A closer look at the pornography of existence

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

A Week-End in Hell

I wanted to relax and not spend too much money over the past week-end. My bad.

My last remaining brain cells are slowly dying, suffocating in a pool of vodka / Red Bull & hunger. Because I was on strike for a while, and didn't eat shit; not by choice, folks, but simply cuz I was too damn drunk.

Our journey begins on Saturday, around 1. Mr. Finances & me went to the Banquise, on Rachel St, to have breakfast. We were agonizing on the terrace, with a blinding sun, when I realised that our waitress was the blonde girl who had spent the whole evening, on Wednesday, trying to pull Seba's pants down at Divan Orange, for his Gatineau birthday bash.

After an enormous Merguez omelette and a never ending tray of french fries, we went to Parc Lafontaine for Miss France's "party", where we found her alone with a guy called Éric. We ate chips under the sun, waited for our hang over to clear, and had lots of fun feeding a crazy squirrel some intoxicating Miss Vicky chips. He ate the last one upside down and went to sit somewhere in a tree when he had enough.

A short siesta was recommended, and when I woke up around 9 PM I invited some friends over for a few beers. We headed out for Mile End Bar, where Robeat, a monthly electro bash, was taking place. Maïté was spinning when we arrived, but nobody else was there except Mini and a few ginos. We just hung around upstairs, had a few drinks, and I took some upskirt pictures of Miss Nurse. The place slowly filled up, mainly with guys wearing expensive shirts and taking up all the space on the dancefloor. The music got real good at one point, and there was a couple that was "salsa dancing" behind me, and the girl hit me real hard behind the head with her elbow. When I turned around, real pissed, she seemingly thought it was funny and said : "Poor baby !".

We left the place shortly after the last song. The VJ for the night was the rock chick I had ran into on Wednesday, as well, and seeing her in front of her Powerbook, completely stiff, like a sexy fuckin' robot, made me realise how hot she was.

We went for a walk on St Laurent, where the street was still closed to cars, and didn't notice anything unusual, except for a few assholes kicking a garbage can for hours.

*

I woke up around 2 PM on Sunday, and immediately headed out to St-Hélène Island for the Ninja Tune Piknic. I picked up Mr. Finances on the way and we picked up a couple of Boris cans. Bad idea.

The day started up real smooth, I was having a few beers and chatting with people, the usual. A guy I vaguely knew - let's call him Mr. Bérêt - showed up, offering me some vodka / Red Bulls. I agreed to drink a couple, but in exchange I had to "take care" of the tall raver chick that was stuck to his back like a fly, so he could flirt with another. The task didn't seem too hard, seeing the girl was completely stoned - but I still haven't figured out on what. I french kissed her a bit, turned around to talk to I don't know who, and when I got back to her she was already french kissing another guy.

It started raining real hard but we had a beautiful rainbow afterwards, on top of all the "wet t-shirts". I don't know at which point I lost control, but I can mainly thank the vodka / Red Bulls - I lost count.

I only remember taking lots of chick pictures, being annoying to lots of people, and "waking up" in a hippies party somewhere in Rosemont with lots of people from Trois-Rivières and a girl from New Zealand. I still don't get that. Since I basically didn't know a single soul in the place, I assume I was pretty fucking drunk. I got the fuck outta there as fast as I could, and on my way out this real drunk blonde in her car stopped by me and offered me a ride. I never understood that. She said : "Don't touch me, but I'm taking you wherever."

I got scared and wished her good night. I also finally managed to sleep around 6 AM because of all that damn Red Bull I drank, so let me tell you that I was really nice to see at work today.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Panic @ Saphir

My sex anthropologism continues after a short sevrage.

Yesterday, Mr. Finances came over with a six pack of "U" and we had a chat in my living room. We weren't looking to party too hard, since we wanted to be présentable the following morning (which would be today, half a success), so we decided to head out to Saphir after a few beers.

St-Laurent St. was closed because of this damn Molson Indy crap, and there were assholes everywhere. We entered by the third floor, where the goth attack was in full effect, and decided we'd be better with Plastic Patrick's rock n' roll. The guy was doing a "two for one", so we had two songs by every band he played, in a row, which was sometimes quite amusing. The dancefloor was packed and there were a few girls I knew, sparsely spread around the place.

A tiny, black-haired rock chick, with a good enough rack for her stature, smiled at me. I could have married the girl.

But I started chatting with a cute brunette after bumping into her a few times. She apologized and I said :

-You can touch me all you want !

A few sentences later she was inviting me to share a cab to her place. She was really cute, so I told her we might as well take my car.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Pointe All Dressed

J'aurais bien mangé une pointe all dressed hier soir, if you know what I mean.  Un Divan Orange packed, vers lequel je me suis dirigé tout de suite après mes neuf heures au bureau, attendait les boys de Gatineau pour se faire exploser la barraque avec une grosse claque en pleine face.

Motus 3F ont donné un set un peu moins efficace que d'habitude, et les gens du bureau que j'avais invité s'emmerdaient.  Je courais pour ma part comme une poule pas d'tête entre pintes de Blanche et salutations amicales, poignées de mains et regards lubriques dirigés vers des postérieurs rebondis et des décolletés bien remplis.  Y'avait de la demoiselle dans la place, c'est le moins qu'on puisse dire...

J'hésitais entre une belle rock chick qui me fixait et une groupie gatinoise à la poitrine fort impressionnante, et je suis bien entendu reparti bredouille !  Chassez le naturel et il revient au galop...

Gatineau ont fessé dans le tas.  Une énergie extra-terrestre, Seba très en forme, et un nouveau membre, importé de Motus 3F, formaient un cocktail explosif qui, bien que ne se buvant pas, s'appréciait énormément !  Bounce, le gros !

Mr. Moto et moi avons essayé d'accrocher trois groupies, qui viennent toujours ensemble aux spectacles du band, afin de les amener au Edgar Hypertaverne, où avait lieu le lancement du "Dîner de Q", soirée hebdomadaire d'un des fondateurs du Piknic qui invitera un DJ local différent à chaque semaine.  Mini était aux platines pour cette édition...  Les demoiselles ayant bien entendu refusé de nous suivre, nous sommes arrivé là pour trouver la place à moitié vide.

Bon, pour être franc, je n'avais jamais mis les pieds là de ma vie, et je doute que je retente l'expérience !  Des chemises blanches, des polos blancs, des poupounes cokées...  Le son est bon, l'endroit superbe, mais disons que la clientèle est... douteuse.  Rendez-vous éventuel la semaine prochaine pour Sean Kosa, jet-setter cocaïné ?

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Tchernobyl Cha Cha With Dead Squirrels in the Lafontaine Park

I have been invited to a birthday party taking place in... the Lafontaine Park, on Saturday !  Dunno if I'll go.  Miss Photo will be there and even tho I enjoy her company, I am subconsciously irritated by her energy-sucking attention seeking ways.  But Miss France, whose birthday is going to be celebrated, is a cool lil' chick !

Tomorrow, on Thursday, I'm going to have a drink at St-Sulpice with some old friends from film school, friends I haven't seen for ages.  One of 'em is back from Jerusalem and will entertain us with his trip narration.  St-Sulpice is a student / jock bar in downtown Montreal, and is usually refered to as "St-Suplice" as the music and crowd are quite painful.  If the waitresses are big booty blondes from the 450 area like the last time I went, their view will quickly ease my pain.  This, and the beer, of course !

Dunno what's wrong with me these days, but I have an ever-expanding thirst / hunger for superficial chicks from the north or south shore.  Girls who all look the same, wearing low cut jeans, mini skirts, with blonde shades in their brown hair or vice versa, heavy makeup on their faces, etc...  They devote their life to looking "good" (as in "like everybody else") and they end up with nothing really bright to say.  They're all into hip hop, guys with upside down baseball caps driving red hatchback Civics...

Hope my fixation will die down soon, because this is getting ridiculous, and on top of that I just can't seem to pick one up, which is kind of embarassing.

*

I just can't wait to put my hands on Michel Houellebecq's upcoming book, LA POSSIBILITÉ D'UNE ILE.  But then again, will I read it ?  I have been looking forward for Rem Koolhaas' MUTATIONS for a couple of months before finally deciding to order it, and when I received it, I took a brief look at it and put it on a shelf, where it still is.

I'm afraid the same will happen with Michou.  PLATEFORME had that surgical precision and cold tone that really made me feel uneasy.  I also loved LES PARTICULES ÉLÉMENTAIRES but not as much.  Working in "travel" and studying gestion, I couldn't help being fascinated by PLATEFORME's narrator and themes.  Being sex-obsessed also helped, I guess.

Basically all writers & directors with an alternative approach to sex have an interest, in my eyes.  The market has seen too many Harlequin books, cheap "Bleu Nuit" softcore porn and glorification of the internal cumshot for me not to react.  It's time for the gonzo to take over !  Burn the remaining taboos and shock the Régie du Cinéma !  Their old-fashioned rules are falling one by one, and I call that progress.  I've worked in the porn "business" long enough to be bored by it all, but I still feel concerned.

Who the fuck needs another Jenna Jameson ?!

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Jeanne Moreau's Lips Around my Cigarette

Blowin' smoke.  Yeah right.  This sexy french icon may be a bit old these days, but in the 60's she was quite the bomb, and still very mucho fuckin' hot in the 70's.  She was everywhere and in every guy's wet dream, double-teamed in front of Truffaut's lens, and a volcanic eruption inducing chambermaid for my perverted old friend Bunuel.

She appeared in San-Antonio's adaptation of LA VIEILLE QUI MARCHAIT DANS LA MER, directed by Laurent Heynemann in '91.  The movie didn't quite carry the spirit of despair the book did, and that seems to be a curse that San-Antonio (a.k.a. Frédéric Dard) ran into quite often.  Even Jean-Pierre Mocky's take on Y A-T-IL UN FRANCAIS DANS LA SALLE (1982) lacked the atmosphere present in the novel, turning it into something more funny than what was originally intended.

I spent numerous summers reading spy novels, and more serious "dramas" written by the man.  In the small town where I grew up, the public library was litterally stacked with his titles.

Looking for more french thrills, I ran into Philippe Djian, René Beletto, and a bunch of other frenchsters, including the dreamlike Patrick Modiano, a writer I still cherish very much, thank you.

Djian brought his raw life and wrote about it like no other.  I almost can't help believing that all his readers have something in common, a kind of thirst for life, sex, death, and drama, something intense and rare.  That's why I felt weird when I noticed that the nice looking blonde girl that was sitting next to me, in the bus I took to work this morning, was reading 37,2 LE MATIN.  When we switched from bus to metro wagon, she was still within 5 meters of me, pretending to read.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Wearing my Crown

Let's start off by specifying that I NEVER eat fast food.  I consider it's crap (I like saying / writing that word) and that it's offensive for the body & the mind to assimilate such things.  I may sound like a new age / psycho pop pope, but I have long been into Burger King, KFC, McDonald's and their lil' brothers, and I'm glad I moved on.

But when you're hung over, you basically have to look for grease.  Your body requires it to get rid of the alchool poisoning your blood.  So this morning, when I got to work half drunk, I started mentally drooling on a Whopper.  Logically, when my lunch time came, I went down to the Eaton Center food court and ordered the un-orderable.

Just behind me in the line were two young chicks with acne problems, and a third one that was rather cute, but probably not for long.  I ate alone at a table with a view on the teenagers, reading an article on Leonard Cohen's ruin from the current MacLean's, explaining that he lost everything he had gained over the last 50 years because of the trust he had for his associates, and how he had to start all over again now - which might be good news for his fans, since he's been kinda slackin' his life away for a while now...

Paul Anka spoke to me : "It's my life - It's now or never - Ain't gonna live forever".  Damn right, Paul.

I just want to improve my chances.  I felt good / bad after I was done, but I had to hurry the fuck up back to my office before my lunch was over.  So I didn't have much time to concentrate on the "grease rush" I expected I'd feel.

Yesterday at Piknic, I was chatting with a very well preserved 32 years old babe, and she was telling me how much she hated beer bellies.  Said she even sometimes met guys who were near perfect but had bellies, and she just couldn't.  Made me wonder what my chances were with her.  Right now I'd be in a good position on her chart, no doubt, but if I Morgan Spurlocked myself for more culinar anthropology like this, on a regular basis, then I'd be litterally screwed.

Frightening perspective.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Magic Piknic

Olivia Newton John said it best : "You have to believe we are magic... nothing can stand in our way".

Today, after barely 5 hours of sleep, I put the S in speed and headed out for Île Ste-Hélène, crossing the Eiffel-engineered Jacques-Cartier bridge to happiness. 12$ parking and good vibes hit me as soon as I got off my car.

The beats were nice; as often as I've heard Trevor Walker in Ottawa, he wasn't the same here. Stéphane Cocke & Miguel Graça were also on duty, and the girls were pretty. One girl in particular, sporting tight army pants, was very promising, as I had spoken to her two weeks earlier. She finally left with another charmless man, ruining the day.

The music was okay, and a magic moment is to be remembered : during Alexkid's "Don't Hide It", the rain started pouring on the dancers and the crowd went crazy. It lasted for a while but finally stopped short, a few moments before the end of the last song.

I just LOVE piknic. Can't say it enough.

I ran into a few fags on my way out, and gave them a ride home. We sped along the bridge while Vitalic's remix of Daft Punk's "Technologic" rocked my stereo, and my craving for greasy food didn't convince me to stop by a junk food place. I came home alone, just like Macaulay Culkin, and even tho I think it's kinda sad, I just don't care anymore, as Phil Collins Would say. I reached my limit.

Party Hoppin'

Ce soir, il y avait pas mal de choix d'activités. Je me suis donc déguisé en "straight" (ce qui implique un rasage et des manches longues) et j'ai pris la route avec Mr. Finances, vers une contrée sauvage et inexplorée nommée Rosemont.

Le premier party, ou j'avais été invité par une collègue du bureau, était plutôt relax. Beaucoup de jolies jeunes filles, mais nous n'avions pas très envie de rester, compte tenu du manque total d'ambiance. Un vieil album de Jamiroquai jouait dans une minuscule radio, au volume minimal.

Direction l'autre party, pas trop loin, ou deux des trois demoiselles habitant l'appartement célébraient leur anniversaire. Au menu : des rock chicks tatouées, une pinata sauvage pendant laquelle j'ai failli me faire crisser toute une volée, et encore une fois un léger manque d'ambiance.

Nous sommes donc partis pour le Zoo Bizarre, un nouveau club / caverne sur St-Hubert, coin Beaubien. Pas de chance, c'était mort, un spectacle venait d'y finir et il ne restait que trois musiciens à moitié vivants qui roulaient des fils, l'air morose. Next !

Blizzards was cooler. Toujours un sauna, mais Jordan était en forme et rockait la barraque. Pas mal d'amis étaient sur place, et quand les lumières se sont allumé, nous avons émigré vers le sud, car un "after party" avait lieu dans un loft un peu plus bas. Party prometteur côté femelles, mais breakbeat, ce qui m'a fait fuir rapidement vers la cuisine de chez Miss Mexx, dans laquelle nous avons fini la soirée en mangeant des chocolats au champagne importés de Touraine et en discutant des relations homme-femme, cet inépuisable sujet.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Dax Riders are back in town

Who knows about the Dax Riders ? This forgotten french touch band that blended talk box vocals and basslines from hell, with a very distinctive sound, has been mainly overlooked while the wave was passing through town.

Their "Back in Town" album is a guilty pleasure of mine these days. I first discovered them on the I LOVE SERGE compilation (Mercury, 2001) where they did a wicked remix of Gainsbourg's "No Comment".

Try not to grind your teeth with morose delight while listening to the synthetic sounds of "You Are the Sunshine of my Life". And then keep me updated about every visit you make at the dentist's office.

*

Speaking of which, I know about a retired dentist from the Gatineau area who used to hire only really cute assistants. One wonders why. Teeth whitening, anyone ?

*

On an editorial note, there are two easy-on-the-eyes beauties gracing the covers of my two favorite Montreal weeklies, the Mirror & Ici.

Catherine Pogonat, a Bande à Part former muse, will host a new TV show called "Mange ta Ville". On Art TV. I won't boycott, of course, but I won't watch either, just because I don't watch TV at all, and never will. But still, I wish she could eat me, instead of her city. That would prove better tasting I'm sure.

On the cover of the Mirror, there's this fantastic brunette called Carly Pope. Very suggestive schoolgirl pic. Never heard of, or seen, the girl before. She's starring in the new Larry Kent pic, THE HAMSTER CAGE. What a strange comeback. Makes me long for the days where anglo montrealers would shoot marvels like HIGH or LOVING & LAUGHING, where Cinepix was still in full effect and when the babes were gorgeous. They still are, of course, but something's missing.

I'm out to find what, exactly, and I'll be back soon enough.

Bounce, le gros !

Main Hall tonite. Lotsa rappin' going on.

I was supposed to go to this straight-ass party in Verdun, but I wanted sweat, blood, tears & cum drops. So I skipped the trip to the west end of my world and decided to head straight 'til Mile End, where a couple of my friends were bouncin' their asses to the phat beats of Ghislain Poirier.

I went for the dancehall, really, and Sixtoo only played about 10 minutes of it towards the end of the night. That made me go down to the Green Room, where the music was sickening bad, and where I ran into CPB, a nice gal working at Swimming who is unfortunately not part of my harem.

The boys from Gatineau were there and I even gave Sa Sucreté a ride home. Mc Brutall showed his ass during Bleubird's performance.

By the way, this guy from Florida is amazing. He just moved here but check him out. He rolls on the stage like crazy, has a very doubtful cinematographic culture and a sense of humor I can't deny I dug.

"Nick Nolte & Gary Busey, same fuckin' dude".

For a change, I didn't bring a chick home, and I think I'll sleep like a baby.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Evil Ikéa

Il y a sans doute un lien à faire entre un film comme TROLL (John Carl Buechler, 1986) et la sensation qui m'envahit quand je mets les pieds dans un temple de la consommation en série tel qu'Ikéa.  La Scandinavie est reconnue pour sa gestion fort efficace de l'énergie, et sa récupération minutieuse de la moindre "retaille de kilojoule" via un ingénieux système social.  Cherchent-ils à prendre le contrôle de la planète avec leur design pas toujours heureux ?

La cafetéria est un endroit qui m'inquiète particulièrement.  POURQUOI DIABLE servir de la nourriture diététiquement douteuse dans un magasin de MEUBLES ?  Certes, les "temples" jaunes & bleus sont généralement situés dans des endroits plutôt éloignés de toute civilisation (Boucherville et l'ouest de l'île dans la région de Montréal) et il peut arriver que les nombreux clients, au sortir de leur SUV, éprouvent un petit creux... mais des "pâtes" à .99 cents !?  Une assiette de gélatine verte, destinée à nous transformer en troll, serait sans doute plus appréciée.

Mais nous ne sommes pas à Nilbog; nous sommes à Boucherville.  L'assemblage est requis.  La fameuse "Alan Key" mandatory.

La qualité visuelle des meubles offerts se dégrade d'année en année; l'originalité disparaît au profit du look "maison de campagne de ma grand-mère circa '64".

Dans un monde idéal, selon nos amis blondinets et aryens, tous les meubles seraient bancals et les portions alimentaires ridiculement minuscules.  Garder la ligne et se pitcher dans un trou d'eau glacée, même combat ?

Thursday, August 18, 2005

The Boredoms


Les paramètres de ma morosité sont les suivants : une longue journée plate, la paye, personne qui m'attend chez moi quand je rentre, et tous mes "amis" qui sortent au Parking alors qu'une crise de vômissements sévère m'attend si je remets les pieds là dans les prochains 138 jours.

Same old shit.

Guess I'll hear DJ Mini once again dans une de ses crises de rage routinières.

Au moins, y'a Bruno et ses drinks à 2.75$, le secret le mieux gardé de Montréal. Enfin, ça pis les esties de freaks qui polluent la piste de danse from left to right, from right to left, la danse du poulet, let's go.

Vous direz bonjour à ma consistance de ma part; ça fait un bout que je l'ai pas vue, elle.

Harlan Sanders' Trash Connections

In the early 70's, Harlan Sanders developped an obsession. He wanted to act so bad that he even approached renowned tâcheron Al Adamson, director of hits such as BRAIN OF BLOOD or DRACULA VS FRANKENSTEIN (not to be confused with Italian Hugo Fregonese's one).

Al Adamson offered him some roles in his productions, and in exchange, his technical team would eat KFC every day during shooting periods.

His team got so fed up with this greasy junk that they protested they'd eat anything instead, so one morning Adamson showed on the set with his car trunk full of baloney sandwiches.

He also later died, his head crushed by one of his former lovers in Florida.

One of my fuckfriends sings like a bird, gives a mean blowjob, licks ass and also owns a FLP (Front de Libération du Poulet) cardigan. Impressive.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Johnny Cash is Dead

Identité. Un concept de plus en plus flou.

Ce "blogue" cherchera visiblement à explorer cette idée romantique que l'on se fait de notre identité, non pas culturelle, mais davantage personnelle. Identité à travers le regard des autres, identité sexuelle, flou neurologique.

J'ai commencé en 2005 une série d'expériences sociales que l'on pourrait aisément qualifier "d'anthropologiques" et dont j'entretiendrai mon éventuel lectorat au fil des semaines. Il sera amusant de suivre les méandres de ma pensée en constante mutation alors que je serai tiraillé entre rigueur universitaire, parasitage méningique bureaucratique, et libido exacerbée.

42 000 étudiants à l'UQÀM.

60% de femmes, selon les statistiques.

Pour quelqu'un de pas trop difficile et de résolu comme moi, ça demeure impressionnant.

On se tient au courant ?