The Sound of Music: More unsettling details about my unsupervised childhood.
One of these times where my parents dropped me at my aunt and uncle's trailer (with a basement), I got to visit a bunch of arenas to attend hockey games one of my cousin was playing. For some reason I can't recall seeing much hockey but instead lots of wandering around rural ice rinks.
Actually I remember one game I attended. I conveniently chose a seat behind the visiting team's goalie. I was alarmingly unsupervised come to think of it. It's with wonder I discovered a pair of light switches in front of my seat. I didn't even think twice about flipping them randomly to find out what they did. It was obviously the switches lighting up the red and green lights the judges action to signal a goal or a period end. It pissed off the entire arena and I got scolded by strangers.
I quickly withdrew to resume aimless roaming in the halls. On my path I noticed an entire rack of nazi uniforms on wheels. The plastic covers over them suggested they came straight from the dry cleaner. Even though I was seven I knew nazis were somewhat the pinnacle of evil. Thanks to watching WWII documentaries on History channel with my father. This unsettled me to no end. It's only today I realize that it probably was some sort of On Ice adaptation of The Sound of Music. I'll stop my investigation right about here.
Anne Hutchison.
It was my first experience at camp, which was somehow unusual for a thirteen year old. I packed my old worn out army canvas bag with a copy of the Catcher in the Rye, some swimming gear, and the usual paraphenelia associated with a two week vacation at a summer crew camp. My father dropped me at the train station by St. Louis avenue. He was kind enough to wave me goodbye as the train left towards the Empire state. Once the train stopped in Ithaca, two counsellors were waiting for about 6 or 7 of us and drove us to the Cornell Campus, in remote camp like facilities right by Cayuga Lake.
Among the vast offering my parents unfolded in front of me back that March, I picked the rowing camp as I did fairly good in some trials in Montreal back when I was in the boy scouts. Crew was never really part of the culture back home, making it easy to be the bigger fish in the pond. We settled in our residences. After the meet and greet and the usual safety instructions, we retreated in our dorms for the night.
I was not surprised to be the only kid from my home province, let alone my hometown of Quebec City. I did not notice the presence of a camp counsellor we did not meet the night prior. Her name was Anne. It was obvious she had a french accent. She spoke english in a simple but effortless way, managing graciously with the gaps in her vocabulary.
Like all the other instructors we met that day, I found out she was on a scolarship at Cornell and joined the rowing team. The most dedicated (and desperate) of them were offered every year a job at the camp working with kids like us. The counsellors had the same kind of authority over us as the coaches who only attended the actual rowing part of camp. Twice a day we'd get on the lake with our own respective teams.
Anne was working with the two girl teams, each composed of girls ranging from 13 to 18. There were much more boys, which allowed us to train and compete against kids our age. Our days were intersperced with a lot of time allotted for ourselves around the lake. Anne happened to share a schedule similar to mine and she rapidly introduced herself, as she somehow picked up I was from her neck of the northern woods. She was 19 and was studying med at Cornell. Both her older brothers were into rowing and she naturally made the women's team on her first year. Turns out she was also from Quebec City.
Our families were actually well aquainted together as we quickly found out. Anne and I formed an island. Both speaking what might as well have been Italian to the others, who by then were calling us "Canada". Maybe she needed to find a little bit of home though our conversations. She was a sophomore and did not cross the border since the holidays.
Our families were actually well aquainted together as we quickly found out. Anne and I formed an island. Both speaking what might as well have been Italian to the others, who by then were calling us "Canada". Maybe she needed to find a little bit of home though our conversations. She was a sophomore and did not cross the border since the holidays.
Anne told me about her mother, who married an old pro golfer who was friends with my father. I knew her. Since then, she passed away of cancer. She was a kind woman, who could read the lines on the palm of your hand. Sometimes she was scared of what she'd find out. I remember feeling unusually sad when she passed away. Anne somehow reminded me of her in some ways. They both had a strong upper brow and piercing grey eyes. I remember going to their house when I was a kid. Even back in the 80's, the whole place was sort of streamlined and gave this Apple Store vibe.
The rowing coaches were merciless. Twice a day, for two hours straight, we'd slice through Cayuga Lake's shallow waters. The first session was at 6:30 am. Kids who were late were thrown into the lake by their peers. I loved getting to the lake early and watch the fog dance above the lake. By the time the sun was fully up, it was already dissipated. I always wished it rised as high as possible, but it irreversibly stagnated above the lake only to die with the heat of the sun peeking through the mountains. The morning sessions were all about drills. On rainy mornings, we'd waste away on indoor rowing tanks. The actual racing only happened in the afternoon. Blue team did fairly well at first but we were soon outpaced by Yellow and Red squads. I was usually one to want to compete, especially in team sports. This became frustrating and really tiring.
After four days of these pseudo impromptu meetings Anne and I had, I got to give the shitty details on my parent's divorce, which she heard about through her respective family. She learned of my first year in high school, the friends and even the Chase. Med school was killing her but there was no way she'd give up rowing for it. What I found in Anne was more than a french speaking sanctuary. More than a great way to vent off against the coaching staff. I could go on forever about Crimes and Misdemeanor, Saturday Night Live, RW Emerson, or the Kids In The Hall and she would always provide back something eerily insightful. Eons away from the dead stares I would usually get back home in suburbia. There was no one in sight. Our skin touched that day.
Anne was out of a relationship with her high school sweetheart as she eventlully told me while laying in the sun by the lake. He was her first and last. I know her heart was broken, much more than she'd ever let on. The second time she mentionned this break up she suddenly got up and started to run in an unknown direction.
I ran behind her as fast as I could. I ignored why she was running like there was some sense of danger. Just like I couldn't really tell why I was running after her. This afternoon pursuit in the woods, then on to the campus, lasted maybe 2 or 3 minutes. I was just running silent, leaving the surronding green areas form one single blur, as if the only thing I could focus on were the back of her calves and the small fushia swoosh on the back of her Air Maxes.
I finally saw her reach a pay phone. This was the first time I saw her cry. She cocked her tiny hands into fists and banged on the booth's plexiglass. It's as if something pure was being taken away from her. One day you realize that there is no god, then you find out all men are not born equal. For Anne, it was the notion that a love that was meant to be forever true has now come to an irreversible end of existence.
That night she came by my cabin and grabbed my hand. She took me to the lake and we quickly slipped into a training shell. Without a word I rowed towards the center of the lake. At one point I had to fend off a couple of stray bats with an oar. This didn't phase her out one bit. The Cayuga was otherwise calm. In a misguided attempt to capture the innocence that just escaped her existence, she leaned over and pressed my scalp against her forehead. She made me swore I would never change and pressed her lips against mine.
***
I met Anne again a few months ago at the hospital while visiting my dying grandmother. As I expected, she plowed through Cornell with Honors. Years added details to her face. She was as magnificient as ever. It took us painful minutes to go back to a decent level of comfort. She recounted her marriage which ended the year before with the death of her husband in an accident. She had two kids with him. Anne wasn't sure what to do with the relief his passing away caused in her. Turns out he was a selfish asshole.
We sat next to each other on a bench outside the hospital. for her lunch break. She wolfed her lobster salad in mere minutes as I recounted what led me there that day, going over the 15 odd years between that cloudy Sunday afternoon and what turned out to be our farewells back at Cayuga Lake. We reflected on that period with soft spoken words and fleeting glances. We let the silence permeate the moment only to realize we were both ripe to recapture the purity that we could seemingly only find in each other at that exact place and time. It was the second time I saw her cry.
Don't you forget about John Hughes.
These were not just kids. At the tipping point of their youth, embracing infinity, sprouting to uncertain futures, they were true beings to his eyes. Giving them a life of their own, notwithstanding their innocence coming into age, he simply wanted to tell their story. Ed, these are not just dweebs, weirdos, preppies, bloods or spazzes. They are the future, Ed.
I won't forget about you John. You showed me the beauty in your reminiscence of Shermer, you made me look at Chicago and you even took me on this joyride during the Stoeb Parade. I don't mind the anachronism. I'm now outside looking in and the peephole gets smaller every day. Is that why you faded away? There's a new order of simple minds now, and I wish they just took the time to register what you did.
Dear Stephen Hawking.
In case you didn’t pay attention, let me inform you that the world takes whatever ideas you synthesize out there very seriously. So first you create this big stir by stating we shouldn’t get in touch with aliens and by comparing potential visitors to the white man coming to America. This is just irresponsible, Steve. It’s not clear to everyone that my nephew’s guess is as good as yours when it comes to what visiting aliens will intend to do with us. Can one believe that a society that masters warp speed technologies can also manage basic diplomacy?
Now this bit about humanity needing to leave Earth in the next 200 years to ensure survival? Well that’s common sense. But why do you need to remind the population that we’re fucked? Are we more deserving than the rest of the living things on Earth? Are you saying we should just give up on green technologies and just focus on building a space station for us all? This is just irresponsible, Steve.
You are “foreseeing” dangers for human race? Where should we pin your fucking medal, Nostradamus? You came up with that on your own after pondering for a lifetime? Anybody who ever picked up a newspaper would tell you the same thing. A Brief History of Time was a good read (on weed). Your hard work has been recognized in all circles. Why do you have to piss away your all credibility at the end of this fulfilling life? I used to think anything you said was gold. Now I have to write you this letter. This is just irresponsible, Steve.
Best regards,
J.
L'Ésthtétique Dolan.
Je peux toujours réussir à éviter de voir ses vues, mais je ne peux pas éviter les affiches du film "Les Amours Imaginaires" qui placardent la ville. J'ai pu comprendre de certains cinéphiles que le cinéma de Xavier Dolan, c'est un genre de mash-up de bons réalisateurs, au travers son kaleidoscope inneday saupoudré d'ambiquité sexuelle. C'est correct là, c'est un genre. C'était pas mal drôle de l'entendre parler à Homier-Roy de son "anti-film" quand il a été confronté au fait que sa trame narrative souffre de famine.
Revenons donc à ces affiches. J'ai bien aimé le résultat visuellement même si on aurait pu se passer de voir sa tronche au moins une fois. Ces images m'ont immédiatement rappellé l'esthétique que The Smiths a bâtie avec soin au cours des années 80.
La seule chose que je peut concéder que The Smiths et Dolan ont en commun, c'est justement cette ambiguité homoérotique. Chacun à leur façon, et chacun de leur côté du spectre, j'en conviens. Moz a pas mal plus de classe par exemple.
Mike Liut En A Eu Assez.
Shot by Paul Mulvey. Stopped by Mike Liut with a rebound. Free Puck Retrieved by Bob Sweeney for Penguins. Shot by Bob Sweeney. Stopped by Mike Liut without a rebound. Major / Game Misconduct Penalty to Mike Liut for Unsportsmanlike conduct. Mike Liut is ejected from game. Michel Plasse enters game.
On peut soupçonner que Liut était pas mal tanné du gossage que Sweeney faisait à chaque fois qu'il essayait de geler la puck. Un coup de biscuit et Sweney a dû rentrer à Pittsburgh après le match avec REPOOC étampé sur le front.
Un écart de conduite auquel on s'attends une ou deux fois par année avec Liut, qui est autrement très discipliné. Certains même diront dans le vestiaire que Mike est anal sur les bords. On essaie de pas trop se préoccuper que ses analgésiques soient classés en ordre alphabétique. Son ancien co-chambreur* Gerry Hart a rapporté à Pierre Pagé que Mike vérifiait toujours exactement 12 fois si le gaz de la cuisinette était bien fermé avant d'aller se coucher.
*Liut a maintenant sa propre chambre depuis l'incident du 18 Novembre 1984 à Juarez. Des fois, Mike pousse la notion de "contrôle" un peu trop loin.
Les meurtres de femmes de Ciudad Juárez désignent une série d'assassinats commis dans la ville frontière de Ciudad Juárez au nord du Mexique. Beaucoup de ces meurtres n'ont jamais été élucidés.
Selon Amnesty International, plus de 370 cadavres ont été trouvés et plus de 400 femmes sont considérées comme disparues. Selon d'autres sources le nombre des disparues serait supérieur à 600. La plupart des victimes étaient âgées de 13 à 25 ans au moment des faits ; elles travaillaient dans les maquiladoras de groupes internationaux, qui ont été construits à proximité de la frontière. Pour 137 victimes, des abus sexuels ont été constatés. 75 cadavres n'ont pas pu être identifiés car ils étaient trop déformés. Le porte-parole mexicain des droits de l'homme Jose Luis Soberanes a déclaré que 28 femmes avaient été assassinées et que la ville était la honte du pays. La Cour interaméricaine des droits de l'homme a condamné l'état du Mexique pour avoir manqué à ses devoirs pour trois meurtres à Ciudad Juárez.
À Hartford, on préfère ne pas mentionner ce qui est arrivé ce jour là. On a aussi fait brûler les carcasses d'ânes et les toiles de plastique.
Le Nouveau Document.
L'équipe du Nouveau Document est à la recherche de collaborateurs et faux-journalistes (fauxrnalistes?) brillants, productifs, créatifs et surtout drôles. Amateurs de lieux communs et de Jean-Michel Anctil s'abstenir.
Compensation: Honneur et Respect.
Prérequis: Intégrité, Impartialité et Bravoure.
Objectifs: L'infini et même plus loin.
Envoyez vos candidatures à: janic.naud@lenouveaudocument.ca
Pineault.
Je me rapelle plus de son prénom. Elle restait en face de chez Pierre-Yves et je pense qu'elle avait un frère retardé. Un soir, elle et son amie débarquent chez-nous. Une soirée tranquille, à 17 ans, où tout ce que tu as à faire c'est traîner dans ta banlieue platte avec des gens qui veulent en sortir autant que toi.
Elle et son amie orchestraient clairement quelque chose. Elles se parlaient dans l'oreille en murmurant. Son amie a quittévers chez elle comme ça hors de nul part en me laissant seul avec Pineault.
Pineault avait bel et bien un plan: m'avouer son béguin pour moi. On s'entends que j'avais jamais vraiment voulu sortir avec Pineault. Elle était bien belle mais elle parlait semi comme un tracteur.
En la reconduisant jusqu'à son arrêt de bus je lui expliquait comment j'avais pas la tête à sortir avec une fille, que j'avais d'autres priorités et tout ça. On s'est assis sur la chaîne de trottoir et elle s'est mise à me frencher solide.
Le lendemain je l'appelle pour en discuter, elle revient chez-moi. Pas le temps de jaser, on se remet à maker out. Les pelures commençaient à partir. Ses osties d'épingles à cheveux étaient rendues partout dans mon lit. J'étais rendu bien loin du gars qui voulait pas de Pineault.
J'ai enfin eu la chance de resaisir mes esprits quand elle a dû s'excuser aux toilettes. En revenant, elle a trouvé un autre homme dans ma chambre. Je lui ai proposé un bon spaghetti - avec la sauce de matante Gabrielle que j'ai lassé cuire un petit peu trop longtemps parce que c'est meilleur comme ça - à l'étage. Devant ce plât de pâtes et de dure réalité, j'ai pu retrouver les mots. Des mots justes mais DÉVASTATEURS. Elle est partie et je ne lui plus jamais parlé. Tout ce qui me restait d'elle étaient les épingles qui ne finissaient plus d'être découvertes dans et autour de mon lit.
Patrick Beaulieu.
Quand j'étais jeune il y avait deux Patrick Beaulieu dans ma vie. D'abord il y avait mon ami au primaire, qui lui était très sportif et avait la cassette de Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Sa sportivité versus mon style plus cérébral (mettons) ont fait en sorte qu'on s'est perdus de vue.
Il y avait aussi mon cousin Patrick Beaulieu. Lui, il avait 5-6 ans de plus que moi et son grand frère avait à peu près 10 ans sur moi. J'allais me faire garder chez eux quand MES PARENTS ALLAIENT À ACAPULCO AVEC MA SOEUR ET ME LAISSAIENT SEULS À BERNIÈRES AVEC CETTE OSTIE DE FAMILLE LÀ TROIS SEMAINES. C'était du bien bon monde.
Le père Denis ressemblait à Boris Yelstine bien entamé. Il avait un genre de business de jacuzzis et avant il jobbait sur une autre aventure dans son garage. Ils restaient dans une maison mobile sur le bord de la 20. Étrangement leur maison mobile avait un sous-sol. Avec un tapis rouge. Je pouvais seulement jouer avec les jouets dans une des boîtes. L'autre boîte avec le Coleco Vision et les jouets cools, j'avait pas le droit.
Mes cousins aimaient bien chanter que j'aimais pas les Pogos. C'est vrai, dans le temps j'aimais pas les Pogos. On dirait que pour eux c'était impossible de pas aimer les Pogos.
Là-bas ils écoutaient tous là lutte. Ça trippait fort.
Toujours est-il que ce Patrick là je sais pas trop ce qu'Il est devenu, mais je l'ai enfin revu aux funérailles de ma grand-mère il y a quelques mois. Il a maintenant de solides grosses mains toutes chiées comme son père. Des mains de vrai travailleur. Il a deux enfants mais je connais pas trop sa situation de vie. Ce que je sais, c'est que cette famille entière sont maintenant amateurs de l'état de la Floride et de sports aquatiques.
Il m'a ajouté sur Facebook. Sa photo était un gros plan d'un oeil. Maintenant c'est un symbole japonais qui veut surement dire "FORCE" ou "SAGESSE".
Il possède aussi un esprit créatif. Il écrit ses réfexions dans ses status updates. Des belles pensées, là. Il y a toujours trois ou quatre quelques filles du 418 qui trouvent ça beau ce qu'il compose.
Voici la première de ces perles que je compte écouler au gré du moment, au travers ce web log.
Il y avait aussi mon cousin Patrick Beaulieu. Lui, il avait 5-6 ans de plus que moi et son grand frère avait à peu près 10 ans sur moi. J'allais me faire garder chez eux quand MES PARENTS ALLAIENT À ACAPULCO AVEC MA SOEUR ET ME LAISSAIENT SEULS À BERNIÈRES AVEC CETTE OSTIE DE FAMILLE LÀ TROIS SEMAINES. C'était du bien bon monde.
Le père Denis ressemblait à Boris Yelstine bien entamé. Il avait un genre de business de jacuzzis et avant il jobbait sur une autre aventure dans son garage. Ils restaient dans une maison mobile sur le bord de la 20. Étrangement leur maison mobile avait un sous-sol. Avec un tapis rouge. Je pouvais seulement jouer avec les jouets dans une des boîtes. L'autre boîte avec le Coleco Vision et les jouets cools, j'avait pas le droit.
Mes cousins aimaient bien chanter que j'aimais pas les Pogos. C'est vrai, dans le temps j'aimais pas les Pogos. On dirait que pour eux c'était impossible de pas aimer les Pogos.
Là-bas ils écoutaient tous là lutte. Ça trippait fort.
Toujours est-il que ce Patrick là je sais pas trop ce qu'Il est devenu, mais je l'ai enfin revu aux funérailles de ma grand-mère il y a quelques mois. Il a maintenant de solides grosses mains toutes chiées comme son père. Des mains de vrai travailleur. Il a deux enfants mais je connais pas trop sa situation de vie. Ce que je sais, c'est que cette famille entière sont maintenant amateurs de l'état de la Floride et de sports aquatiques.
Il m'a ajouté sur Facebook. Sa photo était un gros plan d'un oeil. Maintenant c'est un symbole japonais qui veut surement dire "FORCE" ou "SAGESSE".
Il possède aussi un esprit créatif. Il écrit ses réfexions dans ses status updates. Des belles pensées, là. Il y a toujours trois ou quatre quelques filles du 418 qui trouvent ça beau ce qu'il compose.
Voici la première de ces perles que je compte écouler au gré du moment, au travers ce web log.
"Ce n'est pas seulement l'endroit où l'on va qui donne un sens à la vie, mais aussi la façon don t on s'y rend."
Le Vide.
Void c'est comme si Minor Threat avait un petit frère autiste capable de compléter un cube Rubik en 39 secondes et de retomber dans une abysse de folie la minute d'après. Le jeu de guitare de BUBBA DUPREE fait peut-être aucun sens, mais force est de constater qu'il est un des maçons les plus francs ayant mis sur pied ce qui a plus tard constitué la charpente musicale du Revolution Summer: solos dissonants, feedbacks pas propres et intensité démesurée.
Non, votre iTunes n'est pas cassé. C'est Void - Un gateau surette préparé par un aveugle qui mélange sciemment les hymnes hardcore épiques, les moments de chaos total, les enchaînements psychedeliques et des parties lentes à la Sabbath vous donnant le goût de sortir votre crowbar (littéralement) pour aller faire un peu de trouble.
PS: demandez-moi pas ce qui se passe avec les arrangements vocaux dans Organized Sports.
Téléchargez donc ça ICI (Le reste du Split LP avec le côté de FAITH est inclus dans le téléchargement mais ça me tente pas vraiment d'en parler. Pas ce soir).
Aunts & Relatives.
As I grew up, I gradually noticed a group of women among my family were tightly knit together and were hanging a lot, usually playing bridge or cribbage and smoking cigarettes together. They were my aunts, grand ant, godmother a couple of their cousins and even friends of the family.
Strangely, they all looked and sounded alike. Raspy voices reminiscing of gravel and molasses. Permed curls. Phlegmy mouthbreathers. As my mother took me to their places to visit when I was a child, they would request their share of kisses. Their shaven upper lips always stang my pristine cheeks. This is some of what they had in common.
They all died of breast cancer.
Steeve.
Steeve explored the use of facial hair early on in his adolescence. It always struck me as odd his name wasn't actually Stephen, Stéphane or even Steven. And this double "e" makes him sound so slack jawed. What were his parents thinking?
Carl and I were friends from back in elementary, and were hanging off and on over the years. Steeve got in the portrait closer towards the end of high school. We were all about California skate punk. I pretty much ditched both of them when they got younger ugly girlfriends and turned me into some sort of fifth wheel. Not that I was the ladies man back then, but I generally kept my making out in a private place.
Emptying The Baskets.
My father was a technician at a water treatment facility. Once in a while, mostly in the late 80's, I would get to tag along and work a graveyard shift with him. What was daily routine for him was in fact a complete adventure to me.
I could just bring my videogames in and play all night or I would do stuff like counting the bacteria in water samples or walk around with gas masks pretending there is a global thermonuclear war.
The most excellent thing was "EMPTYING THE BASKETS". The process of water filtering obviously has to start somewhere. In Levis, this was at a water intake station by the river. The first filtering step begins with picking out the bigger stuff. From there they go on removing visible particles, then bacteria, and anything else that could make us sick, all the way down to the tasty tap water the good people in Levis and Lauzon got to drink.
It started with my father handing me an electric remote hanging from a thick wire coming from the ceiling. I pushed a button which got an engine running. This engine was in fact pulling a huge metal basket from a hole that seemed like a fucking mile deep. For 3 or 4 painfully long minutes, I had to wait for the basket to be up.
The moment I got to see the light hitting what lies in this god given basket of nature's surprises, I started getting excited like a dog hearing the sound of a leach, especially if I could see something moving in there. Once the basket was up we just had to tip it over and empty it's awesome contents on the floor. Most catches prominently featured eel, some sort of shark looking fish found in the St-Lawrence, and countless other life forms I could not properly identify. Then I had to shovel these gasping animals in buckets and dump them back in the river. To me this was poetry.
A Pesky Label.
Sometimes I wish I was a spy. You know, following targets, hiding and collecting information... I could be an actual spy and could finally leave this pesky "stalker" label behind.
A Piece Of Mind.
Remember the scene in Back To The Future where a time-traveling Marty plays fucking fierce 1985 rock music in a 50's high school dance? I happen to think about this sort of things a lot.
Maledos.
Good afternoon Samantha,
I appreciate the work you have been doing for me lately has a hair stylist. For your reference, please see the haircuts below as a representation of what I consider the best male hairdos ever. Please bear those in mind as you keep doing your excellent job.
The McTernan Legacy - DC's 1990's Hardcore War of Good Versus Evil.
Hardcore's troubled 90's. Many are quick to dismiss hardcore music's accomplishments during this period, however in 1991, hundreds of kids still believed they had their say. Brian and Mike McTernan were among them, both proud to represent the city that was at the leading edge of the genre for so long.
The Mackaye dynasty was hard to put in perspective. Washington DC used to be Straight Edge's Vatican. Now that their heroes moved on from the XlabelX, one can wonder what made the McTernan brothers commit so wholeheartedly to the Edge.
Each started their own band, Brian doing so as early as 1991, with Battery. Mike started working on Damnation in 1992. Both bands extensively featured Ken Olden, who often recorded many of the instruments on most of the bands sessions.
The hooks are often similar, but the music is worlds apart. Battery fueled on the youth crew's positive glory, while Damnation was on the dark side, with moods reminiscing of the harder Cleveland sound of the time, having only Mike's Henry Rollins-like vocals enabling listeners to link what they heard to the punk realm.
Olden had a passive face but quick fingers. He came up with both inspirational, motivating anthems and multilayered brooding dark musings. The chords were often the same in both outfits, but the way he played was for entirely dissimilar universes.
Always keeping busy, Olden formed Better Than A Thousand with Youth Of Today's Ray Cappo and even filled in YOT's reunion shows.
By presenting them together, I wish to point out the obvious similarities between these acts that achieved so much from and for Washigton DC's scene without ever being associated with Dischord Records sometimes overwhelming post-Revolution Summer art-core.
Anger sits strong at the core of this music. By living on the edge of the bittersweet, Ken Olden expressed more in these riffs than he ever did in facial expressions. He carried this emotion between both bands, and somehow, it did not permeate Better Than A Thousand and not much of his other endeavors.
Damnation found their niche early on with Jade Tree records, (previously Hi-Impact records, the sXe hardcore label who released Turning Point's first EP) while Battery found a cultish following in Europe (often touring with Ignite, who were also big over there)
Find Battery's Until The End and Damnation A.D.'s No More Dreams Of Happy Ending on mediafire.com/naud.
The Mackaye dynasty was hard to put in perspective. Washington DC used to be Straight Edge's Vatican. Now that their heroes moved on from the XlabelX, one can wonder what made the McTernan brothers commit so wholeheartedly to the Edge.
Each started their own band, Brian doing so as early as 1991, with Battery. Mike started working on Damnation in 1992. Both bands extensively featured Ken Olden, who often recorded many of the instruments on most of the bands sessions.
The hooks are often similar, but the music is worlds apart. Battery fueled on the youth crew's positive glory, while Damnation was on the dark side, with moods reminiscing of the harder Cleveland sound of the time, having only Mike's Henry Rollins-like vocals enabling listeners to link what they heard to the punk realm.
Olden had a passive face but quick fingers. He came up with both inspirational, motivating anthems and multilayered brooding dark musings. The chords were often the same in both outfits, but the way he played was for entirely dissimilar universes.
Always keeping busy, Olden formed Better Than A Thousand with Youth Of Today's Ray Cappo and even filled in YOT's reunion shows.
By presenting them together, I wish to point out the obvious similarities between these acts that achieved so much from and for Washigton DC's scene without ever being associated with Dischord Records sometimes overwhelming post-Revolution Summer art-core.
Anger sits strong at the core of this music. By living on the edge of the bittersweet, Ken Olden expressed more in these riffs than he ever did in facial expressions. He carried this emotion between both bands, and somehow, it did not permeate Better Than A Thousand and not much of his other endeavors.
Damnation found their niche early on with Jade Tree records, (previously Hi-Impact records, the sXe hardcore label who released Turning Point's first EP) while Battery found a cultish following in Europe (often touring with Ignite, who were also big over there)
Find Battery's Until The End and Damnation A.D.'s No More Dreams Of Happy Ending on mediafire.com/naud.
Coach, ses "juggs" et le Boulevard Mont Royal.
Je suis parti de chez-moi hier soir vers 20h afin de rejoindre Karine, qui elle même venait de rejoindre Coach à la (nouvelle, prétentieuse et parvenue) Porte Rouge. Je me faufilé dans les ruelles du plateau, errant avec les chats en attente de la pénombre. En arrivant sur place, je tombe immédiatement dans l'ambiance crade des cinq à septs du boulevard Mont-Royal. Deux jeunes femmes avaient assez ingurgité d'alcool pour maintenant vouloir attaquer le plancher de danse, qui, jusqu'à ce qu'on me l'indique, est bel et bien existant. C'était jeudi: je ne sais trop si c'était jour de paye pour la clientèle mais la fébrilité était au rendez-vous.
Il fallait vite que j'ingurgite un double gin tonic. La concoction s'est révélée une bonne cure contre mon mal de tête. Les Britanniques l'avaient l'affaire en Inde coloniale. Au bar, Karine m'interpelle, déjà en compagnie de Patrice et Amadeo, que je ne connaissais pas. Immédiatement surgît derrière eux ce cher SI. Poignées de mains. Présentations. Enchanté Amadeo et Patrice. Amadeo, c'est l'Italien-Canadien qui a grandi sur la Rive-Nord et qui demeure maintenant à Montréal. Son boulot est pour les douanes. Il écoute des importations de porn et juge si les films peuvent être importés ou non en jugeant de leur légalité. Zoophilie: non. Scatophilie: non. Les sports aquatiques, oui, seulement si les participants ne s'urinent pas directement dessus et qu'il n'y aie pas de sexe d'impliqué. Pour Patrice, à part qu'il était un type ricanneur qui aimait faire des blagues, je sais trop peu sur lui. Il portait un t-shirt jaune avec des imprimés un peu partout. Les deux portaient des sandales et je voyais leurs... orteils. Coach est arrivé juste après et un peu abasourdi de ne pas avoir eu la chance de me présenter ses juggs. Plus tard il me disait semi sur le party, "ces amis là, c'est les moins pires de ma gang".
Mon premier verre à peine achevé, que les jeunes hommes du clan de la Rive Nord voulaient aller manger. Ma curiosité était bien sûr attisée. Ma charpente vous le suggère, mais le fait que mon estomac était vide et que ce géant gin tonic commençait même à me donner le verbe léger me portait à juger que je devais moi aussi songer ingurgiter des matières solides.
Nous attaquions alors Mont Royal. Les masses qui fumaient en face des tavernes étaient en admiration devant cette parade de jeunes hommes séduisants que nous composions. Je marchais au devant de la file, la plupart du temps au téléphone avec Charles, qui me racontait son agitation avant son man date avec Brideau. À ce jour j'attends toujours de savoir ce qui s'est réellement passé ce soir là entre ces deux-là. De retour au défilé sur Mont Royal, le choix du troupeau s'est arrêté au Wakamono. Karine s'est jointe à nous le temps de quelques verres avant d'aller puncher au DV.
Sur place nous avons développé une synergie intéressante. Ces jeunes hommes savent bien taquiner Coach. SI a invité moi et Charles à un quille-o-thon et un souper Spahettis sur la rive Nord pour financer son équipe de Balle Molle aux nationals qui se tiennent dans l'est du Canada. Patrice m'a très tôt interrogé sur ma Montréalicité, et sur ma perception de la Rive-Nord. Les Saporos - à 13 dollars la cannette - ont coulées à flôt dans ce tourbillon de sushis de qualité correcte. Karine nous ayant quitté, les échanges se masculinisèrent. Ces jeunes hommes commencaient même a m'étendre des invitations pour tel ou tel évènement. L'addition aquittée, je quittai la table en saluant chaleureusement le clan des juggs du Coach D'amours.
Il fallait vite que j'ingurgite un double gin tonic. La concoction s'est révélée une bonne cure contre mon mal de tête. Les Britanniques l'avaient l'affaire en Inde coloniale. Au bar, Karine m'interpelle, déjà en compagnie de Patrice et Amadeo, que je ne connaissais pas. Immédiatement surgît derrière eux ce cher SI. Poignées de mains. Présentations. Enchanté Amadeo et Patrice. Amadeo, c'est l'Italien-Canadien qui a grandi sur la Rive-Nord et qui demeure maintenant à Montréal. Son boulot est pour les douanes. Il écoute des importations de porn et juge si les films peuvent être importés ou non en jugeant de leur légalité. Zoophilie: non. Scatophilie: non. Les sports aquatiques, oui, seulement si les participants ne s'urinent pas directement dessus et qu'il n'y aie pas de sexe d'impliqué. Pour Patrice, à part qu'il était un type ricanneur qui aimait faire des blagues, je sais trop peu sur lui. Il portait un t-shirt jaune avec des imprimés un peu partout. Les deux portaient des sandales et je voyais leurs... orteils. Coach est arrivé juste après et un peu abasourdi de ne pas avoir eu la chance de me présenter ses juggs. Plus tard il me disait semi sur le party, "ces amis là, c'est les moins pires de ma gang".
Mon premier verre à peine achevé, que les jeunes hommes du clan de la Rive Nord voulaient aller manger. Ma curiosité était bien sûr attisée. Ma charpente vous le suggère, mais le fait que mon estomac était vide et que ce géant gin tonic commençait même à me donner le verbe léger me portait à juger que je devais moi aussi songer ingurgiter des matières solides.
Nous attaquions alors Mont Royal. Les masses qui fumaient en face des tavernes étaient en admiration devant cette parade de jeunes hommes séduisants que nous composions. Je marchais au devant de la file, la plupart du temps au téléphone avec Charles, qui me racontait son agitation avant son man date avec Brideau. À ce jour j'attends toujours de savoir ce qui s'est réellement passé ce soir là entre ces deux-là. De retour au défilé sur Mont Royal, le choix du troupeau s'est arrêté au Wakamono. Karine s'est jointe à nous le temps de quelques verres avant d'aller puncher au DV.
Sur place nous avons développé une synergie intéressante. Ces jeunes hommes savent bien taquiner Coach. SI a invité moi et Charles à un quille-o-thon et un souper Spahettis sur la rive Nord pour financer son équipe de Balle Molle aux nationals qui se tiennent dans l'est du Canada. Patrice m'a très tôt interrogé sur ma Montréalicité, et sur ma perception de la Rive-Nord. Les Saporos - à 13 dollars la cannette - ont coulées à flôt dans ce tourbillon de sushis de qualité correcte. Karine nous ayant quitté, les échanges se masculinisèrent. Ces jeunes hommes commencaient même a m'étendre des invitations pour tel ou tel évènement. L'addition aquittée, je quittai la table en saluant chaleureusement le clan des juggs du Coach D'amours.
Paisley
For some odd weird reason, likely because my father sometimes worked in a lab, my family used to call paisley 'bacteria'.
Russian Encounters.
This was early November. I had just quit my girlfriend, changed jobs, made major purchases, I was considering moving to a new place, Epidemic was releasing the EP, lots was going on.
I remembered reading about self purification a while ago. I decided that while I was at it with all those changes I should get a check up at the doctor and what else... Hum, why not have my colon cleansed? That's not a natural thought for a normal grown man like me. I wouldn't be considering this if it wasn't for those articles talking about impacted feces and all the toxins sticking to your intestines. I grew genuinely concerned by all of that. To a point where once in a while I would spend a day only drinking lemony water in order to clean myself a little bit.
I noted months ago the phone number off a place my bus drives by every day that had a sign picturing a colon. I googled the place, it looked legit. I also read about the process so I knew what I was getting into. As horrible as it can get.
I took an appointment. The lady on the phone had a bad russian accent. I took it for the following Friday afternoon ( I made sure I had the day off at work for this). I kind of felt, through what I gathered from our conversation, I could have just dropped in whenever I wanted. However, I so was adamant in pulling through this motherfucker that I pushed any shadow of suspicion aside.
I remembered my ex-girlfriend would be over Montreal that same weekend to pick up some things at my apartment and also so we could talk about the break up and other things we had to arrange. We also wanted to catch up as friends. Coming out of a 4 year relationship is more complicated than meets the eye. The general plan was for her to come over Thursday night, Friday morning we'd have breakfast, then we'd go on our personal errands we had to run (by now you have a rough estimate of what kind of 'errand' I had to run). After we could meet up again in late afternoon for a snack somewhere. I made sure that somewhere was a Second Cup a block from the Colonic Irrigation place.
I covered up my colonic plans to her (and everybody I know) by telling her I would meet up my old boss at my old workplace for a coffee somewhere downtown. Which was true, by the way, I just did not intend spending the whole afternoon doing so.
Thursday night came. I found out the ex was more insecure than I thought about the break up and she was already fearing the day she would see me with another gal. I tried reassuring her by telling her that wasn't about to happen anytime soon.
After breakfast I headed downtown to my old office space. It was good seeing my old boss. She was always a pleasant woman being around with. We had coffee. Then I was off to hell.
I took a scary elevator up, walked a corridor probably left untouched since 1967 and entered the door frame of my destination. Turns out it was a full on spa. They had a sweat cabin from where your head sticks out a wooden box. There was also massage rooms and a place for a mud bath. Next to me, plenty of flyers about natural health were laid out on a table for guests. What sketched me out is how small the place was. It could only receive a maximum of three or four guests at once.
For no apparent reason, Irina, the lady in charge, the same I talked to on the phone, told me they couldn't accommodate me right away. Irina was a blonde russian, probably in her mid 40's. She was still looking good but, you know, make-up couldn't make up for that much longer. Her accent seemed worst in person.
Instead of waiting she offered me a deal on a one hour massage.
What the heck. I went for it.
- Go in this room, have shower and lay on table, Katrina will come soon.
Sounds great. I glanced at Katrina and she was perfect for the circumstances. Not bad looking at all but not too good looking. Last thing I wanted was to go for a colonic with a raging boner.
Showered, dried off. Katrina knocked at the door just as I was putting my boxers back on. I laid on the table on my back as she asked me to. She then proceeded to massage me real good. I think I would have fully enjoyed it if it wasn't for the impeding doom awaiting me.
I realized I should have been naked for the massage because now the waist band of my boxers was oiled up. Oh well. I had another shower afterwards to clean away the oil that was rubbed all over me.
I figured that I should call my ex to tell her I might run a bit late on our rendez-vous at Second Cup. After I did so, Irina walked me to the colon room. I already knew about the machines that were to be used from the Internet. I did my research, trust me. This decision to willingly have something in my a-hole had to be, at least, an informed one. As I looked at the clock a few seconds before tube insertion, I realized I was going to be more late than I thought to that thing. Unless I was out of that hellhole in 15 minutes, which I doubted.
I'll do my best to leave out as many details as I can. All I can say is that the operation is not painful but frightingly uncomfortable.
Prior to the insertion, Irina had the courtesy of lubing up my asshole. Then promptly warned me about what was to come. The bitch fingerbanged me. To check my prostate. Apparently they can tell you a lot by feeling your prostate. Irina had the clairvoyance of telling me I should have more sex. Thanks for the newsflash, violator.
I don't know what was wrong with me. After 20 minutes laying half naked on my side on that cold table, only half a dozen crap flakes went zipping by the illuminated horizontal glass tube that was part of he contraption designed to process what my body would eventually decide to reject. During those long minutes, Irina was praising the virtues of the treatment she offers. And she went on again on how sex is good for losing weight and good for my body, reminding me that my prostate is too big and that a beautiful man like me should be getting some.
My phone rang. Of course I'm late, that's to be expected. I couldn't answer in that position, so Irina brought my pair of jeans over so I could pick my phone in my pockets. I missed the call. Irina wanted me to call her back but you know what, I didn't feel like making a phone call. Not now.
Back on the other end of my body, not much was happening. Irina had to bring in some extra workforce to massage my back during the operation. Apparently this can initiate some bowel movement. Katrina gladly joined back in. However, things became awkward when they started talking russian to each other. Both of them were massaging me as if I was a half-empty tube of cookie dough.
And Irina had a constant flow of calls. People taking appointments. My homeland sketched out advisory system went in orange alert when Irina asked a gentleman on the phone which masseuse he wanted this week.
My phone rang again.
- Why are you late?
- Hum, I didn't see time pass by with my boss. Stay there, I'm on my way.
- I can come and meet you guys over, tell me where you are.
- Oh, no, don't bother, just have a coffee, pick up a magazine, I'll be there in 20 minutes.
- Oh... Okay.
Things were progressing a bit on the bottom end. I was seeing more matter flowing through the tube. Not enough for Irina, unfortunately. I honestly thought that wasn't much either. With persistence we could come through.
Twelve minutes later, the ex rings me again. I could discern this insecure tone in her voice.
- Where are you?
- I'm still on my way, thanks for waiting.
- Let me meet you, I know you're lying.
Of course she always knew when I tried to lie. Anybody who knows me a bit is aware I'm a terrible liar.
- Please wait for me, I'll tell you later what's really going on.
- You sound really weird, tell me the truth now.
I guess I sounded really strange when every second word I pronounced was followed by sighing and even some occasional slight grunting from my part. I had warm water irrigating my bowels. You can't possibly hold a normal conversation, let alone one like these, in similar circumstances.
- OK, well, you see, I'm in a colonic cleansing place, whatever how you call those places... I am getting a treatment there. This is one of the worst things I've ever done. I don't need your crazy bullshit at this moment.
There you go. I blew my cover and gave away my dignity in order to ease my ex girlfriend's suspicions of me secretly hooking up with my old boss.
- Oh yeah? Give me a break. Why don't you give me the address. I'll wait for you there.
- Please wait for me at Second Cup, I'm only a block away.
She was still not buying it and had me ask Irina mid-treatment what's the address so she could meet me there. I told her to wait for me in the small waiting room they set up there.
Five minutes later I hear the buzzer indicating a customer walked in the place. Irina greeted her new visitor. I could hear them coming in the room I was in. Oh, no. No fucking way, you're not walking in here, not now.
- Sit down and wait for me, I'll be done soon. Read some flyers, all right?
Irina was more than welcoming to her. Even though I told Irina she was my ex, her bad english probably misunderstood this as "she's my fiancee" or god knows... Irina had another one of her courtesies by inviting my "fiancee" to join me in that moment of hardship. Irina truly felt my pain through this experience and having my wife-to-be by my side would sure help me out through this. My ex being of russian descent, Irina was quick to be even more kind to her.
I guess up to that point, my ex even had more rights to be suspicious. She most likely picked up on the massage aspect of the business.
They both walked in. I had no barrier, no defense. Naked on a table, curled up, naked with only a towel covering half my ass. And the tube. This fucking tube, expelling fluids out of my sorry ass.
- Is that proof enough I'm not smooching up with my old boss?
- I'm so sorry. I'll be in the waiting room.
And this what it took to end this latest episode of crazy she had. Clearly one of the aspects of our relationship that made it impossible for us to go any further together.
After the treatment I headed for another shower, put my clothes back on. When I walked out of the changing room, Irina was giving an enthusiastic tour of the place to my ex. I met them as Irina was showing her leeches.
They kept leeches for some type of indian healing method. I already knew about this from the MTV show Wild Boyz when Steve-O took one in the eye for entertainment purposes. I was always repelled by those suckers. As a kid I would never swim anywhere near those. Irina told me having five of those on my chest for twenty minutes could help bring down my cholesterol. No thanks, I'll stick to that thing they call EXERCISING for this.
Irina was also quick to remind me, now my "fiancee" being by my side, once again, the joys and benefits of regular sex. We decided to join our efforts telling her we broke up, divorced, separated, finished, through, niet... She paused and said:
- This don't matter, he very handsome man, and you very beautiful russian woman. You two should be making love all the time at your age.
My ex was in a very apologetic mood for the rest of the night. With no surprise, I opted for dinner at home. She cooked dinner for me and was trying to be as empathic as possible with me. I still appreciate this attitude to this day. I guess the whole experience helped her moving on with her life, in a weird, disgusting way. I still giggle to myself this day thinking this is one of the last memory she has of me.
And Irina: you complimented me, massaged me and fingerbanged me. With a bottle or five of vodka, you'd probably have a shot with me.
I remembered reading about self purification a while ago. I decided that while I was at it with all those changes I should get a check up at the doctor and what else... Hum, why not have my colon cleansed? That's not a natural thought for a normal grown man like me. I wouldn't be considering this if it wasn't for those articles talking about impacted feces and all the toxins sticking to your intestines. I grew genuinely concerned by all of that. To a point where once in a while I would spend a day only drinking lemony water in order to clean myself a little bit.
I noted months ago the phone number off a place my bus drives by every day that had a sign picturing a colon. I googled the place, it looked legit. I also read about the process so I knew what I was getting into. As horrible as it can get.
I took an appointment. The lady on the phone had a bad russian accent. I took it for the following Friday afternoon ( I made sure I had the day off at work for this). I kind of felt, through what I gathered from our conversation, I could have just dropped in whenever I wanted. However, I so was adamant in pulling through this motherfucker that I pushed any shadow of suspicion aside.
I remembered my ex-girlfriend would be over Montreal that same weekend to pick up some things at my apartment and also so we could talk about the break up and other things we had to arrange. We also wanted to catch up as friends. Coming out of a 4 year relationship is more complicated than meets the eye. The general plan was for her to come over Thursday night, Friday morning we'd have breakfast, then we'd go on our personal errands we had to run (by now you have a rough estimate of what kind of 'errand' I had to run). After we could meet up again in late afternoon for a snack somewhere. I made sure that somewhere was a Second Cup a block from the Colonic Irrigation place.
I covered up my colonic plans to her (and everybody I know) by telling her I would meet up my old boss at my old workplace for a coffee somewhere downtown. Which was true, by the way, I just did not intend spending the whole afternoon doing so.
Thursday night came. I found out the ex was more insecure than I thought about the break up and she was already fearing the day she would see me with another gal. I tried reassuring her by telling her that wasn't about to happen anytime soon.
After breakfast I headed downtown to my old office space. It was good seeing my old boss. She was always a pleasant woman being around with. We had coffee. Then I was off to hell.
I took a scary elevator up, walked a corridor probably left untouched since 1967 and entered the door frame of my destination. Turns out it was a full on spa. They had a sweat cabin from where your head sticks out a wooden box. There was also massage rooms and a place for a mud bath. Next to me, plenty of flyers about natural health were laid out on a table for guests. What sketched me out is how small the place was. It could only receive a maximum of three or four guests at once.
For no apparent reason, Irina, the lady in charge, the same I talked to on the phone, told me they couldn't accommodate me right away. Irina was a blonde russian, probably in her mid 40's. She was still looking good but, you know, make-up couldn't make up for that much longer. Her accent seemed worst in person.
Instead of waiting she offered me a deal on a one hour massage.
What the heck. I went for it.
- Go in this room, have shower and lay on table, Katrina will come soon.
Sounds great. I glanced at Katrina and she was perfect for the circumstances. Not bad looking at all but not too good looking. Last thing I wanted was to go for a colonic with a raging boner.
Showered, dried off. Katrina knocked at the door just as I was putting my boxers back on. I laid on the table on my back as she asked me to. She then proceeded to massage me real good. I think I would have fully enjoyed it if it wasn't for the impeding doom awaiting me.
I realized I should have been naked for the massage because now the waist band of my boxers was oiled up. Oh well. I had another shower afterwards to clean away the oil that was rubbed all over me.
I figured that I should call my ex to tell her I might run a bit late on our rendez-vous at Second Cup. After I did so, Irina walked me to the colon room. I already knew about the machines that were to be used from the Internet. I did my research, trust me. This decision to willingly have something in my a-hole had to be, at least, an informed one. As I looked at the clock a few seconds before tube insertion, I realized I was going to be more late than I thought to that thing. Unless I was out of that hellhole in 15 minutes, which I doubted.
I'll do my best to leave out as many details as I can. All I can say is that the operation is not painful but frightingly uncomfortable.
Prior to the insertion, Irina had the courtesy of lubing up my asshole. Then promptly warned me about what was to come. The bitch fingerbanged me. To check my prostate. Apparently they can tell you a lot by feeling your prostate. Irina had the clairvoyance of telling me I should have more sex. Thanks for the newsflash, violator.
I don't know what was wrong with me. After 20 minutes laying half naked on my side on that cold table, only half a dozen crap flakes went zipping by the illuminated horizontal glass tube that was part of he contraption designed to process what my body would eventually decide to reject. During those long minutes, Irina was praising the virtues of the treatment she offers. And she went on again on how sex is good for losing weight and good for my body, reminding me that my prostate is too big and that a beautiful man like me should be getting some.
My phone rang. Of course I'm late, that's to be expected. I couldn't answer in that position, so Irina brought my pair of jeans over so I could pick my phone in my pockets. I missed the call. Irina wanted me to call her back but you know what, I didn't feel like making a phone call. Not now.
Back on the other end of my body, not much was happening. Irina had to bring in some extra workforce to massage my back during the operation. Apparently this can initiate some bowel movement. Katrina gladly joined back in. However, things became awkward when they started talking russian to each other. Both of them were massaging me as if I was a half-empty tube of cookie dough.
And Irina had a constant flow of calls. People taking appointments. My homeland sketched out advisory system went in orange alert when Irina asked a gentleman on the phone which masseuse he wanted this week.
My phone rang again.
- Why are you late?
- Hum, I didn't see time pass by with my boss. Stay there, I'm on my way.
- I can come and meet you guys over, tell me where you are.
- Oh, no, don't bother, just have a coffee, pick up a magazine, I'll be there in 20 minutes.
- Oh... Okay.
Things were progressing a bit on the bottom end. I was seeing more matter flowing through the tube. Not enough for Irina, unfortunately. I honestly thought that wasn't much either. With persistence we could come through.
Twelve minutes later, the ex rings me again. I could discern this insecure tone in her voice.
- Where are you?
- I'm still on my way, thanks for waiting.
- Let me meet you, I know you're lying.
Of course she always knew when I tried to lie. Anybody who knows me a bit is aware I'm a terrible liar.
- Please wait for me, I'll tell you later what's really going on.
- You sound really weird, tell me the truth now.
I guess I sounded really strange when every second word I pronounced was followed by sighing and even some occasional slight grunting from my part. I had warm water irrigating my bowels. You can't possibly hold a normal conversation, let alone one like these, in similar circumstances.
- OK, well, you see, I'm in a colonic cleansing place, whatever how you call those places... I am getting a treatment there. This is one of the worst things I've ever done. I don't need your crazy bullshit at this moment.
There you go. I blew my cover and gave away my dignity in order to ease my ex girlfriend's suspicions of me secretly hooking up with my old boss.
- Oh yeah? Give me a break. Why don't you give me the address. I'll wait for you there.
- Please wait for me at Second Cup, I'm only a block away.
She was still not buying it and had me ask Irina mid-treatment what's the address so she could meet me there. I told her to wait for me in the small waiting room they set up there.
Five minutes later I hear the buzzer indicating a customer walked in the place. Irina greeted her new visitor. I could hear them coming in the room I was in. Oh, no. No fucking way, you're not walking in here, not now.
- Sit down and wait for me, I'll be done soon. Read some flyers, all right?
Irina was more than welcoming to her. Even though I told Irina she was my ex, her bad english probably misunderstood this as "she's my fiancee" or god knows... Irina had another one of her courtesies by inviting my "fiancee" to join me in that moment of hardship. Irina truly felt my pain through this experience and having my wife-to-be by my side would sure help me out through this. My ex being of russian descent, Irina was quick to be even more kind to her.
I guess up to that point, my ex even had more rights to be suspicious. She most likely picked up on the massage aspect of the business.
They both walked in. I had no barrier, no defense. Naked on a table, curled up, naked with only a towel covering half my ass. And the tube. This fucking tube, expelling fluids out of my sorry ass.
- Is that proof enough I'm not smooching up with my old boss?
- I'm so sorry. I'll be in the waiting room.
And this what it took to end this latest episode of crazy she had. Clearly one of the aspects of our relationship that made it impossible for us to go any further together.
After the treatment I headed for another shower, put my clothes back on. When I walked out of the changing room, Irina was giving an enthusiastic tour of the place to my ex. I met them as Irina was showing her leeches.
They kept leeches for some type of indian healing method. I already knew about this from the MTV show Wild Boyz when Steve-O took one in the eye for entertainment purposes. I was always repelled by those suckers. As a kid I would never swim anywhere near those. Irina told me having five of those on my chest for twenty minutes could help bring down my cholesterol. No thanks, I'll stick to that thing they call EXERCISING for this.
Irina was also quick to remind me, now my "fiancee" being by my side, once again, the joys and benefits of regular sex. We decided to join our efforts telling her we broke up, divorced, separated, finished, through, niet... She paused and said:
- This don't matter, he very handsome man, and you very beautiful russian woman. You two should be making love all the time at your age.
My ex was in a very apologetic mood for the rest of the night. With no surprise, I opted for dinner at home. She cooked dinner for me and was trying to be as empathic as possible with me. I still appreciate this attitude to this day. I guess the whole experience helped her moving on with her life, in a weird, disgusting way. I still giggle to myself this day thinking this is one of the last memory she has of me.
And Irina: you complimented me, massaged me and fingerbanged me. With a bottle or five of vodka, you'd probably have a shot with me.
Death Before Dishonor
Before Supertouch, there was Death Before Dishonor. And before a certain Boston hardcore band went by the same name in the 2000's, there was NYC's DBD.
On drums, the young Mike Ferraro, later famous for his lead singer role in Judge, just like Jimmy Yu, who stayed on guitar. Yu's brother, Steve, was also in DBD. On vocals, Mark Ryan delivers the first verse of his long, harsh, profound, educated and mind-altering lyrical path. The second verse can be heard on a record titled The Earth Is Flat, an effort released by the band Supertouch, which also featured both Yu brothers. Not surprisingly, some DBD songs went on to be early Supertouch songs.
DBD was music for skinheads, with grooves these kids never heard before. Take Deadlock at 1:47: right at this point this becomes a Supertouch song, sincere, different, fresh. Most songs have similar patterns, sometimes starting mellow, dark, questioning (and almost bordering with post-punk sensibilities), and ending completely hard. This demo will grow on you and it's significance in NYHC history should never be ignored.
Download it here: http://www.mediafire.com/?mmjiiyimmoo
On drums, the young Mike Ferraro, later famous for his lead singer role in Judge, just like Jimmy Yu, who stayed on guitar. Yu's brother, Steve, was also in DBD. On vocals, Mark Ryan delivers the first verse of his long, harsh, profound, educated and mind-altering lyrical path. The second verse can be heard on a record titled The Earth Is Flat, an effort released by the band Supertouch, which also featured both Yu brothers. Not surprisingly, some DBD songs went on to be early Supertouch songs.
DBD was music for skinheads, with grooves these kids never heard before. Take Deadlock at 1:47: right at this point this becomes a Supertouch song, sincere, different, fresh. Most songs have similar patterns, sometimes starting mellow, dark, questioning (and almost bordering with post-punk sensibilities), and ending completely hard. This demo will grow on you and it's significance in NYHC history should never be ignored.
Download it here: http://www.mediafire.com/?mmjiiyimmoo
A Life Outside Hardcore.
Could it be possible? Two years into being practically completely apart from the Hardcore realm, I feel I can say I can deal with the lack of unity, cope without the brotherhood, and I manage to keep it real, but this time thriving on a different level of Dancefloor Justice.
The first time I felt confronted to how apart I was from society back in the days, is when a girlfriend from a year or so back asked me about a rugged X Swatch laying on my desk.
- What's that? I never seen you wear it.
- It's been broken for a long time.
- Why do you keep it? It's destroyed, you have better watches to wear.
- This piece of junk has sentimental value, I guess.
- Why?
- It was some sort of symbol for me and some friends.
- What kind of symbol?
You see where this is going. At this point it is a valid point I should have kept her nagging curiosity in check. But I felt it was honest interest in my past that kept her going and got her to ask me about the rite of passages I went through, most being somehow related to Punk, Hardcore and the Straight Edge. While it may seem contrived of me to bask in this nostalgia as I type this listening to the Pet Shop Boy's Introspective LP, I came to realize the impact this crucial lifestyle had on my life.
At first look, I was living happily ever after the Core. Many former coremen developed subversive opinions about the culture they once embraced, and act as opposite as possible to anything that may be Hardcore... "The Harder They Fall", we would say. They usually turn out really douchebaggish and in overall denial. I also know a guy who switched lifestyles but is in no denial. It's this chameleon boy who started as pos kid, got into Madball and Hatebreed, then went full on wigger, even wearing ECKO gear. He then went skinhead, bordering on the dark side and "ironically" listening to Screwdriver or Blue Eyed Devils. Then got into metrosexuality, dance music and all that stuff, and now he's into obscure new wave shit I wish he'd get me into.
The way I felt is that Hardcore just naturally stepped out of me. Not the scene sucked, because new kids keep coming and the new bands keep rolling by the town. Thing is, I was just not getting into the new stuff, and I had less and less time to go out and dig those excellent new bands coming up. I was always down for a road trip to see exciting reunions like for Bold or Youth Of Today, or see a Ignite show in town or in Ottawa, but the new breed of Wiggercore and the friends slowly disappearing from shows kind of made me not miss it that much. Even though we started EPIDEMIC in 2006, it wasn't specifically about Hardcore but just letting loose musically the best way we could. Of course, spending our formative years listening to Hardcore made us Hardcore, or more so Post Hardcore.
The same summer Epidemic formed, I also broke Edge. I like to think I made this choice by respect to the Straight Edge, as I was keeping my drug free, booze free and smoke free lifestyle by habit more than conviction. Since you can't ask a teenager to live by the principles he set for himself for his whole entire life, I felt I was now ready to partake in full-on Ovechkin style partying.
Turns out I'm glad I got into the social drinking and drugs game at age 26 instead of 19. College parties suck so bad, the kids have no idea where to draw any lines and when it is appropriate to cross them. Instead I had the chance to learn with adults with experience and was introduced (and could afford) the best beers, wines and spirits. I can now move straight to go, get my two hundred bucks and enjoy quality scotches.
But why is it that in my haziest moments, a Minor Threat song will come up and and will lose my shit and mosh the living room - as a guest - up ? Why do I find my X varsity jacket to be one of the most beautiful items of my wardrobe? Why do I sample Straight Edge Hardcore in the computer tunes I craft when I'm high? Why do I look up the show listings in the hope a band I love decided to reform and play Montreal? Is there really a life outside hardcore?
Maybe not so much. There will always be a few stories to tell to the people that want to know me, about the things Hardcore has put me through, whether we're talking about scars, tattoos, the records in my bin, the weird pictures of people piling up on me thrown around in online social networks... And I have to take the time to tell them, otherwise they'll go home thinking I was in a cult.
Even though I can sometimes be found laying down some justice on a dancefloor with a broad that does not have straight bangs and a sacred heart inked on her chest under an arm and a fine drink in the other hand, I will always go out of this lucky predicament to meet and hug a former fellow edgeman. I will always remember that what brought me to this gratifying stage of my life are the seminal years that taught me about integrity, brotherhood, equality, unity, holding strong and keeping it real. I used to be part of Hardcore, now it's just a part of me.
The first time I felt confronted to how apart I was from society back in the days, is when a girlfriend from a year or so back asked me about a rugged X Swatch laying on my desk.
- What's that? I never seen you wear it.
- It's been broken for a long time.
- Why do you keep it? It's destroyed, you have better watches to wear.
- This piece of junk has sentimental value, I guess.
- Why?
- It was some sort of symbol for me and some friends.
- What kind of symbol?
You see where this is going. At this point it is a valid point I should have kept her nagging curiosity in check. But I felt it was honest interest in my past that kept her going and got her to ask me about the rite of passages I went through, most being somehow related to Punk, Hardcore and the Straight Edge. While it may seem contrived of me to bask in this nostalgia as I type this listening to the Pet Shop Boy's Introspective LP, I came to realize the impact this crucial lifestyle had on my life.
At first look, I was living happily ever after the Core. Many former coremen developed subversive opinions about the culture they once embraced, and act as opposite as possible to anything that may be Hardcore... "The Harder They Fall", we would say. They usually turn out really douchebaggish and in overall denial. I also know a guy who switched lifestyles but is in no denial. It's this chameleon boy who started as pos kid, got into Madball and Hatebreed, then went full on wigger, even wearing ECKO gear. He then went skinhead, bordering on the dark side and "ironically" listening to Screwdriver or Blue Eyed Devils. Then got into metrosexuality, dance music and all that stuff, and now he's into obscure new wave shit I wish he'd get me into.
The way I felt is that Hardcore just naturally stepped out of me. Not the scene sucked, because new kids keep coming and the new bands keep rolling by the town. Thing is, I was just not getting into the new stuff, and I had less and less time to go out and dig those excellent new bands coming up. I was always down for a road trip to see exciting reunions like for Bold or Youth Of Today, or see a Ignite show in town or in Ottawa, but the new breed of Wiggercore and the friends slowly disappearing from shows kind of made me not miss it that much. Even though we started EPIDEMIC in 2006, it wasn't specifically about Hardcore but just letting loose musically the best way we could. Of course, spending our formative years listening to Hardcore made us Hardcore, or more so Post Hardcore.
The same summer Epidemic formed, I also broke Edge. I like to think I made this choice by respect to the Straight Edge, as I was keeping my drug free, booze free and smoke free lifestyle by habit more than conviction. Since you can't ask a teenager to live by the principles he set for himself for his whole entire life, I felt I was now ready to partake in full-on Ovechkin style partying.
Turns out I'm glad I got into the social drinking and drugs game at age 26 instead of 19. College parties suck so bad, the kids have no idea where to draw any lines and when it is appropriate to cross them. Instead I had the chance to learn with adults with experience and was introduced (and could afford) the best beers, wines and spirits. I can now move straight to go, get my two hundred bucks and enjoy quality scotches.
But why is it that in my haziest moments, a Minor Threat song will come up and and will lose my shit and mosh the living room - as a guest - up ? Why do I find my X varsity jacket to be one of the most beautiful items of my wardrobe? Why do I sample Straight Edge Hardcore in the computer tunes I craft when I'm high? Why do I look up the show listings in the hope a band I love decided to reform and play Montreal? Is there really a life outside hardcore?
Maybe not so much. There will always be a few stories to tell to the people that want to know me, about the things Hardcore has put me through, whether we're talking about scars, tattoos, the records in my bin, the weird pictures of people piling up on me thrown around in online social networks... And I have to take the time to tell them, otherwise they'll go home thinking I was in a cult.
Even though I can sometimes be found laying down some justice on a dancefloor with a broad that does not have straight bangs and a sacred heart inked on her chest under an arm and a fine drink in the other hand, I will always go out of this lucky predicament to meet and hug a former fellow edgeman. I will always remember that what brought me to this gratifying stage of my life are the seminal years that taught me about integrity, brotherhood, equality, unity, holding strong and keeping it real. I used to be part of Hardcore, now it's just a part of me.
Le Probleme avec le Monde de Quebec.
Je ne peux inventer ce qui suit.
'Dominic joined the group Les anti-gauchistes, socialistes et séparatistes du Qc'
Pierre Yves: c'est quoi la rejoindre ce groupe la...je peux bin croire que tu es un peu plus a droite mais criss la sociale democratie ca la quand meme cest bon coté...reharde y a pire que nous autres en tk....cest sur que je paye trop dimpots mais criss le gros la tu sais au tant que moi qu'un jour nos ressoursces naturel bvont etre si importante(hydro ) quon devra fair cavalier seul...arrete de vouloir jsute prétendre a des idées de droite ...c'est exemple la sont en trasindesécrouler a travers le monde
Dominic: Merci pour la moral!!! Mais je n'est rien a crisser de ta social démocratie et de tous les estie programme de gauche que je suis oubliger de payer pour pour toute le reste de la societé.Au Québec on est tellement d'épendent de l'état que ca me fait mal coeur.Moi quand je te vois tu pogner le cul chez vous pendant six,sept ou huit mois parce que tu profite des génereux programme de l'état pour ton enfant!!! Ca mérite pas mal.Emplus on est une province très pauvre qui a aucunement les moyen de se donner tous ces esties de programme de gauche!
Bye the way je trouve ca bizzare la moral de la part d'un gars qui a voter Conservateur(Les peureux qui viene de nous sortir un estie du budget de gauchiste) mais quand même parti suposément très a droite!!
Pierre Yves: yo...bonne sicussion en tk au McDo pis tes belle journée au Big Air...tk on gagne ca a soir au hockey pis question de pognage de cul aq maison je suiis^pas d'accord...2 points la dessus...moi je n'aurai pas de fin de semaine pendant 6 mois pis 2- le jour on tu auras des enfants tu va comprendre que ca existe pas le pognage de cul :P
bonne soirée
Pierre Yves: c'est quoi la rejoindre ce groupe la...je peux bin croire que tu es un peu plus a droite mais criss la sociale democratie ca la quand meme cest bon coté...reharde y a pire que nous autres en tk....cest sur que je paye trop dimpots mais criss le gros la tu sais au tant que moi qu'un jour nos ressoursces naturel bvont etre si importante(hydro ) quon devra fair cavalier seul...arrete de vouloir jsute prétendre a des idées de droite ...c'est exemple la sont en trasindesécrouler a travers le monde
Dominic: Merci pour la moral!!! Mais je n'est rien a crisser de ta social démocratie et de tous les estie programme de gauche que je suis oubliger de payer pour pour toute le reste de la societé.Au Québec on est tellement d'épendent de l'état que ca me fait mal coeur.Moi quand je te vois tu pogner le cul chez vous pendant six,sept ou huit mois parce que tu profite des génereux programme de l'état pour ton enfant!!! Ca mérite pas mal.Emplus on est une province très pauvre qui a aucunement les moyen de se donner tous ces esties de programme de gauche!
Bye the way je trouve ca bizzare la moral de la part d'un gars qui a voter Conservateur(Les peureux qui viene de nous sortir un estie du budget de gauchiste) mais quand même parti suposément très a droite!!
Pierre Yves: yo...bonne sicussion en tk au McDo pis tes belle journée au Big Air...tk on gagne ca a soir au hockey pis question de pognage de cul aq maison je suiis^pas d'accord...2 points la dessus...moi je n'aurai pas de fin de semaine pendant 6 mois pis 2- le jour on tu auras des enfants tu va comprendre que ca existe pas le pognage de cul :P
bonne soirée
Social Banking.
Having been taught Special Care Counselling in college and moved on to different fields of work over the years, there were multiple instances of me wondering how could the knowledge I gained in SCC could be applied to other fields of work. Think in job interviews...
I was never involved in the world of finance. I can safely say it was never of interest to me, even if I stay up to date with the sate of the economy, mainly for it's political and social implications. The company I work for has banks and major banking corporations as clients and we work on tenders and bids for their IT contracts and their software asset management solutions. That's as far as it goes as far as I'm concerned. However it came to me to think of skilled financial advisers. Now what if one of their competencies was also that they were thought in the field of social work.
In the current financial system we deal with, it is not far fetched to believe that a state controlled bank structure could hire a different kind of banker. One of these employees' mandate would be to identify the people that are in a downward spiral of debt and have one of the newly nationalized banks buy their debt and finally stop the bleeding. From there, they could help the individual work his way out of that debt with reasonable interests rates, constant follow-up on budgeting to eventually, slowly and responsibly building the credit rate back up. A planned intervention from the ground up, made with dignity and based on personal history has the potential to significantly improve individuals and families lives.
Other private banks will not lend even an ear to the struggling man. The few people ready to lend him are plain bandits. The state tolerate doubtful pawn shops mainly scattered where poverty reigns, it currently allows credit card companies to charge 28% rates to men and women failing to consistently meet their commitments to these corporations. The racket of profiteering over one's suffering has to stop. As a society we must ask ourselves what do we want to do with people like them. Judge and shun them for not meeting their responsibilities or foster a system in which these people, thanks to the principles of decency, the common good and common sense, can be respectfully assisted back to a better financial health?
By showing care and social responsibility towards these men and women, we lead by example and can righteously and rightfully hope that they will uphold those principles for themselves in the future.
Hang Loose.
I hardly ever wear any t-shirt these days. This is why I figured for a whole Sunday filled with plans of watching a few TV shows and sports all day, it was a perfect time to rock one of the million band t-shirts I gathered over the years. From Gorilla Biscuit to Into Another then to Quicksand or SSD to Earth Crisis, I got tons of these bad boys dying to be worn once in a while.
I decided to opt for a Fired Up tee the band actually gave to me the first time they came to Montreal. Their set was a bit sloppy but their demo was so good, I was psyched anyways to hear these songs. We basically just chatted about common friends and had Montreal talk. It looks completely badass.
So I walk up this early afternoon to the Depanneur to pick up a few things and by the counter a mid-40's looking guy was there, talking to the delivery kid. He looked at me and told me I reminded him of his youth. He probably noticed I was puzzled as he asked me what language I spoke. Then I saw him pointing at my shirt - as opposed to my varsity jacket that could have reminded him of his high school or something - saying it was the design for his first skateboard deck, which was a Jason Jessee pro-model. I did, indeed, completely ignore Fired Up used that design for their shirt. It is common in the punk and hardcore realm to do so. In this instance, they simply replaced the words "Santa Cruz" by "Fired Up" and "Skateboards" by "Hardcore".
As I paid for my stuff (sour cream, nachos, coca-cola - I'm coming clean) he told me about what this skateboard meant to him as a kid. As I walked away he gave me the classic Hang Loose Shaka hand sign. You know he's for real.
I decided to opt for a Fired Up tee the band actually gave to me the first time they came to Montreal. Their set was a bit sloppy but their demo was so good, I was psyched anyways to hear these songs. We basically just chatted about common friends and had Montreal talk. It looks completely badass.
So I walk up this early afternoon to the Depanneur to pick up a few things and by the counter a mid-40's looking guy was there, talking to the delivery kid. He looked at me and told me I reminded him of his youth. He probably noticed I was puzzled as he asked me what language I spoke. Then I saw him pointing at my shirt - as opposed to my varsity jacket that could have reminded him of his high school or something - saying it was the design for his first skateboard deck, which was a Jason Jessee pro-model. I did, indeed, completely ignore Fired Up used that design for their shirt. It is common in the punk and hardcore realm to do so. In this instance, they simply replaced the words "Santa Cruz" by "Fired Up" and "Skateboards" by "Hardcore".
As I paid for my stuff (sour cream, nachos, coca-cola - I'm coming clean) he told me about what this skateboard meant to him as a kid. As I walked away he gave me the classic Hang Loose Shaka hand sign. You know he's for real.
Ignite Covering Sunday Bloody Sunday.
Worst song. Possibly the only thing about Ignite hat makes me go *smh*. This, and the aura of sleazyness surrounding them. Still a great, great band. Second rate Unity is still better than most stuff out there.
Échanges.
- C'est comme si je te disais: "Tout tes amis te haient secrètement". Avoue que tu serais comme: peut-être pas tous, mais je suis sûr que une couple, oui.
- Pas vraiment mais c'est peut-être parce que je m'aime beaucoup.
- Ouais. Tu te dis: impossible.
- Je veux dire ceux qui m'aime pas sont pas amis... Mais c'est dur de pas m'aimer. Je suis pas mal awesome.
- Moi je t'aime pas.
- Oublie ca tsé tu m'aimes ben trop.
- Non je te ONIS. Je te répudie. Je connaissais le mot RÉPUDIER avant on s'entend, mais depuis que j'entend dire à tout les jours: "Stéphane Dion a été REPUDIÉ", je l'utilise dans ma vie quotidienne. Comme hier, mon coloc a laissé sa crotte dans le bol. Je lui dis: Flush ta crotte, je te répudie.
- Je pense que c'est aussi un terme légal pour renvoyer son épouse dans son pays. Mettons si Michel veut plus de sa mail order, il la répudie back to Ukraine... En passant, C'est terrible oublier une crotte en surface. Je l'ai déja fait par exemple.
- Je te onis.
- Un souvenir de mon passage.
- La mail order bride à Michel, est-elle hot ou non?
- Moyen. Elle est effaçée. C'est dur à dire. Je dis pas qu'elle est mail order, c'est juste un running gag entre amis. Pour vrai elle sort du bateau, tout comme sa famille, par exemple.
- Je me suis joint au gag. J'suis dans le gag.
- J'espère.
- Hahaha YES.
- T'es en mesure de l'apprécier.
- Avoue que hier que tu as crié les cris les plus primaux au monde.
- Tellement. J'espère que tu parles de la game d'hier. On est allés dans au Bar Davidson. Il y avait pleins de patches de monde ultra sketchy. Mais on étais tous unis pour les glorieux. Il y avait un jeune noir ultra bâti qui chillait avec un petit vieux chauve. Vraiment une belle gang. Ah oui, il y a eu un meurtre à coté des machines video poker la semaine passée.
- T'as embrassé un semi clochard sur la bouche. J'aime les parties de hockey parce que cest les seule fois où j'ai le droit de GUEULER légalement dans mon appart, sans que mon coloc me haisse à 100%.
- J'aurais pas peur de me battre mais jai une phobie de me faire casser le nez. J'aime l'apparence de mon nez présentement pis je voudrais pas que ca change.
- Ça serait malade un vrai COMBAT.
- Haha, ta gueule.
- Imagine si tu le gèle.
- Je commence ca direct avec COUP DE PIED dans les gosses. Mon premier move est déjà ultra illégal. Je finis avec seringue souillée dans la jugulaire.
- Classy textbook style.
- Comme ils le font dans les dojos en Chine. Frapperais-tu une fille? LE FERAIS-TU?
- Si elle me gifle, je la gifle à 75% de SA force. C'est pas mal tout ce que je peux faire... Tu fais ça avec élégance comme dans les vues françaises. Shaker une fille c'est BS en crisse, le reste on en parle pas. Mais il y a rien de mieux que de la bonne vielle violence psychologique.
- Mon coloc, SOUVENT je l'ai obligé à me biner le bras. Je le poussais à bout. je le binais bien sûr. Pis je le défiais de me biner.
- T'es terrible.
- À chaque fois, il le faisait, bien sûr. Pis à chaque fois je fake pleurais. Les meilleures larmes que t'as jamais vues. Tu sais, les pleurs qui commence juste dans les yeux, mais qui finissent en suprasanglots.
- T'es malsaine. Calice.
- Pis je prenais le look femme battue: j'ai peur et je suis faible. YES OSTI.
- Avoue que c'est vraiment excellent que Bronfman se fasse voler ses bijoux par des cat burglars dans son mansion à Toronto. Surtout les deux bagues de la coupe Stanley.
- Hahaha quoi?
- J'espère que c'est un Québecois qui les a ramenées à Montréal et les a enterrées dans le sous-sol de l'AMC.
- Se faire voler des bijoux. Cest semi homoérotique.
- C'est génial tu veux dire.
- Oui.
- À Paris, Harry Winston se sont fait voler pour 134 millions de bijoux. Après, tsé, tu prends un bain dans les bijoux. Pis tu ris et ris et ris. HAHAHAHA.
- Haha oui, tu jouis autour des bijoux, tu te mets les bijoux dans ton intérieur pis tu les savoure
-...
- Haha ouais. Ouais... Je te frappe a 75% de ma force.
- Je te gifle à 75% de 75% de ma force.
- Hahaha ah non, tu me giffle tsé.
- Je te sacre un coup de poing dans le chest. Je t'ai déja raconté la fois où j'ai punché ma grand-mère dans le chest? Elle me chatouillais pis j'en pouvais plus. J'étais couchée sur le dos. Pis je l'ai punchée dans le chest. Ça en est resté là. Elle a accepté que tsé, le niveau de chatouillage qu'elle me faisait subir, équivalait à un coup de poing dans les boules. C'était fair pour elle.
- Haha, quel âge que t'avais?
- Genre onze ou douze. Je me rapelle clairement du sentiment...AH NON OSTI QU'AIS-JE FAIT? Mais personne n'a rien dit. Et on en a jamais reparlé. J'ai oublié de dire que ma grand-mère avait survécu à un cancer de l'oeil et du sein, alors ca explique aussi à QUEL POINT MAL c'était de la frapper. Là. J'ai punché ma vieille grand-mère malade. Punché une femme qui a le cancer du sein dans les boules. Mais jai jamais pensé tsé, j'étais trop en souffrance. Je compare vraiment me faire chatouiller à me faire violer je suis sûre que c'est la même terreur.
- Disons une fille veut faire courir légerement et sensuellement ses mains ou ses doigts sur moi je la rejette.
- J'espère. Pire sensation
- C'est dur à expliquer. Elle pense pas qu'elle me chatouille.
- Ah osti juste y penser, ça donne mal à la MOELLE ÉPINIÈRE. Pis un léger goût de vomi.
- Je lui dis, si tu veux me faire plaisir, fais moi un massage. Ou une pipe.
- Pas vraiment mais c'est peut-être parce que je m'aime beaucoup.
- Ouais. Tu te dis: impossible.
- Je veux dire ceux qui m'aime pas sont pas amis... Mais c'est dur de pas m'aimer. Je suis pas mal awesome.
- Moi je t'aime pas.
- Oublie ca tsé tu m'aimes ben trop.
- Non je te ONIS. Je te répudie. Je connaissais le mot RÉPUDIER avant on s'entend, mais depuis que j'entend dire à tout les jours: "Stéphane Dion a été REPUDIÉ", je l'utilise dans ma vie quotidienne. Comme hier, mon coloc a laissé sa crotte dans le bol. Je lui dis: Flush ta crotte, je te répudie.
- Je pense que c'est aussi un terme légal pour renvoyer son épouse dans son pays. Mettons si Michel veut plus de sa mail order, il la répudie back to Ukraine... En passant, C'est terrible oublier une crotte en surface. Je l'ai déja fait par exemple.
- Je te onis.
- Un souvenir de mon passage.
- La mail order bride à Michel, est-elle hot ou non?
- Moyen. Elle est effaçée. C'est dur à dire. Je dis pas qu'elle est mail order, c'est juste un running gag entre amis. Pour vrai elle sort du bateau, tout comme sa famille, par exemple.
- Je me suis joint au gag. J'suis dans le gag.
- J'espère.
- Hahaha YES.
- T'es en mesure de l'apprécier.
- Avoue que hier que tu as crié les cris les plus primaux au monde.
- Tellement. J'espère que tu parles de la game d'hier. On est allés dans au Bar Davidson. Il y avait pleins de patches de monde ultra sketchy. Mais on étais tous unis pour les glorieux. Il y avait un jeune noir ultra bâti qui chillait avec un petit vieux chauve. Vraiment une belle gang. Ah oui, il y a eu un meurtre à coté des machines video poker la semaine passée.
- T'as embrassé un semi clochard sur la bouche. J'aime les parties de hockey parce que cest les seule fois où j'ai le droit de GUEULER légalement dans mon appart, sans que mon coloc me haisse à 100%.
- J'aurais pas peur de me battre mais jai une phobie de me faire casser le nez. J'aime l'apparence de mon nez présentement pis je voudrais pas que ca change.
- Ça serait malade un vrai COMBAT.
- Haha, ta gueule.
- Imagine si tu le gèle.
- Je commence ca direct avec COUP DE PIED dans les gosses. Mon premier move est déjà ultra illégal. Je finis avec seringue souillée dans la jugulaire.
- Classy textbook style.
- Comme ils le font dans les dojos en Chine. Frapperais-tu une fille? LE FERAIS-TU?
- Si elle me gifle, je la gifle à 75% de SA force. C'est pas mal tout ce que je peux faire... Tu fais ça avec élégance comme dans les vues françaises. Shaker une fille c'est BS en crisse, le reste on en parle pas. Mais il y a rien de mieux que de la bonne vielle violence psychologique.
- Mon coloc, SOUVENT je l'ai obligé à me biner le bras. Je le poussais à bout. je le binais bien sûr. Pis je le défiais de me biner.
- T'es terrible.
- À chaque fois, il le faisait, bien sûr. Pis à chaque fois je fake pleurais. Les meilleures larmes que t'as jamais vues. Tu sais, les pleurs qui commence juste dans les yeux, mais qui finissent en suprasanglots.
- T'es malsaine. Calice.
- Pis je prenais le look femme battue: j'ai peur et je suis faible. YES OSTI.
- Avoue que c'est vraiment excellent que Bronfman se fasse voler ses bijoux par des cat burglars dans son mansion à Toronto. Surtout les deux bagues de la coupe Stanley.
- Hahaha quoi?
- J'espère que c'est un Québecois qui les a ramenées à Montréal et les a enterrées dans le sous-sol de l'AMC.
- Se faire voler des bijoux. Cest semi homoérotique.
- C'est génial tu veux dire.
- Oui.
- À Paris, Harry Winston se sont fait voler pour 134 millions de bijoux. Après, tsé, tu prends un bain dans les bijoux. Pis tu ris et ris et ris. HAHAHAHA.
- Haha oui, tu jouis autour des bijoux, tu te mets les bijoux dans ton intérieur pis tu les savoure
-...
- Haha ouais. Ouais... Je te frappe a 75% de ma force.
- Je te gifle à 75% de 75% de ma force.
- Hahaha ah non, tu me giffle tsé.
- Je te sacre un coup de poing dans le chest. Je t'ai déja raconté la fois où j'ai punché ma grand-mère dans le chest? Elle me chatouillais pis j'en pouvais plus. J'étais couchée sur le dos. Pis je l'ai punchée dans le chest. Ça en est resté là. Elle a accepté que tsé, le niveau de chatouillage qu'elle me faisait subir, équivalait à un coup de poing dans les boules. C'était fair pour elle.
- Haha, quel âge que t'avais?
- Genre onze ou douze. Je me rapelle clairement du sentiment...AH NON OSTI QU'AIS-JE FAIT? Mais personne n'a rien dit. Et on en a jamais reparlé. J'ai oublié de dire que ma grand-mère avait survécu à un cancer de l'oeil et du sein, alors ca explique aussi à QUEL POINT MAL c'était de la frapper. Là. J'ai punché ma vieille grand-mère malade. Punché une femme qui a le cancer du sein dans les boules. Mais jai jamais pensé tsé, j'étais trop en souffrance. Je compare vraiment me faire chatouiller à me faire violer je suis sûre que c'est la même terreur.
- Disons une fille veut faire courir légerement et sensuellement ses mains ou ses doigts sur moi je la rejette.
- J'espère. Pire sensation
- C'est dur à expliquer. Elle pense pas qu'elle me chatouille.
- Ah osti juste y penser, ça donne mal à la MOELLE ÉPINIÈRE. Pis un léger goût de vomi.
- Je lui dis, si tu veux me faire plaisir, fais moi un massage. Ou une pipe.
- Raconte moi une anecdote terrible
- Je peux te dire comment ça a fini avec Diane.
- Oui dis le moi
- Ok, vers la fin elle capotait pas mal pis je voyais en restant dans la même ville qu'elle et en la voyant souvent - après un presqu'un an de long distance relationship qu'elle avait des problèmes. Donc j'essaie de casser une première fois mais ca n'a pas fonctionné... Une de ses amies amie m'appelle en détresse, me dit que je peux pas faire ca en ce moment, c'est trop pour elle de s'occuper de ramasser Diane en 1000 morceaux. L'affaire est que on s'est rencontrés Diane et moi au travers une amie en commun: Laurel. Laurel et moi on était bien downs l'un avec l'autre. Alors à chaque fois que le drame éclatait avec Diane j'appellais Laurel. Je la gardais à jour, je me confiais. j'étais pas habitué au drame, Laurel m'aidait à dealer avec ces choses une vraie amie. À ce point là, moi et le band étions parti faire quelques soirs en dehors de la ville. Ça faisait un moment que ça allait mal avec Diane.
- OUI OK. Je te permet de continuer
- Ce weekend là j'ai failli embrasser une autre fille. Vraiment pas mon genre, je suis pas sleazy à ce point. Je me suis dit, criss ok là c'est grave faut vraiment que je finisse ça avec l'autre. Je voulais casser ça en personne, c'est sûr. Je l'appelle en revenant et mon ton de voix a trahi mes intentions futures. Elle sentait que il y avait de quoi de louche. Elle voulait savoir, là, exactement ce qui se passait avec moi. Au debut je disais ok on s'en jasera quand on se verra, ça peut attendre, mais elle voulait clairement pas attendre. Je tentais de couper cours à la conversation, mais elle revenait à la charge. Je commençais à ne plus savoir quoi faire. Entre deux conversations interrompues, j'appelle Laurel. On se jasais ca, tsé, quelle stratégie employer et tout. À ce moment Diane rappelle encore... Cette fois, elle m'a pas mal forcé à dropper la dompe au téléphone. Elle était convaincue que c'était ça. Dans ma tête c'était pire de dire, non c'est pas ça et lui dire que finalement JE CASSE trois jours après.
- OH SHIT.
- Là les pires affaires sortaient de sa bouche. Elle m'accusait de la tromper avec Laurel. Il y avait des larmes, pire moment émotionnel, le tout sur le salloperie de téléphone. Calice.
- Ah non...
- Finalement on se promet de se rejaser ça plus reposés dans un futur rapproché. Donc qu'est ce que je fais après mon appel? j'appelle Laurel, parce que là c'etait pas mal moi qui capotais sur les bords rendu à ce stade là, après avoir dompé une fille au téléphone pis avoir ecouté des larmes pis des promesses pour tout régler. Mais là: ERREUR classique de Naud. J'ai recomposé par erreur le numéro de ma désormais EX. Ça décroche, je m'addresse à l'interlocutrice.
- NON. NON!
- "Hey Laurel. Je suis célibataire."
- NON OSTI. NOOOON. TROMPEUR.
- Diane: "Je le savais!"
- HAHAH OUAIS.
- "JE LE SAVAIS! Depuis le temps que je voyais votre fameuse AMITIÉ!". Finalement, quatre semaines plus tard avant un spectacle que j'anticipais Diane m'appelle.
- Vous vous êtes pas reparlés? Avant quatre semaines?
- Exact, j'était devenu un sale trompeur, il n'y avait plus rien à faire. Donc elle m'appelle et veut discuter de tout ça.
- Toi t'étais finalement heureux.
- Haha, ouais, quand même. Je la rejoint au concert en question. Elle m'amène en face de la venue. Elle fait son plaidoyé et me dis comment tout ce qui me conviens pas dans cette relation va être réglé. Des larmes encore... Je lui dis que il n'y aucun turning back. Larmes. Sniff. Janic is OUT.
- T'étais parti.
- Dans ma tête j'étais déjà au show en train de mosher ma vie. Elle m'en veut toujours à ce jour à ce qu'on dit.
- Je peux te dire comment ça a fini avec Diane.
- Oui dis le moi
- Ok, vers la fin elle capotait pas mal pis je voyais en restant dans la même ville qu'elle et en la voyant souvent - après un presqu'un an de long distance relationship qu'elle avait des problèmes. Donc j'essaie de casser une première fois mais ca n'a pas fonctionné... Une de ses amies amie m'appelle en détresse, me dit que je peux pas faire ca en ce moment, c'est trop pour elle de s'occuper de ramasser Diane en 1000 morceaux. L'affaire est que on s'est rencontrés Diane et moi au travers une amie en commun: Laurel. Laurel et moi on était bien downs l'un avec l'autre. Alors à chaque fois que le drame éclatait avec Diane j'appellais Laurel. Je la gardais à jour, je me confiais. j'étais pas habitué au drame, Laurel m'aidait à dealer avec ces choses une vraie amie. À ce point là, moi et le band étions parti faire quelques soirs en dehors de la ville. Ça faisait un moment que ça allait mal avec Diane.
- OUI OK. Je te permet de continuer
- Ce weekend là j'ai failli embrasser une autre fille. Vraiment pas mon genre, je suis pas sleazy à ce point. Je me suis dit, criss ok là c'est grave faut vraiment que je finisse ça avec l'autre. Je voulais casser ça en personne, c'est sûr. Je l'appelle en revenant et mon ton de voix a trahi mes intentions futures. Elle sentait que il y avait de quoi de louche. Elle voulait savoir, là, exactement ce qui se passait avec moi. Au debut je disais ok on s'en jasera quand on se verra, ça peut attendre, mais elle voulait clairement pas attendre. Je tentais de couper cours à la conversation, mais elle revenait à la charge. Je commençais à ne plus savoir quoi faire. Entre deux conversations interrompues, j'appelle Laurel. On se jasais ca, tsé, quelle stratégie employer et tout. À ce moment Diane rappelle encore... Cette fois, elle m'a pas mal forcé à dropper la dompe au téléphone. Elle était convaincue que c'était ça. Dans ma tête c'était pire de dire, non c'est pas ça et lui dire que finalement JE CASSE trois jours après.
- OH SHIT.
- Là les pires affaires sortaient de sa bouche. Elle m'accusait de la tromper avec Laurel. Il y avait des larmes, pire moment émotionnel, le tout sur le salloperie de téléphone. Calice.
- Ah non...
- Finalement on se promet de se rejaser ça plus reposés dans un futur rapproché. Donc qu'est ce que je fais après mon appel? j'appelle Laurel, parce que là c'etait pas mal moi qui capotais sur les bords rendu à ce stade là, après avoir dompé une fille au téléphone pis avoir ecouté des larmes pis des promesses pour tout régler. Mais là: ERREUR classique de Naud. J'ai recomposé par erreur le numéro de ma désormais EX. Ça décroche, je m'addresse à l'interlocutrice.
- NON. NON!
- "Hey Laurel. Je suis célibataire."
- NON OSTI. NOOOON. TROMPEUR.
- Diane: "Je le savais!"
- HAHAH OUAIS.
- "JE LE SAVAIS! Depuis le temps que je voyais votre fameuse AMITIÉ!". Finalement, quatre semaines plus tard avant un spectacle que j'anticipais Diane m'appelle.
- Vous vous êtes pas reparlés? Avant quatre semaines?
- Exact, j'était devenu un sale trompeur, il n'y avait plus rien à faire. Donc elle m'appelle et veut discuter de tout ça.
- Toi t'étais finalement heureux.
- Haha, ouais, quand même. Je la rejoint au concert en question. Elle m'amène en face de la venue. Elle fait son plaidoyé et me dis comment tout ce qui me conviens pas dans cette relation va être réglé. Des larmes encore... Je lui dis que il n'y aucun turning back. Larmes. Sniff. Janic is OUT.
- T'étais parti.
- Dans ma tête j'étais déjà au show en train de mosher ma vie. Elle m'en veut toujours à ce jour à ce qu'on dit.
This Is My Blood.
Oh, the blood that's in me. When I turned 20, my father offered me a custom made family tree with tons of documentation to back it up. Well in case you're wondering, the Naud clan is 13 generations strong.
This ancestry is purely french, cherie (strangely enough, not even a single Irish got in the gene pool). After a long, hard and depressing look at the mirror, there was no way this could be true.
Even though I have caucasian written all over, you can tell I have feats from another world. This is when I stumbled on a name in the tree. Genevieve Marie Ste. Marie. My conviction is firm. That sounds like a native that was force-converted to catholicism and force-mated (that's an alternative way we found for saying raped). Francois Nau, you son of a bitch.
Other irregularity, how come there are three women bearing the name Cloutier only a few generations apart in the same family tree? Was inbreeding common from 1743 until 1865?
My genes are a mess.
This ancestry is purely french, cherie (strangely enough, not even a single Irish got in the gene pool). After a long, hard and depressing look at the mirror, there was no way this could be true.
Even though I have caucasian written all over, you can tell I have feats from another world. This is when I stumbled on a name in the tree. Genevieve Marie Ste. Marie. My conviction is firm. That sounds like a native that was force-converted to catholicism and force-mated (that's an alternative way we found for saying raped). Francois Nau, you son of a bitch.
Other irregularity, how come there are three women bearing the name Cloutier only a few generations apart in the same family tree? Was inbreeding common from 1743 until 1865?
My genes are a mess.
Des Relations.
Les seules relations qu'un gars comme moi peut obtenir, c'est d'avoir du beau sexe significatif, passionné et profond. Les femmes qui veulent une aventure d'un soir et des nuits endiablées ne vont pas vers le semi-beau, pas pire gros pareil, et semi-riche. Donc pour avoir des relations et de la compagnie féminine, je dois être celui qu'elle se verrait épouser, le bon, l'achèvement de sa recherche... Croyez-le ou non, j'arrive du point A au point B sans faire de promesses ou de demande en mariage. Mais comme disait Landeau dans Crimes and Misdemeanors, peut-être que, inconsciemment, je leur fais des acroires. Moi au moins je ne les fais pas tuer par mon frère dans la pègre.
Je me dis toujours: ah, ça va être plaisant, on va faire des activités que je ne fais pas avec mes amis. Comme par exemple aller voir des documentaires, avoir des relations, aller au musée, avoir des relations, aller manger ailleurs que chez Lafleur, avoir des relations...
Quand j'atteins cette zone là, même si j'y arrive de reculons, je m'enivre. C'est parce que je la comble. Je sais écouter les femmes, je sais comment leur donner. Je sais bien des affaires. Je peux être tendre comme Francis Reddy quand il le faut. Et c'est exactement ce gars-là qui va recevoir une pluie torrentielle de ce qui suit :
1. Des relations. Oh. Que. Oui. Le matin, en fin d'après-midi, toute la nuit. Crisse que je fourre quand je suis dans la zone.
2. Des cadeaux. Des offrandes, j'en ai reçu. Des tubes à pesto, des mitaines tricotées, des DVD de John Hughes, beaucoup, beaucoup de nourriture, des magazines, qu'importe ce que je puisse manquer, nommez-le, je l'ai eu. Je ne sais pas trop pourquoi, mais elles me gâtent au point que je commence à me trouver important. Elles voient bien que j'aime bien trop ça être traité comme un prince hédoniste à Dubai.
3. De l'attention. Elles veulent tout savoir, toutes mes histoires poches sont un régal pour elle. Tout la fait rire, même quand j'ose commencer à péter dans sa couette. Si j'ai un besoin, vous pouvez-être sûrs qu'il va être comblé avant même que je m'en rende compte.
Mon problème c'est que je me tanne. Un moment donné, elle veut toujours savoir ce que tu penses. Un an plus tard, tu te rends compte que tu sors plus souvent à souper avec elle que tu as de relations avec elle. Ensuite, elle se rend compte que non, je ne suis pas comme Meat Loaf, je ne ferai finalement pas tout au nom de l'amour.
C'est peut-être mon aspect confortable qui cause cette illusion là. Cependant, le fauve de sensualité en moi se meurt de briser sa cage.
My First Hate Mail.
This appears to be in response to a bit I wrote on Alec Baldwin. Somebody felt they had to get the following point across yours truly:
WHO EVER WROTE THIS BLOG IS A MOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT ASSHOLE MOTHER FUCKER WHO DESERVES TO GO FUCK HIS MOTHER AND DROWN THE THE PITS OF HELL. NO ONE KNOW THE ALEC BALDWIN AND IRELAND BALDWIN SITUATION. YOU DONT KNOW KNOW SHIT YOU FUCK FACE. ALEC BALDWIN MAY BE A DESENT GUY, BUT SO CAN IRELAND BALDWIN. SHES JUST WAS JUST A FUCKING LITTLE GIRL. NOT TO MENTION KIM BASINGER IS A DESENT NICE PARENT TO. DONT WRITE LITTLE FUCKING BLOGS ABOUT PEOPLE YOU DONT KNOW. WHAT A FUCKING LOSER YOU ARE. YOU COULD BE WRITING A BLOG ABOUT SOMETHING IMPORTANT BUT SINCE YOU PROBABLY JUST LOST YOUR JOB OR FOUND OUT YOU HAVE GENITAL HERPES BECAUSE YOU FUCKED YOUR COUSIN, STAAAYYY THEEEE FUCCCCKKK OUUTTT OFFF PEOPLES LIFES YOU LITTLE WHORE. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
YOU LIKE A 40 YEAR OLD PIECE OF SHIT WHO PROBABLY PAYS A LITTLE 7 YEAR OLD TO SUCK YOUR 1 INCH SO STAY THE FUCK AWAY AND MOVE THE FUCK ON.
WHO EVER WROTE THIS BLOG IS A MOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT ASSHOLE MOTHER FUCKER WHO DESERVES TO GO FUCK HIS MOTHER AND DROWN THE THE PITS OF HELL. NO ONE KNOW THE ALEC BALDWIN AND IRELAND BALDWIN SITUATION. YOU DONT KNOW KNOW SHIT YOU FUCK FACE. ALEC BALDWIN MAY BE A DESENT GUY, BUT SO CAN IRELAND BALDWIN. SHES JUST WAS JUST A FUCKING LITTLE GIRL. NOT TO MENTION KIM BASINGER IS A DESENT NICE PARENT TO. DONT WRITE LITTLE FUCKING BLOGS ABOUT PEOPLE YOU DONT KNOW. WHAT A FUCKING LOSER YOU ARE. YOU COULD BE WRITING A BLOG ABOUT SOMETHING IMPORTANT BUT SINCE YOU PROBABLY JUST LOST YOUR JOB OR FOUND OUT YOU HAVE GENITAL HERPES BECAUSE YOU FUCKED YOUR COUSIN, STAAAYYY THEEEE FUCCCCKKK OUUTTT OFFF PEOPLES LIFES YOU LITTLE WHORE. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
YOU LIKE A 40 YEAR OLD PIECE OF SHIT WHO PROBABLY PAYS A LITTLE 7 YEAR OLD TO SUCK YOUR 1 INCH SO STAY THE FUCK AWAY AND MOVE THE FUCK ON.
Mindfuck.
A couple months before taking off to Mexico City, I remember standing out in the cold a few blocks from home waiting to commute to work. I was standing in front of this advertisement for the Mexico tourism board and was thinking to myself I could use an all inclusive resort of some sort (even though this is a blatant waste of traveling time). It was me and the snowstorm, looking at this gorgeous beach and where the ocean melts with the sky.
Weeks later while walking throughout downtown DF, I notice an photo exposition along Reforma avenue, by the sidewalk. Turns out it was sponsored by the government of Quebec. There were these incredible pictures of familiar places from back home. The whole thing was basically a publicity stunt to attract Mexican tourists in Quebec.
The mindfuck happened the moment I caught myself standing in front of a picture of a street corner a few blocks away from my actual Montreal home, in the middle of a blizzard. Doing this in Mexico under intense heat brought the experience to a metaphysical level. I think I heard a blood vessel in my brain pop right at that moment. Who knows, maybe this picture was actually a space portal leading home.
Weeks later while walking throughout downtown DF, I notice an photo exposition along Reforma avenue, by the sidewalk. Turns out it was sponsored by the government of Quebec. There were these incredible pictures of familiar places from back home. The whole thing was basically a publicity stunt to attract Mexican tourists in Quebec.
The mindfuck happened the moment I caught myself standing in front of a picture of a street corner a few blocks away from my actual Montreal home, in the middle of a blizzard. Doing this in Mexico under intense heat brought the experience to a metaphysical level. I think I heard a blood vessel in my brain pop right at that moment. Who knows, maybe this picture was actually a space portal leading home.
I Could Make Lisa Smile.
W was running for his first term when I met her. I caught a couple buses and a train and ended up in downtown Philadelphia where I could finally see her again. Long distance was not a relevant obstacle. Lisa had just left her campus and was heading back home to her parents with me in tow.
The air was getting colder and we could see our breath fluttering away. White picketed fences, white houses, white people and star spangled banners all over the suburban haven of Chester County. We took a detour so she could walk me around Avon Grove High, where she graduated just a few years ago. She showed me where the cool kids sat, next to the bleachers by the football turf.
Her parents had a Bush/Cheney sign on the lawn. They were some of the kindest people I ever met. It felt like a Rockwell painting. They had apple pie ready for us. It didn't matter to them their daughter was dating this young lost rebellious soul. Lisa made them proud. And to them, I had to be a kindred soul because I could make Lisa smile. In my own world of opposition, confrontation and dissension, everything had to be black or white. Suddenly, a shade of grey blossomed in me.
The air was getting colder and we could see our breath fluttering away. White picketed fences, white houses, white people and star spangled banners all over the suburban haven of Chester County. We took a detour so she could walk me around Avon Grove High, where she graduated just a few years ago. She showed me where the cool kids sat, next to the bleachers by the football turf.
Her parents had a Bush/Cheney sign on the lawn. They were some of the kindest people I ever met. It felt like a Rockwell painting. They had apple pie ready for us. It didn't matter to them their daughter was dating this young lost rebellious soul. Lisa made them proud. And to them, I had to be a kindred soul because I could make Lisa smile. In my own world of opposition, confrontation and dissension, everything had to be black or white. Suddenly, a shade of grey blossomed in me.
Tough Call.
Let's see. Should they pick the guy who did charity work with a former homeland terrorist with integrity, or the guy who still rolls with corrupt civil servants?
Artists Are Fun.
Friday night was wild, man. Just pure mayhem, causing retarded trouble in the streets. So obviously Saturday morning was a pain. My severed 28 year old body had traces of blood and who knows what sort of fluid I might have ran into. Don't ask why I left downtown to end up all the way in Verdun. The answer would be Starbucks, but that's probably not what you think.
So there I was at 10 am, a zombie in Verdun trying to find his way home on the Plateau.
A friend of mine who elected me her 2008 most electable bachelor invited me to a modern dance event, at Studio Tangente. I had to keep up my reputation, and my friend Mat was going too, so who knows, maybe we could make a night out of it.
Before getting there I walked in the weirdest Depanneur. It smelled something. I just couldn't say what. It's the kind of smell that is strong but you can't figure if it's a disgusting one or something possibly pleasant. The entire surface was packed to the point where you couldn't walk properly through the aisles. Weird part is, the shelves were hanging from the ceiling.
My mission was quite simple, getting us some Red Bull for reason made obvious above.
I got to Tangente much earlier than him. I was soon greeted by Emilie. The reason she invited me was because she was a choreographer for the show. Those dancers just graduated and this happened to be a extracurricular presentation for them. I'll say I appreciated this concert and I have several long winded opinions about it. But since I lack knowledge about this form of art, I don't feel I deserve sharing these impressions.
So after attempting a phone call I just sat at a table in the hall, putting the two cans in front of me waiting for Mat to get there. As the room filled up full of people lining up to see the show, I was becoming amused by the crowd and the various typecasts being there. You had completely dancer type artists clashing with some folks who appeared to be related to the artists on stage. So you had moms and dads, grand-parents, jockish brothers... Throw in a couple of dudes or girls in the same position than I am: normalish people, interested in catching this event and also friends with somebody involved.
I probably spent 25 minutes walking around then sitting at this table. After assessing the crowd, I picked a target.
She was an artist looking girl. Kind of cute but obviously involved with herself and no one else. I overheard her making slightly condescending comments about how this show is only made by graduates. She was also spending more time looking at the whole environment than at her interlocutor. The person in question actually excused himself somewhere else.
This is when I stood up, left my coat and my cans at the table and walked straight up to her , making sure to look at her right in the eyes. She saw me coming a long way in and was obviously looking back at me inquisitively. I said in her hear, as loud as I could without being heard by anyone else:
- YOU THINK I HAVE A GOD COMPLEX? I AM GOD.
I ignored any possible reaction she might have had and walked back to my table and opened my can of Red Bull and had a long, invigorating sip.
So there I was at 10 am, a zombie in Verdun trying to find his way home on the Plateau.
A friend of mine who elected me her 2008 most electable bachelor invited me to a modern dance event, at Studio Tangente. I had to keep up my reputation, and my friend Mat was going too, so who knows, maybe we could make a night out of it.
Before getting there I walked in the weirdest Depanneur. It smelled something. I just couldn't say what. It's the kind of smell that is strong but you can't figure if it's a disgusting one or something possibly pleasant. The entire surface was packed to the point where you couldn't walk properly through the aisles. Weird part is, the shelves were hanging from the ceiling.
My mission was quite simple, getting us some Red Bull for reason made obvious above.
I got to Tangente much earlier than him. I was soon greeted by Emilie. The reason she invited me was because she was a choreographer for the show. Those dancers just graduated and this happened to be a extracurricular presentation for them. I'll say I appreciated this concert and I have several long winded opinions about it. But since I lack knowledge about this form of art, I don't feel I deserve sharing these impressions.
So after attempting a phone call I just sat at a table in the hall, putting the two cans in front of me waiting for Mat to get there. As the room filled up full of people lining up to see the show, I was becoming amused by the crowd and the various typecasts being there. You had completely dancer type artists clashing with some folks who appeared to be related to the artists on stage. So you had moms and dads, grand-parents, jockish brothers... Throw in a couple of dudes or girls in the same position than I am: normalish people, interested in catching this event and also friends with somebody involved.
I probably spent 25 minutes walking around then sitting at this table. After assessing the crowd, I picked a target.
She was an artist looking girl. Kind of cute but obviously involved with herself and no one else. I overheard her making slightly condescending comments about how this show is only made by graduates. She was also spending more time looking at the whole environment than at her interlocutor. The person in question actually excused himself somewhere else.
This is when I stood up, left my coat and my cans at the table and walked straight up to her , making sure to look at her right in the eyes. She saw me coming a long way in and was obviously looking back at me inquisitively. I said in her hear, as loud as I could without being heard by anyone else:
- YOU THINK I HAVE A GOD COMPLEX? I AM GOD.
I ignored any possible reaction she might have had and walked back to my table and opened my can of Red Bull and had a long, invigorating sip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
