Poems and Punches

Back in the early nineties I saw a classic school yard fight. A skinhead had moved into my town. He had a different look: shaved bald, tattooed, knee high Doc Martens, and a safety pin through his ear. This dick had been pissing everyone off with some bully bullshit. We only had one black kid in the school (James); so we couldn't figure the point of being a racist s.o.b. in our little town.

We all went down to the caf and asked French if he would be willing to fight the skinhead boy and teach him a lesson. He was like "sure...when I'm done my fries".

Soon after, Skinny the Skinhead and French squared off and the punches started to fly. This was totally one on one - the ethic of that time was no one could step in. Today most teenager fights tend to be at least 3 on 1...or worse.

French and Skinny went into a long punching match. French kept jumping to dodge the big black boots and massive long arm haymakers. Skinny clipped French a good one on the ear; then French landed three quick ones in his the face with beautiful boxing style. Skinny's teeth started to loosen, wiggle, bleed, then fall to the ground. It was eerie seeing a couple of white teeth lying on the pavement. French laughed and laughed; like always - even when he got hit.

As Skinny looked down and held his busted mouth, French grabbed him by his bloody neck and yelled: "knock off this skinhead bullshit".

Skinny walked off alone and everyone gathered around French...but we all had to scatter. Stackhouse the V.P. back then was running out with a couple of gym teachers to break up the crowd.

French bolted, but I caught up with later in his shed. He was sitting alone writing poems with a pen in his still bloody hands.

A Van Halen Christmas

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It is a little early for Christmas, but all these commercials and jingles in the malls reminded me of how my buddy French got involved one year.

French had a plan brewing. There was a Christmas themed talent show coming up soon at our High School. The principal, George Stackhouse, knew that French could be a bit of a wild child; so George hold French that he could play in the show as long as he played a Christmas song. So French practiced "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" with his band (Godzilla and the Liquid Sound Dragons). This was not the band's usual material. But G-LSD worked hard. This was their roster: French on guitar, Sweaty on rhythm, Pancake on drums, and Turkey on Bass.

I hung out with the lads , but they wouldn't say anything more about their plan. French told them all not to drink before the show (right after the show French downed a Mickey of rye in the front foyer of the school).

The day of the show came - the lads ripped into the tune...for a minute...at the bridge French unleashed his plan. He had learned Eruption by Van Halen note by note. He wailed it hard. French started in slow, but he went crazy. The crowd was loving it - they all rose to their feet and started to stomp and stand on their chairs. After about a second Stackhouse was trying to get to the stage. The gym only had stackable chairs. They all went flying back and flying through the air smashing against the basketball backboards. Almost 800 fans/students rushed the stage. French started to play one handed and with the other hand he pounded his amp up and down against the stage. Next he started to rub his Gibson SG up and down on the amp. The amp was cracking and booming. Turkey just keep the solid thrums of his bass coming. Pancake broke his sticks and then ripped off his shirt and played with his hands. His hand split open - blood sprayed out! Sweaty laughed and laughed. It was a mad scene.

Stackhouse cut the power to the stage and the crowd streamed out - taking the band with them. Stackhouse kept yelling: " You're suspended...You're all suspended!"

Good thing French was the last act of the show.

guitaring

Somedays, many days, I want to strum my flat-top and make my fingers bleed, or at least, sting and flatten out. I gotta be able to feel 'em throb.
I'm no gifted musician, but it is bliss bomb to play some seriously great songs, and sing 'em loud. Shake my house, room, desk, make sh*t fall of my shelves - with boot stomps, body shakes, head-bobbing, eye closing passion.
I found some chords of songs that I love - Joel Plaskett, Jon Foreman are today's guests in my hootenanny.
There are songs that can just make ya cry. I'm no pro - nobody needs to hear me perform, but I'm my concert in this house.
There are no records, tours, or mp3s on the way, but I know I'm doing it right if I'm sweating, tired, voice hurts, and low rumbles make things tumble down. If my guitar is cracking, and wearing away I'm playing the song just right.
Friends: go guitaring. - It is good.

Sweaty Bacon

French had left for college, and Sweaty was pretty bored without his big bro around. So Sweaty would ring my bell to see what I was up to. Everyone did this, but Sweaty would approach it differently. For example, one day he shows up and "calls on me" and says: "I have bacon". Bacon nice! So we followed this old cow track down to the river and set up a campfire. Sweaty kept a black frying pan up in a tree down by this favourite spot. We cooked this bacon up. It was more than a kilo of Canadian or peameal bacon. I didn't ask where he got it, but it sure was nice. The sun was going down slowly, the smoke was floating out over the marshy river, a couple of ducks were swimming out in the bay...sublime.

Another time Sweaty showed up again and said: "There was a party at the locks last night." I was like: "Oh yeah?" I was not too concerned about a past tense party. He then explained that there were a tonne of empties and we could make some serious beer money. We collected over 300 empties and brought them back. French was in town so he bought us some beers. All three of us wandered down to the river, stoked the fire, cooked up more bacon and told some stories. We kept the beers chilled in the river. French said: "We gotta throw a line in here some day." Next time out we were frying perch in a whack of butter and chives.

I wonder if that frying pan is still up that tree.

The Best Costume Ever

23% of women dress as cats or bunnies on Halloween. I just made that stat up it is realistic...no?Personally witnessed the best costume ever. Here we go:

About 1991 I was dancing away at my high-school dance. I admit I had a bit of a beer buzz flowing, but it was fading fast. This lad dressed all in green with hoses and weedy looking rags was just smashing the dance floor in a liquor fuelled whirlwind. He had on some goggles, so I didn't recognize him at first. This weird swampy alien dancing dude - whirls a couple of hoses that extended from his hand and says: "suck my finger bro". I was like: "no way". Plus a couple of FUs thrown in. He said, "it is me Sweaty...suck on it". Sweaty is French's younger brother, so I took a quick suck. It was the dirty, but lovely, burning Alberta Rye. Wow dude! As a young lad this was the best moment at a dance. He then said: "Suck my other finger on this hand". It was Cherry Brandy. Damn weird combo. The hoses were actually surgical tubes that he had taken from a recent visit to the hospital. The tubes snaked up his arm and into mickeys he had stashed under the layers of his spacey get up. Best/funniest/most practical costume of all time. Sweaty was a genius.

We danced and danced - every now and then - taking a pull of burning liquor or sweet brandy. Crazy, but wonderful night.

The hot buzz lasted right to the last chords of "Stairway to Heaven".

French's Shed

Seeing French again got me to thinking about the first time I met him. He lived down the street, but when his dad got to drinking he lived out in his garden shed. The drinking got more regular, so French got that shed looking pretty good. He salvaged an old wood stove that used to be on a Caboose from a wrecked CNR train.

I heard him in there one night. The sound was travelling well on account of the freezing temperature. I'd been at a house party that the cops busted up and was walking home. I heard this drumming in the old shed. I looked in the window and saw French's back - his arms swinging to a beat. I knocked loud and went in. It was about -30 outside and about +30 inside. The wood stove was cranking hot. French had dragged his high hat and his snare drum through the snow. He pounded out some steady rhythms all night. We had a few beers that were near bursting from sitting in the snow.

I'd always try to listen for the drumming from the shed. I'd slip over and every now and then the stove would be humming and a few lads (sometimes French's brother too) would show up break out their beat up old flattops and we'd play some tunes. Soon you'd hear Wheat Kings, 38 Years Old, and later some Stompin' Tom and Bon Jovi (to be ironic and funny, but we loved it). The beers would stay cold outside and we'd be sweating, singing, playing and drumming in that old shed that sat out in the backyard. Smoke from our Rum and Wine flavoured Colts circled our heads. We'd blow some smoke out when we went to snag another beer or two.

These occasions were rare and unpredictable, but I always hoped I'd hear the steady thumping from the shed, or see the wood smoke rising above his yard.

The shed has been silent for far too long.

French Update

French showed up last night at "church hockey". I questioned if he was allowed here, but it turns out the ban was never registered...so French was good to go. (He'd been kicked out of church league for decking the goalie - his goalie - )

I asked him where he'd been. French got a job in Winnipeg replacing light bulbs in a skyscraper: "A Bulb Tech" he called it. He got fired when he turned on the lights in strategic offices to spell dirty/funny messages. The people down in the streets were treated to 10 storey F Us in the cold city nights.

He's back on the blades with his typical equipment; velcroed, duct-taped, and stitched up with old shoes laces...one shin pad the crazy bastard. He rolled up some old t-shirts in his hockey socks and then wrapped it tight with electrical tape.

French still has his speed though. Two years off skates and he scores four goals. Hovering at the red line pays off.

He did, however, get banned again. French got antsy for a butt so he sparked up a long American cig. You could see it sticking out through his cage when he skated by our bench. A city employee told him to take it outside. The employee meant the cigarette - French thought he wanted "to go". A couple a hay-makers later French is out of the league again.

Good to see him though - when he left he said it was off to one of his girlfriends.

Good ol'French.