Dear S.

Dear S.,

Do you remember the time we went back to your alabaster chamber with two birds we met outside the bar? I imagine not, as you were quite drunk, but their names were Emily and Diana. You called Emily your little falcon (the room was spinning) and threw her aggressively on the bed and offered to pet her feathers. I remember you smelled like shit. I remember you stripping and revealing to us your withered old-man's body, grey hair on your chest and balls. Are you not ashamed? Or are you not aware of how ugly you've become? I was worried you would cut the poor girl with your sequin undergarments. In the morning there was blood all over the bed. I thought you'd gone too far.

I played the good Samaritan and told Diana to run away. "Things will only get worse," I whispered to her in a serious breath. She had to work in the morning. I don't suppose she had a very productive day. Had you worked a day in your life, you would know it is hell to do with a hangover. Or so I've heard.

In the end, what is to blame for this mess we keep making? The heroin? The rum? The man? The feeling of flesh and hair? The sound of a moaning girl?

We really must do it again. I hate that I let Diana get away.

Your greatest challenger,

Nigel Tewksbury

Roadsters and Elves

In my garage are housed several exquisite automobiles, none of which has any practical value, and often in my predawn boredom I will go out and look at them and even caress them. Unshaven and with a green faerie in my hand, I dress in my vintage racing overalls and my favourite Tag Heuer chronograph and marvel at the beautiful engineering of my gasoline chariots whilst dreaming of being a playboy racer circa 1966. I am not exaggerating when I say that many of my cars excite me sexually; most notable of these are my roadsters. My faithful readers are likely aware of a grayscale photograph in which I am leaning against a charming little pocket rocket, cigarette in hand, but I must say I trashed that car earlier this year going too fast down Snake Hill, and it was no great loss. It was a mere Japanese plaything used mostly on the (not infrequent) occasions when I was too drunk to drive the good ones. My real babies are my Lotuses and Alfas. For day-to-day driving, I have a '63 Elan (yellow), and for the days I hope to seduce Mrs. Robinson (or any other unsatisfied, married woman, for that matter), I have a red '67 Alfa Spider. I also have a lovely blue Lotus 7 that I won in a duel (or perhaps I stole it--I honestly don't remember that night particularly well).



At 4:00 this morning I decided to take the 7 for a spin. I drove out along a winding country road to a spot where legend says the Hidden Folk play and whore until the sun rises. Though objectively not particularly fast, the car sounds, feels, and handles as though it were a fucking Type 35 Bugatti. Upon arriving at the supposedly magical cave, I parked and turned off my roadster's lights and suckled upon my flask of Johnnie Walker Black while watching the sun rise over the hills. I turned on the radio and listened to some strange music played only for the sad and lonely (perhaps the elves had a little FM transmitter in their cave?). It was too late for spotting elves, but I didn't care. I was enveloped in beauty and oblivion. All my thoughts were dead.

Tropic of Ping

I would write more today, but I cannot stop thinking of food and Henry Miller playing ping pong with a naked girl. A wrinkled old man, he could not help being the innocent but lascivious Don Juan-in-a-vest. What was going through his batty, cosmic mind as he raced this nymph to 11? Did he play to win or did he play to make her prance? He was a master of nonsense and the match-point forehand. I imagine there was a poetry and comedic grace to the rapid pock-pock-pocking of his wooden paddle against the plastic sphere. Come Dear, let us bat about an ovum.

I, too, have a table and some skill, but they are both in the basement, collecting a layer of dust. I used to play with Myoki and Helga. Inevitably our matches would erupt into either argument or orgy. Now that they are gone, the sound of pinging balls plays in my mind as an absurd lament. I hear it in hailstorms and at night.

Goodbye for now. My noodles are cooked.

Electronic Missive

Tanya,

Tonight I am lightheaded and brokenhearted. I have struggled to become a better man--you know how in college I grew an American heart--but it has all been destroyed by my pride and my illusions. In the jigsaw puzzle of the world, I do not fit, no matter how hard I try to force myself in place. So over me, you chose the common man, my friend, my brother, your Mr. Potato Head. We grew up together--shared desires and fed each other poison--but in time our paths forked. He went to the office and I to the forest. He brings home the bacon and doesn't question the system. I find pigs filthy and live off berries and seeds. Tanya I do not blame you. But Tanya I am sad and lousy.

Come pick these bugs out of my hair and sail upon my drunken ship. Or do you not listen to the commands of losers? It is probably for the best. I should forget about you and find a filthy forest lover. If I medicate myself, I will not care. Come monkey, come, my filthy girl, and stick this needle in my arm. I'll grow grey and decompose, and who knows, Tanya, if, after all that, I am still bitter about it, I'll haunt you till you cry.

You compared our cocks. I guess mine lost. Now my estate has gone to hell. It's seven Mondays and then another week. Every morning, before reality starts ringing its cacophonous bell, I am writing my book and dedicating it to you. I hope it stings you when you read it, but I'm sure you've given up reading, now that you are married. You were never good at feeling the words anyhow--you were always looking for the symbolism--at least after you went to college. I kept telling you that there was nothing there.

Off to bed,

Nigel Tewksbury

My New Addiction: Tucker & Taz in the Morning

In my miserable life, I have been addicted to many things: opium, dueling, drunken driving, to name a few. But my latest addiction seems a relatively harmless one. It is Tucker & Taz in the Morning, a Canadian radio program on FM96, a station which boldly claims to be "London's Best Rock" (indeed, there is a London in Ontario, Canada--a real shit-hole from most reports). I do not know if the slogan is true as I find the pig-squeal vocals of AC/DC--a band which the jovial duo play interminably--laughably awful (although I greatly enjoyed Tucker's impression a few days back), but damn it if Tucker and Taz aren't "London's Most Lovable Losers." Though from all reports these pair of pudgy, balding DJs are not terribly special, I cannot help but put them on a pedestal when I hear them talk to the common idiot hicks on riot-fests like "Mr Know-It-All" and "The Question." However Tucker & Taz, I have a question for you: which one of you is the leader?

You see, my friend Reginald Hardcourt has also become a frequent listener of your show (twice a week we set up my Dell and listen to your webcast whilst playing chess and drinking cocaine-laced South African rooibos in the sun room of my estate) and we invariably argue over which of you is the leader. Reginald says it's Tucker, for no tangible reason, whereas I say it is Taz (which one of you hosts Taz-Mania again? Ah, yes... Oh, but what about Taz of All Trades? Ah... Yes... Taz again). Indeed I often wonder whether Tucker is drunk due to his fumbling work with the controls--not that there's anything wrong with that. But I am afraid our little disagreement is no longer friendly because last week Reginald turned his revolver on me for saying Tucker would be nothing without Taz (not coincidentally, I had just taken his Queen's bishop, thus destroying his beloved fianchetto). In a bold move of self-defense, I forcefully grabbed Reginald by the arm and put my ivory letter opener to his throat. I then forced him to push a pawn and lose the game in an embarrassing oversight.

Perhaps this addiction is more dangerous than I fear... Regardless, I look forward to waking up tomorrow. It is a non-Reginald day.

The Hunter

The other day I was conversing with a bastard towards whom I am socially obligated to be respectful. We were at a dull but elegant restaurant and I became rather bored with his inane ramblings about business and the sad state of the economy. I offered him some hashish, and after his eyes had returned to a normal size (I take it he was rather enamoured by my drugs--I told him it was the good shit because, of course, it was), we went outside and had a little smoke. It hit me hard and I began again to see the point of the world. The sun was setting and I was looking forward to getting nocturnal. It had been awhile.

Upon returning to the table, I reflected on the duck that was now inside me and told my companion that I would eat almost any bird. "Even a penguin?" he asked. "Especially a penguin," I replied. "I imagine they are best done on a rotisserie. Just imagine it there, in your backyard, rotating like a big, tuxedoed sausage, roasting in its own succulent penguin juices." He chuckled uncontrollably at the thought and wondered if it would taste more like fish or chicken. But it was not a joke.

And why must we always compare beasts? It was here I lost respect for him entirely and, like an angsty teen, stopped speaking.

It is odd that we humans are animals though I see the beast in me each and every day. And I know that I am supposed to reject this beast and dress him up in fine, tailored clothing. It is the necessity of living in this artificial world, I suppose. To hell with it. Let's get drunk.

When I'm drunk I am a rogue and I treasure my roguish soul more than I treasure my modified Lotus Elan. While most people spend their lives looking for comfort and money, I spend my life looking for entertainment and experience because I believe these are the only worthwhile things in our artificial world. So I dress myself up in fine, tailored clothing because I want to be the good shit and not the ugly shit or the shit that doesn't know any better. Those in baseball caps and printed blazers are swine; they are scavengers. But me, I am a large, exotic cat--come stroke me if you dare--and I prowl on penguins and drive real fast. The power to weight ratio of my car will knock the cap off your common, greasy head.

We are endangered. Our habitat is nearly destroyed. Where is the wildness? Where is the tall grass in which I can crouch before pouncing on my prey? It is gone and I am supposed to find my dinner at the grocery store. How convenient. How safe. How utterly boring.

Oh hell, I am still sitting here at this table, staring at my glass, starting to come down. He's still high as a kite--I told him it was potent, but he insisted on smoking gluttonously. I'll just feign a full bladder and then hop in my roadster and take off into the night. I need his business less than I need my precious night on the prowl. I'll follow that busty redhead in the tight black dress. She must be wild.

"Let's go hunting," I said to her. "At the grocery store."

She laughed uncomfortably and walked briskly to her car. To hell with her. In this city of garbage, would someone kindly tell me where hide the nymphs and pixies?

Fuck it. Let's get drunk and go to Tesco. I walked into the first pub I found and did three shots of Chartreuse for the Holy Trinity (and then I did another for the road). I then stomped off to Tesco and pushed a blue-hair out of the way to get a good cart. "I am the hunter!" I shouted while I kicked at the automatic doors. I grabbed all the 12-grain bagels I saw--expiration date be damned!--and a tub of chunky peanut butter. I topped up the cart with dark chocolate, cheese, and nuts. I laughed uncontrollably when I saw that Penguin biscuits were on sale and I took the whole stock. I would have a feast tonight.

In my periphery I sensed a security guard's stare. It was time to blow this place. With a snarl and a growl, I took my cart and charged at the door. No one dared get in my way. But in the parking lot I noticed a wobbly wheel on what I thought was my faithful cart--I suppose it was not built for such extreme speeds--and I heard the guards charging behind me. I gave a primal yell, but it was of no use. I knew that damn wheel would be my end and I was forced to abandon my kill and take off into the night. I grabbed two packs of Penguins and shoved them in my pockets. In a wild flourish, I threw my favourite yellow pocket square behind me.

Once out of the artificial lights, I stopped in an alley and took a good, long piss. I cracked open some biscuits and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted very, very good.

Upon returning home, my euphoria quickly wore off. I was sweating and frightened at what I had done. I tried to regain some sanity by watching a marathon of Britain's Next Top Model. What a topsy-turvy world! I was unsure how I could go on knowing that in my heart there was this caged and rabid beast. I do not know... It is in times like these that I reach for my laudanum and hope to feel fresh-as-a-daisy upon waking.