One would have thought that, even in these uncivilized times, if a man wanted to flick giant hairy spiders off his back by hitting them with the business end of a fire extinguisher, desperately wrenched from its proper place on the wall, that nobody would give it a second thought, even if other patrons of the establishment were sprayed with errant foam. Apparently, in the city of Toronto (rhymes with Tonto), Ontario, Canada, such behaviour is considered more than a little deviant, and warrants immediate ejaculation from the premises.
Or, so I have heard.
Toronto (rhymes with pronto) is a strange city. It has pretenses to greatness, but it doesn’t have the balls to put up enough chrome and neon to announce its intentions to the world. There is sleaze, here, without a doubt, but it’s neat, government-approved sleaze, sanitized to the point of utter, devastating meaninglessness. It’s not that I have anything against a city that refuses to live down to the worst instincts of humanity; it’s just that it leaves a writer known for his interminable New Journalism rant/tracts against police brutality, the repression of human rights and rampant Conservative so-called morality with little to write about.
My assignment, such as it was, was to interview Hunter S. Thompson, the creator of “Gonzo” journalism. (Pardon the scare quotes, but I’m desperately trying to inject some “life” into the piece.) My list of questions included: “What makes you think that subjective reporting is any more enlightening or honest than regular objective reporting?” (to be asked in a near hysterical tone of voice) and “Why is it that every student journalist on the face of the earth, and many professional journalists who really ought to know better, try, at least once in their miserable lives, to copy your style?” (to be ranted, with pounding of fists and gnashing of teeth for emphasis). I was never to ask any of them.
I hopped a bus because I needed to get the bad taste of the bar out of my mouth. I didn’t know where I was heading, which is just as well, because when I got there, I realized that it wasn’t anywhere I would want to be. On the bus were a couple of respectable burghers, whom I studiously ignored, and a trio of teenage boys, part of the blue jeans and cheap drug set that crowds every middle class community on the continent, teenage boys who were definitely not bent on raping, pillaging or corrupting the Moral Values of Decent People Everywhere.
So, man,” I overheard one of the non-rampaging youths say, “are you going to join the Army this summer?”
“Why would I want to do that?” one of the others replied.
“It’s steady money,” the first youth explained, “and it’ll keep you in shape…”
The other young man thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so,” he finally said. “I don’t want to get my hair cut.
So, there it was, in all its naked ugliness: militarism as fashion statement. Or, fashion as militarism. Or, whatever. In the end, it’s all the same: these fine young specimens would have no objection to offering up their lives in foreign lands so that “our interests,” as defined by the political and business leaders of our community, could be protected, as long as they could look good doing it.
I have this firm belief, developed over many years of watching such things, that the crazy, Conservative, land-raping, money worshippers dominate every third generation. It’s something in the genes that makes these regressives appear. Figure it out: that’s why Reagan’s mind-numbing policies are not only being embraced by the brain-damaged of similarly advancing years, but by a generation of their great-grandchildren. Now, all I need is to get my hands on a Sociology degree (preferably higher than a BA), and I’ll be able to peddle my theory throughout the land.
(Reagan…who would have thought it? He’s the Great Communicator who mutters inanities every time he strays from his carefully simplistic speeches, sending a cadre of White House press agents scurrying to their VDTs to issue profuse apologies. The President is so well insulated from the realities of 80s America that he has to have Secret Service men sneeze for him every time he gets sick…)
“Excuse me,” a voice said, “but you have to get off here.” I looked around, terrified that somebody had told the President what I was going to write about him, and that he’d sent an agent to…well, there’s no need to go into the gory details. The bus driver walked up to where I was sitting. “It’s the end of the line,” he said. (How right you are, I thought, but didn’t speak.) “You have to leave the bus.”
“Where are we?” I croaked, hoping that I could buy some time to collect the burnt-out remnants of my thoughts.
“York University,” the driver politely replied.
“Do I want to be here?” I asked further. The bus driver smiled at me with a look reserved for zombies (“Oh, but they really can’t help themselves, officer.”). I idly wondered if I should Mace the man, when I remembered that they did not approve of that means of self-defense in this hellish place. And, he had been polite. I’ll give him that. “If you want to continue riding,” the driver, who was beginning to take on authority of Presidential proportions, informed me, “you’ll have to pay another fare.”
I dropped a devalued dollar into the box and returned to my hotel room. (AUTHOR’S NOTE: At this point in the narrative, I went on at some length (eight pages) on the pros and cons, but mostly pros, of Chinese food. My editor has decided not to include that section in this piece, claiming that it not only has nothing to do with the story at hand, but that it has nothing to do with any sort of objective reality. Sure. When I sell it to a gourmet magazine, we’ll see what my hot-shot editor has to say. I hope she likes eating paper.)
So, here I sit, in a hotel room in some wilderness called Toronto (rhymes with…I don’t know), Ontario, Canada, waiting for an interview I strongly suspect will never take place. The giant hairy spiders are here, demanding Chinese food in a way I find difficult to ignore. If pressed further, I may well give in to their demands; after all, in decadent times, even a plague of giant, hairy spiders can be lived with, if you take the time to get to know them.