But once she is gone, all Wilbur can think of is reliving that day when he took some honey from Tisia the walking jar of honey. It's a frustrating situation, but it gives reason to keep living.

I


magine another planet where bears roam like ants at a picnic or New Yorkers on a lunch break. In such a world a jar of honey would be a coveted thing. Imagine a jar of honey on legs who can walk and talk in such a world. We'll call that bucket "Tisia." Further still, let's imagine a bear named Wilbur walking down the road and encountering Tisia the walking jar of honey. He takes some honey from the generous Tisia but then she goes away. The honey is good, even the memory of the honey is good. But once she is gone, all Wilbur can think of is reliving that day when he took some honey from Tisia the walking jar of honey. It's a frustrating situation, but it gives reason to keep living. To various extents, of course, we're all Wilburs. I've been feeling like one lately.

I


  took some initiative and did lots of cleaning up downstairs, in the front yard and on the porch. There were so many little things in need of picking up, especially all the cigarette butts thrown by Dr. Steven Louis Weiner into our front yard. I also fixed Matthew Hart's big rocking chair, which had originally been held together with staples. The screws I installed can support even the friskiest punk rocker.

Again today Matthew Hart and I intended to go to Waynesboro to pick up his friend Jody, a girl with whom he once toured the nation. This time the plan fell apart even faster than it did yesterday; Leah drove off to work with Matthew's paycheck in the Vomit Comet and he didn't feel like chasing her to Fresh Fields. Ah well; instead we sat around drinking some deep discount 20 ounce Bass Ales and discussing the certain something that goes into a beer that is "on appointment to her Majesty the Queen." I usually think Bass is a little over-rated, but I wasn't thinking that today.

His method is to talk breathlessly in his usual affable sociopathic manner about his status as "designated driver."

We also discussed drunk driving. Matthew says that Rory, the English chap who works at the C&O, is amazed at our drunk driving habits. He says that in England, drunk driving "just isn't done," not even by the most dissolute punk rockers. We, on the other hand, often find ourselves comfortably drunk with a well-stocked fridge and still we decide, in the fog of our intoxication, to go hit the road. We've been lucky.
Should a cop pull us over or should we encounter a sobriety check point (road block) in such a case, we'd be screwed. Matthew has tales to tell from the front lines of drunk driving. Usually when the cops pull him over, he can sweet talk his way out of any serious reprecussions. His method is to talk breathlessly in his usual affable sociopathic manner about his status as "designated driver." That ploy often works, especially if the car is filled with drunken rowdy passengers and an accumulation of bottles. One time Matthew was saved by the fact that he just happened to be drinking a non-alcoholic icetea. Another time, it seemed to Matthew that a policeman who knew what was up took pity on him.
Matthew is the sort of person to whom people extend unwarranted compassion and goodwill.
A cop definitely extended me pity once. I was pulled over in front of Big Fun on December 1st of 1995 in the Punch Buggy Green. I'd been drinking lots of vino at the Art Openings in Charlottesville, and no doubt stunk of alcohol. But the cop simply wrote me a speeding ticket for going 70 in a 55 mph zone. That's the only moving violation on my record.

I stole a bike wheel off of one of the many crippled and abandoned bikes that litter the grounds of the University of Virginia and used its good inner tube to fix my camoflage road bike, which is my principle in-town mode of transportation. As backup, I'd been using a three speed belonging to Ana Klausmann.

It's difficult for me to avoid having prejudices about people with that accent; nearly everyone in my high school spoke that way and I never recall anything being very cutting edge there.

J


ody came over in the evening with Matthew Hart's younger brother and a couple of skinny little alterna-girls (Heather and Shasta) whose sophisticated appearances (faux heroin addicts a la Calvin Klein advertising) were belied by their appalling Shenandoah Valley accents. It's difficult for me to avoid having prejudices about people with that accent; nearly everyone in my high school spoke that way and I never recall anything being very cutting edge there.

We continued drinking rum left over from the night before, and when that was gone, we set out to get a case of Schlitz. The alterna-girls didn't want beer, but we couldn't find the fruity girly stuff they wanted and so instead picked up some hard cider. But they didn't like that either. I found them both mildly irritating, especially after I discovered that one of them is a fan of Rush Limbaugh.

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