Leary & The Beatles

Late night inebriated pub conversations seem to often get around to the topic of whether or not the Beatles deserve the credit for having irreversibly changed the sound of rock and roll forever, a claim which this article is not attempting to challenge; however, I do take issue with the verdict on the exact moment when the Fab Four allegedly changed Rock history.  Many critics assert that the defining moment was their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, though even a cursory glance at the musical landscape of that time will show that their sound of that period was not largely different from many of their musical contemporaries of the era including the Rolling Stones, Gerry and the Pacemakers, and the Animals.  Instead, I would argue that the Beatles changed the sound of rock permanently in August 1966 when the Four, beginning to largely eschew touring in favour of extended recording sessions in the studio, hammered out the experimental album, Revolver.  Revolver was arguably the first recording of the burgeoning Psychadelic Era which, with it's heavy emphasis on expanding consciousness, would blow wide the primarily conventional format of rock into areas nobody could have anticipated even at the start of the 1960s.


Beginning to dabble with psychedelics, the approach of the Beatles when creating music became radically varied, some songs featuring full orchestration, others classic pop tunes, while still others ventured down the path of the heavily avant-garde.  The most extreme cut on the album is the final song, "Tomorrow Never Knows", an acid trip experiment.  Lennon, in a book store looking for a copy of The Portable Nietzsche, instead found a copy of The Psychedelic Experience by Dr. Timothy Leary, which contained the advice: "When in doubt, relax, turn off your mind, float downstream".  Lennon bought the book, went home and dropped acid, then followed the instructions exactly as stated in the book.  The resulting song featured lyrics adapted from Leary's book, including the above advice, tinny heavily phased vocals, reversed guitar solos, and sped up tape loops.


Dr. Timothy Leary began to champion lysergic acid diethylamide as a tool for recreating one's own psyche while at Harvard, using the psychedelic drug to experiment on convicted felons.  His theory was that by using the correct dosage in conjunction with the right set (what one brings to the experience) and setting, preferably under the guidance of trained professionals, the drug could alter human behaviour in drastically beneficial ways  by re-imprinting negative experiences as positive ones, thereby effectively re-tuning one's personality.  As Leary's experiments garnered more and more notoriety, pressure was put on Harvard, both from fellow faculty members with reservations about the experiments, and from wealthy and influential parents; Leary's position was terminated in May 1963, ostensibly for missing too many lecture classes.  Leary's experiments, however, continued.  He had gathered the interest of a group of wealthy siblings named the Hitchcocks who acquired for Leary an immense mansion which was named the Millbrook Estate which swiftly became infamous for the increasing lack of scientific rigour as experiments degenerated into endless acid parties.  He later wrote about the time: "We saw ourselves as anthropologists from the twenty-first century inhabiting a time module set somewhere in the dark ages of the 1960s. On this space colony we were attempting to create a new paganism and a new dedication to life as art."


The Beatles, too, were delving deeper and deeper into the psychedelic world, and pulling the rest of the rock world with them... their magnum opus, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band is rife with acid influences and musical experimentation; the album's numerous and varied genres include music hall, jazz, rock and roll, western classical, sound collage and traditional Indian.  The closing song on the album, "A Day in the Life" was banned by the BBC for including the line "I'd love to turn you on," a play on Leary's motto 'Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out' - at the time both Lennon and McCartney denied the line contained any drug-related reference, however years later McCartney's appearance in The Beatles Anthology video commenting on the lyric makes it clear that the reference was most definitely deliberate.  In addition, "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" was long considered an acrostic ode to LSD, though Lennon denied this for the remainder of his life, claiming that the song was inspired by a drawing created by his son Julian.


It's easy to forget today that prior to the release of Sgt. Pepper most youth-oriented popular music was created for Top 40 AM radio consumption; music was largely collected on 45s, and when albums were purchased nobody expected the songs to be collected together through a theme, or considered them works of art.  The impact of the Pepper album on the public was immediately palpable, however the influence it created within the music industry itself was monumental and irreversible, provoking a legion of other bands to experiment both musically and pharmaceutically.  The sounds of bands like the Byrds and the Yardbirds began to evolve from traditional folk and British blues into compositions with a heavy Eastern Zen vibe, while more and more up and coming bands like Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company and the Grateful Dead centered their entire image around the mind expanding aspect of rock and roll.


Leary, meanwhile, was eventually busted for possession of half a joint, which he claimed the arresting officer had planted on him, and was sentenced to 30 years in prison, though, fortunately for him, this judgement was later reversed by the Supreme Court.  On the day his conviction was overturned, Leary announced his candidacy for the Governor of California race, against former b-movie actor Ronald Reagan.  John Lennon subsequently wrote the campaign song for Leary's race, "Come Together", based on his slogan "Come together, join the party" and invited the psychedelic guru to join their Bed-In at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal, where he participated in the recording of the anthem "Give Peace A Chance", and is mentioned by name in the last verse.  His personal victories were to be increasingly short-lived, though.  In January of 1970 Leary was sentenced to ten years for his 1968 offense, and a further ten was added later while in custody for a previous arrest in 1965.  When Leary arrived in prison he was given personality aptitude tests he himself had created, knowing which answers were most advantageous, he answered in a manner which indicated that he was a quiet conventional person who would be useful in gardening and forestry: he was subsequently assigned gardening work in a low security prison, and in September 1970 (the same month Jimi Hendrix overdosed) he escaped.  By the time he was caught and arrested in 1973 with rumours flying around that he was turning stool pigeon to the FBI, the Psychedelic Era was effectively dead, but the damage had been done and rock and roll would never again be bound to conventional sounds and methods, experimentation became less and less the exception, and instead became the rule.  Even today, experimental rock rules.


Checklist

in cases such as these,

even the intrusive warbling of a song bird

even the tentative practice of a promising violin 

even the raised tail of a cat on the hunt

even the books unread

even the poems unwritten

even the songs unsung

even foods uneaten

even memories not yet compromised 

even the sunbeam daring to enter

even the trees bursting forth uninvited 

even that cherry blossom on the wind

even all possibility

even your laugh

can be contemptible.


Insomniac

Nana was an insomniac

she said that they prescribed

her booze just a little nip

to help with her sleep

she didn’t call it booze

mind you, she called it

her wee drink

over time her wee drink

was not so wee

and seemed to be less

about chasing sleep

and more about fueling

her true passion:

talking shit about just

everyone she had ever met

so now whenever i see

a cheap bottle of 5 Star rye

i picture Nana in Tartarus

wee drink in bony hand

telling Tony Hancock that 

Edgar Allen Poe has a forehead

like a cinema screen or

comparing the Bell Witch

to the Monster of Glamis Castle

(unfavorably)


My Best Poems

are never written down

but dictated to me 

on the edge of sleep

by Hermes 


brief snatches in a 

hypnopompic state

brilliant interludes

woven together with

abstract deliberation

each word perfect like

light filtered through

drops of dew on a spiderweb


i should get up

i should write 

them down but 

instead i wander away

into the land of Nod 

the poems disassembled 

their components tinder 

for fictional flames


i guarantee you

they are better

than this one

A Real Bartender

serving drinks was once my job

but i am no bartender

a bartender serves drinks, but also

listens, understands, councils, maybe cares

the good ones do

not me

i chased dollars, watched clocks

and slipped out the backdoor unseen

each night i tried to forget their

faces and stories

willing them to drain away

watercolors in the rain

even now present tense

when haunted names 

or ghostly bloated faces

bubble up to the surface

it is very much an 

unwelcome intrusion

rejected with great prejudice


except Tap


Tap i remember fairly regularly

Tap i refuse to banish

i’m tied to him still

one of the few i liked

Indian by way of England

and could pronounce 

the hell out of the word “water”

woo-tah

i can’t do it justice

he said it every time

as part of his regular order

double vodka and water

he had been a DJ and a drummer

and would tap tap tap the bartop

in time with whatever was playing

barehanded loud slaps

tap tap tap

sometimes so loud 

it pestered other patrons

but i hated them anyway

so fuck them all

and their sambuca

play on Tap play on

but the beats didn’t pay

so Tap was a banker

tap tap tapping a calculator instead

then beating the bartop at night

over double vodka and water

before each order he would say

just one more. i have to work tomorrow.

be he might have one more

with the same warning

then one more

then one more

tap tap tap

his accent would turn more 

liquid and we would bullshit

about UFOs, the mechanics of film noir, 

or the collapsing of probability waves

just one more. 

i have to work tomorrow. 

except he stopped going to work eventually

we hit the skids one night

when he arrived 

already deep in his cups

and i took an ego stand

about something which meant 

almost nothing to me but

everything to him

no warning that night

he had finally been fired

i didn’t ask why

didn’t seem my place

maybe a real bartender would’ve

instead i served his drink

just double vodka

no water

and shot the shit

every topic became heated

and he told me many times

that i needed to drink less

which got my hackles up

it was so patently absurd

i reminded Tap he didn’t even 

know how much i drank

he said again: no, you need to drink less

a real bartender might not have argued

but i did

somehow our chatter flowed

into the topic of a particularly

vile British racial slur

and the origin of the word

he maintained it was an acronym


for Worker On Government service


i said that was a backronym and

it was named after a racist doll

he said i was racist

for arguing the point with him

he had suffered the beatings

i didn’t argue that

only the etymology

as we were wont to do

on most nights

he finished his vodka 

and went home angrily,

maintaining my racism

it wasn’t far

just across the street

i pictured him in his tiny condo

he had invited me over once

to smoke a joint after

3 in the morning

pre legalization

told me about his divorce

and his daughter

and blasted dubstep and

slapped his coffee table

tap tap tap until

security bang bang banged even 

then he continued to tap but i went home

i never saw him again

after the night we argued

a real bartender might have

reached out to him 

but i didn’t

a few weeks later i heard he

had solved all his problems with a rope

maybe a real bartender wouldn’t have

been affected water off a duck’s back


but i was

Tucked in Tight

frigid frozen grass

grey and silent as 

the frost morning

crown crusts crouching 

and cloaked the 

bone collection 

beneath unassembled 

and disarrayed by

deliberate hand cold

and hard and mean

toolbox and machinist 

grease permeated by 

lye and lies and lice

pinnup porn folded 

and refolded until 

fragile faded and (forlorn)

a bone bowl emptied 

and refilled fancies 

now frozen in frame

red green blue light 

remembered on 

denim now desecrated 

disintegrating and 

teetering decay

spinning mirrored smile 

split tooth ditch dream

soaked into gravel and

dried out caked and 

crusted an absence of roses 

offset by unwarranted 

sweetness

sickening sweetness 

sickeningly sweet

dried out

to dust


Why the Bucket?

Harvey tilted his head at the new display. ‘Why the bucket?’ he asked.

‘It’s a beach display. People use buckets at the beach.’

He looked at me. ‘Do they?’

‘I think so. Kids do.’

‘Doesn’t look like a kid’s bucket though.’ he said, clutching his clipboard to his chest.  ‘Looks like a “kick the bucket” kind of bucket.’

‘It was the only bucket they had in giftware.’ I said.

‘Huh.’ he said blandly.

I noticed I had a smudge on the toe of my right shoe.  Rubbing the toe against the back of my other leg, I polished it slowly.

‘Maybe we don’t need a beach display.’ he said. ‘That’s more for early summer.  We can think of something else. Right?’

‘Right.’ I said, knowing ‘we’ meant me.

Harvey lurched off, clipboard clutched tightly in his claws.


BeachTheme

I was straightening the hangers on the racks when Harvey lurched past, clipboard clutched tightly in his claws. He skidded to a halt, looking at something. The hair tufts around his ears bounced around in a nonexistent breeze.

‘Valletta.’ he said. 

‘Yes Harvey.’

‘How long have these end displays been up?’ he asked, staring at the outfits hanging on the ends of the racks.

‘Um.’

‘They need to be changed, at minimum, bi-weekly.’

‘OK.’ I said. ‘So, every two weeks.’

He stared at me. ‘No.’ he said. ‘Twice a week. Bi. Weekly.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought bi-weekly meant every other week.’

He let out a long breath as if this was very beneath him. ‘It means twice a week. Twice in one week. Bi, meaning two; weekly, meaning weekly. Bi-weekly.’

‘How foolish of me.’ I said.

‘Simple mistake.’ he allowed.

‘And how often do we get paid here at Taggs?’

‘Paid?’ he asked, appearing confused by the seeming change in topic. ‘Bi-weekly.’

I stared at him. He closed his mouth. ‘I want these changed twice a week.’ he said.

‘Sure, alright.’ I said, looking at the display hanging there. ‘Like this, only different, right?’

‘Whatever seems appropriate at that moment. That's why we made you head of Children’s Clothing.’

‘Oh. Head ... I didn't realize.’ I said, trying to remember if anyone had mentioned anything about me being head of a department. Surely that position had to earn more than standard minimum wage?

He walked away and I began to strip the end displays of their clothing. For the better part of the next hour I put together a lame beach display. It would have looked more filled out with a beach ball or something. 

‘What's this?’ That was Harvey, standing behind me. 

‘New display.’ I said. ‘Day at the beach theme. I think it would seem more filled out with a beach ball or something. They sell them next door for about a dollar.’

‘No.’ he said. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. Nothing goes in the display that we don’t sell here. It’s to advertise our merchandise, you know?’

‘Yeah.’ I said. ‘Makes sense.’ 

He lurched off, and I wandered over to giftware. ‘Hey Byron.’ I said. He looked up from the book section where he was reading a volume on the history of Playboy magazine. ‘Hm?’

‘I need something beachy for a display.’

He looked at me. ‘Beachy?’

‘Beach like.’

‘Oh.’ he said, then thought for a few moments, or at least did a reasonable facsimile of looking like he was thinking. ‘I don’t think we have anything.’

‘Mind if I snoop around?’

‘Have at it. But we don’t have anything that could work. I guarantee it.’

‘Well, maybe I’ll find something.’ I said, then winked at him. ‘I think abstractly.’

I began to wander down the aisles of his department, looking over the assorted knick knacks and bric-a-brac. He followed me closely. ‘You paint?’ he asked.

‘I dabble.’ I lied.

‘Abstracts?’

‘All stracts.’

That shut him up for a bit.

‘What about this?’ I asked. I held up a bucket, made of what looked like old brass.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s a bucket.’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I use it?’

‘Why do you want that?’

‘It’s a bucket.’ I repeated.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘So?’

‘I need something beachy. Buckets are beachy.’

‘That bucket doesn’t look too beachy.’ he said.

‘Buckets evoke the beach.’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a kid’s plastic bucket. Buckets make people think of the beach.’

‘That looks like the type of bucket someone would sit under a hole in a roof.’ he said.

I looked at him. ‘Is that how you sell it to people?’

‘I don’t sell it to people. If people want a bucket, they’ll look for it and buy it.’

I stared at Byron. He had no business working in giftware. ‘Can I use the bucket?’ I asked. He shrugged aggressively.  

‘Take it!’ he said.

I wandered back to Children’s with the bucket and hung it off the side of one of the hooks. Never before had a display of discount children’s clothing looked more beachy. I could almost smell the salt in the air. Or maybe it was mildew.


Blonde Under Blacklight

Stace Powers strode into the Champagne Room with a man and a woman trailing in her wake like a pair of pilot fish, her shark-like grin glowing fluorescent blue under the UV-A lighting.  Her eyes darted from one small over-stuffed chair to another in a jerking mechanical manner before landing on me and blazing to life with gleeful anticipation.  She was clad only in a miniscule neon-pink string bikini which visually popped in stark contrast to the abundance of dusky purple skin now towering over me.

‘So!’ she cried out, as one of the sycophants handed her a Caesar garnished with a long limp stalk of asparagus.  ‘You went to Henning High.’

I nodded, and began to respond when she cut me off with:  ‘Listen to me closely, you demented little fuck.  Did you seriously, I mean like seriously seriously, come all the way here, entertaining the notion that you were actually gonna knock boots with me out of some sort of twisted sense of teenage nostalgia?  Like, did that actually enter into the sad cavernous hollow of your cretinous skull?  Look, I wouldn’t let anyone from Henning High even suck on my crusty tampons, let alone insert their useless limp pricks inta my kooch . . . are you reading me, fuckface?  Is this all sinking in?’  

Stace Powers leaned over the chair I sat in,  clutching one armrest with an elaborately clawed talon, as she swung the Caesar near my face, smiling wider down at me.  I admired her dental work, but said nothing as she continued: ‘Do you know the only reason I actually came in here when Ozzie told me someone from Henning was here to see me?  Do ya?  Because in Hogtown all I get are social rejects I apparently rubbed elbows with back in high school.  I dunno what the population of Henning was, but I seem to have met every single student with a piss-poor excuse for a cock.  Multiple times.  Every single one of them, one of you, seems to think that since we both sliced open pig fetuses in Grade 10 Biology together, that somehow, as unlikely as it may seem to everyone else on the fucking planet, you’ve received an engraved invitation to my pussy . . . just last night I had a useless sack of shit who’s now a fucking lawyer, and apparently proud of it, using all the alpha male bullshit on me.  Know what I did, dipshit?  I laughed in his fucking face.  A month ago I had a jackass who was on the student council with me offer nine thousand dollars to dance for him privately in his waterfront condo.  I laughed in his face.  So, come on chuckles . . . gimme your pitch.  I can’t wait.’

She leaned back, breathing heavily from her monologue, and looked rather pleased with herself.

I responded: ‘Maybelline Forgrave.’

Her smile melted away, as a look of blank confusion washed across her features.  ‘Say what?

I repeated: ‘Maybelline Forgrave.’

She cocked her head.  ‘What’s that?  Makeup for emo goths?’

‘Nineteen Ninety-Four.’ I replied.

Stace Powers cocked her head the other way, her eyebrows jitterbugging around her forehead.  ‘Dude, are you fucking tripping?’ she asked me.

I curled my index finger slowly, inviting her to lean in closer.  She frowned, but leaned in.  ‘Were you, or were you not . . . ’  I asked in as quiet a voice as I could muster over the din of the music. ‘ . . . the president of the yearbook committee for Henning High in the Ninety-Three slash Ninety-Four year?’

Her mouth hung open slightly.  ‘Yeah.’ she said blandly.  “I was.  What of it?’

‘Maybelline Forgrave.’  I repeated.

Her frown returned, with interest.  ‘I don’t know what the fuck that means.’

‘Maybelline was also a student at Henning.’ I told her.  ‘She died that year.’

Stace’s mouth snapped shut.  ‘Shit.’ she said.

‘Maybelline Forgrave.’ I repeated.  

In the nature of full disclosure, it’s worth mentioning at this point that I had imbibed a drink or twelve before my conversation with Stace Powers.

‘I don’t remember her . . . ’ she said vaguely, looking my face over slowly.  ‘But you.  You.  Yeah.  I remember you now.  You had, you have some sorta stupid name.  Ding Dong or something.’

‘YoYo.’  I replied.

‘YoYo!’ she snapped her fingers, her fluorescent blue grin returning. ‘Ya know, I gotta say I am really fucking impressed I remembered that.  Damn.  YoYo.  What did you do in a past life to deserve a name like that?’

‘I don’t believe in reincarnation.’

‘Hey, there was another guy out there I thought looked vaguely familiar . . . is he with you?’

I nodded.  ‘That’s Moose.  He didn’t want to be here for this.’

‘For this . . . ’ she mused, then a thought rippled across her features.  ‘Moose?  I don’t remember going to high school with anyone named Moose.’

‘It’s short for Moose Nostrils, if that rings any bells.’

‘I think I’d remember a name like that.’ she said.

‘His real na-’ 

She cut me off.  ‘Doesn’t fuckin matter, man.  You confirmed his pedigree, and we’re moving on.  So, what were you saying, who died?’

‘Maybelline Forgrave.’

‘Right.  It’s funny how many people you meet in your life, and never know their names.’  She took a sip from her Caesar.  ‘Because, you know, a name like Moose Nostrils would stick in a person’s memory.  You’re fucking with me, right?’

‘I don’t know how ubiquitous his nickname was, alright?  I call him Moose Nostrils.’

‘You coined it?’

‘I did.’

‘Why?’

‘You saw him.’ I said.  ‘You could play hide and seek inside those things.’

‘Wow,’ she said slowly, playing with her straw.  ‘You must be a peach to know personally.’

‘Maybelline Forgrave.’ I said.

‘There’s, like, an echo in here or something.’ she said.

‘Maybelline Forgrave died that year, yet went completely unmentioned in the yearbook.  Your yearbook.  But, we can all look back and fondly reminisce about alt-grunge rocker Kurt Cobain also passing away that year, thanks to the two page spread you laid out.’

Stace Power’s florescent blue grin dropped dead before my eyes.  Her stare at first widened in disbelieving shock, then almost immediately slammed down into a steely-eyed glare.  ‘So . . . what?  You came here specifically to belittle me about something I put in a yearbook when I was seventeen?  Are you for real?’

The amusement of her opening rant was now dwindling in the rearview mirror, as genuine rage began to bubble up from every pore in her violet skin.  As her fists clenched up tightly I observed her elaborately manicured fingernails; I only got a brief glance at them, but they appeared to depict miniature Georgia O’Keefe paintings.

One of her two sycophants approached, a female, and gently placed a hand on Stace’s shoulder.  She had been the one who crammed the Caesar into Stace’s grip earlier.  ‘Everything alright?’ she asked, looking from Stace to me.  The sycophant’s touch seemed to jolt electricity through the woman still towering over me, she twitched away from the hand and snapped her head around.

‘Fucking spiffy.’ Stace snarled in reply.  ‘Get this: the little sack of shit before you came here tonight with the intended purpose of trying to humiliate me about something from fucking high school, if you can believe that anyone would be so pathetic.’

The sycophant’s hair colour was impossible to guess under the UV-A light, but was cut into a bob which fell just below her ears and she had a pleasant face which looked as though it remained in a constant state of mild anxiety.  She looked down at me with something close to pity.  I smiled in return.  

‘You know,’ Stace said.  ‘if I had any empathy left, I’d likely feel really fucking sorry for you.  Sure, the bitch croaked, that’s fucking sad.  Life is amazing and death fucking sucks.  So yeah, Makeup for Emo Goths croaked as a teenager, and I’m honestly sorry to hear that.  But you . . . you, sitting there in your fucking hovel, hunched over and polishing your resentment over the years, slowly becoming more and more pickled by your impotent rage, that, on the other hand amuses me greatly.  Because you know what, dicksmack?  My life is the balls.’

I opened my mouth to respond, but she was already talking again:  ‘I’ve travelled to every single continent on the planet, including crap-ass Antarctica.  I stood directly where Kurt Russel’s last words in The Thing were uttered, have you even travelled as far as Etobicoke?  Lobster, bitch, I gobble that shit down three times a week.  Oysters?  I suck those back like people stuff french fries into their faces.   I’ve relaxed in winter hot springs with Japanese macaques, drinking martinis.  Kilimanjaro, that’s a mountain asshole, in case you didn’t know.  In fucking Africa.  I’ve scaled it not once, but twice, while you were likely jerking off into a crusty sweat sock.  Have you ever tripped out on Pacific Turqouise Cone Snail venom?  Of course you haven’t, but I have, and I spoke to fucking God . . . do you know what she told me?  She told me that she didn’t exist.’

I opened my mouth again.

‘No.’ she said, pointing at me with one of those elaborately manicured fingernails.  ‘Shut up.  The sheer metric tonnage of hilarity I feel toward your pathetic attempts to humiliate me publicly cannot be accurately measured by any tools currently developed by humanity.  So, for you to drag this pathetic incident from the past and wave it around in my face as if it was supposed to wound me?  Fat fucking chance.  I’ve sang karaoke with a world renowned opera soprano, I’ve exchanged email chains with one of the most famous physicists in the fucking world.  I smoked a joint with William S Burroughs.  To quote Lou Reed: my week beats your year.’

She stared at me with genuine loathing, panting down into my face again.

I drunkenly responded: ‘Your breath smells like a tomato’s asshole.’

It seemed like a good response at the time.

Old black and white movies had the best slaps.  Clean, sharp, and precise.  The slap of Stace Powers held none of those qualities, it was half fist, a quarter talon, and connected with the side of my head, rather than my face.  I suppose, in retrospect, I should be thankful she had the restraint not to brain me with the Caesar which was to blame for her breath.

A male voice from behind Stace frantically cried out: ‘Polkawoo!  Hey now, come on!’ as a female voice chimed in with: ‘Stace, jesus!’  They were, I assume, the two sycophants.  They fell on the mass of scrambling and flailing limbs, pulling her back off me.  The left side of my head softly erupted with a warm buzzing wetness.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Stace screamed at me.

‘Ding Dong.’ I remember answering, while touching the side of my head.  ‘My name is Ding Dong.’