They say you can't make up for lost sleep. Tell that to my body; as well as this post, for that matter. Last night I fell asleep with the lights on at 6:30 in the afternoon, only to wake up exhausted at 8:30 with the sun shining like a spotlight through my window. If I didn't have to scramble madly out of my apartment like the white rabbit, I think I would've slept for at least another 4 hours. I abused myself that last night in Vancouver, synthetically transforming my circadian rhythms into ones you might hear on Soul Train. Come to think of it, Soul Train was always on in the morning; an unlikely coincidence. It must have been designed for the depraved dancers, all crazed and deranged by those chemical chimeras; exhausted and indefatigable, burnt out but inextinguishable, loveless and laughable. Or maybe I'd only seen Soul Train in syndication; what a good analogy for drug abuse!
Oh, I'd almost forgotten. Customs. Those motherfuckers should be wearing costumes. Sad clowns. It was my second experience with them (customs, not clowns), and only slightly less despicable than the first. The first involved an interrogation about drumsticks, but I'll save that one for another time. This Christmas though, they gave me the gift of harassment; it really does keep on giving. I arrived at the desk after meandering slowly through tight lanes of taught flat rope, like a line leading up to a dance club no one ever wants to go into. I was greeted by a retired meathead with beady eyes whose neck looked like a swollen cock choked and strangled by his collar. His head looked like it literally came out of his neck. I think he was the bouncer. Cockneck began by asking me the standard questions: why are you here, for how long. Then he transitioned into the slightly more prying: any gifts, any of them expensive. I love these types of questions because they're open ended and invite play, like a bleached anus. I joked and said my mere presence was a present and asked him how I could possibly assess its value given my obvious bias? He didn't find that funny.
He upped the ante and asked if the friends I was staying with were in Vancouver. Was this a trick question? Am I staying with my friends who live in Vancouver while I'm here visiting in Vancouver? I said yes, they do live here, and I'm staying with them. He asked for their names, but didn't write anything down when I answered. Why hadn't he asked for an address instead? Did he have their names memorized? Did he have all of the names of all of the residents of Vancouver memorized? I wondered whether old Cockneck was some sort of shrewd motherfucking sorcerer or if he was just dicking around. If he wasn't taking this seriously why should I? His eyes widened and then narrowed as he dragged them across my arm. Clearly he'd noticed my tattoos. Do those tattoos have any particular meaning? To me they do, yes; to others too, I'd imagine. I mean, do they appear to be arbitrary markings? I knew my tattoo artist was shit; I told her! I see that one of them has writing on it, what does it say?
Holy....shit.
It all made sense now: the poor bastard was illiterate! How did he get this job? Who had he fooled, or strong armed, or fucked? The thought of him assfucking someone with his neck frightened me more than I'd like to admit.
Luckily it didn't come to that. As I walked away I did wonder though, whether he called his necktie a tie, or a cockring.
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