Who's Got the Power, that Be my Question, the Priest, the Book, or the Congregation?

Time for another illuminating post about another weekend.

Basically, after last weekend at Nora's I came to a realization: Stratford sucks, and staying here will kill me. With that in mind I have devised a clever and complex idea: The Liam is the Awesome Tour 2007. Basically, the plan is to never spend the weekend in Stratford again. While the next few weekends are already booked up, if you'd like the tour to stop in your city/bedroom, just leave a comment and start telling your single female friends. We can count Nora's as the kickoff date and last weekend I broke out the sophomore engagement: An evening with The Bizz. If there are enough dates booked I might make T-shirts!

At 8 on Saturday I hopped a train to London. I was hoping that this would be an interesting experience since I've never actually taken a train west out of our fair metropolis. It was severely disappointing, mostly due to the fact that it was totally dark outside. I saw the west side as a continuous muddle of shades of black punctuated by the doppler sounds and flashing lights of the train-safety-arm-things. Luckily, in this time of need I was consoled by a new companion: Journey to Ixtlan. This is a strange book. I found it in a box in my basement when I was in grade 7 or 8 and attempted to read it. It didn't go too well. I picked it up that night determined to get back into the meta-physical philosophical depths of an old man named Don Juan Matus. I had an hour and I believe it was well spent.

I was met at the London station by none other than that raging beast, that fearsome capitalist, the Bizz Senior. He's actually mellowed a lot in the last year. The plan was to pick Blake up from his work, but a quick Blackberrying found that Blake's work (which I gather makes him something akin to a sub-contracted migratory fruit picker) had taken him to the bowels of civilization, and that he would be delayed in his return to the Forest City by half an hour.

So we turned the chariot and rode to Bizzle on the Down, the new seat of the Bizz and his family. Upon arriving I was treated to an extensive and interesting tour of the new manor-house, which included the information that I would be spending the night in Blake's sister's bed (not with Blake's sister).

I then sat on the deck with the Lord and Madam Bizzworth drinking water and appreciating the flames of their propane fire pit.

Some time later the Blackberry began making groaning noises against the floor of the deck. I took this as some sort of arcane signal that Blake was ready for extraction. But then he called his home number and this was confirmed through actual conversation.

So then we got him. And then since we were running so late, we had Blake's dad drop us off at the Waltzing Weasel. That's right. Some of you may remember that I have a bit of history with some of the other locations of this franchise. However, this WW appeared to have suffered some sort of twisted Lamarkist evolution into a standard university-town "pub". This was evidenced by our (very attractive) waitress informing me that deep-fried Mars bars were not on the menu.

We were met in this seedy establishment by some other genlemen of the town. Dean (who no longer blogs), Pook, and the lovely and talented Caleb. Pook and I had never actually met before, and it was gratifying to actually put a face to a name that I'd bantered and argued with over the Inter(insert popular term here) so many times before. Oh yeah, and there was this dude two tables over who was making out with this chick's ear. Only for "dude" and "chick" please substitute "dirty (not in a sexual way) middle aged man" and "woman who should have known better". It was gross, so Blake and I began laughing uproarously, and then he looked at us. He gave us what might at one time have been a piercing stare. It might still have carried that weight had he not still been sticking his tongue in the woman's ear while he did it, which resulted in most of his face being obscured from our view. But the eyes... The eyes...

Anyway, we proceeded to get hammed. It was good. Everyone else kept ordering pitchers, and I made sure that I tagged a screwdriver or two onto every order. I downed a plate of potato skins (that would be 4, or the scraped out halves of 2 potatoes for my $8) while thinking fondly of deep-fried Mars bars.

During this time we bantered about many things. None need bear repeating here. But it was good. Many interesting secrets were revealed concerning numerous other London persons I've never met, and a few good old hometown boys who I haven't seen in a few years.

Oh, and Gaggy Maggie called Blake. I almost winced as the whip came down and he scurried outside to talk to her for 65 hours. Did anyone know about them? It was sure news to me... Blake has stopped telling me about the girls he's seeing. He just has a sign on his wall that says, "You're retarded" and hits himself with it whenever he starts dating someone. It's worked out well for him, but I keep getting blindsided...

Eventually I got the itch. The "everyone here is drunker than me and I want some Peanut M&Ms" itch. I loudly persuaded everyone that it was a great time to keep the evening moving, which they did. We decided a prudent course of action was to head back to Dean and Pook's place to watch a movie. And there was a variety store nearby where I could pick up the required foodstuffs. It was only a block away, what was the worst that could happen?

Pook and Dean getting in a fight on the way. Well... that might not have been the worst thing, but it was pretty annoying. Yeah. Apparently they get in verbal fights all the time, but this was a bona-fide physical altercation. I didn't see most of it. We just turned around and saw Pook trying to disengage and Dean not letting him. Now... this was a problem for Dean. I'm not gonna lie, those that knew him in high school, Dean pretty much hasn't changed. He's just older, with more facial hair. Pook is somewhat like Carl. Not at all in build, but in his capacity for drunken rages.

Anyway, what had happened apparently was a series of events leading to Pook smoking Dean in the face a couple of times, one of which apparently sent one of the lenses of his glasses flying. This was the catalyst for both Pook's interest in ending the fight and Dean's insistence that it continue. We managed to separate them and they regained their senses eventually. In the case of Dean I grabbed his arms and relaxed my legs, dragging him to the ground and holding him until he politely asked me to let go. Then we crawled around the grass looking for Dean's lense until I got bored.

Then I persuaded Pook and Caleb to come with me to the variety store. The Bizz requested some of the Belmont cigarette company's finest since he felt bad leaving Dean alone combing the grass for his optical aid.

We walked to the store, I picked up a tall-boy of iced tea and two packs of my fix. Then I went to the counter and almost forgot to buy Blake's smags. Actually I think I did forget but then Pook or Caleb reminded me. Anyway, here's the conversation with the clerk:

"Hey, can I also get a pack of Belmonts, please?"

"Mild or [something, I don't remember]"

"... Mild... Yeah"

"Regular or King Size?"

"Uhh... Whichever one's bigger. I'm not gonna lie man, I'm not smoking 'em"

He didn't even bat an eye. Just grabbed the pack and took my money.

As we were walking out of the store I had a sudden terrible shock: There in front of us was a spectre, and it was staring soulfully into my eyes. I was sure that I was being confronted by the ghost of Blake from some alternate universe where he let Bright Eyes and Cursive push all of the good music out of his head. Then I got closer and realized that he didn't really look like Blake. He was just some whiny-looking emo kid standing outside the front door to a variety store looking deeply into the eyes of anyone exiting the store.

Who can guess why?

That's right, folks. I quickly informed the spectre that I had no smokes and that he would likely do better buying his own. Then I remembered that I did have smokes. I pulled out the pack, told our new friend that I was holding them for someone else, and said that if he came with us we'd find out if he could have one.

I asked him his name. And his response, I shit you not was, "Drake. Drake VanDervan". Yes friends, Dranke Vandervan. I assumed he was pulling my leg and we kept walking. I idly suggested that since his name rhymed with the Bizz that it would be easier for him to bum a smoke.

Eventually we reached Blake and Dean, and introduced Drake. Blake gave him a smoke and they both lit up. We talked. You see, I needed to take a shit. And now that I was drunk, I was also pretty interested in finding some hot girls and getting into one or more of them. I saw Drake as a prefect vehicle for this. I asked Drake which apartment building (there were several around) he lived in and where the nearest party full of hot girls was. His reply was that he was from Brantford and staying with a friend. After some berating from myself (and it was like pulling teeth), Drake eventually admitted that this friend was a hot girl. I immediately began formulating plans for getting myself into this girl's washroom, and then into her bedroom. I didn't get too far though.

You see, it was at this point that we became aware that Drake was possibly the stupidest person any of us had ever met. Painfully aware. You see, I attempted to get my bathroom-to-bedroom plan rolling by making this hot girl a fixture of conversation. I started with, "So, Drake, do you think your hot friend is worried that you've been gone for, like, half an hour?"

"Oh no, man. She's uh... with my other friend right now."

Oh damnit. Damnit all. I had the feeling we were about to have some terrible soppy drama birthed upon us. And I didn't even know any of the parties involved.

"Man, like... The whole reason I'm down here and he's up there is cause he's, like, more of a capitalist than me."

Uh... What? "Oh yeah, Drake? What does that mean exactly?"

"Well, man, like, I was making some moves on this girl. Like, I was definitely going to her, you know? Like, he knew I was doing it. Then all along he was making these, like, tiny moves on her."

"Wow, man. That's terrible." (or at least that was the general sentiment expressed by Blake, Pook, Dean, Caleb, and I all mumbling at him)

"Yeah, dudes. And then, like, someone was talking about capitalism, and I'm like a big communist, so I had to, like, defend my beliefs. It turned out she liked capitalist guys better..."

Yeah, Drake. That's why she went for your friend...

We went on in this vein for some time. It became apparent very quickly that Drake was, in fact, full of shit and knew nothing about communism. This was ascertained by the simple question, "Have you ever read Marx?", to which the obvious response was "Like, no, but I know, like, the basics, you know?"

He dodged this bullet by saying that he was really more of an anarchist, which really only had the effect of me trying to trip up his stupid ass by talking about anarcho-capitalists.

I'm not gonnna lie. I was drunk, and I don't remember the full scope of our conversation. I remember realizing that Drake really knew nothing and attempting to convince him that Charles Bukowski[NSFW] was one of the greatest writers of our time. Which he was, but I believe the conversation went:

"Drake, you must read Bukowski. Charles Bukowski. He's probably the greatest writer of the 20th century. You'll read him and it'll be like you've just opened your eyes for the first time."

"Really man, what sort of stuff did he write about?"

Dirty poetry. "Oh man, social, economic... anthropological... Fucking... Mechanistic!"

"Yeah, man?"

"Fuck yeah, man! Hey, can we go to your hot friend's place so I can take a dump?"

"What?"

After this I ended up writing "Charles Bukowski aka Hank Chinaski" on Drake's arm and then insisting on seeing some ID to see what his last name really was. Drake Samuel VanDevan. If you ever meet him, hit him in the face and then tell him that only idiots carry their SIN cards in their wallets.

Eventually (again with the teeth-pulling), we persuaded Drake to take us to the bathroom at his friend's apartment. All of us but Dean who had wandered away while no one was looking.

We walked into the lobby of the building and hit our first roadblock. Drake couldn't remember his hot friend's last name. This made buzzing her to let us in somewhat of a hassle. However, he did still remember her first name which was Britney. Or Brittany. Or Brightnghe, or however the hell people want to spell it these days. We narrowed down the list of 60 apartments on the wall to about 10 with people whose had the initial B. in front of their names. Just as we were preparing to call all these people (It was 2am) another student walked into the lobby bearing a bunch of 2L Coke bottles. We asked him to let us in and he said, "Sure", and proceeded to try ramming his electronic door key into the lock on the door. He did this several times before one of us asked him if he actually had a key or if he was trying to pick the lock with a credit card.

His name was... fuck, I can't remember. Blake will remember. Anyway, he was from Holland and had been sent on a run to the same variety store we found Drake at to get the coke. He had been given the electronic key, but not told how to use it. Luckily, I, being the smartest person alive, quickly pointed him towards the black box on the wall with a blue glowing light emanating from it (It was totally out of place with the rest of the mid 70s architecture of the lobby) and said "Wave the card in front of that". Then I pulled the door open and looked around for a washroom in the elevator lobby. No luck.

We all got into an elevator. Drake punched the button for the top floor, while our Dutch friend got off at the 7th. Upon exiting at the top floor, Drake continued in his utter failure to show any sign of intelligence.

"Uh... Let's see... which room was it?"

Only the emerging spasms in my colon kept me from wondering aloud if it were possible to throw out a newborn baby, teach its placenta to speak, and then dress it in tight jeans.

To his credit, Drake did eventually find the right room. We knocked, and the door was answered by 3 somewhat muscular gentlemen. They were happy to have Drake back, but seemed very loath to let 4 babbling strangers into the apartment. I stuffed my pride, attempted to plaster some sobriety onto my face, and came very close to begging for the use of the toilet. It was in vain. There was a certain girl in the toilet. Apparently she'd had too much to drink. One might say that she'd seemed sensible enough while sober. In any case, she wouldn't be out of there for a while. At this point, I was happy to leave Drake in the hands of someone who I was reasonably sure would tell him not to touch the burners on the stove, and Gee Tee Eff Oh. We swished nonchalantly over to Pook's where I jumped into the bathroom for 10 minutes of unbridled fecal release. There was no air freshener. And for "air freshener" read "salvation for the innocent victims of my potato-induced olfactory plague".

Then we played with light sabers, watched some Youtube videos, and joked about murdering Dean's cat, which was currently yowling around in heat. However, it seemed we weren't the first to consider felinicide as the offending animal kept itself totally hidden behind various articles of furniture while tormenting me with its plaintive requests for penetration.

Then I got tired and Blake and I ventured out into the wild unknown. I would have preferred a bracing walk back to Bizzle on the Down, but one of the fringe-benefits of Blake's job is the appearance of massive description-defying blisters on his feet, so he decided that we should call a cab.

They were busy. We walked out of the building and across its grounds to the street.

They were busy still.

We stood at an intersection and tried to flag down cabs. It wasn't happening. Blake told me to keep a look out for a car from a rival cab company and remember its number. We saw one coming and rushed into the street (It was in the far lane) to squint at the writing on its side. It stopped and pulled into our lane. So, apparently... the proper way to flag a cab in London is to run up to it bent over and squinting. Don't say I never taught you anything.

We finally stumbled quietly in the door at Bizz on the Down. We made our way to the Chantry (or basement) where we found... Blake's sister massively drunk and snoring on the couch.

"Hey. You're not supposed to be here."

"Excuse me? I live here."

"Yeah, I'm supposed to sleep in your bed. I didn't think you'd be there." As I say this, my drunken mind is inevitably forced to consider the likely consequences of such a sharing endeavor. Oh how drunk I was...

We decide to watch a movie, specifically Waiting for Guffman. At this point, my plan is simple: I like this movie anyway, and have never seen it all the way through. Blake is clearly tired. All I need to do is wait for him to fall asleep during the movie. Then I'll suggest that he go upstairs to bed. Then I'll prey on his sister. I didn't actually use the word prey in my mental planning.

The plan didn't work. In fact, it utterly reversed itself. Within 10 minutes I was asleep, and Blake was giving me the, "It's OK, dude. Go up to bed, I'll see you tomorrow."

Only god knows what happened in that basement after I left.

That was really the best way that that plan could have possibly turned out, though. While copulating with Blake's sister would likely be very enjoyable at the time, the ramifications of that ramming would, like the ramming itself, be felt long, hard, and far for some time to come.

I woke up the next morning, ate breakfast, and went to the mall with Blake and his sister. I whiled the time away by pointing to random men in the mall and asking Blake's sister if she'd do them. We eventually narrowed her type down to someone my height who dresses somewhat 'metal'. Fair enough. I also bought the U.N.K.L.E. album War Stories. I don't know if it was a special edition or something, but it also came with a second disc, which was full of instrumental versions of the first disc's tracks. The only problem was that the package was totally impossible to open. It seriously took me 20 minutes to get the CDs out of the package, although this was somewhat due to my not wanting to damage the package too much in the opening. As it stands it's covered in fingernail marks (mine, Blake's, and his sister's) and scored by my keys, which were what finally loosened it enough for more fingernails to open it.

Then Madame Bizz drove me home.

All in all, it was a good weekend.

Next tour destination: Guelph to visit My Favourite True Neutral Half-Elf Rogue/Bard, and where another lusty maiden awaits my arrival. Although I should say now that I've been warned that she's more likely to talk my ear off and then molest herself with thoughts of me than actually fool around. But, hey, I get to see Ben, and girls like that always make for good posts the following Monday!