1992 was still drinking from a sippy cup and “Set Adrift on Memory Bliss” was still truculently poisoning the airwaves as this somber morality play takes wing.

A jubilant Paul Simon was packing his bags in preparation for a groundbreaking tour of South Africa. A sad Edie Brickell was really going to miss the tickly feel of his sweaty hairpiece bumping up under her chin as he was fucking her. Garfunkel had a much bigger cock, but he liked to talk for hours about his feelings after sex. Plus, that long curly hairdo made her feel like she was having her ham rammed by a disgraced clown. Meanwhile, in paradise…


Jan Michael Vincent set flame to the tarmac on the PCH as he rocketed northward in his ‘63 Thunderbird. Jan the Man was on his super-speedy way up to Tommy Smothers’ winery in Kenwood with dreams of doobs the size of seaplane landing gear joyously gavotting about his temporal lobe. These dissolute divertissements were the talk of the entire Sonoma Valley. Tommy knew seventeen ways to violate a starlet’s plunder barn with his yoyo. His used finger-strings still sell for up to two hundred dollars apiece at autograph conventions.

But oh, if the young Mr. Vincent had only glommed that the most hedonistic happenin’ hootenanny south of Boronda, California, was a-shockin’ and a-rockin’ at The Amos Drawling’s infamous casa, just feet from where JMV almost removed Larry Hagman’s left hip with his radiator.

Amos had thrown more bitchin’ bacchanals than Burleigh Grimes had thrown big juicy spitballs. He had misplaced more drugs than most dead rock stars had taken. Mr. Drawling partied like there was no tomorrow – mostly because he didn’t usually wake up until the day after tomorrow.

But this particular ‘Bu House soiree varied substantially from the norm. Especially the latter day norm. And not because no one had died yet. Guests still gleefully offered up their neural circuitry and digestive tracts to the gods of insalubrity. Drinks and pharmaceuticals were still being handed out like refunds at a Rob Schneider concert. It was ‘Bu House itself that was so different.

In the paltry few days that David Fairburn Sobanski (formerly of Nassau Street, Oshawa) had been in residence, changes on an unimaginable scale had transpired. People contracting Ebola from accidentally licking the upholstery were down below 47 percent. Now, when the septic tank backed up into the bathroom, you noticed it. Migrating whales had stopped swimming out beyond The Channel Islands to avoid that stretch of beach. Spanky (as he was known to his friends and inseminatees) had labored long and hard to turn this genuine toxic Superfund-site-of-a-house into a semi-livable environment (as long as you had no open cuts or were subject to epileptic seizures).

Denuded of its diabolical debris, you could actually see the unspeakable carpet that lay beneath. This was the equivalent of spooning your way down to the bottom of a yogurt cup and discovering an unborn rat instead of blueberries. This titanic purgation and transformation was a miracle on a scope seldom seen outside of Chilean mining disasters and Benny Hinn videos.

Tragically, his Herculean, Lysol-fueled attempts at exhaustive excretory eradication were all for naught. Micro-minutes into his first official Malibu informal gathering, the living room looked like Tom Waits had just spontaneously combusted. Ladies, liquor and lowlifes were everywhere you tried not to look. Decadence, wantonness, exotic pets and rampant potted-plant-piddling bopped fecklessly along to a groovin’ Ultravoxian beat.

A deluge of deplorable sudation-soaked invitees mixed and mingled together to form one giant squidgy undulating mass of off-putting opprobrium. They laughed. They drank. They ate. They perspired. All to deplorably opprobrious excess. Brand name celebratory fare (even the Fiddle Faddle!) was dropped, spilled and tossed about without concern. Yes, there is nothing more freeing to the human soul than “somebody else’s problem.”

Alas, David’s soul was not nearly so cosmically unfettered. The joie de vivre and inebriant-infused jocundity of this trendy tribute to conviviality and merriment was all but lost on its sole Motor City guest. The mucho harried Spankman darted messy-hither and even-grubbier-yon in a vain attempt to corral the innumerable beer cans, chimpanzee diapers and spit-dampened foodstuffs that now populated the once visible floor. His hands had been stepped on more times than bus station heroin.

Meanwhile, off in a far-flung corner (where he could rely on the support of two walls to hold him aloft), Amos guzzled heartily from his beaker and pompously held court with a young group of aspiring performers – most of them owning breasts.

“I have spent my life putting the words of angels into the mouths of shaved macaques,” he sadly confessed between sips from his pitcher of whisky sour. “A talent for inventing transcendent colloquy has forever doomed me to walk among their vacuous, insufferable flock.”

The embarrassingly ambitious leading ladies listened and learned as he bloviated at will and eyed their cleavage with covetous intent.

“I have not only been forced to tolerate these puffed-up, pretty-headed nincompoops, I’ve also made them rich and even admired. I have created the preposterous illusion, with my Rumpelstiltskinesque weavings of the mother tongue, that these human traffic cones actually have something worthwhile to say.”

The gaggle giggled at his wobbly wit, not realizing that their bibulous bard was referring specifically to them, should their dearest dreams in life come true.

“The only difference between the lamentable Dr. Frankenstein and myself is: the public at large was more than happy to set his monstrous creation on fire.” Amos lit a cigarette and farted so loudly, it momentarily drowned out “Reap the Wild Wind” blaring from the speakers.

Outside, the disinterested ocean continued on with its moon-mandated maneuvers as the Plovers and Grebes dashed betwixt its foamy fingers in search of crustaceal alimentation.

On the ‘Bu House balcony, Switch Siksay was snorting up a big pile of wide-eyed-and-happy. His sub-continental pier pal and pop-classic sitar player, Ravi, looked on with understandable concern.

“Are you sure you should be partaking of so much of that quite likely illegal powder stuff, my bearded buddy,” he vexedly advised. “That degree of nasal-Nirvana-seeking cannot be good for you.”

Switch’s head shot up from the glass tabletop like Sir Edmund Hillary in search of Abominable Snowgirl pussy. “Are you kidding?? I feel GREAT! Absolutely fucking GREAT!” And down he went for another sensational serving of Impotence Helper.


A few heavily dressed and dolefully visaged shoppers listlessly ambled and assembled along the length of the Muzak-drenched central concourse. A blight of extended inclemency had bored down into their very souls. Even Scott Hollis’ ice rink acrobatics and triumphs could not elevate their collective pneuma above “Really Poopy.”

They despondently trudged their sludge across the salt-smudged marble in heavy boots and gazed at shiny objects that gave them neither joy nor solace. Perhaps they’d have some coffee and a piece of pie at the Bo-Peep before heading over to the Mister Donut on King for some coffee and a cruller.

Llew, on the other hand, stood steadfast and ever vigilant at his kiosk, should the urgent need to replicate a key arise. He’d also done half a giddy-stick before work, so he was feeling pretty darn good about the world.

A reasonably pretty woman in her early twenties, draped in a knee-length reasonably fashionable coat, sauntered towards him from the direction of the Bata Shoe Store. “Hey Llew,” she half-waved.

Llewellyn Easton Flintoff quickly laser-focused his lightly scrambled gray matter and summoned up the perfect response. “Hey there, Marybeth.” He also whipped up a little half-wave of his own. This guy was smooth.

Marybeth Visneski was a reasonably smart girl, but so far, all that had garnered her was a part-time waitressing position at Teddy’s Restaurant and Deli (also on King). Unfortunately, Canadians tip about as well as they tan. This was not going to be the dream job that had her dripping in mink and ermine and protester paint. Ms. Visneski had briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a beautician, but then it occurred to her that she’d mostly be dealing with ugly people and what the fuck was she going to do with them?

The only thing of note that Marybeth had ever done in her entire life – besides seeing The Barenaked Ladies at the Jube – was seeing Tom Cochrane at the Jube.



Talk Talk Talk by The Psychedelic Furs rasped its way through various rooms as dancers danced, ganja-groupies giggled and vodka-votaries vomited. The highs were very high and the lows were very messy and a tad pewey. Dionysus was unchained and all were swept up by the madness of the grape. Inhibitions and dining room furniture were cast to the wind. “A party is a party… but a Malibu party!” Jane Austen’s Mr. Elton might have declared as he stepped over a celebrant sodomizing a Hamburglar statue in the doorway.

On the lower balcony, the hot tub was a frothy broth of bare flesh and naked ambition. Young ladies flaunted their floatables in hopes that their sin sacks might land them a line or two in Amos’s upcoming shoot. Little did they suspect that the object of their directorial desire couldn’t even focus as far as the taped-together cheaters teetering on the edge of his booze-bloated beak. Alas, the thoggy thespian’s “come hither” convexity was totally lost on the sloshed. Amos wouldn’t be able to remember any of their names, or even his own, wence ever he awoke.

Meanwhile, on the roof, Dack was the victim of seven and a half Alabama Slammers. His ability to talk had failed him. His ability to walk had failed him. Upon standing, he swayed like the lithesome sycamore, offering up its leaves and branches to the breath of God. Luckily, he had not lost his ability to take a pee off the… Oops! Actually, no, that had failed him, too.

The plummeting Dack tore through a tattered awning on his way down the side of the house before vaporizing a plate glass patio table. The stunned and the chemically oblivious were decorated in a lamina of twinkley shardage. Two grand’s worth of uncut cocaine was tragically lost to the sand and somewhere in an undisclosed BevMo parking lot, Ike Turner exploded into tears.

For the longest while, the Dackster did not move (unless you consider bleeding to be a form of movement). Much to the disappointment of all present, he was not dead. The literal party crasher had been miraculously shielded from the brunt of the hellacious impact by a big boozy protective layer of sloe gin and Amaretto. Upon regaining a tiny portion of his brain function – about as much as he experienced at the best of times – a subtly concussed smile creased his over-privileged face and he groggily completed his urinary disbursement. It was just that kind of classy soiree.

When he awoke on the morrow, he was inside a recycling bin at North Martel and 1st Street, next to a Gale Garnett album and some crushed aluminum. The sopping wet pair of Hugo Boss underwear stuffed inside his mouth were fortunately his own.


Following on the high heels of several minutes of uncomfortable and inexcusably banal conversation, Marybeth began to slice into the savory meat of her surprise visitation.

“So, I guess you heard about me and Boden, eh?” she quietly broached.

“Oh, like, fer sure,” Llew confirmed. “‘Cause, you know, it’s majorly exciting news, if you’re a guy an’ all.”

Marybeth shrugged. “Sometimes, you just feel like givin’ one, ya know?”

Llew nodded in enlightened agreement. “Always wise to stay in practice. Plus, Beano’s Pizza is easily gonna make lots of girls wanna slobber a knob, ‘cause, ya know, it’s real good pie.”

“Well, sure, the pie’s good… and the second soda was free.”

Oh dear, they had wandered back into uncomfortable and inexcusably banal conversation again.

A small, brain-paralyzing silence fell upon them like a drunk and urinating Dack. She was trying to figure out the best way to get off the subject. He was trying to figure out the best way to stay on it.

“Did you know that Spanky was in Malibu?” Ms. Visneski disappointingly veered.

Marybeth had come to the right chap if she needed to know the up-to-the-second and exciting 411 about his bestie. “Oh yeah. The one that’s in California,” he sagely informed her. “He’s got himself a plum job, workin’ near some big time celebrities.”

This did not set her reasonably sized breasts all aflutter as Llewellyn had hoped. She halfheartedly reached into her pocket and extracted a small piece of cardboard. “He wrote me a postcard, eh?”

Llew quickly transformed into a steely wingman warrior for his premier pal. “Wow! Talk about your royal treatment.”

She crinkled up her face a little. On some girls, this comes off as pants-meltingly cute. Marybeth wasn’t really a cute crinkler. “He says he’s been named ‘Of the Chosen’ by The Great One?” She squinted in thought. A slight improvement over her crinkle, but still far from her best look. “Spanky’s nice and sweet and all, but I don’t really see him as being ‘Of the Chosen’ in anything.”

Llew took a second or two to recover from this majorly pecker-shrinking pronouncement. “Dave’s taller now than he was in high school,” he masterfully countered. “Plus, he had a pretty sweet guitar until he had to sell it.” Having put forth Spanky’s main mound-moisteners, Llewellyn decided to shoot for the stars. “So, do ya suppose you might go out with him, if he ever came back to Oshawa? He’d probably have some real nice luggage.”

Marybeth seriously considered this proposed theoretical for less time than it took her to blink. “Nah.”

Laughably loyal Llew continued to bravely keep swingin’ for the feminine fences. “I’m not talkin’ about him comin’ back for good ‘cause, like, he’s a failure or nothin’. More like, for a visit, ‘cause he’s real rich and famous and stuff. Or, that he really is ‘Of the Chosen’ and he’s doin’ some sort of ‘End of the World’ promotional tour.”

Marybeth continued to block the cock. “Probably not.”

Shrug. “Super nice guy, though.”

“Oh, super nice.” She fiddled with the picture of palm trees in her hand. “So, you wanna keep his postcard?” She held out the dog-eared correspondence, making it very clear that he’d be rescuing it from a date with a garbage can.

“Oh, fer sure.” Llew removed it from her disinterested palm. A last thought. “Maybe you could just meet up with him at The Lobster one night – totally his treat – on the off chance that the entire Earth is gonna be consumed in the flames of ultimate excruciation and it is he and he alone that can save you?”

Marybeth felt obliged to give this second theoretical (That was more theoreticals than she usually received in a whole month!) some thinkum. Would she consider going out on a non-formal, one time only, opposite-sides-of-the-table, get together with Spanky, free of charge, if it meant being saved from the savage and deadly wrath of an avenging God? She shrugged anew. “Nah.”


Get the entire epic tale here from a very thrifty price!


But best read Vol. One first.


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DBAWIS_ButtonDarrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg.  CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay.  From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.  Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S.  He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.)   Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music.  Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com 

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