So we says to the guy...

2006-12-21T09:39:00.000-08:00

Hiatus

2006-12-21T09:33:00.000-08:00

(Jeff)
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 www.jefferyloucks.blogspot.com if anyone wants to check it out.
Ross, did you have anything you wanted to add?

(Ross)
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?

(Jeff)
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.

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

FINAL SCENE: I'll fiction your faction

2006-11-12T21:42:00.000-08:00

(Jeff)
Ross, you there?

(Ross)
No

(Jeff)
I can hear you breathing.

(Ross)
I’m holding my breath, you liar.

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

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

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

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

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

(Ross)
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 …

(Jeff)
What?...What the hell are you talking about?

(Ross)
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.

(Jeff)
Who are you talking to?!

(Ross)
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.

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

(Ross)
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.

(Jeff)
You done yet?

(Ross)
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.

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

(Ross)
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…

(Jeff)
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.”

(Ross)
I’m having a ball over here.

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
Pffft. ‘Staples!’

(Jeff)
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.

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

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
Are you done yet?

(Jeff)
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… "

(Ross)
…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.

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
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.

(Jeff)
Whoa! Too far! I used to like cheesecake.

(Ross)
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…

(Jeff)
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.

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

(Jeff)
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…

(Ross)
…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.

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

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

(Jeff)
I meant you, by the way

(Ross)
…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…

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
No pain, no gain!

(Jeff)
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…

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

(Jeff)
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…

(Ross)
What the fuck…?

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
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.

(Jeff)
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.

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

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

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

(Jeff)
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.

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

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

(Ross)
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.

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
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.

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

(Ross)
I can’t get the voice out of my head.

(Jeff)
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...

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

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
…especially your mum.

(Jeff)
…

(Ross)
…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.

(Jeff)
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.

(Ross)
Agreed.

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

(Ross)
Huh? How so?

(Jeff)
Because… uh… I have great upper-body strength.

(Ross)
…*sigh*

(Ross) SCENE 5: how i endure?

2006-09-05T00:56:00.000-07:00

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...

...man, i sure need that jive-ass mofo.

(Jeff) SCENE 5: the end is nigh?

2006-08-01T22:34:00.000-07:00

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…

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

2006-07-20T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

(Jeff) SCENE 4 : stuck in the middle?

2006-07-12T00:55:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2006-07-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

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.

(Jeff) SCENE 3: new beginnings?

2006-06-21T00:21:00.000-07:00

Day 1

Finally I’m free from the tyranny of that literary Bismarck. Without Ross’s judgmental eye always over my shoulder, I feel like I can actually breathe and now is the time to really explore the potential of my skills as a journalist. I know many of you have been saying that I should have many concerns about conducting a solo career: I will no longer have that dynamic that Ross and I once had, I won’t be able to come up with as interesting topics to explore, I’ll be left to write about this big scary world all alone where I’ll only be able to muster up enough courage to record the most mundane inactivity that rules my life. Well, if I let these problems deter me from making my own post I’d have to be clinically insane. The only concern that would bring me to consider reuniting with Ross is if I develop a serious problem with sporadic urination and that’s only because it keeps ruining the Kleenex-boxes I’m wearing on my feet.
Now I find myself presented with the sublime opportunity to dive into the important issues that affect me and everyone else in this troubled world. This is my first, official, independent post. So here we go… (ahem)… So yeah, Ross is a dick. Ever since he presumed that I was trying to steal some of his thunder, I’ve watched his contempt towards me evolve from subtlety to obscenity. If the guy had any less tact he’d have turrets! I swear, Ross’s greatest concern right now is to make me look like a damn fool!
Just the other day we go to the supermarket because we’re running low on little-green-plastic army men: Over the week many of them had difficulty surviving the interrogation chamber, AKA the microwave. Anyways, when it comes time to go through the checkout I see that the cashier appears to be what aestheticians would refer to as a bit of a “cutie pie.” As she begins to check out our items, I start the conversation with Ross loud and clear: “Oh man, when I was doing those push-ups this morning, I think I pulled my nanoceps.”
Ross stands motionless and gives me a deadpan stare; there was no need for this hesitation, he knew the fucking drill. Finally he sighs, rolls his eyes and replies, but with the kind of conviction you get from a fresh lobotomy patient who’s reading cue-cards for the Weather Network, “Oh yeah, you really went to town with your hourly push-up sesh.”
It is not the natural dialogue I wanted to demonstrate for this fine, young eavesdropper who surely shares the same interest in physical well-being as I do, but it will have to do. “Well, I’ve got to do what has to be done. I wasn’t doing them with one arm today… must be coming down with the flu.” I like to add a little modesty to mix things up. “Speaking of which, what’s my new number again? Is it 526-4759? I can never remember.”
Ross all of a sudden looks distracted and then adds, “Come to think of it, maybe the reason you couldn’t do your usual push-ups is because you’re becoming too powerful for your own good.” I stare at him for a second because I don’t know where he is going with this and there is something about his new patronizing smirk that I don’t trust.
“… What do you mean?”
His sincerity jumps a couple of pegs. “Well, obviously your physical strength has far surpassed the realm of human strength as we know it.”
I finally realize that this asshole is deliberately trying to sabotage the entire operation. “That’s enough,” I whisper.
“Evidently, your strength is deteriorating because your powers are now entering a new dimension of mind control.”
I lean towards him, “Abort… Abort.”
“Soon you won’t even have to use your arms. You’ll be able to lie flat on your face and do your reps by way of levitation. This is actually a newly discovered scientific phenomenon I’m talking about… I think I read about it in a Batman comic.”
We stand there staring at each other for a moment. His shit-eating grin is no match for my disapproving scowl. The moment is broken by the impatient cashier, “That’ll be $60.”
Still fantasizing about going home and bludgeoning Ross to death with the Greater Vancouver White Pages, I make the transaction. She hands over the receipt for me to sign and, as soon as I do, Ross bellows in disgust,” Pffft! Why don’t you just sign her breasts? Isn’t that what you do for your biggest fans?”
I shoot the coldest stare at Ross. Why does this showboat always have to upstage me? Looking back at the receipt I realize that I have just paid with debit and not credit. I show the cashier a look of embarrassment. She gives me a slight smile. Hmmm. I wonder whether this smile is meant to console or entice so I match her smile with one that’s dashed with a hint of charm. Her expression turns to an ice-cold scowl and I realize that it was meant to console. Damn, this is another day ruined.
Well, I seem to have digressed… Uh… In other news, I accidentally swallowed a little-green-plastic army man. My spirits were lifted when the doctor said I’d get it back in 8 hours.

2006-05-08T02:04:00.000-07:00

SCENE 2: get your facts straight?

2006-05-08T01:59:00.000-07:00

(Ross)
Dear Mr. Loucks,
All along I thought our little blog project was about co-operation, friendship and small ponies, but now I see that the writing’s on the wall and it has some expletives and harsh language in it. ‘My faithful,’ is that what I heard you say? It’s good to know that when push comes to shove, you don’t differentiate between friend and foe…you would shove everyone into the abyss with equal vigor. So here we are, brother Cain, this is the crossroads that you’ve brought us to and it seems much like the corner you wrote Ross and Jeff Industries into in the first place. Explain thy words, o yea with delusions of grandeur, and reap what thou hast sown.
Kind regards,
Mr. Lockhart

(Jeff)
Come on now Ross, aren’t we being a little extreme about my poorly worded comment? You must understand that I didn’t intend to claim any of our fans as my own and I meant nothing derogatory towards your work in this project. Just as you have proven, the written word has the danger of becoming misconstrued. This is a group effort and I assure you there is no knife or dinner fork lodged in your back… However, I do find your quick disgust over such an innocent misunderstanding almost insulting. What are you saying? That anyone who thinks that I might have some fans of my own is delusional and needs to have a slice of your humble pie? Well, you know what? I might just have a few fans of my own. Get a load of my score on the comment section.

(Ross)
Sir/Madam,
So it’s my interpretation of events that is to blame for this quandary and not the Freudian professions of your massive ego? Well, I think I’ve had quite enough of your helping yourself to my pies! Not content with stabbing me in the back with a knife, fork, spoon or any one of the many kitchen utensils you’ve still yet to master, you now have the gall to say I brought this on myself? Well, brother Romulus, it seems you’ve outdone yourself once again. And outdone me and everyone else, or so you believe. This was once a group effort as you pointed out, but that time has now passed. Alas, a sad day has befallen us…This day, the foundations of our stable democracy have crumbled under the tyrannical powerlust of one who played so small a part in its creation. Overwhelmed by the weight of one man’s self-glorification and desire for ultimate authority, our fragile and harmonious egalitarian structure will surely buckle. To keep scores of popularity from the comments section is to undermine everything we’ve strived to achieve through co-operation. And by my count, you’re trailing by one.
Sincerely,
Mr. Lockhart

(Jeff)
What? … Wait… What? Did you just insult my mother?... Whatever. I finally see pretentiousness rearing its ugly little head from those dark and disturbed recesses of your jaded mind. You think you’ve single-handedly carried Jeff and Ross Industries this far, do you? The reason I kept score was because I had the feeling it would come down to this one day, but I would never have guessed that you would consider your coat-tails so long. If this is the way you want it, then let’s have it. The collaboration is finished; I’m going solo. You don’t need me?! I don’t need you! That’s it!… I’ll post shit myself…. Did you say we have pie?

(Ross)
To whom it may concern,
I find your terms acceptable.
In Hell’s dark chasms shall we again glance upon one another….(that’s ‘Go to Hell,’ in case you were having trouble with the words with more than two syllables).
Mr. Lockhart {founder, president and sole proprietor of Ross and Jeff Industries}

(Jeff)
Fine! But for one thing it’s been called ‘Jeff and Ross Industries’ since our first posting, and for another, I want my thesaurus back.

SCENE 1: the fact of the matter?

2006-04-25T00:19:00.000-07:00

(Jeff)
Here at Jeff and Ross Industries we have come to realize that we have written ourselves into a corner so to speak. So far we’ve stuck to one formula that we know very well: Writing about our booze-riddled adventures. While it is only expected that the two of us continue what we know best, we find that there are a number of troubles we will have to face while traveling along this same path. It will eventually lead us to greater poverty than we currently find ourselves in and the price of human livers on the black market is outrageous these days. I could save up now for one as Ross’s Christmas present, but knowing his stinginess, he’d probably reciprocate my gift with a liver that had once belonged to an 80-year-old sailor who had a broken heart and a hankering for the Bangkok night life. Another writing challenge we face is keeping our material fresh. We don’t want to be like those aging rocks stars that don’t realize they’ve been releasing the exact same filth since the beginning of their downhill career. Finally, there’s the issue of the both of us being plagued with the restraints of full-time work, so our daily routines are really nothing noteworthy.
I have come up with a solution that will solve all our problems. I think we should turn to the loving embrace of fiction. That’s right, fiction. Being aspiring journalists, Ross and I have been brought up to deal with nothing but the coldhearted truth. Sure this is a noble cause, but sometimes I find writing non-fiction kind of like using two pieces of bread to make a sandwich, as opposed to using two pop-tarts; it’s just not as good. Also, the term “non-fiction” is just such a negative connotation. Think about it: “non” “fiction.” It might as well be called “not-enough-fiction.”

(Ross)
It’s true that Ross and Jeff Industries has indeed reached something of an impasse of late, but I wholeheartedly disagree that bastardizing the creative art of writing with elements of fiction is the only option. This organization was built with a solid foundation—sandstone blocks of principle held together by the cement of morality and the gravel of idealism…we even started work on a picket fence whittled from the dreams of a better world for all—and now you want to burn down our precious sanctuary to make way for a superhighway of lies. Do you really want to be an arsonist, Jeff?
I see your point about the making of sandwiches with pop-tarts. I see it and I don’t like it one bit. I want reimbursement for groceries in full, but that’s a separate issue. So you have your sandwich filler, which is, oh I dunno, like peanut butter, gravy and lint, if I know you as well as I think I do. Now, where bread would strengthen your teeth and bones, not to mention help you see in the dark (though I’m not sure I’d like that much…I’ve seen you standing over my bed, watching me sleep), pop-tarts might kill you. You could choke on the wee coloured bits on top or get the whole thing wedged in your esophagus sideways, but an arguably less immediate yet no less perilous danger is that you get hooked on the sugary goodness. That, my friend, is a slope more slippery than our bathroom floor on those occasions you get caught short. Do you really want to be an addict, Jeff?

(Jeff)
I will now conduct an experiment to demonstrate my point. Here is a typical routine in our daily fiction-less lives:

Open scene:

Jeff walks in the flat after a long day’s work. He goes to the kitchen and throws on a pot of hardy chili. He then takes it to the living room, where he meets Ross who’s busy reading the dictionary. The both of them greet each other with nods of acknowledgement and proceed to turn on the TV. For the rest of the evening, they watch some infomercial about this crazy thing that will cook eggs in less than five minutes; I think it’s a frying pan or something.
Soon enough one bowl of chili for Jeff turns into 17. He begins to feel dizzy. His eyes roll to the back of his head and the next thing he knows, he wakes up face down on the carpet. Sitting up, he looks behind him where Ross is still sitting on the couch watching TV.
Without averting his gaze from the screen Ross says, “Must have been some good eats.”
“How long have I been out?” Jeff asks.
“Doesn’t matter. I rolled you over, so you were safe.”
Jeff smiles, “Now that’s what pals are for.”

End Scene.

I can only think of one word that can sum up that entire episode, and that’s BORING! You need real conflict to make something truly compelling. Now lets jazz-a-size that fable with a little thing called “fiction.”

Open Scene:

Jeff walks in the flat after a long day’s work. He goes to the kitchen and throws on a pot of hardy chili. He hears Ross in the living room watching TV.
From the kitchen Jeff calls over, “What are you watching? Is there a soccer game on?” Only after hearing a glass bottle being broken over the side of the coffee table does Jeff realize the mistake he’s made.
Ross comes into the kitchen wielding the shattered stub of his Irn-Bru. “It’s called football, you scallywag!”
The both of them stand there facing each other for what seems like an eternity of pure tension. While Ross usually does take offense to Jeff’s ignorance, this reaction seems far too drastic for Ross’s character. He’s also not one known for the use of such profanity. Jeff realizes that he needs to find a peaceful way to get out of this situation as quickly as possible.
Looking over to the stove, then back to Ross, Jeff says calmly, “Ok, let’s take it easy… Now listen, I just need to stir the pot or the bottom will burn.” Slowly stretching his arm over to his pot of chili, Jeff goes for the handle. Quickly he throws its searing hot and delicious contents towards Ross’s head. His scream fills the room as bean and make-up fly from his face. Once Ross lowers his hands, Jeff sees that he is now sporting the most sinister moustache that had been ever so cleverly disguised. Upon further inspection, Jeff realizes that this was not in fact his friend, Ross Lockhart who stood before him, but his old arch-nemesis, Gabriel McGusto. Jeff curses under his breath as he realizes that his days serving in the Royal Canadian Junior Cadets have finally come back to haunt him.
“Where’s Ross? What have you done with him?” Just as Jeff makes his demands, the closet door bursts opens revealing the real Ross tied-up on the floor.
The real Ross yells across to Jeff. “I find this quandary far atypical of most of our habitual per diem!”
“Now’s not the time, Ross. I’ll get us out of this.” Jeff reassures his friend. Turning back to his enemy, Jeff propositions, “Well Gabe, we can make this hard or difficult.”
Thinking back to all those years studying the Karate Kid saga, Jeff recalls one of the finer moves that is renowned for solving the most difficult problems and then some. Taking out his set of house keys, Jeff holds them out and proceeds to jingle them with his right hand. Jeff distracts his enemy with the shiny object just long enough to use his left leg to perform a dropkick so powerful that it sends the both of them to the floor, writhing in pain.

End scene.

Brilliant! I don’t know about you, but I was captivated. Can you now see the powers of conflict in the realm of fiction?

(Ross)
All the blood, sweat, tears and numerous other bodily fluids that were lovingly forced down the throat of our nurtured creation, our very own hybrid mongrel offspring; the water breaking all over our nice sofa that we now offer overnighting guests, the agonizing contractions that almost became too much labour and made us consider throwing in the soiled towel and, of course, the perpetual screams of your night terrors that I only wish were metaphorical; all this will be for naught if we choose the path of fiction. Do you really want to be a baby-killer, Jeff?
Let me illustrate the dangers of fiction by way of example. A peculiar and off-putting young boy…let’s call him Jeff for the time being…thought it might be fun to worry his neighbours by claiming there was a wolf roaming near his herd of sheep. Now it’s not important what Jeff did with the sheep late at night when no one was looking, but what is important was that his trickery paid off and he got great kicks when the neighbours rushed out to his aid time after time. Of course, when a wolf did actually appear one night when Jeff was alone with his sheep, no one believed him when he shouted for help. And so on that fateful night, the wolf devoured all the sheep, dressed himself up in sheep’s clothing, blew down Jeff’s house and ate his grandmother. I forget the moral of the story, but the point is that lies are lies no matter how much you cake them in wee coloured bits or wool or something. Do you really want to get blown by a cross-dressing wolf just before he eats your grandmother, Jeff?

(Jeff)
There’s only one way we can solve this little conundrum, Ross, and that is taking it to the streets. No, I’m not talking about a knife duel… even though I’d cut ya good. I’m speaking of asking what the fans think. So I call upon my faithful to support my cause by telling me your thoughts in the comments section.

(Ross)
Your faithful, is it? And when have I ever used the word “scallywag”? I’ve got a broken Irn-Bru bottle with your name on it right here if you wanna go, princess, and if I didn’t have to get to bed early to get up and earn money for groceries you’ll immediately devour, I’d have a lot more to say on the matter. Soon, my friend…soon.

a timely change of pace: FINAL ACT

2006-02-25T04:46:00.000-08:00

(Jeff)
The rest of the night has absolutely no consistency. It involves a series of memory lapses, chemical imbalances and mild brain damage.

(Ross)
Judging from Jeff’s slanty walk and his sporadic and incoherent mumblings about the nature of humankind or something to that effect, I can see that our little drinking sesh in the back of Chris’s truck has more than adequately redirected us up the road that lies perpendicular to Sobriety Avenue. I figured our next pit stop would successfully steer us onto Inebriated Highway, and, after a quick left at the traffic lights, we’d hitchhike the rest of the way to our final destination at Wankered cul-de-sac.

(Jeff)
I don’t have much sensation at this point but I do feel the motions of walking. It is now up to me to find our way back as Ross has difficulty with the simple task of comprehending the names of streets in Victoria. I know for certain that I couldn’t find our way back to the bar if I was sober. We find ourselves now gifted with the basic animal instincts that have been lost to mankind through years of rational thinking and responsibility. Such instincts include the instinct of direction and the instinct to talk in tongues. Ross is fluent tonight.
“Who says they’re never before find it to ways of my lost who? No! Victoria! Headlights fast come near, but why me so just fine? Good shoes, that’s why! ”
“My thoughts exactly, my friend!” I reassure Ross. I’m just glad he’s not swallowing his tongue at this point.

(Ross)
I make the time pass by quicker by fucking with Jeff a bit. Mimicking his intermittent ramblings, and at times taking it to a whole new level by making full sentences with random words, I do my best not to giggle when I see confusion darken his face. As I suspect, he doesn’t call me on it, probably for fear that I’d tell him he was too hammered to understand words and mock him for the rest of the night. Instead, he complacently agrees with anything I say. Just the right time to bring the Queen back into the mix, I reflect, but suddenly the staggering silhouette beside me bursts into song and I lose my train of thought.

(Jeff)
As we weave our way through the city streets of Victoria I feel the third and final instinct come over me: The instinct of melody. This is perfect because AM gold is my speciality. As I’m reaching the tenth and only line of “I Got a Feeling,” I realize that the wind is burning my eyes. To my astonishment, it’s because I’m now running.

(Ross)
After at least half a dozen verses of his ditty, wherein all the lines seem very similar, I think for one glorious moment that Jeff’s face is about to get a lot more familiar with the pavement. To my astonishment, he manages not only to keep his balance following the initial lurch, but also to continue his forward motion into a run, or something of the like.

(Jeff)
Ross’s voice recedes into the distance as the scenery flashes into a neon blur. I can no longer see clearly as the wind becomes so intense. I must be running like 60 km per hour I figure, and there’s no sign of stopping. This is only going to lead to disaster. I throw up my arms and yell. Then all of a sudden, there’s calm. I lower my arms to realize that I’m just outside of the coat check. Three seconds later Ross is besides me.
Trying to catch my breath I say, “I think I better slow down with the drinking from here on in, Ross.”
“No I’m not!” Ross explains.

(Ross)
Imagine if you will, a toddler…a female toddler…who, brimming with ecstatic pleasure at not having fallen flat on her arse within the initial three seconds of her first time standing upright, decides to have a go at the 100 metre hurdles at the Olympics. Now imagine her being chased by a small pony with opposable thumbs and a gun and you’ll have some concept of the image that now meets my eyes. All wavy arms, screeching, and alternating expressions of terror and glee. I reluctantly give chase as I know we’ll never be let back into the pub, should the bouncers catch a glimpse of my compadre. I’m well ready for a beer.

Four Hours Later
(Ross)
I wander into Chris’s front room and am taken aback at the sight of the most glorious Christmas tree you can imagine, glittering in all its splendour and towering over a wooden coffee table littered with at least two dozen statuettes of St. Nick. The slow realization that it’s now February dispels my panic that I had forgotten to bring any gifts, though the resulting relief soon gives way to a deep perplexity and a burning desire not to meet Chris’s possibly deranged kinfolk. He explains that his mother has been busy and has not yet had time to disassemble the festive decorations. Relief again.
As we adjourn to the living room, I cringe at the unwelcome sensation of the wet sand inside my sock grating against the ball of my foot. I make a mental note: Must remember to invest in a better pair of shoes, just in case, as had happened at some point in the last few hours, I end up on a beach in the middle of nowhere. Maybe taking my flip-flops with me wherever I go would be cheaper, but I’d probably try to sell them to Jeff at some point if I did. He’d buy them. And he’d eat them. And I need them.
Always the most hospitable host, Chris lets us recline in the warmth of his living room and, even though our McDonald’s mission on the way home from the pub had been a complete success, he brings a wealth of delectable dishes and bountiful beverages for our gluttonous pleasure. Now on our sixth gallon or so of blueberry juice, and munching happily on more pepperoni sticks you’ve seen in your wildest dreams, Jeff and I try to convey how much we appreciate seeing our former school friends again and of our gratefulness of their entertaining us in Victoria. Then Jeff apparently decides to see if he can get us kicked out.
Praying that Chris has managed to imbibe enough to keep his spirits high throughout the onslaught, I watch anxiously as Jeff bombards him with questions about his sister and her whereabouts. I am mildly impressed at Jeff’s optimism and perseverance, as he remains undeterred even after Chris tells him for the umpteenth time that he has four brothers and no sisters. Fortunately, Jeff becomes momentarily distracted by Chris’s dog, who chooses this point to nuzzle the former’s leg; the latter obviously still on the hunt for pepperoni sticks. A reversal of roles would not have astounded me. Either way, seeing that the human no longer has any pepperoni treats on his person, and is rather being encouraged to partake of a suspicious stain on his jacket, the K-9 wisely declines the offer and goes on his way. All I’ll add is that a creature who spends a good portion of his life with his nose wedged either up his own or other creatures’ arses, refuses to let his tongue touch Jeff’s clothes, even when they’re smeared in food. ‘Nuff said.

Three hours 12 minutes Before
(Jeff)
We’re back at the club with Chris and Marybeth, but all of a sudden I find myself alone. I don’t know where Chris or Marybeth are, but Ross must be in the corner conversing with a coat rack. I hate being left alone at clubs because I’m at the age where I’m susceptible to taking on the image of being too old to be here for no reason. Back in my hometown I always thought the initial purpose of going to the bar involved being sixteen, growing a shitty moustache, and passing yourself off as a Phil spelled with a “F.” Being here now I look like someone’s dad who’s in search of his disobedient child. Women in the bar are expecting me to approach them and ask, “Have you seen my daughter Sarah? She said she’d be home before eleven… Buuuut since I’m here, can I buy you ladies a drink?" However, at this point I’ve already drowned my self-consciousness and I begin smiling at all the nice people. I have no malicious intentions, just the usual inner monologue of, “Right foot counters the left. Don’t forget to blink. No, don’t fall asleep, you don’t know where you are!”
I find myself staring at this one girl across the room—Who knows, she could have been two feet in front of me. Also, I shouldn’t really claim to be “staring” at her. If you saw me you’d think that I’ve just fallen asleep with my eyes open and I’m pointed in her general direction. All of a sudden she stares back. What is this? She attempts to challenge me to a stare-off? She fails to realize that no one can step over the line like me when it comes to staring contests. Ha! Yeah! I see that I took her to school on that one. I’m beginning to remember my middle name after she looks away, it’s “alienation.”
Marybeth comes over to talk to me because she and the rest of the bar had just witnessed me defending my title. She fails to realize the rate of my brain function at this hour.
I think she says something like, “Whatisgoingon?Doyoulikeher?Icandosomething.Sheisshot.Heysheislookingoverhere.Wave!”
“Sloooooooooooooow dooooooooooooooown,” I attempt to say, but I think it comes out as, “Daaawww.”
This girl across the room gets up to leave and Marybeth calls her over on her way out. “Hey, my friend here says he recognizes you!”
This girl stops and turns to me. As the two of them stare at me quizzically, I try to go into some kind of “smooth mode.” My mind works a mile a minute to think back to those childhood icons that have taught me the ways of smoothness. I don’t know why but the only two people who come to mind are Bill Murray and Rodney Dangerfield. Realizing I’m doomed, I say the first thing that comes to me, “No I don’t.” I nearly jump by surprise as my inner-monologue screams, “Fuck!”
I can’t remember the conversation these two girls were having in front of me but I know at least two of us are now uncomfortable. I don’t know how Marybeth is able to skip the icebreaker, but the next thing I know, she says the words, “Ohyouhaveatattoo!” Then she proceeds to expose this surprised girl’s chest to show us the symbol on the upper side of her once completely covered breast. Before I can let out another incoherent comment, I quickly remember that my left foot had better quickly counter my right.
To confuse matters even worse, this girl turns to me and apologises. My reply isn’t quick enough because it comes out when she’s already gone, “Daaawww.”
Ah well, I wonder if Chris has a sister?

One Hour 15 minutes Later
(Jeff)
I remember McDonald’s and wearing no socks. It’s all coming back to me now. Chris is driving us to the beach. However, once there, the rules are no shouting or breaking glass. Where is the fun in that? I promise that Ross and I won’t terrorize the elderly, that’s all I can be certain of. We step out onto to a nice beach and the first thing I do is climb atop a bench and do a somersault off it accidentally. My scream flies through the nearby neighbourhood as I attempt to manoeuvre my beer mid-air so as not to spill a drop, and I successfully do. I yell over to Chris to tell him the good news—even though he’s right in front of me. So far it’s one solid strike against me, as Chris’s expression reflects my failure to follow his instructions. I still ask him whether I can throw my beer bottle at something. He says “no,” but just as I place the bottle down on a cement divider I see Ross coming out of the shadows. He’s running up like he’s in the World Cup and kicks my bottle. It shatters on his foot before it even gets into the air. Strike two. Chris puts us in the truck and takes us to his place.

36 minutes Before
(Ross)
The wait at the McDonald’s drive-thru feels like an eternity. I grow bored and decide to go and investigate why the line of cars ahead of us had come to a standstill and have remained stationary for at least three minutes. The sideways glances of irritated, and probably inebriated, motorists convinces me that any kind of scene would not be welcome, so I pretend I’m merely stretching my legs by going for a wander. The drive-thru attendant looks bewildered as I nonchalantly saunter by his window, and I inwardly smile with the thought that he’ll be even moreso when he sees me in the passenger seat of a Rav-4 and ordering food in just a few minutes. Or at least hopefully sometime within the next hour. As I finish my circuit and cigarette, Chris leaps from the driver’s seat, instructs me to sit in his place until his return and bounds off into some nearby bushes to answer the call of nature. Thankfully my undoubted and imminent piling into the car in front at high speed in an effort to keep up with the now crawling traffic is preempted by his return. But where one disaster is avoided, another suddenly rears its ugly head: I hear Jeff struggling to remove his socks in the back seat.
Now everyone’s in the car and I’m dishing out more cheeseburgers than you can shake a stick at to the hungry mob. I throw Jeff and Marybeth’s share over my shoulder because I don’t want to risk losing a finger in Jeff’s mouth, which would be a danger if I passed it back. I reflect on the fact that my burgers taste like feet and look down to find the culprit stretched through the gap between the front seats and almost touching the dashboard. Reaching at least eight feet tall (my rough estimate), Jeff’s physique could provide a tribe of cannibals sustenance enough to last them through many winters. Normally, thinking about Jeff’s body and cannibals is enough to make me lose my appetite, but this late into the proceedings, I’m passed caring.
Chris pulls over on a dimly-lit and deserted street and we sit for a minute and admire the surreal but beautiful sight of a group of deer, as they stalk through the neighbourhood gardens. Unsatisfied with my obstructed view, I quietly hop out of the truck and try my Crocodile Dundee speciality, imagining how grateful the rest of my party will be to be up close and personal with these majestic creatures. Though at first wary, the head deer is reassured by my artful gestures of communication and for a moment, we become one. His eyes gaze into mine and we are linked in spirit and mind. “I mean you no harm, o great one of the forests,” I tell him through our telepathic connection. He bows to my will and consents to approach with his herd in tow. Before he can make a step, however, my mind is distracted by Marybeth, who has joined me outside the vehicle to get a closer look. The link is broken and the great stag once again fears man. I sigh inwardly.
“Aaawwww,it’ssobeautifuland soweirdtoseesomanyofthemthisclose.
Wannacatchtwo,sitonthemandhavearace?” says Marybeth, though maybe not in those exact words.
“Yeah alright,” I reply.
We chase them around for a while, realizing before long that our deer race would never come to pass, and then clamber back into the truck and make headway for the beach.

(Ross) and (Jeff)
I open my eyes. Where am I? I see Ross at the other corner of the room. As soon as I realize that I’m in Victoria and not in my own house I greet Ross, “I hate you, Ross.”

Jeff wakes me up to tell me he hates me. I roll over and go back to sleep.

Chris and Marybeth drive us back to the ferry terminal. It’s cold. My head hurts.

So does mine.

We’ve come too early. We have to wait two hours for the next ferry.

Fuck.

We’re both asleep on the ferry. I wake up. I’m wondering if Ross would even know I was dragging him outside and over the edge. I don’t know where these angry thoughts are coming from.

I’m dreaming about drowning Jeff.

We’ve come full circle and are at the local pub the next day having lunch and a few drinks. I’ve reimbursed Ross for the trip.

The waitress brings the check. Jeff looks at his empty wallet, then looks at me.

a timely change of pace: ACT 2

2006-02-11T18:57:00.000-08:00

(Ross)
Not two minutes in the door of the swankiest joint I think I’ve ever been allowed in, Jeff pulls the old ‘I’ve lost my wallet’ trick. I had considered the same tactic as we passed through the vestibule, but I guess he beat me to the punch. Now reeling from déjà vu, my mind is working furiously, albeit a now somewhat hampered ferocity, to establish the cause that preempted this effect. Ah yes…clarity comes with an image of myself emptying the contents of my wallet into the eager hands of the taxi driver, as Jeff was attempting to usher me out of the cab at the ferry terminal. I think about how nice it will be to plan something special for Jeff’s next birthday, as he did for me this year. By this point, however, I feel pleasantly numb to most things, and footing yet another bill on our weekend excursion to Victoria is no exception.
A few sips into the proceedings, Jeff lurches to his feet and mumbles something about his wallet. Clearly in no state to be standing up, let alone be walking anywhere near traffic, he makes moves in the general direction of the exit. It is a journey far too perilous for me to let him fly solo and since I need him to get me home again at some point, I decide to be his crutch for the mission. I roll my eyes at Chris and shout after Jeff to wait a second so I can accompany him. I accidentally put my hoody on the wrong way round, and since I hear the muffled chuckles of my company, I decide to play to them, hoping that my stunt might take Jeff’s mind off his troubles. So determined is he to recover his wallet, I begin to wonder if he’s hoping that someone might have put something in it, because I know for a fact that there existed nothing of value in there at any point in the evening.

(Jeff)
We walk up to this classy club in downtown Victoria. Now is my chance to live up to my original purpose of this trip—taking care of the expenses for the sake of Ross’s birthday/poverty.
“Prepare to let your inner-Theo out for grade-A mischief, Ross!” I explain but he still looks confused.
We enter this place and I realize that we must look like transients looking to lick a few discarded dinner plates clean at some fancy banquet. I remember that we hadn’t had time to shave or look at a reflective surface since we’d been running from one location to the next. Then again, I guess I always look like this. I wonder how Ross is handling this threat of being stereotyped? Judging by the one eye rolling in his head, I realize he’s fine with it. Reaching into my pocket I discover that I’ve lost my wallet. Panic sets in. While it’s probably sitting somewhere in Chris’s truck, I think back to how far away we’re parked. I would go back but I can’t remember what my middle name is let alone how to retrace my steps in Victoria.
Surprisingly Ross doesn’t seem to be phased by this dilemma and offers to buy a couple of rounds. Well, I’ve heard that in certain far-off tribes if you don’t accept certain offerings you’ll be beaten unconscious, so I accept.
The night moves to a crawl. I feel like should go find my wallet so I can contribute to our cause. I get up from the table we’re all sitting and announce that I’ve got to go back and find my wallet. I make it a certain distance from the table when I hear Ross.
“I’ll come help you find it,” he yells. “No it’s fine. I’ll be two seconds,” I plead. I don’t feel like losing my buzz in order to make sure Ross doesn’t jump in front of on-coming traffic. But it looks like there’s no convincing him. We all watch him stand up and put his hoody on backwards, with his face covered by the hood. We all laugh at this simple gesture but we stop as soon as we realize this gag has now gone onto minute two. I realize that if we were to help Ross remove this obstacle, we would not find an expression of drunken amusement, but one of genuine infantile fear. Oh man, this was going to be a long journey!

(Ross)
The way I figure, the minute we step out of the pub, we’re lost, so I think we might as well enjoy the trip. Since there’s only the slightest chance we’ll stumble onto the right street, an even slighter one that we’ll recognise Chris’s truck, and not a hope in hell of finding our way back to the pub, I resign myself to the fact that we’ll have to find a comfortable doorstep on which to rest our weary heads when tiredness hits. Jeff’s reluctance to accept this same fact is really doing a number on my buzz, so I look to the many curious and amazing things littered on the roadside, not to mention the friendly passers-by, to avoid being wholly sobered up by the experience.
Remarkably, we do indeed find the Holy Grail that is in the form of a red and muddy Rav-4, but it wouldn’t have been so, had I not first recognised where we stood by using the drummer we’d passed a while ago as a landmark. As Jeff rudely speeds passed our guiding beacon of light and hope, I stop to congratulate him on his drumming prowess and do him the courtesy of having a small chat, before rewarding him for both his talent and his accomplishment of not having moved.
Overjoyed that we have negotiated our journey successfully, and one with little or no incident to boot, I stand patiently nearby while Jeff rummages through the interior of the vehicle. My enthusiasm soon dwindles, with the dawning realization of what a pointless journey it was in the first place. He beams at me when he finds the item he seeks, and I do my best to disguise my apathy about the entire incident. My fist clenches when I see him wretch.

(Jeff)
I’ve never guided a blindfolded circus chimp through a hedgegrove maze before, but I think I can sympathize with any acid freak who claims they have. Ross’s infatuation with shiny objects and human voices is surly beating down my buzz. Ah well, at least the passing crowds find his intrusions adorable. One homeless drummer made a new friend that night. I wonder if this guy could really connect with him, considering Ross’s side of the conversation consisted of “Yay! Drums!” I stop myself and realize that I shouldn’t be in a bad mood; Ross is the one paying the cost for my lost wallet and my lost promise.
Finally we find Chris’s truck and also what I’m looking for. I yell across the street for Ross. As he approaches I feel the intoxication flood back over my relief, and what better way to celebrate this feeling than pulling the old “fake vomit on your friend act.” Switching from joyous shouts and arm waving I quickly go to a theatrical heave on Ross. I stop laughing when I see the face of that once playful chimp turn to a cool-headed Arthur “Fonzie” Fonzarelli.
“You’re lucky, I would have punched you in the head,” he says, more thoughtfully than threateningly. Could this be what draws the line between ballyhoo and insult?
“Really?” I test the waters. “What if I really did it, but it was an accident?”
“Of course I would, and I’d expect the same if I did that to you,” he said in an easy-going manner. This is the most calm and rational debate we’ve had all night.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t.” I stump him and he takes a long time to contemplate this concept. We sit in the truck and have drink over the calm exchange of perspective and everything goes smoothly until the Queen of England is mentioned again.

Q and a intermission

2006-02-09T23:09:00.000-08:00

(Ross):
Not many people know it, but Jeff and I are considered as nothing short of sages in some cultures. Sacred, too. Or is it scared? I can never remember. Anyhow we thought we might open a question/ answer forum on our blog in an effort to make the world a better place through wisdom and learning. So drop us a line with any question about any topic and let Jeff and I help end the ignorance that is crippling humanity’s efforts towards oneness.

(Jeff):
We think that opening the floor to people is the best way to get the issues to the forefront. If you have any questions at all about this crazy world we live in we might be able to help you learn something new. I know that it’s usually difficult to get the ice broken and the conversation really flowing so I’ll start it off for everybody.
Hey Ross, I was just in the washroom and I had a nosebleed and almost passed out due to the horrendous stench that was coming from the litter box because some prick is too lazy to clean the thing out. Now, I’m wondering why I feel like I have toxoplasmosis and how slowly will it kill me?

(Ross):
Well, Jeff, thanks for your question and for phrasing it so delicately. In answer to your question, I will refer you to The Simpsons, where Ralph Wiggum solves the bleeding nose conundrum simply by keeping his fingers out of there. As for the horrendous stench, if you were a smoker and had no sense of smell, then your problem would be solved and maybe I wouldn’t have to freeze my nuts off every time I’m exiled out the backdoor and into the Vancouver gales before I spark one up. And though death may come to us all, yours might be sooner than you might imagine.
My question to you is: Is it a sign of some supernatural activity that the majority of my groceries have disappeared from the fridge? And are the munching sounds I hear late at night something I should be concerned about?

(Jeff):
Well, Ross. Unfortunately the disappearance of your food is neither supernatural nor due to my appetite for raw onions and baby formula. I would indulge myself if it wasn’t for my chronic symptoms of vertigo and nausea, although, I have been taking your food outside and throwing it in the trash. As for the sounds at night, mind your own goddamn business.

See folks, it’s just that easy. Send us your questions in the comment section and we’ll answer them as best we can.

a timely change of pace: ACT 1

2006-02-08T00:16:00.001-08:00

(Jeff)
This is how it happens. One minute Ross and I are playing pool at the pub down the street, then I blink, only to find myself giving him a cheers from underneath the adjoining bathroom stall on the ferry heading over to Victoria. Now, there has only been a time-lapse of one hour between these two periods, and thinking back to how all of this plays out, I begin to think that I have some fault to claim in the turn of events that Friday night.

(Ross)
I quickly grow bored of pool, as Jeff seems to be making up the rules as he goes along. Now, I fully admit that the Canadian version of pool might well lie worlds apart from game I’m familiar with, or indeed, from the version that every other country around the globe seems to accept as standard, but the way I see it, saying “scratch” after every foul should not negate any further repercussion. He explains to me that whenever he says “scratch,” which is a lot, we would normally take one of his potted balls out of the pocket as a penalty, but we can’t afford to do that here because of the dollar-a-game policy of our local. So, as I sit quietly at the tableside, he knocks my balls left, right and centre, managing more than once to launch a few across the barroom floor, and each time, being careful to exempt himself with his infernal maxim.
The afternoon had been quiet. We did a bit of sightseeing down Stanley Park way, discussing how refreshing it was going to be to write a blog that did not involve enough alcohol to kill a small pony; something that we had thus far been unable to achieve. What better way to end the day than with a friendly game of pool at the local?
The grinning bastard ricochets one of my balls into the black to sink it, and, according to his rules, wins the game. I decide to order another pitcher of beer.
“Scratch!”
Better make it two.

(Jeff)
Ross is playing total gash at pool. But anyways, it’s Ross’s birthday coming up and I’m thinking that it would be a good idea if we head over to Victoria one of these days so he can see the sights. I had suggested this idea months ago and it seemed that Ross was reluctant to take part in this journey. I understand his tendency to resort to logic when propositioned a month ago, but now he is still worrying about money; probably because he doesn’t have any.
“No problem, man. All expenses, paid for,” I promise. “No need even to bring your wallet.”
So after eight games of pool—in which I dominated—it hits me: Why don’t we just get up and go? Ross seems even more reluctant towards the idea, especially at such short notice. It was 7:20 p.m. and the last ferry was leaving three cities away at 9:00 p.m.
“Listen to me! This is what life is about, Ross. No point in thinking about it; that’ll only slow you down. Then what do you have to look forward to? Death, that’s what!”
I was struggling to keep him convinced. I resort to my only strength in persuasion: analogy.
“It’s like… It’s kind of like the Cosby Show, Ross. Theo really wants to go to the Rick Springfield concert, but the Coz won’t let him. Now Ross, the Coz is kind of like your own self-doubts. Theo wants to go to enjoy life, but the Coz doesn’t want him to go because there’ll be copious amounts of alcohol there, and he is worried Theo will get all fucked-up. And what happens, Ross?”
Ross gives me a blank stare. I guess he’s never seen this episode.
“Theo gets fucked up, but he LIVES, goddamn it!”

(Ross)
Perhaps an eternity later, we have laid down our cues and are in deep discussion—or maybe it could be more aptly described as a one-sided conversation—about the Cosby Show.
As he so often does while Jeff and I enjoy a few pints together, Bill Cosby has once again entered the fray. I can’t help but feel he is somewhat early today; his arrival is usually heralded by Jeff’s desperate attempts to stop the room from spinning by clutching onto stools, tables or whatever stationary object lies within reach. Incidentally, this is also the reason that many people think I have a nervous condition, but they learn soon enough why I like to keep in motion. Regardless, here stands the Coz in all his glory, even though Jeff is yet demonstrating partial lucidity. I know there is to follow another valuable moral lesson, the point of which will be totally lost on me because I haven’t seen the show since I was knee-high to a small pony. Jeff knows this only too well and yet never seems to get discouraged. I think he also knows that resorting to the Coz and his wondrous insights is a sure way to get me to agree to anything. After the neverending farce that some disturbed individuals might call pool, followed closely by the introduction to another riveting morality tale, courtesy of Jeff’s idol, I’m up for lying in traffic, as long as it involves a change of scenery.

(Jeff)
Ross is taking his sweet time handing over a beer from his bathroom stall. I guess I shouldn’t hassle him, considering I didn’t have any cash on me for the ferry tickets or the cab ride we had to take to get to the ferry, after missing the bus. I just reach under, grab his bag and help myself. My can explodes everywhere in my stall. Damn, I forgot that we had done a lot of running to get here. The both of us stand up so we can talk over the divide. Some older guy comes in to piss and he sees us standing and talking over two stalls and drinking. We needed a new strategy.

(Ross)
Armed with our brimming paper coke cups recently commandeered from the ferry cafeteria, we perch ourselves on the comfortable lounge seats and have a pleasant chat. Before long, the nervous glances from concerned passengers make us relocate to the blustery decks, where we can continue our argument about the queen as loud as we want.

(Jeff)
Ross says something along the lines of: Scotland has more independence from the English monarchy than Canada does. I don’t know whether he’s right or wrong, but I do know for certain THAT’S what he originally said. Everyone on the ferry has now disembarked and the two of us, each holding a Coke with a perfect head on it, continue to yell at each other, unaware of our trip’s progress.

(Ross)
I reach the stage where I slag off every country that’s not Scotland and Jeff’s telling me to take back what I’m saying about his beloved homeland. Not too sure what I’m saying, but I have no choice but to stand by it at this point; I’m probably right anyways. And so continues the shouting match down the ramp and into the welcoming warmth of Chris’s truck. I don’t know if Chris and Marybeth were looking forward to seeing us, but I can imagine their excitement was considerably doused when they saw us approach.

(Jeff)

We’re speeding along with Chris and Marybeth and I can see that Ross is quite content on settling the argument on something about a “beloved homeland.” I realize I shouldn’t continue this blinded banter any longer because I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore. “You guys are loaded,” Chris chirps up.

(Ross)

For a moment, I think I should be offended at Chris’s assertion that Jeff and I aren’t of sober mind, but I soon forget that as I struggle to remember whether I’d won the homeland argument with Jeff. I think I must’ve because though I don’t know exactly what was said, I definitely remember thinking how I didn’t know what he was talking about anymore. No sooner am I in the truck than I have to get out, as we reach our destination. I’ve somehow managed to accumulate two more empties in the process.

TO BE CONTINUED...

disclaim this!

2006-02-03T11:01:00.000-08:00

Ross:
Since we've been asked a couple of times, I'd like to take the opportunity to assure everyone that we here at Jeff and Ross Industries have strict rules about truth when it comes to publishing. You'll find nothing but real events, real people and real badgers at this site. Incidentally, though no badgers were harmed in the creative process, I might have inadvertantly hurt one's feelings one time.

that cross, we bare

2006-02-03T10:40:00.000-08:00

Ross:
After stumbling with considerable style over the thresholds of both our apartment and our alcohol tolerance, Jeff and I finally came to rest on our attractive and somewhat soiled beige couch. It is a furniture piece unparalleled in its blandness and was clearly fashioned in the 1980s by a fellow of questionable judgment, its one saving grace being the interesting array of colours only countless years of abuse and spillage can duplicate. But thank the Lord, we’d made it home.
Yes indeed, our job-hunting expedition that began and ended at the Cambie had taken its toll, reducing our language skills to a point near total inarticulacy and quite possibly causing irreparable damage to some higher-brain functions. We now had to rely on our base instincts to tell us what to do next; that same kind of primal impulse that has ensured man’s survival for thousands of years, and that will guarantee his dominance in the world for many years to come. And so, no longer shackled by reason or acumen, and having long ago succumbed to allure of the hunched-over stagger of the Neanderthal, we did what we knew best: Jeff ate; I smoked.

Jeff:
It was bad. I had just finished approximately 17 drumsticks I found in the fridge. It seemed that I had eaten myself blind once again. Usually I call the poison control hotline but I couldn’t find the phone this time. The best option was to lay down on the couch and dream about the finest stomach pump. I had just gotten back from the Cambie with Ross and we were feeling the effects. Just as I started falling in that sweet phase of forgetting my name, I heard a serious call from Ross.
“Jeff, get out here if you want to see something truly freaky.”
Whoa! Our coked-out neighbours were burying some local in his back yard, I figured. Sprinting outside, I began looking where Ross was. Nothing was happening, and he looked really concerned.
“Whaaaaaaaaat?” I asked slowly.
He started his strange tale by reminding me how he couldn’t use his pants’ pockets that night because they were far too tight. Of course, I remembered his incessant complaining about this throughout the night, almost to the point where I was embarrassed to be around him. This wasn’t the only foundation he gave me about the story. He was wearing a coat that was really long, so he couldn’t easily access them if he wanted to. Ok. Well, I didn’t know whether to sympathize with him or just congratulate him on being able to dress himself that morning.

Ross:
I knew I had to be careful how I brought it to Jeff’s attention, and figured building up to it to be the key. Personally, I was too far gone to try to deal with it, and I reckoned tact was the only sure way to shield him from the initial terror and confusion that had beset me.
To make the matters worse, my three months of living in this apartment had taught me the dangers involved in disrupting his eating habits, and that was the kind of lesson you only needed to learn once. True, Jeff would never bite the hand that feeds him, but if that hand were to try to take the food away, he might rip the whole arm right out of the socket, beat you to death with it, and then eat you, it, and whatever he finds in your pockets. He sometimes reminds me of a hyena with baby-soft hands and a strong sense of irony.
The two dozen chicken legs from the fridge wouldn’t keep him occupied for long, but I felt that this couldn’t wait. I called for him to join me outside.
Starting light, I began by telling him about the tightness of my trousers, a story he had seemed to appreciate when I’d mentioned it earlier in the proceedings, but his incessant glancing around the neighbourhood convinced me that I didn’t have his full attention.
I persisted.
I was surprised that when I shared with him the details of my coat being too long for myself or anyone else to have easy access to my trousers, he seemed less impressed with my logical thought and deductive reasoning, than incredulous, though about what, I could only guess. I went in for the kill:
“I found this in my trouser pocket,” I whispered uneasily, and opened my outstretched palm.

Jeff:
“I found this in my pants pocket,” he slurred, almost falling on me.
He opened his hand to a bloody crucifix. I was too far gone to deal with this. I took it from his hand and inspected it.
“I didn’t put it there. This really isn’t mine,” he pleaded.
I sure hoped the hell it wasn’t. Looking closer at it I could see it was a latex cross that had been intricately burned and painted as to look like it was made out of human flesh. Hmmmmmmm. I think I stared and poked it the rest of the night.
Ross was truly worried. I couldn’t blame him either. I would be too. We started going over the possibilities of how it could have gotten in his pocket. Well, we were hanging around a strange crowd that night. But they were a bit too strange to get close enough to Ross where they could slip it in his tight pants. I could see he was worried about some other possibilities about how and why he found it. We both instantly thought back to the earlier ramblings we had that night. The controversial topics we covered. “Who is God? Does he exist? How tall would he be? If he were David Caruso, wouldn’t he be ‘too good for television?’” But I couldn’t see anything truly sacrilegious.

Ross:
He grabbed it off me, and for a moment it looked as though he were contemplating eating it. Part of me wished he would, and then I could consider the matter closed, but realizing that this same part of me was adamant that he should share it with me was a sobering experience. Sobering enough, at least, to make me realize that my intoxication had thus far impaired any real conception of the psychological depths of this little gift left on my person, and that despite my current anguish, things would be a lot worse when I was actually sober. My head began to hurt and I couldn’t remember if I was sober or not, or, for that matter, whether I wanted to be. The perfect time for a smoke.
As we pieced together the events of the night and drew up a list of possible culprits, concentrating on the who and disregarding the why brought me solace. For some reason, David Caruso figured prominently on my list, occupying numbers two and five, but though I couldn’t be certain, I remained unconvinced that he had anything to do with it. After a while, the why seemed neither daunting nor important, and I came to realize that how I let it affect me was the significant factor. If one man’s blessing is another man’s curse, then I’ll put on Jeff’s floral skirt, change my name to Shirley, and try to view things from a different perspective.

Jeff:
I told him I didn’t think it was a curse, sympathizing that he wouldn’t have deserved it if it was. Then again, the guy leaves the fridge door wide open when he’s done in there. Who the fuck does that? Someone I’d surely tell to go to hell. Well, the thing is in our flat because we decided to keep it. Every morning I wake up having forgotten about the thing. Then I nearly soil myself every time I run into it. It is truly creepy. This is a picture of it and if you like it, we’ll sell it for the best bidding price. If you act now, we’ll send complimentary crucifix ginger snaps.

poets with their minds in the gutter

2006-02-01T02:46:00.000-08:00

Jeff:
The other Monday I thought that I’d get up at the crack of noon and help Ross with his job hunt. Little did I know that the day would entail 15 hours drinking our faces off at the Cambie Inn and lamenting on how we are two whole-hearted lazy pricks. While he did have a valid point I still felt that I just ended up humouring him. He doesn’t realize how many push-ups I can actually do. The night got messy as Ross began to barter his last remaining possessions for poetry from a homeless man. Personally I now regret not paying this one guy who wanted to show us his lamppost climbing abilities for two dollars. I wonder if he could have actually done it.

Ross:
I’d been waiting for it for a while. I didn’t know where it would come from; I didn’t know when it would appear. All I could be certain of was its coming. Like the ninja, it skulked in the shadows of every corner and lurked behind every picket fence, never fully exposing itself, but always there, always a lingering threat.
It was Monday morning when it hit and I was thrust out of my bed with a thump. At least, there would’ve been a thump if my bed were more than just a mattress on the floor. “What’s this rearing its unfamiliar head? Motivation?! Surely not! Just lie back down and whatever it is will soon pass, like a small pony hurdling a picket fence. But wait….It’s relentless….Can’t fight it….” Before I know it, I’m washed, dressed, armed with an arsenal of resumés and ready to get something done. I skip my morning push-ups because I know I lose track of time and could easily do them all day.
And so began this Monday of great promise. I had waited four years for this elusive ninja-type to make his presence felt in some meaningful way, and now I found myself at the receiving end of his ethereal brass knuckles.
“Oh, you want to come after all, Jeff? Sure, why not? The more the merrier.”
Half a day and more pints than you can shake a stick at later, I realise I still have a full-complement of resumés in my backpack and consider the possibility of handing them out to the patrons of the Cambie Inn. After taking a severe beating and quite probably a considerable heckling, the mysterious ninja had thought better than to stick around, instead opting to leave me to my own devices and perhaps never to return. All that remained was for Jeff and I to Cheers each other and be excited about the many things we would be accomplishing the following day. I think tomorrow night, I’ll start my career in lamppost climbing…I hear there’s money to be made.

Jeff:
I knew that I shouldn’t spend any more money that I didn’t have on beer. However, I could see that Ross was now claiming to be some kind of agent or publisher of fine literature because he was proposing some kind of get rich pyramid scheme for this one homeless man – and I really wanted to see where he was going with this. We now have two of his pieces to recite to anyone willing to hear it. We did eventually come up with some constructive plan to help out one of our new friends, whose fresh Caribbean free style combination of song and comedy should be heard by the entire world. We call it the REGGIE FUND. While his talent might not have been truly appreciated in Trinidad, we were blown away by the show we got for merely a quarter – Hell, I don’t think I had a quarter to give him. He did seem pretty infatuated by my cell phone when he found out how cheap I was. If you want to send money for this fund, send it to Ross and Jeff, c/o the City of New Westminster. Anything would help. Even if you can only send loose change, that’ll help. I swear, we won’t embezzle the funds.

Ross:
As the night progressed, Jeff seemed increasingly reluctant to spend any more money on beer. I thought it might sway his view if I gave him a gift, and so decided to trade what little I had on my person to a homeless guy in return for his poems. The guy had talent, too. I made him give me his name and told him we’d be back there at some point, probably in the not too distant future, and I’d see what I could do in the meantime. I think Jeff was impressed that an unemployed and an as yet untested writer/journalist/trapeze artist like myself had in one night managed to skip all the steps in-between and with neither aid nor experience, was attempting to launch my career into the publishing aspect of the industry.
Either way, I think Jeff and I were agreed on the point that someone making an effort to earn the money from passers-by is more deserving of charity than someone who doesn’t. Of course there are those unable to do so, either due to mental or physical ailments, but I don’t think it’s out of order to assert that the vast majority of homeless are capable of making some effort, regardless of how small. I know I try to butter Jeff up before asking him to spot me cash…compliment his nice new jacket or tell him how his floral skirt brings out his eyes…any small gesture that brightens his day and that pays my dues until I can pay him back. And by the way, I’m still in the hole with him, so if anyone wants to donate to the REGGIE FUND, I feel I should warn you that Jeff had no right to talk on my behalf about embezzlement and I promise nothing.

Jeff:
I could see the night going downhill as our thoughts became more and more disjointed. We did have a steady go at coherent debates about every touchy subject under the sun, but as soon as Ross started mentioning ninjas and picket fences I knew that there was the threat of him glassing me if I didn’t admit Chuck Norris could easily destroy the Michelin Man if put against each other in a death match.

Ground zero point seven five

2006-02-01T02:34:00.000-08:00

Jeff:
This is the introduction to the blog of Ross Lockhart and Jeff Loucks. We discussed at length what we should title this blog, and Ross wants a theme of duality. While calling it Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde seems appropriate, I want it to be called Jekyll on my Hyde. I think it pays homage to the original purpose of the internet: Bitter-sweet filthy porn. After all, isn’t a blog a form of masturbation anyways?

Ross:
Erm, not that mutual masturbation is wholly taboo as far as I’m concerned, it had never really occurred to me to engage in it with Jeff. Nonetheless, we came up with the idea of expanding on the notion of the Internet being the first real interactive medium and decided to run with it. We reckon it’s quite original in that respect and hopefully it’ll work. Another plus is that someone that hates one of us will at least have the other’s input to read....someone who hates us both can piss off.

Jeff:
If anyone here even disagrees with my point of view I will @#%! you and your #@$* then $^&@ your dog just before he #%@&amp;# my @%#&$.