It all started with the Toronto Maple Leafs. We were watching them being violated by the Habs. It was an ugly sight. But, since Kilgour's is known as a haven for Montreal fans, most of the patrons were hooting. At some point during this chorus of philistinery, a balding, hunchbacked, slightly cockeyed geezer stumbled to the bar and took a stool.
One second he wasn't there, and the next, he was. It was as if he just shimmered into existence. An aura of ale and failure hung in the air around him. The skies had opened and dropped a huge pile of crazy onto a barstool. A big, steaming, beautiful pile of crazy. Just waiting to be stepped in.
He was draped in a checked shirt and brown corduroys. There was a china teacup hooked to his belt.
Yes. A china teacup. Hooked to his belt. With a carabiner.
He ordered a pint, pulled out an ancient school textbook on "Machinery and Motivation", and began to read.
We were rivited. Occasionally he would turn around and squint at my girlfriend's legs. I guess, in his own way, he was rivited, too. We tried to be discreet in our observations of this incredible man, but to be honest, it was difficult to look away.
As the degradation of the Leafs became more complete, the patrons became less interested. The commentary was turned off. Music took it's place. A strange electricity could suddenly be felt in the air. Teacup's snout was less occupied with his beer and machinery. He was starting to case the crowd for a sympathetic ear. Sooner or later, someone was going to be the recipient of this man's ramblings.
Guess who it turned out to be?
It was Lyndon Johnson's fault. Kristen, Corey, and myself were discussing his "Daisy" campaign ad...with the little girl and the nuclear explosion. We couldn't remember the candidate who used it. Teacup swivelled his head, locked eyes with me, and said:
"Spiro Agnew."
The fact that he was dead wrong didn't matter. He had our attention, and it was time to close in for the kill. The next thing I knew, he was at my elbow.
What followed was a conversation that I'm not sure I can describe. It wasn't like talking to a drunk. It was like talking to Drunk himself. After he dropped acid.
Here are just a few of the topics he wished to discuss:
1) Every few years, a sinister international governing body "reboots" the economy by picking a random commodity to base it on. The next time this will happen will be 2010. Oil and gold will not be the standards. It will be something completely different.
My suggestion that our economy may be based on the value of "tiger jizz" was ignored.
Do it for the Economy, Samson!
2) Obama won't win the election because Finland will not let it happen.
Yep. Finland. Not the CIA. Not the Illuminati. Not a cabal of seven-foot lizards. Finland.
EVIL!
3) You don't need to fill your car with gasoline. You can run your car on anything. Just put it in your tank!
And no...Kilgore doesn't own a car. I asked.
Oh, I don't know...just throw some coffee grounds in there!
It was conversational gold!
But like all good things, it needed to come to an end. For starters, my friends were not enjoying themselves as much as I was. Also, Kilgore was punctuating his points with some pretty caustic farts.
It's a little hard to dispute someone's crackpot theories when your eyes are watering through a mist of cabbage and sulfur.
In the end, we had to hightail it. But this is not over. I will return to Kilgour's very soon. And I will keep my eyes on that bar, waiting for a flashwhisper of corduroy, and the soft clink of bone china on leather. And when Teacup reappears in a puff of squint-eyed gaga, I will be there.
Together we will plot the overthrow of sinister Finland.
Jim Out.
