[Gummo] Alright, with all this new-found free time on my hands I’ve been pouring through my collection of vinyl in search of the source of the Virgil ON tune. [see VirgilON Blues Episode left] I can’t find the damn thing. I’m forced to conclude it was on an album loaned to me many years ago by Murray Z.

G. met Murray on Kibbitz Dovrat, and they struck up quite a friendship under the floor of the communal kitchen. Small world that it is, we all had a mutual friend S. who ran a bookstore in downtown Kingston. The whole crowd would assemble sometimes at the farm for gaiety and berry picking. More often they got together for outlandish Hallowe’en parties at S.’s place on Wolfe Island. S.’s wife J. tended bar at the General Wolfe, but eventually split for the north to cook in a lumber camp.

Murray was a great freak, but eventually moved to Alberta to teach in a private school. G. lived in his basement one winter and drove school bus. Haven’t heard from M. since, so if any of you have a lead on him, or any reminiscences of Camp Sonnenschein, please forward to this address.

In the meantime give a listen to Ramblin’ Thomas’ Chicago 1928 recordings re-issued by Biograph (BLP-12004) way back when. Will give you a real good feel for the tone of the tune I’m talking about.

And now, back to the narrative…

By the time Bill sobered up from his bus ride he couldn’t remember what was fact and what was fiction. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had two tremendous goose eggs on his forehead. Sitting at a bar one night a stranger asked him what had done the damage. It looked like he’d been kicked by a mule. Bill honestly couldn’t say for sure that the injuries had been inflicted by his girlfriend while he rode in the passenger seat of her powder blue convertible, so he didn’t say anything.

He figured that the story of his life was not as straightforward as those he read about in pocket westerns during his extended breaks in the can. In fact, some aspects of it began to take on the story lines of the superhero comic books he’d read to teach himself English. It was awkward at first, trying to work BIFF! and KA-POW! into a normal conversation, and he eventually dropped comic books in favour of learning vocabulary from song titles on jukeboxes.

Nevertheless, in later meditations on the heroic struggles of Odin, who nearly destroys his own universe in a power struggle between ego and alter-ego in one of the more instructive Marvel series, Bill started to understand the dangerous interplay of ego and alter-ego in his own life. If he could just get one or the other of them under control life would be a lot simpler.

Still and all, he’d come a long way from the old country. His identity had been nicely confused in the adoption process with Mother Teresa. He got a toe-hold in his new country riding the dead stock truck. That was where he met Meeshaw. Meesh had a feedlot at the time just outside Caisterville, and was a frequent user of the dead stock service. He’d got lucky and tapped into the American beef market. He was selling beef big-time to a manufacturer of meat pies in Illinois who in turn was a supplier to a national brand of frozen TV dinners. TV dinners and the tables that were made for them were huge at the time, and Meesh was making a fortune. Unfortunately for Meesh, the stats on the dead stock pick-ups eventually got back to head office in Chicago. Some of the executives in the upper echelons got nervous in spite of their lawyers’ advice to simply write off any liabilities, and Meesh’s contract was summarily cancelled.

This was where Bill and Meesh first went into business together. The partners’ business strategy was pretty straightforward: take whatever opportunity was close at hand. On some days this could be as simple as taking the empties back to the beer store. But it was a flexible strategy, and could rise in complexity as the situation dictated.

Earnings were up and down over the years as the partners went from one opportunity to another, alternately merging and acquiring or divesting assets and core businesses just like any Fortune 500 company. During one outstanding expansionist phase they were able to pyramid a chip truck parked at a busy intersection near Sherkston Shores into an office cleaning empire that operated “from lake to lake” as the advertising flyers put it, and as far west as Meesh’s res. Then one night a disgruntled employee laid a three-sided scale ruler on the glass of every photocopier in every office on his route and brought down the lid, shattering the glass and instantly putting the company out of business.

Through it all, Bill came to the realization that life is not a straight paved road to the end. He never did buy into the “path” or “journey” metaphors. He appreciated it that he usually had a nearly-new pick-up truck, that hanging out at the trailer with the buds was a good time, and that the nightmares from the war years pretty much stopped. The biggest bumps in the road seemed to coincide with Lil. The fate of the boot business with its enormous financial and emotional upheaval was a case in point. He began to suspect that being with Lil required a long-term coping strategy. What he couldn’t put his finger on was the strategy.

After Lil dumped him for what Bill expected would be the last time he was sitting in a bar when he met a guy who suggested he join their group. They got together once a week to talk about stuff. Get a handle on their issues, so to speak. Bill was not used to expressing his thoughts or feelings, especially to other men, unless it was about the Superbowl, but he went along to see what it was about. To his relief he found that most of the guys were pretty handy with a chainsaw or a socket set. He settled in and started to get the hang of it.

One night one of the guys asked what the other guys thought about that line of Leonard Cohen’s that there “ain’t no cure” for love. Bill was energized. It hadn’t occurred to him that the question of whether there was a cure could even be asked. He mapped out a comprehensive process of investigation.

The group subdivided into break-out groups, reading groups, and study groups. They covered everything from Rambo to Rimbaud. They organized literature reviews, historic and societal overviews, comparative analyses of cultural dimensions in Eastern, Middle-Eastern and Western romantic beliefs and mythologies, geographic considerations of relationships as represented in the writings of Kerouac and Least Heat Moon, a comparative analysis of romance in the poetry of Byron and Bukowski, an investigation of some very interesting neurological findings, an anthropological survey of everyone from primates to celebrity sportscasters, a mini summit on love in contemporary cinema, the impact of New Urbanism on gender issues, a Marxist-Leninist critique of love as an opiate, and a panel discussion of the Zen teachings of Charlotte Kasl.

The Buddhists were able to successfully argue that Lord Buddha has kept it up far longer than Marx and Lenin combined, so at the end of the process the group pretty much agreed that the possibility of achieving the thousand year orgasm through devote tantric practice was more appealing than the possibility of subverting love through proletarian revolution. However, at the end of the day there was no strong consensus around the original question: is Leonard Cohen a romantic mystic who has tapped into a vein of profound wisdom, or a horny old crapper who writes cheesy songs and poems to get babes. Afterward everyone went out for a beer.

The experience of getting inside his head was, overall, a refreshing one for Bill, and he started to feel better about things. The bumps on his forehead eventually subsided, and strangers stopped asking questions about them. He was beginning to believe that if we can purify ourselves inside, it will show outside. He even developed a sense of humour, and would offer his own version of folk wisdom if he thought it would help a guy out. The witticisms were intended to reflect his new-found nonchalance about life. “Never put more than ten dollars gas in the tank, never leave your toothbrush at your girlfriend’s.” was one example.

Getting back to business, once detached from the memories of Lil and the residual emotional complications around Lil and Meesh, Bill was convinced that the inspiration in the passenger seat of the Mustang had real promise. If he could get it goin’ good he could make a buck. He could take his Mom on that trip to the Stampede she’d always wanted. And it would get him out to the foothills, country where a Hondo Lane could find a place to stand, and a guy could let his youthful dreams range free over the mountains and meadows and valleys and streams, the sun setting behind the peaks just as he’s lighting the fire and getting set for a night under the stars.

The Stampede beckoned.

[Miller] The blog would be about 50 pages to print out now. I fear we are out of control for sure now that Mother has spawned another idea and Bill hasn't even arrived yet.

Bill rolled into the outskirts of VirgilON, the suburbs you might say. It was a cold and foggy night and he had no idea where to find Mother Teresa.. He pulled up in front of the Virgil Motel. The bulb behind the "G" was burned out and the sign read "VIRIL MOTEL".

With apologies to Gordon Lightfoot.

THE VIRIL MOTEL
Down around the Viril Motel, look for Bill they know him well
Travellers come and travellers go, down around the Viril Motel
If you choose the Viril Motel, be prepared to run pell-mel
He's another burnt out shell, Bill checked in the Viril Motel
Down around the Viril Motel, water there don't flow so well
Problems come and problems go, freezing showers say hello
Why he chose the Viril Motel, the look of the place is no hell
Bill's just another ne'er do well, checked into the Viril Motel

Down around the Viril Motel, look for Bill the human shell
Strangers moving to and fro, down around the Motel Viril
When dining at the Viril Motel, there's caterers who cater not
And waiters who don't wait a lot, Bill checked in the Viril Motel

Living at the Viril Motel, just another ne'er do well
Seasons ebb and seasons flow, down around the Motel Viril
Snug in his Viril Motel room, Bill watched the little critters fly
Above the bed sheets telling lies, Bill checked in the Viril Motel

Down around the Viril Motel, look for Bill they know him well
Travellers come and travellers go, it's the only world they know
If you choose the Viril Motel, the lodgers have all gone to hell
Bill's another burnt out shell, he checked in the Viril Motel

[Alan] ...give a read to Dr. John's autobiography, Under a Hoo-Doo Moon....

Bill was not sure why he was staying in the Viril Motel. “Maybe I’m viril.” he chuckled to himself, playfully teasing his feminine side. But he had learned through the process of self-discovery to follow his inner voice. He knew that if he waited long enough his inner voice would speak to him.

He reflected that his life had taken some unexpected turns. One thing had led either directly or tangentially to another. For example, his new found sensibility gained from his weekly encounters with the men’s group had led him to trade his eight cylinder half-ton for one of the new two-seat “smarter hybrid micro cars” that gave 380 kilometers to a liter of fuel. The fuel was a mixture of three-quarters distilled rutabagas and one-quarter chartreuse liqueur. Bill had cashed in his other investments and bought 8,000 acres in the south peninsula. He planted them all in rutabagas. He expected to retire to the south of France in five years.

He was lying in bed on Saturday morning listening to the Car Talk guys on the public radio station from across the river. He liked the Car Talk guys because they were a lot of fun. They had a phone-in show, and gave sound advice on relationship issues while sorting out problems with callers’ cars. On this particular morning they were walking a young woman from Boise, Idaho, through a complete rebuild of the transaxle on her 4x4 and coaching her on issues she had with her boyfriend. Her issues involved the shared use of kitchen utensils in the kitchen, garage, and bedroom. The Car Talk guys had been there with their spouses, and knew all about it.

Bill’s inner voice suddenly spoke very clearly. Now he knew exactly what to do. He phoned the Car Talk guys, explained his situation to them, and thanked them for facilitating the inner connection. They wished him well. They’d been there too.

He showered and dressed and went to the coffee shop on the corner. He sat at the counter and ordered a coffee and the popular Hewer and Drawers’ Breakfast Special. He listened for information and scuttle-butt. Eventually he heard someone mention a crazy old foreigner who’d moved to the old Jebediah Mennon farm on Dividing Line, and was complaining about a variance to the Complaints and Controversies Board. The Board was going to hear the case on Monday. When he heard the story Bill’s inner voice told him he had a line on his Mother, Teresa.