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.