The Domestication of The Pencilneck ®

Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt
T H E D O M E S TI C A T I O N
O F TH E P E N C I LN E C K
These little adventures would be incomplete if there was no mention of a

few of the significant loves that have shaped and in some cases, defined my life.
I suppose we could also shovel in a couple of notable disasters too, but

we’ll start with one that had a net positive effect on things. After I mended.
Vee (obviously a pseudonym) was tall, with yards of thick dark hair, full lips
and large doe eyes. You know those couples that you see walking down the street
where she’s a knockout, arm-in-arm with a stumpy little gargoyle, and you think
to yourself “What does a woman like that see in a guy like him?” That was us.
When we met, she’d just finished nursing school and finished at the top of her
class.
Ian, Tim and Garth Lueke, (pronounced ‘Luke’) lived around the corner from
my childhood home, (and my home again at the time of this story), on Turner Crescent in
Regina. I was on the cusp of 21, and in the second year of Music College. Vee is
Tanya’s cousin, and Tanya was Garth’s girlfriend, and is now his wife. (Pay
attention, because we’re asking questions later)
I met Vee, ironically enough, the same evening that Dee and I began our
affair. She merits her own story, or two, but Dee was a small town girl a couple of
years younger than me, and we met at Music College. We were ‘coffee buddies’,
and it inexplicably progressed to intimacy at this Lueke party. Naturally I fell
head over heels for her, but her boyfriend back home gave the whole thing a bit of
an unwanted flavor.
The gong show with Dee lasted most of the winter, but Vee kept showing
up at various functions, including my 21st birthday, which Dee was unable to
© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

attend due to an out of town gig. Dee and I were going through a surreal thing
where I was The Other Guy, and she still wouldn’t leave the old boyfriend back
home.
Earlier in the year I had bet my buddies that I would quit smoking, and I
did for 5 months, but after several bottles of beverage, I fell into temptation. Vee
smoked, so I’d charmed her into popping into the bathroom with me, so I could
get off a quick ciggy without putting up with the chaffs of my chums…especially
Garth.
After several of these little meetings, people started noticing that we were
disappearing together, and Vee was getting questioned by several party goers
hoping for real ground floor dirt. Her coy miles and all too vigorous denials were
telling.
As things wound down and people started to jump ship, Vee came and
asked me if I could give her a ride home after the party. I thought, “Hmmm, I’m
the ONLY person who doesn’t have to leave, so statistically, I would be the worst
bet for hitching a ride.”
Haw!
So, drunk with liquors and obviously unable to drive anywhere, I offered a
smooth invitation to stay the night. Once accepted – naturally there had to be soft
resistance and demure protestations for the sake of propriety, we kicked out the
stragglers and retired. While exfoliating the evening from my teeth, I saw that I
was going to have to put in some fancy touches.
We began some lighthearted fumbling in the dark, and before anything got
too hotted up, I began my soliloquy:

“Before anything gets too hotted up, we’d better make sure that we’re
both after the same things here.” This can be a splash of cold water on the
proceedings, but Vee was an interested audience.
“Look,” I said, “you know that I’m kind of caught up in this mess with
Dee…”
“Uh huh. Too bad she didn’t show up tonight. Maybe you could reach
her - at her boyfriends place!”
Zing!
“Very probably. Then you know how gluey the whole thing is. You’re a
knockout, you’re funny, and actually, you’re one of the smartest women I’ve ever
known…”
“Why, because I’m here?” she said, with dryness.
I chuckled demurely. “That’s good. Seriously, I’m trying to do the Big

Thing here. If you’re maybe hoping to try out a relationship, I gotta say that I’m
on the heartsick side, and I’ve got lots of unfinished business that I need to address
before I try my hand at a new fling. If you're after something more serious, then
we’d better just cool things down right now, because I don’t want anybody getting
hurt here. Mainly mostly me.”
She propped herself up on an elbow. “Are you done flattering yourself

yet? Just because I’m in your bed doesn’t mean that that I can’t think straight.
Dee’s making you out to be a chump, and you’re damn right in needing to deal
with that first, because I don’t want any part of it. She’s not here, I am. We’re
both grown-ups…well, I’M a grown up, and if you don’t get your act together, it’s
no loss to me. Just shut up and let’s enjoy each other awhile.”

Huh. What to do…On one hand, Dee had my heart, but on the other hand,
she didn’t really want it. On the first hand, here’s as fine of a woman as I was
likely to encounter-literally falling into my arms, on the other hand…she seemed
to understand and accept my position…
Wait. Isn’t that on the first hand too?
“Happy Birthday tooo meee…!”
When Dee called the next day, I told her about this little dalliance, and
although it chapped her a little bit, she admitted that she wasn’t exactly able to say
much about it.
Maybe in the back of my mind I’d somehow hoped that when Dee saw
that there were other options open to me, she’d come to her senses and dump
Flakey McWhatsisname and declare her unending love for me in an impassioned,
tear streaked speech begging me to forgive her for being so blind for not seeing
who was her One True Love.
Delusions are funny that way.
So what was the problem with Dee anyway? It's simple Grasshopper...I
tried too damn hard. I’d convinced myself that if I just became even MORE of a
white knight, and was MORE considerate, and MORE thoughtful, and MORE
charming, and MORE persistent, she’d snap to and come around. I couldn’t just let
our relationship evolve; I had to label it, sterilize it, engrave it on monuments, to
shout it from the battlements, to acknowledge that I was found worthy by this
woman, and ensure that everyone knew it too. I could take a perfect evening of
good food, good conversation, good laughs, and stunning passion and completely
ruin it my trying to get her to sign on the dotted line.
The Moral?

The Pencilneck’s Life Lesson Number 298: Play hard to get, not hard to
want.
Meanwhile, Vee kept bobbing up at more and more social events. One
doesn’t want to be one of those love em and leave em types; you don’t need the
reputation. Like most men, I have an absolute horror of hurting women. We are
willing to put up with no end of misery if it’ll keep a woman from feeling hurt.
Yes, there are legions of men who use and abuse women, but any man worth his
Daily Bread has an ingrained, old fashioned sense of honor towards women.
There are also legions of women who take full advantage of this trait, but that’s a
different discussion.
The instincts were to avoid this woman so I wouldn’t be forced to

examine the things I’d rather leave be. And what the hell does that mean?!
Protection was used, we discussed the situation beforehand…why can’t I just
enjoy it, wink, cluck my tongue and pat myself on the back in the proper, locker
room story fashion, and sail on? I hadn’t done anything wrong, so why does
seeing Vee make me squirm?
I’ve had more than my fair portion of one nighters that’ve ended well with
smugness and fond memories for everyone, but this was one of those situations
that didn’t fit being glib. In spite of trying to handle any unpleasantness in
advance, I still felt like I’d somehow taken advantage of a significant woman’s
affections to my own end. Even though I was perfectly willing to stop before
anyone dropped their jammies, and she was a grown, responsible woman, the fact
is that we’d shared an intimacy that had grown out of a social context, and part of
that social context involves being a stand up guy, and stand up guys don’t take
advantage of the affections of admirable women. Full stop.

Maybe what I labeled as guilt was a response to the fact that I’d shared the
deepest connection our species has on a purely physical level, and didn’t have the
emotional component to consummate the consummation.
What a curse of the human condition that we’re able to engage in

intimacies without the psychological heft to live with it! Maybe I wasn’t as
mature as I thought I was.
Men seem to have a proclivity that enables them to engage in sex with a
very minimal amount of emotional attachment. No surprise there; it’s genetically
opportunistic wiring that encourages men to scatter their genes far and wide.
BUT…
We are no longer animals of the jungle and plain; we have evolved

emotionally and psychologically to elevate our race into civilizations through high
thinking and social and political relationships.
“Uh…Owen? Where are you going with this?”
The phenomenon of the man dashing off as soon as he can after a liaison
is a direct result of his discomfort over the potential backlash of disrupting these
social covenants. Sperm is cheap, but babies are a serious thing, so even on a
purely biological level, women have a hell of a lot more at stake concerning sex.
Thus, women tend to be wired to have a more emotional connection to a sexual
partner, to help insure that he’ll step into his evolutional role as provider should
their union produce a child.
The sexual revolution due to reliable contraception was great, but the
biochemical and bio-emotional reactions to sex are virtually unchanged in
humans. On some level, that guy who just made up that lame excuse about
‘leaving his lights on’ as he bolts out the door is afraid that the woman he just

coupled with might have an emotional attachment to him that’s a hell of a lot
stronger than his attachment to her is. He wanted sex, not necessarily a
relationship, and he’s hoping like hell that she can accept that.
The smug sense of one’s own prowess and sophistication after a one
nighter is actually relief that you got away with some lovin’ without the emotional
stickiness. Just remember there Romeo, that if she’s okay with a simple booty
call, that means she doesn’t think a hell of a lot about you either.
Most available women are very sophisticated and have taken ‘artificial
sexual indifference’ to an art form. However, even through vociferous denials, a
vast number of women delude themselves as to the true nature of their actions, and
still deal with the hollow feelings of rejection, and the puzzling questions as to the
nature of relationships, and men.
If I can stay on my shaky soapbox for just a moment longer, I’d tell
women that in spite of all of the pressures from the media, the porn industry,
society and peers over the past 50 years, meaningless sex is an oxymoron…and
one fraught with pitfalls.
If a woman doesn’t treasure herself and the physical acts of love, then a
man won’t treasure them, or her, either. If she doesn’t value sex and acknowledge
its proper high place, then neither will he; if she’s cheap and doles it out
indiscriminately, then she shouldn’t be surprised if the quality of men in her life
seems to be low.
Don’t mistake me, I’m not preaching abstinence; just realize that even in
this day and age, virtue is still a virtue. And don’t go thinking that just because a
man wants to sleep with you that he’s scum…but those 1950’s notions of
‘respecting you in the morning’ are still bouncing around back there.

It’s a huge mistake to try and land a man with sexual prowess. Believe it
or not, men still actually prefer to court potential mates. His subconscious is going
to be asking ‘if she’s this eager to sleep with me, would she screw around on me if
we became serious?’ and ‘Huh…where did she learn that?”
Have you ever known of a lasting love that started out as sex on the day of
the introduction? Me neither.
There’s sound logic in The Third Date Rule. Ladies, that dude you’re
debating about is biologically wired to have sex with you, but he’s also wired to
bond with a woman who is sound and significant and will be a good mother to his
children…you see, he’s thinking about his future kids too, even if he doesn’t think
that he wants any. Loose women imply looseness in other important areas of
character.
One can’t take a floozy home to meet Mom.
No, it’s not fair. It’s biology, and its contrary impulses and counter-
intuitiveness is why we make such bad decisions. Nature’s primary aim is to
reproduce itself and survive, not to make us happy and content.
The responsibility to manifest that in our lives is ours.
Now, with Vee, my worst fears were being realized. She obviously
wanted to pursue a relationship, and if I wasn’t very careful, I was going to be one
of those guys. By her every action and word, it was becoming more and more
evident that her thoughts were ‘this is a good thing…drive it along’! To her credit,
she was no stalker; she was very tasteful and low key. In fact, a casual observer
MAY jump to the conclusion that I was just being paranoid, but then everyone’s
an armchair quarterback.

A few days later a soused Owen accepted an overmodest invitation to stay

the night. This same soused Owen thought it’s also be a good time to haul up his
slacks and set the record straight. I restated my position, and she told me with an
exasperated tone to either shut up and get in here or call a cab and leave.
I’ll admit it; my baser desires may have got the better of me. Did I
mention how good looking she was?
When we woke up, we caffeinated and aspirined ourselves into mobility.

As she was getting the coffee, I looked over and saw that she had been reading one
of those putrid “How to get the man of your dreams” books that became best
sellers in the late 80’s. I got a horrible sinking feeling – and not just from the
gallons of dark rum I’d lowered the night before.
“I knew it!!!”
In later times, she insisted that the book, and the chapter that was book
marked “The New Relationship”, was the purest coincidence. I didn’t believe her
then, and I still don’t. “The lady doth protest too much.”
When she came back to the bedroom, I cocked an eyebrow at her with ref
to this book and said “Do we need to have a talk?”
“No. You may find this hard to accept, but not everything a person does or
says or reads revolves around you. When I talk to Garth, we don’t talk about you.
When I laugh at your jokes, I’m usually laughing at you. Believe it or not, I go to
parties that I know you won’t be at. I also spent days and days and days without a
thought or care about you. And when I read a crappy book, that crappy book
doesn’t mean a damn thing about you. Get over yourself!”
She was good at this, but I still didn’t believe her and I was in no shape for
sparring.

We took to the shower, and despite the previous bit of dialogue, it was
nice. Comfortable; not forced or self conscious. There was lots of hot water.
Nice smelling shampoo. Flirty soap games and bubbles and giggles. She got out
and said “Take your time, I’ll make more coffee.”
So I did. One of the things that makes my life the good time it is, is my
ability to get the very most out of a shower. I stretch. I sing. I shave. I clean
behind my ears. I plan my day. I say prayers. I think. In fact, I do my very best
thinking in the shower, and if I’ve got a sticky problem, I’ve been known to take 3
or 4 showers a day. And this shower was one of the best...I still miss it.
I finally remembered that I was a guest and that I’d been in here a hell of a
long time, so I hopped out and started toweling off. Vee knocked on the door and
handed me another coffee. I thanked her and as I hooted a sip she said “My Dad’s
here.”
I shot hot coffee out of both nostrils.
“What do you mean your Dad’s here!?!” I coughed.
“You might want to hurry.” She said, and closed the door.
It may have been the sense of impending doom, it may have been the
second degree burns in my sinus cavities, or it may have been the dark rum
counterattacking, but my vision got black around the edges. There was a large
window in the bathroom, but my clothes were scattered around Vee’s bedroom,
and we were on the second floor.
I was trapped!
Snippets of random information about her Dad rushed back. Her Mom
had married an American, and Vee had spent her high school years in Montana.

Bob…his name was Bob. He was a Vietnam vet. He’d taken up weight training
again. He owned his own business- something to do with oil rigs or something.
Vee was his “little girl”.
Oh hell.
I began to rehearse the scenarios: “Hiya Bob!”
Nope.
“Hi, Mr. Crushington!”
Nope.
“This is embarrassing a-ha-ha!”
Nope.
I could hear that the television was on some sporting event, and I could
just make out Vee talking.
“Well Owen, maybe this’ll be a lesson to you. No more fun…EVER!

You knew damn well that she was just saying what you wanted to hear, but you
ignored that, you justified having your way, and now you’re going to be
assassinated.”
I mummified myself in a towel and scooted across the hall into the
bedroom. I explored my window options again. I now had my clothes, so maybe
I could Rambo myself out the window onto that evergreen tree and shred myself to
the ground…
“Dad wants to meet you.”

I didn’t hear Vee coming, and the sudden voice caused me to shoot into
the air in a sort of electrified spasm and clack my teeth together.
I had no way out. Likely as a result of the dark rum, all of my

resourcefulness had abandoned me, and I dried my eyes, and tried to stop my
trembling lip as I walked down the hall to the living room.
There was no one there.
I blinked. I listened. I slowly turned to see if he’d gone into the

bathroom. Nope. The deadbolt was bolted, so he didn’t leave. I turned to Vee.
She had her hands pressed to her mouth and her eyes were moistish with
tears and her body shook.
“Wha?” I said.
She lowered her hands and threw back her head and started a series of
great whooping laughs that sounded part car alarm and part air raid siren. She
dropped to her knees and tried her breath. A second round of laughter ran over her
and she fell on her side.
I stood still and tried to comprehend.
“You should see your face!!! Her laughs rolled into a deep, roaring,
involuntary chuckle.
I plopped to my bum and tried to recover. I’d been had! This was a
Masterpiece! I thought it was in poor taste, but By God, it was well done! She
crawled over and wrapped her arms around me and tried to stop laughing, but it
was beyond her abilities. I half feared and half hoped that she’d laugh herself into
a permanent case of the hiccups. It wasn’t until her nose began running
uncontrollably that she stood and went in a panicky search for a tissue.

I collected myself and left after the usual niceties. Vee was completely
exhausted, but she still erupted into guffaws up as soon as she caught her breath. I
got into the Supra and drove off.
But the seed had been planted.
Over the next few weeks, my fears of being stalked/being a letch/getting

out of the situation weakened, and I found myself wandering into a state of
appreciation of just how good the joke she played on me was.
There were still unfinished things with Dee, but I accepted The Inevitable.
I got hired by a band and went out on the road. Then I got fired after three weeks
because I didn’t take country music very seriously and I didn’t bother learning the
tunes. Whoops. I floated around Regina for a bit, got hired by another band, and
hit the road again. I got fired from this one too, but that was fine by me; they were
druggies and the band stunk and I wasn’t interested in being co-operative about it.
Vee and I kept running into each other, and sometimes we got together, sometimes
we didn’t.
During one party at The Lueke Boy’s pad down the block, Vee brought a
new chap that she’d dated a couple of times and this presented a stickyish
situation. She could do whatever she wanted; we made it clear that we weren’t
having a relationship, and I’d had had a few failed stabs at dating too. Still, I
didn’t take my new interests to affairs that I knew Vee would be at! Not cricket, if
you follow. The consensus was that this was likely an immature attempt to get a
reaction out of me.
So, I reacted immaturely.
In my own defense, I was drinking Sake, so things were kind of headed

for high adventure anyways. Sake always gets me doing stupid stuff, like
climbing trees, Travolta dancing, feats of strength, barnyard impersonations, etc.

Also, when a liquefied, testosterone filled Young Man is presented with his
intended replacement, that replacement should be 1) better looking, 2) smarter,
and 3) richer. Otherwise, the transaction doesn’t make sense, and the Young Man
takes offense. I know I did.
She showed up with a skinny, greasy little puke with a thin braided
ponytail running halfway down his back, earrings, loud cologne, thick half tinted
glasses, a wispy attempt at a moustache, stained and crooked teeth, an Iron Maiden
T-shirt, and elaborate boots with metal bits on them. And, he was smoking
menthols.
He looked like a fish. Not one of those sleek silvery attractive fish; he
was more of a bottom feeder. I think they’re called lungfish. Yes, that was it…he
looked like an extra nerdy species of bottom feeding lungfish that was trying out
for a part in a gay biker movie.
I didn’t mind competition, I always felt that I could hold my own in most
respects, but it was insulting that her taste in men grouped me in with this wanker.
How does she pick them? What possible criteria could this Lungfish and I have in
common?
Not wanting to openly create a scene, I drifted off into the kitchen, and
cracked open the second bottle of Sake. I don’t know if you know The Luekes or
not, but if you do, you’ll know that the one quality that over rides all others is their
sense of loyalty. The Hatfields and The McCoys could’ve learned a thing or two
from The Luekes. These men are made of good stuff, and would take a bullet for
the people in their loop.
Like me, for instance.
The Lungfish was sitting on a long sofa trying hard to impress people at
the party, and Tim, the quiet Lueke, kept looking at the braid down The

Lungfish’s back. You could see the look of distaste on Tim’s face. This braid
pained him, and he took it very personally that someone would bring one into his
house.
He looked over at the gal sitting on his other side and asked her for some
scissors. She apologized and said she didn’t have any. He asked another, and
another, and another. Finally someone across the room asked what he wanted
scissors for, and he told them that he had to “cut that stupid ponytail off of this
guys head because it was stupid.”
…and it got things going nicely.
Before too long this poor Lungfish was defending himself and his
discussions on all sides by Luekes, and Lueke relatives, and friends of the Luekes.
It was like a contagion. Some of the woman chastised their men for being rude,
and “what did this guy do to you?”, but before long, they’d joined in, because it
turned out the guy was an idiot of high order, and was about as pleasant as a
smack in the eye with a wet towel.
This whole time, I was in the kitchen getting the maximum dosage of Sake
into me, and Chris and I were taking in the floor show.
When I drink sake, it seems I become open to suggestions. It acts like

hypnosis. Chris started to work.
“Look at that guy” he said.
I looked at him.
“What an idiot.” he said.
“What an idiot” I said.

"What could Vee see in a zero like him?" he asked.
"What could Vee see in a zero like him?" I asked.
"What's with that ponytail?" he asked
"What's with that ponytail?" I asked.
"He's smoking menthols." he said.
"He's smoking menthols!" I said.
"He's got those greeny-browny teeth" he said.
"He's got those greeny-browny teeth!" I said.
"He's a loud mouth" he said.
"He's a loud mouth!" I said.
“He should get his ass kicked” he said.
“He should get his ass kicked!” I said.
Chris knows a good thing when he sees it. “Hmm” he thought. “I’ve
spent over half my life with Owen conning me into doing stuff that my better
judgment told me was bad news. Maybe while he’s gripped by the Sake, I show
him what it’s like.”
Chris gently pointed me towards the living room and eased behind me so
as to speak into my ear. Later on, he said that he debated trying to sit me on his
knee, but sound homophobic reasoning corrected him.
“Who’s going to kick his ass?” Chris asked.

I turned and blinked at him. You need a cue. This ventriloquist stuff is
neat, but it's a team effort. A windup toy needs the odd windup to keep going.
“You could kick his ass” he said, as if speaking to a two year old.
“I could kick his ass?” I said, awestruck by this notion.
“I think you can” he said.
“I think I can” I said.
“I think you can!” he said.
“I think I can!” I said.
“Yes you can!” he cheered.
“YES I CAN!!!” I boomed.
The conversation in the living room had turned to music, and The
Lungfish, sensing that he was being surrounded by hostile forces, thought he’d get
defensive by going on the offensive.
“Crue rocks. Priest rocks. GNR rocks. Everything else is shit!” he

bleated.
Chris’ face lit up. He told me to stay put and bounded over to Ian and
muttered something. Ian’s face lit up. They looked at me. They looked at The
Lungfish. They grinned a couple of Grinch grins, and Chris sauntered back
behind me.
“That stuff stinks…” Chris said evenly.

“THAT STUFF STINKS!” I thundered. All heads turned to see what

must’ve looked like Moses coming down from the kitchen with an armful of sake
and an accusing finger pointing at The Lungfish.
“That’s barely even music…” Chris said.
“That’s barely even music!!!” I yelled.
“Yes it is!” bawled The Lungfish.
A couple of other people offered opinions, but the mood of the party had
become anticipatory. Owen had a couple of bottles of Sake lapping around inside
of him, and that meant commotion. Vee tried to put a calming hand on The
Lungfish’s arm.
“The Police is the best band in the world, bar none.” It was a new voice,
and it came from a new direction, and it was offered to the general assembly, in a
clear, penetrating tone. It was Ian. He was looking at Chris.
This was too much for The Lungfish. “The Police?! The POLICE??!!
They SUCK! They’re the worst bunch of faggots I ever heard! If you like them,
then you’re a faggot too!!!”
Everyone took a big hissing suck of air through their teeth. It got real
quiet, real fast. Vee let her face fall into her hands. The crowd looked at The
Lungfish in open-mouthed disbelief. The crowd looked at Ian. Normally, anyone
talking to Ian like that in his own home would get a swollen eye, a mashed nose,
and a split lip, but Ian was looking at me, and he was kind of smiling.
Then the crowd looked at me too.
I suppose that the average guy on the street would have thought I was
having a fit and would’ve tried to get a wooden spoon between my teeth.

If you’ve known me for more than about 15 minutes, you’ll know that I
consider Robert Palmer to be The Singer, Stewart Copeland to be The Drummer,
and The Police to be The Band.
And it’s a big deal.
According to eye witnesses, I turned a furious red, my eyebrows clamped

down, my fists clenched white with the strain, my teeth bared, huge snorts came
and went through enlarged nostrils, my chest heaved, and I began to expand. A
low rumbling seemed to emit from under the floor. Windows steamed up.
Eardrums popped. Beverages fizzed over. Glass cracked in picture frames.
Houseplants withered. Small fires started breaking out in ashtrays. Bits started to
fall from the ceiling. Paint on the wall started to bubble and peel. Vee grabbed
her purse and began pulling The Lungfish to the door.
Chris poked he head out from behind me and politely said to The Lungfish
“I hope your affairs are in order....”
I have to give The Lungfish some credit here. He didn’t back down. He
went out fighting. Either that or he was just too stupid to see the kind of peril he
was in.
The Lungfish sneered up at me as he was pulled out the door. “Asshole

Police loving faggot!”
I made a lunge at The Lungfish, but something was wrapped around my

arms and chest. It was Chris. I cocked an eye at him and brushed him off. I went
to grab at my quarry, but now Ian flew across the room and pounced on my
shoulders. Then Chris grabbed on again. Then Marty, Richard, Garth and several
others climbed on. It was a bit odd to have 6 or 8 of my closest friends pile on top
of me in a crush. I didn’t see their point. Why are they jumping on my neck? The
villain is getting away!!! Women were shouting, telling us to stop. I carried the

knot of them out the door and down the steps, but this backfired, as they now had
room to maneuver. Two or three somebodies anchored on to my feet, and
someone else – I think it was Tim, but he denies it – started kicking at the back of
my knees, while my nearest and dearest were leaping on my back with animal
yells trying to bring me down. These were my compadres, so I couldn’t very well
fight back with tooth and fist. Etiquette said that all I could do was wrestle them
off, but that’s hard to do when there are 20 or 30 of them.
The Lungfish still kept going, calling names and insults and taunts until
Ian disentangled himself from the fray and calmly walked over to Vee, and in that
super polite language you only use when you’re absolutely furious, suggested that
she (Vee) get him (The Lungfish) out of here, or he (Ian) was going to start snapping
pieces off of him (The Lungfish). She (Vee) apologized and cleared a tear away, and
took him (The Lungfish) out into memory.
Slowly, the pile of my ‘friends’ unwound itself and pried me out of the
spread eagled Owen-shaped depression on the lawn.
Back inside, we were all remixing drinks, nursing and comparing wounds
and torn clothes, ignoring the admonitions of the women, fixing eyeglasses and
lamenting over the broken cigarettes.
“What were you guys doing!!!?” I yowled. “You’re supposed to back me

up, not let the little bastard keep on insulting us as he runs away! Whose side are
you all on?!?”
Amid unanimous backslaps and apologies, the consensus was that things
got WAY too flammable, and that a homicide would slow the evening, so for my
own good, they jumped in and stopped me from smashing him flat.

Chris doddled over with a meditative look on his face. “I don’t think I’ve
ever seen you that mad. You looked like a reverse Hulk - turning red instead of
green.”
He looked off to an imaginary horizon. “Sake. Huh. Got to remember

that.” And he eased away.
Exertions and adrenaline tend to sober, and I stepped out onto the stoop
for the conflicting desires of fresh air and a ciggy. As I replayed the scenario, I
realized how damn childish it was. Leftover schoolyard stuff. Bluster and bullshit
and bravado for the girls. "My Dad could whip your Dad."" I-know-you-are-but-
what-am-I?" No real reason for fighting, yet impossible to back down. A Grade 7
sense of pride.
What was the bloody point? I usually steer clear of this kind of
immaturity, don’t I? Who cares about a little greaser like that? I’m really good at
ignoring people I don’t like…why get so red hot at this little loser?
“Because” I told myself “he just might be taking home the woman that
you’re maybe supposed to be with. You can’t admit that you blew it; so instead,
you’re pulling a he-man on a mouthy little bastard to demonstrate your virility.
Yup…this is the kind of stuff that makes your Mom real proud of you, Owen.”
I called Vee the next day and apologized for the Wild West Show, but for
the next several months, we didn’t see each other at all.
I got a call for my first “A” room gig, with David Boone, and lit out on the
road playing in country bars all across Western Canada. There’s lots of story stuff
there too, but in November, the day after the Saskatchewan Roughriders won their
first Grey Cup in over 23 years, I awoke in Hinton, AB to a barbarous hangover
and a ringing telephone.

“Hello?” I croaked, after several attempts to clear my throat.
“How are you feeling?” A woman’s laugh tinkled over the line.
“I think it’s terminal” I gasped.
“Do you still want me to come up?”
This caused my eyes to shoot open, which was a poor move on their part.
They grinded shut again, and placed an order for tears as soon as they could be
arranged. Who the hell was this all-too-happy woman who wanted to “come up”?
Was she in the lobby?
I don’t know if you’ve even had a blinding hangover and had to think
extra quick. It’s tough; the problem is the distractions. First, you feel baffled
because your head is being cracked open like an egg, your stomach is teetering on
mutiny, your teeth feel loose, your eyes are gravelly, your hair hurts, your lungs
are stiff, and you’re thirsty, and your mouth tastes like you've eaten some cottage
cheese that got left out in the sun, and you don’t know it yet, but you’ve spent a
hell of a lot more money than you thought you did, and now there’s some woman
you don’t know asking to ‘come up’.
“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. Bring a doctor.”
Foolish? Rash? Yes, but it was the only thing I could think of at the time.
I heard an astonished intake of breath. “You don’t remember!” She said,

with an amused blaming tone. Well...sort of amused.
“No, I don’t. Who is this?”
“It’s Vee, you loser!” Well that was one mystery cleared up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here’? I’m not there, I’m here.” she
said, as if to clarify.
“Wait…what?” I asked.
“I’m not in Hinton, I’m in Regina.”
“Are you coming here?” This wasn’t making any sense.
“Yes.”
“Oh…why?” A valid question.
“Because you asked me to, you idiot!”
I apologized 10 or 12 times, and asked her to explain just what I’d done
this time. She said that I called her at her Grandma’s house at 3:00 am ‘just to
chat’.
Yipes!
“Then” she said “at about 4:30, you said ‘why don’t you just shake your
ass on up here on the bus?’” She seemed a little indignant about the phrasing, but
even a withered invalid like me noted that she had still made the call.
“So, do you want me to come, or not?” she ultimated.
“Well…uh…sure!” I said, striving for the casually happy/pleasantly

surprised note.
So she did. All day long, I swung between a crippling hangover, and
wondering just what the hell I’m getting set up for. From Regina, Greyhound
offers a brisk, courteous 20 hour ride to Hinton. After I got canned by the first
band I joined, I had to bus it from Winnipeg to Regina and that was only about 8

hours, and I didn’t imagine the experience had changed much. A woman does
NOT take a 20 hour bus ride ‘just because’. She does it because it’s become an
affair of the heart, and since it was an affair of the heart, I had certain
responsibilities.
As much as I tried to sidestep the issue, if she was adhering herself to the
seat of a Greyhound for 20 hours each way at my invitation – or at the very least,
my cowardice at not revoking that invitation, then I owed her a chance at a
relationship. Of course it wasn’t a ‘till death do us part’ thing; I could still walk if
it wasn’t working out, but as a matter of civility, I was honor bound to explore a
serious, committed relationship.
And why not? Why was I kicking so hard? What was so wrong with her?
She was gorgeous, smart, funny, had a career of her own, and she could apparently
put up with whatever asinine thing I was liable to do.
So, we started a relationship.
By March, I had moved in to her apartment. She, and then it was ‘we’,
lived in a second floor apartment in a funky old redone building in a downtown
area that was struggling to maintain the momentum of rejuvenation that a corps of
lunatics tried a decade before.
By July, I had left Boone to try my hand at being an entrepreneur. (And By

God, there are lots of stories there too.)
For nearly a year, we’d only spent three cumulated months or so together.
All day/everyday is much different. The relationship begins to evolve in
unexpected ways. When you’ve only got each other for 5 or 6 days, you’re only
real emotions are: happy that you’re together and apprehensive because you’ll be
apart again before you know it.

After about 3 weeks of ‘Wow, it’s so great to not have to leave!’ you start
to notice small crinkles in the eyebrows and little huffs of exasperation. The pile
of laundry that was a complete non-issue on each stop home is becoming a point
of contention. Not properly rinsing a milk glass causes comment. An unshaven
morning, afternoon and evening of sloth on the couch watching TV shows that you
haven't seen in months becomes a capital offence. Pretty soon, you start hearing
snippy bits like “Did you use my towel?” and “Didn’t you wear that shirt
yesterday?” and “Are you planning to go outside at all today?” and “How much
toilet paper does one person need each time? Are you eating it?” and “If you don’t
start taking your nightly glass of water to the sink in the morning I’m going to kill
you in your sleep!”
Owen’s Life lesson Number 366: Be careful what you ask for…

The Domestication of The Pencilneck ®

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The Domestication of The Pencilneck ®

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Excerpted from ‘How to be a Pencilneck’ by Owen Garratt

These little adventures would be incomplete if there was no mention of a

I suppose we could also shovel in a couple of notable disasters too, but

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

“Why, because I’m here?” she said, with dryness.

I chuckled demurely. “That’s good. Seriously, I’m trying to do the Big

She propped herself up on an elbow. “Are you done flattering yourself

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

Wait. Isn’t that on the first hand too?

“Happy Birthday tooo meee…!”

Delusions are funny that way.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

The instincts were to avoid this woman so I wouldn’t be forced to

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

What a curse of the human condition that we’re able to engage in

We are no longer animals of the jungle and plain; we have evolved

“Uh…Owen? Where are you going with this?”

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

One can’t take a floozy home to meet Mom.

The responsibility to manifest that in our lives is ours.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

A few days later a soused Owen accepted an overmodest invitation to stay

When we woke up, we caffeinated and aspirined ourselves into mobility.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

I shot hot coffee out of both nostrils.

“What do you mean your Dad’s here!?!” I coughed.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

I began to rehearse the scenarios: “Hiya Bob!”

“Hi, Mr. Crushington!”

“This is embarrassing a-ha-ha!”

“Well Owen, maybe this’ll be a lesson to you. No more fun…EVER!

“Dad wants to meet you.”

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

I had no way out. Likely as a result of the dark rum, all of my

There was no one there.

I blinked. I listened. I slowly turned to see if he’d gone into the

I stood still and tried to comprehend.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

But the seed had been planted.

Over the next few weeks, my fears of being stalked/being a letch/getting

So, I reacted immaturely.

In my own defense, I was drinking Sake, so things were kind of headed

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

Like me, for instance.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

…and it got things going nicely.

When I drink sake, it seems I become open to suggestions. It acts like

“Look at that guy” he said.

“What an idiot.” he said.

“What an idiot” I said.

© Owen Garratt 2009 www.pencilneck.com All Rights Res erv ed.

"What could Vee see in a zero like him?" he asked.

"What could Vee see in a zero like him?" I asked.

"What's with that ponytail?" he asked

"What's with that ponytail?" I asked.

"He's smoking menthols." he said.

"He's smoking menthols!" I said.

"He's got those greeny-browny teeth" he said.

"He's got those greeny-browny teeth!" I said.

"He's a loud mouth" he said.

"He's a loud mouth!" I said.

“He should get his ass kicked” he said.