How Fast Things Change...

Apparently, a windstorm hit Montreal yesterday. My landlord came knockin' on my door this morning to collect the rent (the rent is due, yo, the rent is due...) and told me, upon seeing me dressed only in a short sleeved polo & jeans, that August was long gone and that it was freezing outside. Not being the kind of guy that shivers easily (unlike Cronenberg), I didn't take notice.

Then he told me that the wind blew so hard yesterday that it changed the face of our building. How ?

Half of the wall climbing plants that covered the huge wall facing West was ripped off !!! Can you imagine ? It was almost worse than when I saw a tree ripped off by Katrina a few weeks ago. My heart was bleeding.

There's also a guy whose brand new Honda Civic was crushed by a falling tree. Who cares ? Jock car. But my wall !?! Tragedy.

*

I was supposed to give a shout out and represent Sherbrooke St at Main Hall, yesterday, where Chromeo & Devin the Dude were freshin' it up. But I felt trapped when I got home. I went to the grocery store, it was pretty chilly outside, and when I came back I didn't feel like leaving the house again. I cooked a bit, listened to some music while washing the dishes, and crawled in my bed to watch COMME UNE IMAGE, by the Jaoui / Bacri tandem.

Not too bad. Bacri is grumpier than ever, but there was something about the movie that kept me from getting too much into it. Maybe because I didn't feel any link to any character moving on my TV screen. I'm not like them.

*

Seeing is believing. When I came to work, I read an article in MacLean's about the new maritime shipping route they're thinking of using in the Great White North. Boats would leave any part of Europe and sail to Churchill, Manitoba, at the North end of Hudson's Bay. That's fuckin' impressive. In '97, OmniTRAX bought the 1 300 km one-way railway going from The Pas to Churchill for about 10$.

Not a bad idea to exploit that, but the thing is that the route would be open only four months a year. The rest of the time... it's just ice. I was about to call Princess Cruises to propose setting up a cruise that would go from Alaska to, let's say, Quebec city, passing North of Canada, slaloming through the northern islands. A chilly cruise for sure, but an interesting one. North Pole Party People United.

*

Tomorrow, on top of Mont Ste-Anne in Quebec city, there's a party called "Freeeaaak" where several DJ's, starting at noon, will be playing trance in the wide wild open air. Interesting concept. I shall be there. Sounds a lot like Piknic to me, without the good musical taste. Afterwards the party has a part 2, taking place at Galerie Rouje. THIS will be interesting, with electro blasting in my heart.

More on that later, I guess.

Wearing a Cap

You know, you can't just hide your love forever. You have to let it out some day. Peace & love, brothers & sisters !

*

For the last few weeks I've been wearing a cap. Yeah, a trucker hat, basecall cap, call it whatever the fuck you like. It's pink. Gay pink, actually. I like it a lot. Thing is, I've never thought I'd wear that. Ever. Just happened one day. Fell from the sky.

I used to wear this worn out, dark blue cap, can't remember where I found it in the first place, in the small town I was living in back in the days. I wore it because my long hair had been cut, it was growing back, but it felt embarassing to expose them at the level of growth they were at. It was a period - end of my high school years - where things went pretty dark in my life. I had no real friends, didn't meet any girls, I was "special" - a bit punkish in a shit hole of a town - and depressed.

I had found, with a friend, a guy who was getting rid of his caps collection. What kind of fuckin' weirdo would collect caps !? This guy did, anyway, and he gave us a whole "sac vert" full of 'em. There were some ugly ones, of course, but there were some real gems. An "O'Keefe" one, an "Old El Paso" one, and one that read : "J'ai d'la classe". Fun hats for everybody.

Don't ask me where they all went because today, after several déménagements, I lost all of 'em.

So anyway, I wore this dark blue cap like a burden, like a weight on my head, a weight that made me go bald faster, and made me look like an idiot because a punk with a hap, no matter what he says or thinks, will always look like an idiot.

Which brings me to this : you have to be stylish to wear a cap and not look like an idiot, a retard or a jock (which is a combination of both).

My friend LetNoManJock wears it to blend into the "jock" mould and hopefully screw a few straight boy's asses along the way. But there can be other reasons : ashamed of balding, too lazy to comb his hair, generally shy and hiding under the palette...

I think it's a cycle. Caps are stylish now; hip hop chicks wear them, guys were them, electro hags wear them on the side... The cycle will accomplish what all cycles do : circle 'round. They'll be out of fashion soon - but when ?

Something is fucking scary. A South Shore jock from my department, at UQAM, who either wore a cap of the ritual "450 toupet" last year, arrived at school sporting a mohawk this year. Not just a gelled mohawk : a real one. He still has hair on the side, but it's definitly a mohawk. I'll be fuckin' damned.

So I can confess why I wear my cap, after dissin' so many people in just one rant. Yeah, I'm lazy, and my the paste I usually wear in my hair has been discontinued by its makers. Sucks. I am also a bit ashamed of balding - actually not ashamed, not even embarassed, but conscious that some chicks don't like it. So I put all the chances on my side : for bald lovers, I take it off. I also look WAY younger with this shit on. I look like a p'tit christ, to be honest.

Which is kinda cool, yo !

Physicality

I believe that a human being needs physical contacts. Even an asexual needs a hug from time to time. And a supercharged testosterone fueled alpha male like me needs his share of the "piece of ass" that is the feminine pool. It's crude, but true. My eyes go from booty to cleavage without ever stopping on the wall, and they never rest. I'm always on the lookout, my radar patrolling the zone 24/7, and I'm so easy-going it's almost scary.

UQAM is one hell of a task to attend. I have a crush in every goddamn course I'm attending. The warm, genuine smiles I'm receiving from cute girls half my age, the enthousiasm, and the POSSIBILITIES. Makes me feel dizzy.

Physicality produces electricity. A human being can turn into an animal when he touches something - or someone, mostly - he likes. Girls you never thought you'd be into, and always spoke with - or watched - from a distance can turn into the onject of your lust once some kind of "contact" is established. You lose it. Lose your head, your cool, and your calculations. You just go with the moment and sometimes commit mistakes you will not be able to repair.

But what the hell ? What can feel better than being totally sober, alone somewhere with a girl you never imagined you could be with, playin' around, flirting, starting to touch... Touch is everything - hell, it's essential. Michael Mayer knew it best. So you're somewhere with someone - whoever - you suddenly start to like. Of course, you can flirt with words... but nothing sends you into a high-kickin' erectional state like TOUCH. And once the blood is flowing in your cock and you can feel your heart beat in your tool, it's often too late to go back.

The kick of novelty - being with a new girl & all - has something to do with the excitement, of course, but most of the "new" sensations you are experiencing, when you're still eager enough not to bee too jaded about the whole experience, mostly comes from the feeling at your fingertips.

I remember lots of nasty things crossed my mind over the years every time some new girl would, accidentally or not, put her skin against mine. Imagine what it feels like for horny tennis instructors !!

*

Germany's Get Physical Music is a label I highly respect. Co-owned by DJ T and the guys from Booka Shade & M.A.N.D.Y., they mostly put out vinyls with this rich and distinctive analog sound. All the tracks are recorded in the same studio, giving them a unique vibe, and they recently put out a gem called the "Body Language" mix.

This is a mix you can listen to in your car, windows rolled up, in the middle of the Ville-Marie tunnel. You get a certain submarine feel, something aquatic, like swimming to the beat. Booka Shade's "Mandarine Girl" kicks things in high gear and from then on, the energy level goes through the roof, but in a subtle way, like Jackie Chan going through a roof without breaking any of his body parts.

The best thing I can think about right now is meeting a girl, and bringing her back to my place while listening to Chelonis R. Jones' "I Don't Know". And then putting on "Body Language" once home, and watch her strip during the first two tracks. Then, touch the various parts of her probably amazing body during the rest of the mix, and hopefully getting to do it all over again as often as possible.

Olivia Newton John is gettin' old, ya know.

Dreams Can Come True

The subconscious is a rather powerful feature of the human psychological "whole". A muddy zone where all is possible, where the connections you never make in your "waking life" are made. I shall elaborate further in an essay I am planning to write, about temporality and our brain recording images and storing them as if it knew what we were going to need later on, and what was going to be useless. But that's a hasardous ground that I am not stepping on, for the moment.

So there I was, after an incredibly difficult Monday, sleeping like a log. I had forgotten to set up my alarm clock to wake up at 7:30 this morning, and I was so deeply buried in my dreams that I didn't open my eyes until 8:20, almost an hour after I was supposed to get out of bed.

And here's the way this hour was spent.

I was hopping in the subway - in my dreams, subways are a recurring motif. The lines are never the same than in reality, and the docks are always shaped like the "steps" of a hot tub, and covered in mosaic. Often blue, always featuring pillars obstructing the view. So there I was, waiting for my wagon in this imaginary transit system, that I nonetheless always take for granted, when I ran into Fabien. Now, Fabien is a guy that attends the same course as I do on Tuesday mornings, but I don't know him at all, and I don't care about the guy - at all.

So there he was, in my dreams, reminding me about the "ogligation" I had this morning to attend school. We spoke a bit - don't remember about what, tho - and I got off the wagon to take a bus. Usually, it's the other way around, but nevermind; EVERYTHING is possible, in dreams, apparently. So upon getting out of the bus in front of UQAM, there was an elderly gentleman trying to walk down the vehicle's stairs. I held his arm to help him, only to realise that it was Yves Archambault, older than he probably is right now, and wearing a hearing device in his left ear.

Now, Archambault is this teacher I had last semester in a boring ecology course, that I failed because I was kicked out of my team - long story. I never really liked the guy, but there he was. Perhaps to remind me that if I was late too often on Tuesday mornings, I would fail that course too ?

He walked along with me and before I went in, he gave me a kiss on the mouth.

Now, what the fuck does my subconscious meant by that ?!

*

Dreams can come true in Montreal. If your eyes are sharp enough, and your brain healthy even when the hours are early, you can always spot a few incredibilities around.

So this morning, when I REALLY got off the bus at Sherbrooke station, on my way to school, I noticed that Dave One was sitting just behind me. For fuck's sake. I could have sucked out a guest list for Thursday's "Get Low" at Main Hall where he'll appear alongside Devin the Dude.

Chromeo, in control ?

Didn't know the guy was livin' east, tho.

Next Year, Same Spot - But in the Meantime, Infinite Sadness

The sad thing about Piknics is that they always come to an end. Towards the end of the summer, the sun disappears faster than usual, and we're left in the dark. The music's still on, but the faces become blurry, and our hearts start aching.

Piknic has been very good to me, at all times. Especially this summer where the sun was seemingly shining every Sunday there was, striking hard, illuminating the dancefloor with its warmt, and driving me to cover my skin with sunscreen. Smelled nice. And the smiles, mini skirts & bikinis made the day. Made MY day, anyway.

It was a slightly different story on Sunday. I heard the cars roll on Sherbrooke St. through a couple of milimeters of water - that was actually the first sound I heard when I woke up - and I knew the day was going to be fucked. It was 2 PM, and I didn't feel like a million bucks. Mr. Bérêt was still there, on a bare mattress in my spare room, looking devastated. I had a coffee and showered, and we headed for Club Sandwich to get some grease in our organism because we were truly about to die.

We sat & ordered, and I had another coffee while we waited for our food. And waited. And waited. Passing by, a new waitress called Jacynthe almost made me fell off my banquette. Holy fuckin' crap. My kinda girl : black hair, slut make-up, BIG breasts. Her tight black t-shirt made me drool. I know her name because I asked around, being my real predator self. We finally got our food after waiting for nearly 40 minutes while a cute, tall, bubble-butted brunette mopped the floor.

Geez, I really have to congratulate the new guy who's hiring the employees.

When we were done, we got the fuck out, because I was starting to shake after my third coffee. We went back to my place, where I took a shower and made a dozen phone calls. Then we went to get food & Guru at the grocery store, and picked up Miss Singer. And off we went to Ste-Hélène island.

The first sign it would be a nice one, despite the shitty weather, was that the parking lot employees were gone, when we arrived at 6. 12$ in my pocket and the satisfaction of being fashionably late. On the gravel road leading to the site, there was nobody, but the music was pretty fuckin' loud, so it seemed odd. But we found out what was going on upon entering the Place de l'Homme : EVERYBODY was on the floor, fists raised. Yeah baby, Champion was chillin' 'em...

It was rather crowded for a rainy day, but it was the last one, so come on... and dance !

I saw Mr. Moto with his cougar, and then I saw Mr. Electricity (new here, but a familiar face at Piknic, with his warm smile and big heart) with one of his exes that was "à croquer". Black haired and REAL cute. I found all my friends and we waited in the rain, as it started pouring heavily, like some drunk god's piss. Champion as a DJ was quite good, but I wasn't really "in the mood" to dance, even while drinking my first Guru. So I popped open a bottle of Rev, and it felt better.

By the time Leo Cruz took control of the decks, around 7, I was on the floor, feet naked on the soaked rug, ready to rock. Cruz was mellow at first, soulful even, and the energy level came down quite fast. However, I knew he'd know how to raise it back quickly. And I was right; by the time I drank my 2nd Rev, acid tech had taken control of my feet and things were lookin' good.

I saw the tall girl from Nostalgia who had left with the Atari geek. I saw lots of friends, and I was drinking vodka / Guru glasses one after the other. Got very, very drunk. Miss Singer looked happy to be there, and we were kissing on the floor like youngsters. Some guy gave me tickets for François LeBaron's birthday bash @ Living, along with Éloi Brunelle, three times in a row. The Piknic team had set up some amazing special lightning, illuminating the trees surrounding the site in red, white & blue. I heard there were some fireworks at the end, but around 10:40 my legs gave up and we left.

Another magical moment was over. I had trouble coping with the fact that lots of people I know were there, and that I wouldn't see them again for a couple of months... because we always only meet at Piknic ! All these Sundays shared, and the cold reality coming back at the end of september to bite you in the ass : time for school, winter, cold, and our pointless existence to resume.

I couldn't sleep all night because of all the uppers I drank. Miss Singer came to my place for the night, but she left at 3, because she kept hearing beats even as she tried to sleep.

So in the end, I didn't cry on the dancefloor as promised, but I should have, because it's a pity it's over.

Music is my Life... and Kiko is my Wife

I woke up around 1 PM on Saturday, and Mr. Finances called me to ask if he could come over and do some laundry at my place. Sure thing. We had coffee and looked at some pictures I had taken the night before, and he ate a capicolo sandwich he would soon forget. I called Miss Singer and invited her over to ride along with us - we were going to a cheap fripperie near Jean-Talon to find ourselves some ridiculous suits to be well dressed during the evening - and she agreed. So off we went.

At Moog Audio, they didn't have any tickets left for the SAT that night. At the fripperie, they had nothing worth the investment; no classy pastel suits, some WAY TOO LARGE t-shirts, and some uninteresting dusty old records. I found a book about rape. Better than a kick in the nuts !

We went to take a romantic walk in a "beachfront" park in Cartierville afterwards, facing the Rivière des Prairies, and we were so fuckin' hungry that I drove to Tampopo in a few seconds as soon as we got back in my car. After our lunch we went to watch Miss Singer drink a beer and talk on the phone with her sister, and Mr. Finances & me decided to head to my place to dress up for the night, since she obviously wasn't coming.

*

We had a few "red" Rev's while dressing up, and Mr. Bérêt called me to claim he ditched his chick for the night. He was at Sky and ready to kick things in with a few sips of vodka - he always carries around his 60 ounces bottle - so I told him to bring his ass over. Then one of my crazy exes called to report she'd kill somebody if I didn't offer her a ride, so I told her to hop in a cab and to come to my place for a beer to calm her nerves. I put on my pimp suit before both of them were there, and when they arrived I was ready to rock (with my cock out).

We wanted to be there early, so we hopped in my bazoo, and rolled to the SAT. It was still 25$ to get in, and we soon realised that the place was fuckin' empty, even at 23h30. Jeff Grosse was spinning and just behind him... sat Kiko, the genius. He didn't look bored, but a bit discouraged at the (lack of) attendance. At 23h40 sharp he began his set, starting things out smoothly with some electro tech that didn't make lots of people move except us !

More friends arrived later on, just in time for the party to catch on. Mr. Hairdresser & Miss Nurse weren't sure they'd stay, but the songs were getting better & better, and the hits began pouring down like a golden shower administered by a nectarine drinking prince : Come on Up, NY Lipps, Washing Up... It was hard, it was in your face, it was techy, acid, bumpin', it was all you'd dream about if you were going to see a guy like Kiko spin live shit.

People slowly got into it and the place filled up, and at one point we were under the impression that the place was crowded, just because everybody was dancing ! There were some pretty cute chicks, some that were really sexy, and some that were cute from a distance. One blonde shakin' her ass real good looked at least 40 years old with the lights on, and I finally managed to have the nerves to talk to a girl I always see everywhere. She was wearing a nice denim mini skirt but we didn't talk that much.

Miss Ottawa drank a few shots of Vodka and she became suggestively flirty, and we decided to have a party at my place after the evening was done. When Kiko left the decks to Savas Pascalidis, who looks VERY greek, the energy level went down a few notches, but things were still sounding good, with an ultra dark and instrumental set.

Since I was dancing in my suit since the beginning of the evening, I was hot and tired, se we left at 3:15, just before things were over. Mr. Finances went to get some fries and we headed home. Miss Ottawa didn't feel like stayin, so we basically just looked at the evening's pics I had taken, Mr. Bérêt stayed at my place to sleep, and everybody left. We called it a night. My date with Kiko didn't feel so special. During his set, I told him that Hot Banana was my favorite label, and that all my annual DJ charts were graced by at least one of his productions, and he didn't look like it was so special for him to hear that.

Sometimes, things are not as we thought they'd be. I'm losing my electro innocence here.

TGIF

After a rather difficult week, spent mostly fighting ghosts from the past and current blocages, I was finally able to cool it off while reading an article about David Cronenberg on the way back home, in the bus sending me away from my damned office. An article I finished in my bed just before I fell unconscious, into a well deserved disco nap.

When I woke up I watched Sam Karmann's « À la Petite Semaine », a french gangster flick that I didn't fully enjoy because my expectations were high after « Kennedy & Me ». Nevermind & no comments !

I was ready to rock n' roll at Saphir's PANIC, an evening that was celebrating its 200th edition in grand style; Plastic Patrick was spinning the top 10 of the most requested songs ever, and on the darkwave floor, Frigid was spinning some pretty dark & scary stuff. This was an evening not to be missed, especially since Mr. Dead Cat was going to be there, and be pretty pissing drunk, or so I heard.

After trying to find a fucking parking spot for 40 minutes, I finally made my way to the club and saw that all my friends were already there. I ran into Mr. Bérêt while waiting for a beer, and was very surprised / happy to see him. Mr. Finances also wasn't sure he'd come, but the first thing you know is that he showed up, lookin' sharp, and very drunk on the inside - I didn't notice, he just told me the next day.

I didn't try real hard to flirt with the chicks that were there, because all of them looked like they had boyfriends !? At one point, I was taking a picture of some girls I know, and a shady looking guy was passing by. When he noticed the flash, he stopped and wanted to see the pic I had taken. When he was assured his ugly face didn't appear on the pic, he turned around and kept walking. Fuckin' biker. Your paranoia betrays you. Go bury some poor dude's ass deep into the St-Lawrence river instead of picking up all the chicks in our club, loser.

The evening eventually ended and the lights came on, chasing most of us outside. At some clubs, when the light comes on, at 3 AM, the patrons are still good looking, but at Saphir it's unfortunately not the case.

Once on the sidewalk in front of Tokyo, I was chatting with my mates and I saw a zebra pass by. Guess who it was ? Shelly from BROSSARD !!! The girl that Mr. Bérêt & me had met a week prior in this cheap Village pizza parlor !! MC Brutall was shouting real loud that she looked awful in that outfit, and luckily, she doesn't speak french. She was pretty cute even in this doubtful striped matching suit. She still liked my hat and was as drunk as the last time I ran into her, which kinda made sense. We invited her over to the after party we were going to, and she gave me her email address. And off was she, drifting to the nearest pizza parlor.

So Mr. Finances & me left for the party, a loft bash at 77 Mont-Royal where Philgood was spinning. We got there and nobody was answering the door, probably because the music was too loud. Some guys finally left and we got in. The place was packed, but then again, every girl looked like she already had a boyfriend. The were some jocks circling a gorgeous black-haired & blue-eyed chick, wearing high heels & a saliva-inducing mini-skirt. A chubby drunk ass girl was trying to pick up the only black chick in the place.

While I was in the line-up to have a piss, Philgood put on Tiga's remix of Zdar's "Don't U Want", and from then on put some fuckin' hits one after the other, until Michael Jackson's "Beat it" came on and the volume went down. Apparently, there were some cops at the door, doing what cops do best : bothering us.

So while the music was barely audible, we noticed a lovely brunette in a baby blue tank top. She had the most sensual mouth ever, not to mention her inviting bubble butt. So we went ahead to chat her up, and after a few sentences she mentioned she had been to Nuevo all evening, since her boyfriend was spinning there.

So apparently, in Montreal, everybody's a DJ, and all the cute chicks are already taken.

We left a few seconds afterwards and went to get a pizza slice a couple of doors east. I stole the Saturday edition of the Journal de Montréal from a big bundle deposited in front of a dépanneur and we took off into the night, going to bed after another fun but yet pointless evening.

Stayin' alive or stayin' home ?

I'd say that in order to stay alive, I'd have to achieve both, tonight.

Just got back from the office where I had the longest day in my life. I won't tell you what's happening to me, professionally, these days, but let's just say that I have LOTS OF WORK.

And this morning, my course at UQÀM was all about calcul différentiel, which sucks ass, as everybody knows (even Leonard Cohen), so I wasn't really in the mood for love. So here I am at home, not wanting to go out. Even if I wanted to do something, I'd have to go alone, because nobody called me and even the calls I made as a pathetic attempt for company were not returned so far.

I think I'll watch Sam Karmann's "À la Petite Semaine", a movie I rented yesterday... it doesn't look so great but what the fuck, it's better than a kick in the nuts. Or so I think.

*

Yeah, I went to fill up my dream car. I heard that Rita was going to fuck things up pretty hard down there in Texas, and the gaz prices will hike up their slut skirts once again. The problem with my V8 is that you just love to accelerate randomly, with no real reason, and hear the engine roar. It became a luxury these days, and that's why I'm not going anywhere.

Saphir is on my mind for tomorrow. Plastic Patrick invited me personally at the end of the last Neon party @ Dôme, and I don't think that Choco-Électro shit at SAT will be very interesting, if Soundshaper does his set as planned.

Badness will prevail. And I want to see rock chicks in action !

Seeing how lucky I've been lately, I'll probably end up coming home and making love to... my hand !

Wednesdays Never Fail to Deceive

An article from the Village Voice I was reading this afternoon was titled :

"After Katrina: The Smell in Dry New Orleans Now
Stinky dead fish, sweet rotting trees, and gunfire after dark-welcome home, y'all."

It was the cherry on top of the doubtful tasting cake that had been my day. A fun cherry, that is. As I was eating my Baba Ganouj sandwich - provided by my personal assistant at the office, and my favorite maniaco-depressive, Miss Mile End - and looking through the window of my 8th floor office down on McGill college, I saw a fat girl taking pictures, laying on her back directly on the sidewalk. The was a small asian girl gesticulating in front of her, which I believe was the subject of her photos. They stayed there for about 10 minutes before the fat girl got up, and started showing the pictures to her friend as they both walked away real slow.

You go, girl. Taking 10 000 pictures (with your flash on in broad daylight) of the same subject, from the same point of view, while blocking the sidewalk for everybody with your fat ass. Makes great art !

*

I also wanted to mention a movie I saw yesterday. "Risky Business", an '83 teen comedy with Tom Cruise. Not the kind of movie I'd usually rent, but I heard that my car was in it. And Rebecca de Mornay's naked ass didn't ruin the experience, I'd say.

So basically Tom plays this shy college guy, afraid to ruin his life, who end up calling a ho' because he wants to get laid real bad. The ho ends up to be Rebecca, this delightful green-eyed blonde, pre-silicone. Of course lil' Tom falls in love as the girl slowly installs herself into his life, trying to get away from her ridiculous pimp. What I forgot to say is that Tom's folks are away on holiday, and that they left the house in his care. So he uses his dad's car against his advice and of course, crashes it. He sets up a whorehouse in his home to raise money to pay for the repairs.

Okay, Tangerine Dream's soundtrack is not that bad, but frankly, the movie isn't fantastic. It feels old. The characters are cliché'd. And the old american dream of the geeky entrepreneur hoping to go to a prestige university feels like a huge load of bullshit nowadays.

See it for the 928 crackling and going through the streets real fast, like any real car should, and see it for De Mornay's skin, but otherwise, passe ton chemin, sti.

*

Is it me or is summer slowly fading into autumn ? And along it the happy moods ? Thankfully, the girls at UQAM are still wearing skirts, and they'll soon start to look for a boy-blanket to keep their asses warm for the looonnng winter. I've been waiting for this moment all summer long - I'll get out of my dark corner and make a move - or several ones.

Ouh fuckin' yeah

I know... you're gonna want me. But when you want me, it might be a different story.

Waking up at 7 PM is hard for the system. I ate quiche. What the fuck did you want me to do ? Tea, and dring, a phone call from Miss Nurse. Since I'm looking for a potential roommate, she wanted to introduce me to Miss UK, her friend who just came back from... a year in the UK. So they came over for a beer.

Miss UK was kinda OK, kick boxin' her way through life, fag haggin' the best she could. She didn't want me to take a picture of her but I still did. She gave me her email (and a boner) on her way out, but I don't expect much of her since she went bananas over the pictures she saw of Mr. Finances. I'll be Cupidon for once, and try to hook them up over the next week-end, where the shit will seemingly hit the fuckin' fan. Too many parties coming up to stay alive.

So they left, and Miss Nurse & me headed for Blizzards. Miss Mexx told me she'd be there but LOADS of friends were there as well - all the asian people I know, as well as a few other fine souls & a school buddy. Jordan Dare was the shit, mixing NY Lipps with Tiga's "You're Gonna Want Me", putting on Kiko's "Come on up" and even Hell's remix of the Pet Shop Boy's "Flamboyant".

I eventually got tired of dancing in a sweaty sauna filled with cigarette smoke and assholes not dancing but standing there on the dancefloor, and we left for Club Sandwich, where I ate everybody's remainings on top of my greasy poutine because I seemingly was the only one hungry enough.

*

So on Sunday morning, I woke up with dust in my brain and phoned Miss Singer. Told ya you'd hear about her soon enough. She was still willing to go to Piknic, so I picked her up, we picked some Sapporo cans up, and headed for the wild.

When we got there the place was litterally empty, and I ran into a hairdresser I know. He had been to Stereo the night before, didn't sleep, and went to Stereobar for the after party. He told me his friends & him arrived at the Calder site at 12h30, they had read the paper and seen the place slowly fill up.

I went near the romantic lake with Miss Singer and we started talking, and she was really fuckin' gorgeous. At one point I started kissing her and just couldn't stop. We went back to the "dancefloor" about one hour later, and the place was still almost empty. I danced a bit, and then took another walk with the girl. We went kissing and fondling in the shadow of the Canada pavillon.

After a while I wanted to dance, so we went back to hear Pheek's set, which was pretty good. The Vincent Gallo look-alike told me that Mir was the dope. We heard the beginning of his set - hot stuff - and then watched a little 4 years old girl attemp to breakdance on "I Need a Freak".

I was hungry so we left the place around 7:30. First time in my life I'm not waiting for the event to end !! We went to eat at Pita Pitt, on St-Denis, and on our way there saw Roxanne's afro wearing brother. At the last pool party I went to, he litterally destroyed the pinata, smashing it mercilessly and repeatedly until it was blown to bits.

The road leading from Friday to Saturday is paved with chicks

Yeah, that’s right. Yesterday at work I had a corporate lunch at Boccacino’s, downtown, next door to the office. They wanted to thank their favorite employees for being so damn good – and good-looking. So I stuffed my pretty face with the biggest fuckin’ club sandwich you’ve ever seen, and I felt bad for the rest of the day. Since I went to bed relatively late on Thursday night, I went for the usual disco nap as soon as I got home.

Then, it was time for Nostalgia, the « Back to School » party organised by the Drunken Midget crew at S.A.T. You can’t go wrong with such a thing – cheap 90’s eurodance, cheap booze and plaid skirts. And some very, very young chicks.

All my friends choked on this one, so I went to SAQ to get my usual Rev four pack and I headed for St-Laurent on my own. Mr. Bérêt had mentioned he was perhaps going to be there, so I had some hopes. Finally, I snatched some Rev inside, hidden in my socks, but I still drank two before going in, and the first guy I ran into was him !

He had snatched his whole 60 ounces vodka bottle inside, and we started buying Guru, and spicing it up a notch, checkin’ out cute girl asses and dancing on « What is Love ? ». Baby, don’t hurt me…

There was a tall girl and she was a cutie, and I started chatting with her while dancing. Things went good – I even gave her my car keys for her to take me home, because I was starting to be real slouched and I heard she lived near where I do.

The night went on until it was unfortunately over, and she gave my keys back because she was leaving with a retarded looking Dungeon & Dragons player sporting an Atari t-shirt and geeky glasses. I danced the last slow with Miss Glass. Gun’s & Roses’ « Don’t Cry ». I was pretty pissed about being ditched for this loser. But the loser, seemingly, was me.

We went to eat pizza, Mr. Bérêt & me, at my favorite 1$ parlor in the Village. We met a cute blond chick named Shelley, and left. Bérêt – who, surprisingly, was sporting a cool looking gangster hat – didn’t feel like going to bed so he offered to pay the Aria entrance fees for me. A quarter of a speed later, we were in the line-up.

We got frisked at the entrance, which isn’t really my definition of what a fun evening is. They have some fuckin’ metal detectors… Gangsters really need to grow the fuck up.

I’m not really into drum n’ bass but the guy playing was Ronnie Size, for fuck’s sake. So I danced and had some fun, and even ran into Miss Mexx. But the place ran out of chicks faster than you can say « nobody here has a sex drive because of the pill » and we decided to call it a night around 7 AM.

I drove in the rain soaked Montreal streets and went to bed around 11, and slept all day. Now you can call me Mr. Productive.

Risqué'd Piknic & Other Ordinary Worries

If you have read the previous entry in my wonderful blog, y'all know by now that I didn't sleep very much during the night taking us from Saturday to Sunday.  I also was out of funds to drive to Piknic, so badly that I couldn't pay to get in either.  Two of my friends insisted on coming, so I told them I'd go along if they paid for me.  It worked.

The risk was worth taking.

So here we are with the "Risqué Musique" team taking control of Parc Jean-Drapeau. At first the music was really slow, so my friends & me went eating by the lake. There was a regular (she's been there since the beginning, three years ago, every Sunday) sitting near us with a skirt and her legs kinda... opened. I took an upskirt picture with the help of my friend, who was highly amused to serve as a "false" target.

We went dancing a bit, but The Mole's minimal weirdness didn't really do it for me. As the evening went by, the music got better & friends kept arriving, which made for a great evening.

*

Nothing much happened over the course of the "rest" of the week. Some alimentary struggling (broke as usual) and a failed date with Miss Fashion. Boring !

*

Yesterday, it was my vietnamese friend's birthday. As usual, he didn't want to tell us how old he was going to turn, so we had to guess, and with asians, it's pretty hard. He was a bit queeny and didn't want to go to Parking. Problem is I had told several friends I'd go, so I went anyway. Better be alone @ Parking than be with friends in places where they play crappy music, no ?

So I left the house around midnight, and went to drink my little can of Guru on the corner of Ste-Catherine and Amherst. It was way too early to go in, but I went anyway, and I found Mr. Bérêt with his new flame & one of my old exes on the "chill-out" mezzanine. There was a mega cute russian girl, who looked very much like Cleopatra, dancing quite expertly in front of us. She asked me if I'd like to take pictures of her, which I did.

She looked crazy and not worth taking the risk of leaving the club alone, so I switched gears and went down to see Bruno for a Gin Tonic. More time passed as Maïté was spinning some pretty good music, and I finally started dancing. My body was still recovering from the long hours of office torture I had submitted him to all week, so it took a while to heat up.

My friends were supposed to pass by towards the end of the evening but I guess they were having too much fun being "different" in places like Zoobizarre, Green Room or Jupiter Room because they never showed up. I'm still glad I chose the now cliché'd Overdose night because of the following adventure :

As I was dancing with friends, an improbable trio noticed me. Two (gay) guys and a girl. One of the guy was tall, and uninterested. His friend was smaller, cute, and pretty much staring at me openly. Their female friend was a well rounded red-head sporting a black & pink robe & a smile that won my heart. She too was smiling at me, and I learned afterwards that they both thought I was cute. I did my "test" and slowly changed places on the floor, and they kept following me. Good.

The girl & I were smiling at each others and never approaching or talking, so I decided to break the ice and introduced myself. I started talking to the three at once, to avoid the guys being pissed. It worked, and then not. The small guy was kind of pissed that I wasn't gay. Sore loser ?

He complained to one of my friends he knew that I was flirting with his roommate. He kept asking me strange questions. At first I thought he was protecting his friend but it turned out he was simply jealous that I chose her ! He told me : "What are you doing here if you're not a fag ?"

Now, I take my anthropologist duties on the field very seriously, so I just kept smiling. Truth is I found the situation pretty funny. The guy eventually calmed down and when the lights went back on, let me drive the girl home.

Que Fuckin' Paso ?

Whatever the fuck happened ?!

I was living a regular style saturday - basically slackin' all day. My friend Miss France & her roommate Miss Photo both invited me over for supper, and since I'm pretty fuckin' broke, I went. I had to finish some "exclusive songs CD's" for my set this evening - I also DJ, for those here who don't know me - so I brought my laptop over and it was all good, laying on the sofa, waiting for the risotto to be ready.

This huge rock n' roll DJ dude also came over, he spent all evening looking at rock stars pictures in a book. He was funny - from Abitibi, and scared shitless of his own shadow.

I went to the Gala Révélation afterwards, at Théâtre St-Denis. Don't be fooled - I didn't pay. It's just that Miss Fashion was supposed to sing there, and Miss Photo had some tickets & invited me. We arrived a bit late and didn't have time to see Miss Fashion perform her Moulin Rouge routine, because I had to be at a party I was spinning at pretty early, to fix the sound system. We basically left after seeing an army of clones perform the same old tired québécois crappy "songs" dressed in evening gowns and high heels - that was the fun part.

I hopped in my super mega car and went cruising St-Laurent, and just in front of the place I was spinning at, some guys & girls were shooting a movie. Very fuckin' nice : no place to park anywhere !

So I did my setup and waited, and waited. And also waited. The place slowly filled up, and I finally got to sneak behind the decks. Kickin' shit up with Cosmo Vitelli's "I Like to Move it Move it", I followed with several hits, driving the dancers into a frenzy, playin' shit like Franz & Shape's "Countach" or Tiga's latest "You're Gonna Want Me". The place went particularly nuts during LCD Soundsystem's "Tribulations" (Tiga's Out of the Trance Closet Mix), when some fool stepped on a wire and I had to play it from the beginning again - fact is, it's not out on vinyl yet.

I also whipped some asses with Visage Vs Michael Jackson's "Fade to Bad", which is a sure crowd pleaser. I even made people dance to Sismic Music's "It Can't Come Quickly Enough", that I mixed with Arcade Fire's "Tunnels", my last song, a song that sent these bearded, glasses-wearing long-haired art students to heaven.

Other highlights include people from the office showing up, Timberlake Vs Technotronic, a couple of cute chicks, and the DJ's after me playing italo disco - !!! - and beginning their set with Kiko's upgrade of Mr. Flagio's "Take a Chance".

Now listen to this :

I was told by some guy that all the girls would be after me, and it obviously wasn't the case on the dancefloor, after I was done. Ah, art students. The girls remaining in the area were either old fuckfriends I wasn't interested in anymore, girls I didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole, or chicks with boyfriends. BUT ! As I was dancing towards the end, this REALLY CUTE brunette showed up and started looking at me. We danced. We got closer. I touched her. She french kissed me.

Was this the start of a long friendship ?

Even as I write these words I can't believe what happened. She was with an older friend, and since I wanted to leave ASAP with the cute one, I suggested we get the fuck out. I unplugged my stuff, said goodbye, and let the older gal drive my car since I was pretty fuckin' drunk. Her car was parked at the cute one's (let's call her Miss Art, shall she ever reappear here) place and she left when we got there.

I stayed for the night, and Miss Art, pretending she was soaked with paint, threw all her clothes in the washing machine (not Tomas Anderson's one, alas) and was basically in her Eve outfit before I could even react.

Friday I'm in Love

Ben tiens, après le boulot, je me suis dit que je pouvais bien aller me faire couper les cheveux ! Ils n'étaient pas très longs, mais quand même... Après avoir tourné dans les rues pendant 15 minutes pour me trouver un stationnement, j'ai finalement pu aller me faire tripoter par Mr. Hairdresser.

On s'est ensuite invité à souper chez Mr. Moto, qui mangeait de l'agneau avec sa cougar. Très appréciable, comme repas ! Surtout pour moi, en ces temps d'extrême pauvreté.

Ensuite, direction Stéréobar, où j'avais une guest list (ouuuhhh, jet set) pour le set marathon d'Éloi Brunelle. Il faisait plutôt frais, et nous devions attendre Miss Mexx, qui partait de la SAT où elle avait assisté à quelques heures d'Électro-Chic, soirée où un de ses amis spinnait.

Une fois en dedans, toute une surprise nous attendait : des gens ! Habituellement, il n'y a personne là ! Même le vendredi soir ! Je me souviens avoir assisté à la fête de Philgood, l'an passé, avec une vingtaine de ses amis, qui devaient tout comme moi être sur la guest list ! Pas trop de profit pour le bar ce soir là, donc !

Quoiqu'il en soit, il y avait là une sélection assez variée de weirdos. Des coked-out chicks with sunglasses aux épais sur l'ecstasy qui couraient à travers le dancefloor avec un air extatique, il y en avait pour tous les goûts. Beaucoup de jocks !? et quelques jolies filles habituées du Piknic. Vers 2h30 Mr. Hairdresser en a eu assez alors nous sommes partis manger un morceau au Club Sandwich, où nous attendait encore une fois un échantillon assez juteux de la faune nocturne - saoule - de Montréal. Drags, étudiants finis, et un beau serveur black étaient au rendez-vous.

Puisque les vendredi soirs sont faits, selon moi, pour préparer les samedis, il est normal qu'ils soient un peu plates.

When I Look Into Your Eyes...

Let's just say that I wasn't so good looking on Monday morning. Not hung over - just dead. The I Love Neon party was weighting down on my knees & lungs - how much smoke can you blow in just one room, even a crappy one like Dôme's ? I was nonetheless willing to party on all over again, and after a few minor tasks, I was back on the road to Jacques-Cartier Bridge, en route to Éloi Brunelle's Epsilonlab Piknic - back at Parc Jean-Drapeau under the Calder !

Frivolous was opening, and when I got there around 4 he was closing his set, with about 3 persons dancing. Next up was Dr. Love, funkin' things up a notch, hot shit with his (litterally) head phone. I ate my lunch, drank my Boris, and chit chatted with a couple of regulars and a very sexy girl sporting a yellow tank top and denim hot pants. At one point I went dancing, and like a signal, Booka Shade's "Mandarine Girl" came on.

I was slightly devastated by my week-end, so I didn't dance for long, and let Mr. Finances enjoy what he claimed was his last Piknic of the summer - which we all know is a bunch of lies : he'll be back.

However, around 6, Éloi Brunelle took control of the decks, and a slow dancefloor destruction process began. After about 30-40 minutes of his usual effective tech-house, don't ask me what happened, but Shapeshifter's "Lola's Theme" came on. And then, some amazing twisted disco, soulful house & nasty sounding electro-tech. The set ended with Armand Van Helden's "Into Your Eyes", with all the lights closed to avoid the usual bugs, and it was pure magic.

I didn't care I failed to pick up a girl. I had the best time ever. That's what Piknic is all about. Dance in the sunlight. Smile to strangers. Get sun burns, sore feet, weak knees. Drink too much, or not at all. Rain or shine. I'll say it again even tho I've said it since the very beginning : this is the best party concept ever !

Three editions left, boys and girls. Put on your flip flops and come on over.

I'll be lovin' you forever.

You have to learn to know when to stop partyin - and when to go to sleep

Boy, was it the longest day of my life !

I woke up at 7:30 sharp this morning to drink my coffee in front of Montreal getting up with the biggest, bad-ass hang over ever. I sped through the streets and picked up my mother in Laval, and off we were to Shawinigan, land of the pâte à papier, of Jean Chrétien and of the maison de retraite of grandma. We ate with her, and off we went to Cap-de-la-Madeleine, where my little brother is stuck in detox.

There was a guy with his girlfriend in a mini-skirt, and I asked my bro if they can fuck when they receive guests. No ! Holy shit, that must be the biggest torture ever.

After a while we had to go, since I had to attend the ITurnEm Piknic, going on at Jardin des Floralies on Notre-Dame island, next to this big piece of crap that is called the Montreal Casino. So we sped along the 40 in my car, accumulating a gas bill of 90$. Crazy shit these days. The good ol' times of oil are far behind.

When I got on Ste-Hélène Island, after dropping off my mom, I saw the biggest collection of retards ever. There was a line-up starting on the lawn of La Ronde, and going all the way to parc jean-Drapeau, because fuckin' Green Day were playing outside ! Pityful. Girls with green hair... and 13 years of experience on earth. I finally managed to get to the Piknic parking, which was full, of course. A guy advised me to park wherever on the lawn, and I did just that. Free of charge.

The site was rather strange, lacking the space usually needed to pack all the 450 flowing in because of Missstress Barbara. This resulted in a densely packed dancefloor, and nobody I knew being there. I ran into Mr. Finances dancing alone and I invited him over for some pastas at my place before the I Love Neon party.

We arrived late at Dôme because I didn't mind not seeing Vive la Fête, but Sean Kosa was still playing and the music was niiiice. I felt like dancing all evening, and there were millions of cute chick, as is always the case at these events. However, soon enough, Vive la Fête started their never ending show and it was the end of my fun. Every song ended with another one beginning. It was bordering on torture.

They finally got the fuck off the scene and Tiga started his set. Weird enough, the music's volume was really low. And the turntables kept on skipping beats... The worst was what was happening on the dancefloor : annoying epilepsy-inducing strobes, smoke, and rude drunk people banging into you at every 3 seconds. The same big girl that had sat on my three gin tonics at Parking two years ago hit me on the head with her REALLY LOUD purse.

Tiga rocked the house, with a very intense and dark set of acid electro house for the conaisseurs. He didn't play his amazing MOVE MY BODY but mixed two consecutives versions of YOU'RE GONNA WANT ME, his new hit. One of my exes was piss drunk and real annoying, and at the end of the party - the light came on at 3:15 sharp, never seen a Neon ending so early - everybody wanted to go to a "party" at Miss Nurse's place, where she has two cats.

Mr. Finances opted out, and went to see Mateo Murphy & Matt Safer at Gravity, for the after party.

I fucked off home and here I am writing a blog entry like a real geek loser, instead of fucking some chick's brains out.

A Cool (As In "Cold") BBQ

Rotting in the afternoon. The last days of summer are perched on my shoulders. Like a bird of prey shitting on your head, and getting away with the mouse you just flirted with.

I didn't do much yesterday. I drank milk with Baileys on a chick's balcony on De Maisonneuve St, until I almost fainted on my chair, and I went home to sleep like a fuckin' log. This morning, I felt like a million bucks, so after a few cups of coffee and a dozen phone calls, I met Mr. Finances at Sherbrooke metro and we went old. To the Old Port.

Café des Éclusiers, what an odd place. Steel beams and a wonderful terrace, très design, merci. We almost didn't hear the BPM's as we approached. The music wasn't really loud, and nobody was dancing. 6$ got us in, 5$ got me two veggie dogs with pasta salad, and 9$ got me two Labatt Blue.

After my eyes were back in their sockets, I noticed lots of cute chicks, and Mightykat ended her set. M.A.N.D.Y. started doing their thing and it was a rather calm set. LetNoManJack wanted to be a DJ whore and we went chatting with them a bit.

The place slowly leaked all its patrons, and we were almost the last ones to go, as Sean Kosa & Jordan Dare weren't doing their 2-microphones, 4-turntables extravagant Cut-Throats Republic DJ set. It was just... a regular tag team. But still, it was the best music I've heard the whole afternoon.

Let's just hope that M.A.N.D.Y. didn't come here just to play 2 hours at an half-crowded BBQ with no vibe...

The Hacker @ Parking

As amazing as it might sound, I had a blast yesterday, and at the same time, not at all.  Let me explain.

After my hard day at work, I went home to shower & prepare for my evening at Parking.  The Hacker was spinning, which is a very cool thing, since he had never been DJ'ing in Montreal, at least not to my knowledge.  Mr. Atom called me, as I was getting out of my shower, to offer me a free entrance since he was on Mini's guest list.

LetNoManJack was already there, sporting a lovely polo and lookin' sharp.  In fact, almost all my friends were there, so I'll save you the list.  Relatively early on, Mr. Moto brought back this amazing blonde chick from the upstairs lounge.  He had found her looking real bored and she was glad that somebody spoke to her.  She had turquoise green & yellow / orange eyes, the most amazing I've looked into for a while.  She also had... everything you'd expect a girl to have, which made me question reality.

The night went on pretty good, The Hacked ripping through stuff I knew, and darker stuff I didn't.  We were dancing, Mr. Moto & me, and Miss Construction (let's call her that way, because she really is... a construction worker !) was between us, being kinda slutty.  Moto & me, just by looking at one another, immediately suspected a "double team" was in the air.

Not quite !

Around 2h30 AM, I suggested we get out, and Miss Construction agreed to follow us to my place.  Sitting on my couch with a beer in hand, she felt kinda bad when we told her we weren't gay, as she thought.  She told us she didn't come to my place with this in mind, and then seemingly fell asleep in front of us.  Mr. Moto left.

Since the chick lived pretty far, I offered her to sleep at my place, specifying that I wouldn't try anything too shady.  We tried watching a movie but I fell asleep.  She took her skirt off and kept her t-shirt.  I took everything off and drifted into a strange state of sleep, constantly waked by my hormones and the view of this beauty by my side... in her panties.

Italo Disco Will Always be Your Friend

Don't be sad. You still have a friend left when everybody's let you down.

This friend takes the form of a 16-volumes + series of CD compilations titled "The Best of Italo-Disco". Of course, with more than sixteen jam-packed CD's, most of them bordering on the 80 minutes maximum mark, and the songs being 3-4 minutes short, all's not "best" in this italo extravaganza.

Nonetheless, you can still find several gems per issue, the #2 being my personal favorite so far. You can see, towards the end, around volume 11, that the guys compiling all this begun including some cheap eurodance, or "italo-disco" from the 90's, which is not a good sign. They're running out of good songs !

I can remember my italo disco days very vaguely, as I was growing up. I was born in '78. All the events in my life can be linked to a precise Italo Disco song, I just don't know which one every time. I believe my appreciation of music, happiness and overall love for italian cheese was all forged by the italo crap I heard on the radio as I was getting older, during the 80's, this holy era. Even Al Jourgensen, back then a complete stranger, spoke to me via his "Every Day is Halloween", a song I clearly remember hearing in my living room, on the 3rd street of a typical Quebec small town.

I plan on writing a clearer essay about fate & Italo Disco, and the way they are "inter-crossed", but I'll need more coffee... and more time !

*

Which brings me to the upcoming week-end and a very serious warning. Dear readers (yeah, the two of you !), I might not survive to narrate everything I am about to live in the coming days.

So if my blog slowly dies down, and stop being wonderfully maintained, don't ask too many questions.

Kill yourself on the dancefloor... tonight.

The Hacker has been invited to Overdose @ Parking. On Friday, last day of work, and a calm evening if possible. Because on Saturday, M.A.N.D.Y. will be spinning in the wild at Café des Éclusiers during I Love Neon's BBQ... When the evening comes, I have to be at Salon Daomé where a flock of young chick will be waiting for me to chose among them who will be the lucky one I'll let in my bed... On Sunday, there is yet another Piknic with Mistress Barbara / Barbara Brown + Mini, and when the night comes, it'll be time for the juicy I Love Neon official party with Vive la Fête & a 3 hours Tiga set... after which we're all invited downstairs at Gravity for the oficial "after", with none else than ADNY & Mightykat to grace the decks... and to top it all off, on Monday, the Éloi Brunelle Piknic.

I don't know at which point my heart will stop beating. Probably somewhere, somehow, on the middle of a packed dancefloor. Sophie Ellis Bextor said it best.