. Fiction’s definitely the way to go.

Really? What the hell are you thinking? Explain your flip-flopping shenanigans.

Well, I’m saving a lot of money on the phone bill since you stopped calling the operator for hours on end just to have ‘a chat about things,’ since the Samaritans restraining order is still in effect …

What?...What the hell are you talking about?

Hang on, let me finish…so yeah, Jeff’s late-night crying hasn’t woken me up for some time now; all in all, I think he’s just as happy about our reconciliation as I am.

Who are you talking to?!

Of course, it could just mean that he’s lying unconscious on his bedroom floor after forcing his dialling finger too far up his nose again, but I guess the money I’m saving in the meantime will cover the surgery costs…unless he insists the team of doctors take the rectal approach, as he did for his lazy eye operation.

Oh God! You’re not going to let fiction go, are you.

Most people consider bending over for healthcare professionals to have their way with them an apt metaphor; to Jeff, it’s quite literally a favourite hobby.

You done yet?

On the subject of fiction, there’s no denying that I campaigned hard for it to be banished from our metaphorical picket-fenced house, to be exiled into the symbolic mist-shrouded night and to be abandoned by the wayside on the figurative badger-infested cul-de-sac that I like to draw pictures of when I grow bored.

At least you’re answering the question now…I think…

Now I say that we should instead throw non-fiction out on its arse into the emblematical biting chill of a moonless, starless night and embrace fiction by accepting it into our house and using it at all times; an arguably drastic change in viewpoint that dawned on me like a bright light dispelling darkness a couple of hours later on.
My revelation was twofold: (1). Badgers do not hunt in packs and thereby lose themselves 10 Fonzie cool-points in the Happy Days board game that is perpetually playing out in my mind, and (2). Fiction is, in the words of C.S.Lewis, “too much motherfucking fun, bitches!”
I imagine he would’ve said something like that at any rate and if he did, I know I’d think twice about arguing with a guy whose middle name (Staples) wouldn’t be out of place on a list of Mafioso goons, serial killers or Office Depot employees. I also imagine he’d scream it in the voice of Samuel L. Jackson while wielding a sack of doorknobs and…

Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Fonzie? Badgers? Sacks of Doorknobs? Listen to yourself still blatantly throwing fiction around, all the while trying to convince yourself writing these lies are “fun.”

I’m having a ball over here.

The only actual fact you had in those last few paragraphs was how Lewis’s parents did have a cruel sense of humour just like yourself.

Pffft. ‘Staples!’

In all seriousness, I have to say that I disagree with your new found love for fiction and I think we should both agree never to step foot into this realm ever again. I have to tell you, I found it arduous, spiteful and well… terrifying. There were points where we got so carried away I couldn’t decipher what was truly fact or fabrication and by now you must realize that gullibility is a vice that always gets the best of me. There’s only one other time where I’ve been this frightened and that’s when I came across that tabloid at the grocery store where I read the infamous headline “Jean-Claude Van-Damme clones an army of himself and storms Brussels.” Remember how I rushed home with a year’s supply of non-perishables and Thai-Bo instructional videos because I feared that the “blitzkrieg of uppercuts and jump-kicks” would surely cross the Atlantic? We both realized it was an overreaction after I was fired for missing too many days of work because I refused to step out of the homemade bomb-shelter I constructed with the cushions from the couch.

Van-Damme? Employment? Bomb shelters? Ahh, still making time with fiction, are you? …so this is what hypocrisy smells like…

Even though there was no threat of any Van-Damage, there were points during this whole solo project fiasco that caused me such brutal anxiety I ended up pissing not only my own pants, but yours as well! Promise me friend: If we do eventually break up the band, let’s make sure it doesn’t involve such precise aiming for the jugular, nor such academy award winning portrayals in victimization. The malevolence ran high; far higher than the stack of 8x12 nudie picks of that southern belle from the Golden Girls you have hidden in your closet.

Are you done yet?

It’s now apparent that the danger of harming our friendship with slander, just like menopause and a 90 per cent chance of contracting pubic lice, wouldn’t hold you back from going all the way. Since I’ve differentiated myself as someone who wouldn’t resort to hurting my friend’s feelings, it should also be mentioned that I’m more of a Beatrice Arthur kind of guy. "Aww Dawathay, you and Rose grab the ointment and…

…Sorry, old friend, I have to intervene at this point before you lose yourself in your sexagenarian reminiscences and lose all our readers (or both of them, rather) in your fantastical verbal diarrhoea. And thanks for stopping short of hurting my feelings by tactfully implying I have a substantial collection of granny porn instead of coming right out and saying it…oh wait, you did come right out and say it.
I can’t help but feel that your hard-fought battle to do away with fiction in its entirety is somewhat undermined by the fact that fiction itself serves as the means through which you make your argument. The only truth in that last tirade was the part about the ‘Thai-Bo’ videos, but you forgot to mention that shortly thereafter you were engaged in a heated discussion with the video-shop clerk about how the makers of the video should be sued for trademark infringement by the creators of the popular ‘Thai Boys’ series. You were miserable for the rest of the day, as I remember.

Thai Boys? I can see your wit is just warming up. I’ll admit, I can see how fiction can be a satisfying writing device, but I swear that is the last time I ever use it. I hope you can eventually say the same thing.

And by the way, thanks for managing to take our blog to an all-time low by bringing Bea Arthur into this. Now our website will definitely be red-flagged for obscene content.
*Sigh* If only I’d reached this epiphany sooner, my dear compadre and I wouldn’t be at odds and I wouldn’t have an image of a negligee-clad, cheesecake-eating Bea Arthur doing Thai-Bo in my head.

Whoa! Too far! I used to like cheesecake.

So exacting is the poetic tragedy that we switch our stances only to butt heads once again, it surely sounds like the work of the best fiction; something that Ol’ Staples Lewis himself would be proud of.
I remember how Big Ol’ Staples played an integral role in bringing Jeff and me closer together, as we, then innocent and virginal, periodically huddled around a roaring tea candle in the depths of winter and looked to the small screen’s showing of ‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’ to bring entertainment enough that we might be able to ignore each other for a couple of hours. How we laughed the time virginal turned to me and said that rather than the wardrobe concealing a gateway to Narnia, it should be the lair of an irritated badger that leaps out at the children every time they open it. I told him to fuck off and demanded to know why he no longer had his trousers on. Wait a minute! I remember now; we didn’t laugh or come closer together, we had a knife fight and I lost two pints of blood, a packet of Graham’s crackers and a six-foot…

Stop right there! Narnia? More badgers? 'The loins of that witch in my wardrobe?' I lost you after you mentioned that I had my pants off. Listen, I don’t know what kind of low-rent porn you watch in the dark, but leave me out of it before they shut this website down for sure.
You had a more coherent point when you were against fiction. Lies are in fact lies no matter how much you gloss them over. Hell, I’m now a staunch supporter of having all “fiction” sections in libraries and bookstores eliminated, unless they’re properly labeled as the “nothing but bold-faced lies” section.

Shh, shh…it’s alright, don’t fret yourself there, Adolf...

I don’t know how to explain my own flip-flopping shenanigans of initially loving, but now hating fiction, other than that there must have been some sort of deep-seeded hatred towards fiction in my subconscious all along. I guess I can attribute this to the fact that, while growing up, my parents would compound one lie onto another for the sake of not having to expose the slightest evidence of their deceitfulness. For example, instead of breaking the news that Santa Claus was not real, my parents told me that he had been suffering from a case of untreated syphilis since the early 70’s and it had finally spread to his brain, therefore, in his current state of dementia, he was far too much of a liability to be breaking and entering our house on an annual basis. I was continually warned of the many possibilities of him “acting out of sorts” and resorting to inappropriate behaviour, one such threat involved him defecating into a box, wrapping it and giving it to me as a present. So I was glad my parents locked the doors and kept the fire raging every Christmas night because I dreaded the day of spotting that gift under tree that was labelled with poor penmanship and reeking of doo-dee. How can I embrace fiction when it’s been so damaging to my childhood. Don’t even get me started on the tooth fairy…she supposedly stopped coming to the house because I was “touching myself” during…

…Hey, hey, hey…Santa Claus? Syphilis? Reeking doo-dee?
Whatcha up to up there, Jeffy-boy? Is that your old nemesis fiction once again making itself an unwelcome visitor in your merry ramblings? Hmmm? Can’t kick the habit that you so fervently protest against? Hmmm? Oozing out of the cracks in the floorboards of your much-talked-about little picket-fenced house, is it? Hmm…?…wait…isn’t that my reference? When did you…?…my picket fence…I…oh…my head hurts...might be the syphilis. No wait, I remember now; Santa’s the one with syphilis, not me. No, hang on, now I’ve got it!…You claimed your parents told you that Santa had syphilis, which I know is sheer falsification on your part; that’s where I was going.

Ooh, it seems that a certain someone is getting confused with all the fiction.

Right, I know for a fact that you had a very normal childhood because…

I meant you, by the way

…of the time your parents sent you away to that special summer camp where the men in white coats made you drink the strong-smelling, colourful juices and poked at you with shiny metal instruments. I remember the nice cushioned walls in your new bedroom and how we laughed about how pointless they were because it would be so uncomfortable to sleep standing up while leaning against them and I remember being sad that you were allowed to wear the big white jacket with the long arms, but I wasn’t. They asked you all sorts of fun questions, like what your favourite colour is, where you think Santa lives with his reindeer and what you think about when you touch yourself, and you said nothing about doo-dee at that point…at least, not to the Santa question.
It’s true that fiction can open the door to pain and suffering, but no more than non-fiction does. Yes, there is a risk of being slapped in the face like a hooker who won’t turn enough tricks for her pimp, but should a little fear deter people from chasing their dreams? Listen, people have to put themselves out there to get anywhere in this world; they know they can’t shy away from what they want just because it might get a bit tough, so I say if you really want to get a hooker and slap her, then I think we should…no wait…I’m confused again…Look, what I think I’m trying to say is that fiction is indeed “a cunt of a good time,” as J.R.R (or “Paperclips” as he might like to be called) Tolkien might shout in the voice of Joe Pesci while brandishing a baseball bat with nails driven through it as he munches on…

Paperclips? FEMALE hookers? Joe Pesci? Ha!
Getting a little mixed up in the world of fiction yourself, I see. You seem to be having a little trouble keeping track of which analogy is true to what. I can only sympathize with the reader who’s building up a mental sweat by reading your passage at this point.

No pain, no gain!

I think a lot of the readers got just as confused as I did with fiction because many took the contempt I displayed towards you literally and I want to make the truth of the matter crystal clear; I didn’t mean a word of it. Since we were in a war of words, both of us had to shed light on personal aspects of the other for the purpose of poking fun. However, many issues of yours were off limits due to your sensitivities, such as your crying problem or, through human nature’s twist design, the fact you’re endowed with 8 nipples—Seriously, when I accidentally caught sight of this I didn’t know whether to find the closest available hat to be sick into or just come up with the 35 cents it typically costs to attend such a freak show. I really don’t know how you can stand looking at yourself in the…

Nipples? A sick-filled hat? Carnies? I thought you were done with fiction altogether.

Oh shit, you’re right. It looks like fiction poked out its ugly head in my writing once again. Sorry, last time, starting….now.
You should know that there was a double standard in this whole exercise. While I walked on eggshells for you it seemed that every aspect about me seemed to be free rein for ridicule and you even had the gall to reveal some of my darkest secrets that should never have been resurfaced, especially in the public’s eye. I felt particularly betrayed when you told everyone that I had once admitted that I would, in fact, “make sweet love to Miss Piggy if she was wearing her ‘Pigs in Space’ uniform.” I TOLD YOU THAT IN CONFIDENCE MAN! I HAD BEEN DRINKING! CAN’T YOU TELL WHEN I’M JOKING?! GODDAMN IT! MUPPETS ARE SO HUMAN-LIKE IT’S UNCANNY! IT’S NOT LIKE…

What the fuck…?

Didn't you... uh? hold on. Give me a minute…………… Ok, I just took the time to read over all of our old postings and it appears that you hadn’t mentioned that little nugget of information. Since the backspace key on this computer doesn’t seem to work I guess I’ll have to learn to let sleeping dogs lie.

Dogs AND pigs? Throw in a badger or two and you’ll have a whole farmyard in your little boudoir. Just keep your nuggets the fuck away from my cat.

Anyways, I want people to know that I chose Ross’s writing style to mock when in fact I happen to think it is utterly brilliant, and this is no word of a lie.

…Like the caged and exhausted animals in your heavy petting zoo, you lie.

No seriously. It's a fact that Ross's words read out loud are like well-orchestrated music to my ears.

…really? Now I feel kind of bad for stealing your thesaurus.

Hang on, let me finish…I can only equate it to the joy he gets from the sound of small children screaming as he jumps out of their closets late at night wearing his clown outfit. And while there is one particular God-fearing young man next door who now instantly falls to the floor sucking his thumb at the first sight of a balloon animal, he’s not the one who’s in dire need of therapy—Ross, you sick fuck.

And now I don’t again, but the pages are getting all wet from my tears…

Sorry; that last part wasn’t me, it was the fiction talking.

That just proves the fact that though fiction and balloon animals can be fun, they can also be the cause of great hurt. As the astute Lewis “Pencil Sharpener” Carroll may yell in his own voice (because he’s not good at impersonations) while swinging a pogo stick with sharp bits of glass glued to it: “Who the fuck is the bigger fool: the fool, or the fool that follows the fool that ain’t goin’ in no plane, fool?!”
Clearly, the facts of the matter, as have been spelled out by some of the tourette-suffering literary geniuses of slightly before our time, are that that use of fiction can sometimes be foolish and that Murdock isn’t so much ‘howling mad’ as he is an absolute twat.

Did you just reference The A-Team? You’ve got to realise that’s way too obscure for our reader and that we’re the only two who will remember that B.A. Baracus hated riding in planes. And that’s only because we’ve got the box-set and matching lunchboxes.

Yeah, that’s a fair point. Sometimes the fiction isolates me from the world and makes a fool of me. I guess the adage, “Fool me once, shame on…shame on you…fool me……you can’t get fooled again” might hold some truth after all.

You’re still thinking about “pitying the fool,” aren’t you?

I can’t get the voice out of my head.

That’s because you're watching an episode as you're typing this. But the fact remains that fiction sucked us in so far that there’s now a gulf between us and our reader...

…and don’t forget that fiction can confuse and hurt feelings too

Yeah, I’m sorry about the Beatrice Arthur thing, the clown thing, the nipple thing and it should be mentioned that my parents are good people.

…especially your mum.


…sorry. Anyways, I reckon that fiction, like Weapons of Mass Destruction and Jeff’s pile of soiled undergarments, should come with a warning label; something to indicate that thereafter there is a good possibility of the shit hitting the fan, or getting stuck to the sole of my shoe and being obliviously trailed down to Metrotown where young hoodlums laughed and pointed at me.

I think that had more to do with you still being dressed in your clown suit. But underwear aside, I think you have an excellent point; we should use a disclaimer if we ever write fiction again.


Problem solved. This issue was mediated nicely…your mother would be proud of me…

Huh? How so?

Because… uh… I have great upper-body strength.


Tuesday, September 05, 2006

(Ross) SCENE 5: how i endure?

Day 6

Alack these days and the vicious lugubriosity that toils unremittingly to numb mine quivering breast,
Behold Malcontent, behold Disquiet; see the twain lay siege to mine kingdom with fortitude and zest,
Wanton, unabashed thievery practised in these here great halls hath staked dominion o’er faculty and wit,
Merriment and Joy, now abductees, dwell in dungeons, whilst Pleasure’s bounties art both exiled and forfeit.

‘Twas but near three score and some days ago that two industrious men of gentle and inebriated kind,
Sought to set to right the follies borne from misguided learnings and injudicious teachings of mind,
Brewing a literary elixir as cure for rampant philistinism, to bring chaotic order and the indifference of man to destroy,
Yet chiefly to tame the vociferous yearnings of unsettled minds then with no productive employ.

Wherefore this handsome duo failed in task can none with surety say,
Divided, one transcended, whilst t’other wandered hopelessly astray,
And while the former shed a tear on that fateful valedictory day,
The latter remained in jovial spirit, intransigent and very gay.

Solace then extended merciful palms and offered forth respite,
She dabbed mine eye, caressed mine brow, brought answer to mine plight,
‘Immerse thyself in letter and word,’ quoth she, ‘Therein find thine imbued might,
‘This counsel to thee I readily bequeath, let blindness be thy sight.’

Thenceforth did yen for regained kindredship lose sting, through transformation from wordless pauper to most high literary King,
Comma and Apostrophe bewitch with fine, curvaceous splendour, whilst Ellipsis, Dash and Colon halt midway with passionate, loving tender,
Such were mine brethr’n—powerful allies whom none could depose: Without them would I have fallen asunder…as would this line of prose.
Alas, sweet reprieve, thine deceiving vision did fail to hold mine gaze; super-ego and id then took toll on mind after some days.

If all truth be here known, mine mind, it did rebel, and from heavenly bliss was I thrusted into the vast shallowy depths of hell,
Hold the lie could I no longer, t’was then made crystal clear, language held no real beauty; not whilst I alone could hear,
Ere now was there but one lone soul who’d listen and take heed, others spake expletives and threatened with sordid deed,
In olde times yore did one stay true, oft preserving mine health and state; now I seek to reconcile with he that once saved me from a most miserable fate...

, i sure need that jive-ass mofo.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

(Jeff) SCENE 5: the end is nigh?

Day 5

…Time for another post… already… (sigh)… well… I had a good day… I guess… I made some toast… It was burnt… I ate it anyways… I don’t care… I always seem to burn it… what else happened?…… I was going to bathe this morning… but I didn’t… what’s the point?… I’ll only be dirty again tomorrow… and then again the next day… (sigh)… Uh… I went outside today… I thought I’d go get a few things… I didn’t really know what… I just ended up tripping and falling flat on my face downtown… I just lay there… I thought, “what the hell?”… the police came by to tell me it’s still loitering even if I’m not standing up… I can’t win…… I’ve been staying in my room when I’m at home… I don’t want to have to face “you know who”… it’s probably the best thing for me… I can really get a lot of work done this way…there’s never enough time to—Oh wait… I can hear Ross in the living room right now… It sounds like he’s looking for his keys… I wonder if he’s going to the store… we used to go to the store together… hmmm, maybe I should go and talk to him… it’s been a while now and I think that—… NO!… it’s up to him! If he wants things to get any better he’ll have to come talk to me! The ball’s in his court! If he thinks that I’ll just come crawling back he’s got another thing coming!… you know what? I don’t even care if he never apologizes to me. I hope he doesn’t! Then I’ll never have to deal with that cold-hearted bastard! So cold hearted he’s got liquid nitrogen coursing through his veins! OUR STORE-GOING DAYS ARE OVER!… shhhh….oh shit… I think he might have heard me. I’ve really got to stop speaking out-loud when I type … [sudden and hysterical crying]…… I’m fine… oh, who am I kidding? I was going to write my routine column about the things Ross has done to piss me off lately, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not after I think back to all those good times we used to have hanging around the flat…now memories are all I have…

Thursday, July 20, 2006

(Ross) SCENE 4: in the middle of something?

Day 4

A wise man once reasoned that when you are at the bottom, the only way you can go is up. There was a time in the not too distant past when I said this wise man may be wrong; that a man at the bottom could be still, could look deep into his own soul and meditate on the multifarious facets of his very being and moreover, that the fallen simply must do so in order to appreciate fully where they are and where they want to end up.
With a profound sigh, the wise man told me to get on the fucking elevator or he would push the door-close button.
‘Shutting yourself in only makes matters worse!’ I cried through the ever-diminishing gap between us. I don’t think my efforts to touch him were wholly in vain and my bloody, fractured finger that got caught between the doors will be a perpetual reminder that, if nothing else, I tried my best. My only wish is that he takes time to contemplate the symbolic undertones of how our encounter came to an end as he wipes my blood from his glasses. See, my friend, see.
My hitting bottom and being touched by Jeff’s plight in my sleep preceded this event from last night. It was quite the night. So many people touched and roused in so many different ways. Then writhing in the depths of nothingness and garbage, little did I know that I would soon be meaningfully disturbed like never before.
My personal rude awakening reared its head at 21.06 (a time significant in itself, since 2, 10 and 6 are the ages of the children whose mother Jeff is no longer allowed to contact) and in the form of a faceless and possibly one-armed girl wielding a shovel. Admittedly, some of the finer details of description are nothing more than supposition, but judging by the high-pitched squeals and distinct lack of physical prowess of the silhouette-shrouded perpetrator, they stand to reason. Of course, she may have been no more than an hallucinogenic vision induced by my scrumptiously psychotomimetic brew of Pledge and oven cleaner, but either way, she helped to open mine eyes.
And when they did open, Jeff was standing over me, pitifully lost, drunk on Champagne and incoherently babbling some nonsense about pork chops, two adults getting a stew on and new pants. I think I heard mention of a small pony and picket fences too. He needed my help and fast.
This is how I came to set aside childish things—things like deep-rooted grudges and mouthwatering carcinogenic tonics—and once again take up residence indoors. By being so pathetic, malodorous and hopeless, Jeff gave me reason to turn myself around and I can only hope I can return the favour one day.
Progress has been only slight since I re-assumed my role as guide/teacher/nanny. Aside from Jeff’s unpredictable bladder functions, our greatest hindrance has thus far been communication. The unintelligible volleys of gibberish that spew forth from his mouth the minute it opens are a clear indication of a man in the throes of distress, but I think our recent mutual decision to communicate only by way of written word will soon work to successfully circumvent the problem. There are times, however, when I am reminded how far we’ve yet to go.
Adamant that we partition the flat with duct tape (on account of his suspicions that I might yet be one of ‘them’ and ‘out to get’ him), Jeff still at times resists my help. Worse than that, he is sometimes taken by the urge to lash out at the one person who has nothing but his welfare in mind, as was the case when I woke in the wee hours to see him trying to piss over the line. It broke my heart to watch him do up his fly and stand motionless, a single tear snaking over his cheek as the dawning realisation that he was facing the wrong way crept upon him.

Other things Jeff has done to hinder our progress:

-After writing an official declaration of war on one of my walls, Jeff has since been obsessed with making territorial gains, his most recent acquisition being a two foot-squared patch at the foot of my bed. He posts himself on sentry duty every night and his chilling gaze, along with his ice-cold breath on my feet, makes sleeping all the more challenging.

-Perturbed by my refusal to wear a tinfoil, “telepathy-blocking” hat, Jeff wears a wet tea towel around his head at all times and sporadically swats the air with a stringless badminton racquet when he thinks I’m trying to read his thoughts.

-Completely disregarding my telling him that he can use the washroom whenever he pleases, just not while I’m in there, Jeff has taken to sneaking through the window to make sure I’m not flushing secret messages to his enemies in the sewers.

-Being convinced that some secret messages have gotten through to “them” via the drainage system, Jeff dug up the water main, successfully flooding his own room and several rooms of the landlord’s flat upstairs.

-Having run out of lint and beans, Jeff now lives on a diet solely of Champagne and things he finds down the back of the couch. More worrying is the fact that the couch is also his “enchanted canoe,” as well as his “fun potty.”

Now, alone in his soiled territory, he is content for the time being playing with a little-green-plastic army man, though I’m not sure where he got it from since he told me just the other day that he’d lost the only one we had left. The future is uncertain, but that, as it is to a child who wears a bike helmet on the school bus, is of little concern to Jeff. At times, I feel like the blood is on my hands… I did, after all, leave Jeff all alone with his twisted thoughts while I searched for purpose and meaning during my self-imposed exile…but I soon remind myself that it’s not. Most of it is in on the wall of an elevator at the nearby skytrain station

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

(Jeff) SCENE 4 : stuck in the middle?

Day 3

Things have never been better! I feel like I’m actually getting a lot accomplished during the day…I bought a brand new pair of pants. They’re really nice pants!… Then I splurged and bought a new light bulb for the lamp, but only when I got home did I realize it was the wrong kind. While I was a little annoyed, it is no real problem; I’ll just go exchange it for another light bulb… Yup… Things are just great. No wait, things aren’t great, things are amazing. I’m Ross-free and my life is ten times more exciting for it… (cough)… Ok, I admit it. I did end up crossing paths with Ross yesterday, and it wasn’t pretty…
I go outside to settle a nagging suspicion: whether or not I was careless enough to have just thrown out a pork chop with a good portion of meat still left on the bone. Once at the trashcans, I nearly die of shock when I see it. I grab the nearest shovel and start beating what I think is a crossbreed between a barn rat and a rhesus monkey for five straight minutes. Only after I hear its meek plea of, “Please…No more hurting Ross,” do I realize this creature is in fact an old companion. Strange, I had attributed Ross’s sudden disappearance to an impulse for camping in the back yard. He looks terrible considering he has only been gone for one day, however, the irony hits me: This supposed genius has fallen so far from his pedestal without even the slightest push or shove. There is still a side of me that feels guilty. By simply standing here above him, I feel like I’m flaunting the fact that I’m doing well and my solo career is really taking off. I don’t know whether to laugh at him or give him a hug. Eventually, I decide I can’t let him live like this and insist he came back inside. Just after giving him a hand to help him off the ground I catch sight of his makeshift bathroom/corner. “Ross! How much of my soap have you been eating?” I inquire.
Well, Ross is living inside once again and he has already started to drive me insane! I must have forgotten how he constantly needs to prove himself superior in the art of writing. This blog has really gotten to his head! Lately, he’s been referring to himself as “the master of the written word.” This means he refuses to speak to me directly and will only consult me by writing elaborate Post-It notes. For example there’s one above a spill I’m getting around to cleaning up. It says, “Why must I find deviation from my unbeaten path because your appetite exceeds your dexterity?” I think he means to say, “Clean this up now.”
The other morning, the first thing I find is a note stuck on the bathroom mirror that says, “No amount of soap in this world could correct your creator’s inaptitude at mastering a steady hand.” I think that one roughly translates to, “Don’t bother washing your face. You can’t scrub off the ugly.” I stand motionless in the washroom for the next half an hour as I shed a single tear.
I find another that just reads, “Your gluttony perturbs the most desperate of creatures.” I can’t bring myself to blame him for being overzealous on that one. He must have noticed how the condiments seem to dissipate despite there being no food left in the fridge. I bet he has been marking the bottles.
Once he started writing the notes in Latin, I quit reading them.
It’s even embarrassing to hang around this pompous prick in the privacy my own home. The other evening starts out like any other: we’re in the living room watching one of Louis Anderson’s finer achievements (I guess laughter is too low-brow for Ross now because him going into hysterics consists of merely crossing his arms and nodding approvingly). Then the phone rings and Ross picks it up. Instantly I panic because no sooner after Ross’s greeting does he begin screaming into the receiver, “Do you know who I am? Do YOU know who I AM?” over and over. I recognize the fact that this is yet another poor soul who has come to discover the ramifications of calling here with the wrong number. I quickly grab the receiver away from him, hang it up and suggest he stay calm. Instantly, I fear that his eyes might fly out of his skull in sheer rage. For a second it looks like he’s going to say something, but instead he quickly grabs his pen and paper. Furiously he scribbles down his message and throws it at me.
I read the bold lettering, “FUCK OFF!”
The remainder of last night is a mess as we end up partitioning the entire flat between the two of us. While the half of the living room with the couch is on his side, I have scored the side with the TV. I hope he enjoys watching old tapes of me practicing my break-dancing moves because I sure as hell know I do. His anger is only rewarding after the 18th replay with my commentary of, “Oh… Here I go… Oh… BLAZAM!” I’m grateful when he agrees to give me the entire kitchen, but only when I hand over the rights to the entire bathroom. Initially, I think this will prove to be no real sacrifice for me because I plan on sneaking into the bathroom via the window late at night and therefore, avoid having to resort to knocking on the neighbours’ door or provoking the local raccoons. However, this sly practice comes to an abrupt end when I get stuck half way through the window during my first attempted entry.
I wake up this morning to the sound of Ross behind me outside. For this one glorious moment of his, he finally resorts to the pleasures of speaking to me, saying, “Well, well. Will you look at this Winnie the Pooh mother fucker?” Once I hear the sound of him rummaging through the nearby stash of yard tools I feel the relief of knowing that my old friend has found it in his heart to search for the most plausible device to extract me from this wooden trap.
Calling over my shoulder I begin to plead, “Thank god you showed up! I’ve managed to survive off cotton baton and aftershave for the past six hours! Try to find something to pull the frame off! I think I ca—AHHHHHH!” My own blood- curdling cries surprise even me as I realize he is beating me senseless with a steel rake.

Now despite all this ugliness I still feel I should put an end to my unruly complaining. Nothing gets solved this way, so I’ll remain calm, collected and resort to something more productive. I have decided to dedicate an objective column to the end of each of my postings; one where I can simply give the facts and let the readers decide for them selves. I call it, “Things Ross has done to piss me off.”

– Ross stole the TV remote from my side of the room. Now I get a healthy dose of monster truck rallies and Oprah.

– After buying groceries, Ross turned off the power to my fridge. I forgot the fuse box was on his side. Everything spoiled.

- I found a mysterious stain on my rug. My suspicion is that Ross had pissed over the line.

- I found a chocolate bar attached to the end of string on my floor. After following it for several minutes, I stopped when it crossed into Ross’s side of the room. Looking up I saw him standing there with a baseball bat.

- Somehow obtaining my password, Ross logged onto my e-mail account. Posing as me, he sent spam-mail about penis enhancement pills to all my contacts; however, the gist of it wasn’t about selling the product to anyone but asking whether anyone could give me some.

-Out of what I thought was the kindness of his heart, Ross offered me a can of mixed salted nuts. Upon opening the can and looking in the bottom I saw it merely contained a spring snake that remained coiled. Looking up at Ross I could see he was losing all patience. He then resorted to punching me in the head.

- Thinking Ross was trying to make a truce, he gave me a flat of what was supposedly an imported beverage called “Del Rosco’s Brew.” Only after finishing the lot did I check the back of the bottle to see the two main ingredients: horse tranquilizer and bathwater from the YMCA.

- Ross phoned all my friends and relatives and informed them I was dead. While at the funeral Ross’s eulogy simply consisted of, “He sure loved the granny porn…” Perfectly timed, I walked in at that moment, thinking I was meeting Ross to go see a movie. Everyone was staring in disgusted awe. At that moment I wished I were dead.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

(Ross) SCENE 3: the beginnings of the end?

Day 2

My heart is heavy; my eyes, moist; my mysterious rash, stubborn. And yet today sees me better than I have been for a while.
Suffice it to say, I took the news of the sudden dissolution of Jeff and Ross Industries somewhat badly and shunned the extravagant lifestyle that Jeff and I had grown accustomed to in an effort to re-find myself. No more eating no-name baked beans off fancy paper plates, drinking out of elegant measuring jugs, or simply flicking a switch on the kettle whenever I wanted to bathe; I needed to get out altogether.
So outside I went, taking up residence amid the rubbish bins. I have to admit that despite my desire to bid farewell to our lavish existence in its entirety, I am yet afforded a few luxuries: the dustbin lids prove handy when it comes to fending off curious neighbours or ravenous badgers and I still get to lull myself to sleep with the soothing melodies of intermittent screams and random gunfire from downtown New Westminster. But some things no man can give up, no matter how dedicated he may be.
I am still in mourning. Not because I miss Jeff’s night squeals, or for that matter his baffling ability to get crumbs over every piece of furniture we own, but because I lament the demise of my, I mean our, so very precious creation.
In the fires of our collective imaginations was it forged and then, the efforts of one alone amounted to its doom. The circle is complete, but I am no longer. I feel more like a Triangle, a triangle that someone with a voracious appetite and baby-soft hands has put on the hob and bit; just burned and consumed. Like the triangle, it is now quite pointless to dwell on how such things came to pass, to gaze into the void or to be sour on the many filthy orchestrations of one with an eye to rule all under his lordship. So I dust myself off, find a potent balm and be glad, real glad, that although I still hear the lingering echo of the bell ringing its toll, I yet endure.
I am covered in crap, mind you, but I guess it could’ve been worse…the only things Jeff’s thrown in the trash in the last three weeks are: several bars of soap—untouched, save a few teeth marks…in all of them; a misshapen Kleenex box—which he shortly thereafter dashed out to reclaim; and a tattered book by some Tolkien guy. None held my interest for long. None, that is, except for the Kleenex box, which came in handy as a makeshift spittoon-cum-latrine for the few moments we shared together. I think we have a bond, the box and I. We both know what it feels like to be cast down and trodden upon and my only hope is that neither of us is subject to it again.
But rather than pitying myself and my predicament, I find that I’m often more concerned with the path Jeff seems to be precariously staggering down. It is true that in the last few weeks I’ve managed to develop a somewhat heavy addiction to my homemade and delightfully hallucinogenic concoction of lighter fluid and Toilet Duck, but my concerns lie with Jeff and his seemingly unending thirst for power and Champagne.
Every night, as I’m peering through the grimy kitchen window, I see Jeff rocking back and forth in the fetal position, as he likes to do, cradling a new variation on an old recipe: Champagne, no-name baked beans and lint broth; Champagne and lint pie, basted with no-name baked beans; no-name baked beans and Champagne flambé with a side of lint; Champagne and lint surprise (the surprise being that there are no-name baked beans hidden in the lint); and prime rib with a lobster garnish. I’m pretty sure I was looking in the neighbour’s window on that last one.
At home, he often seems quite lucid and acts the way he always has. I sometimes feel a pang of longing when I listen to him muttering curses at the lamp or unleashing hours-long tirades at the Hoover, sad that there is a gulf, two doors and a few bins between us, but happy in the knowledge that the old Jeff has not yet completely gone. It’s when we go out in public that my concern finds cause to grow.
The other day, on a routine trip to the supermarket for some essentials and microwave cleaner, I came to realize how desperate the situation had become. Adamant that the security personnel would have to pry his Champagne-brimming traffic cone from his hyena-like grip before he would ever relinquish it, Jeff took to relieving himself in the bread section when they did. It’s not important that we were in the heart of New Westminster and someone had already beaten him to it, only that this was no longer the Jeff I knew; the old Jeff would’ve gone straight for the fresh fruit section without a moment of hesitation.
Perhaps we are both lost indeed.