Everybody's a Rocker

I was really young when I got into rock n' roll. Been in bands. Lots of them. One of them was called "Happy Frosted" - I know, it's so lame it hurts - and we only recorded one song, "Strange state of sleep", in my guitar player's basement. I also did a solo project called the New Wave Cocksuckers, punk / folk with absurd lyrics. I recorded over 20 "albums" using audio tape recorders and adding new layers of sound with every instrument I would add. The sound was deteriorating with each layer but I did it alone ! My favorite (and probably best) album was lost. Dunno who has it, if it still exists, cuz sadly there was only one copy.

I also had a "country music" project with Penny Perry, aka the weirdo who keeps on moving from town to town and who was last seen at a Kino evening in Quebec City. His artist name is now Fred Jenkins and he is a video director. Our project was called Henry Labutt - he was Henry, the singer, and I was Billy-Bob Grantfuck. I also launched a few solo albums. We recorded three live albums : "Live at the Falls", by the Shawinigan Falls in a small creek, and the sound of the falls covers almost everything we recorded, another one in front of a campfire with friends, and another one, that was rather electrical, in front of a frenzied audience at one of the Troustock editions.

I have to explain everything, don't I ? Trouland is a small, independent land by the St-Maurice river, snatched between Shawinigan & Grand-Mère. A dangerous dirt track leads to it, and its mayor is Patrick St-Hilaire, who also was a performer at the time. I kinda forgot what his name was, but his "greatest hit" was a recording of his father telling a joke and singing and old folkloric anthem. As the mayor, he decided to organise an annual fest, that would last all day, called Troustock. I performed as the New Wave Cocksuckers the first two years, and with my band Les Ratés the third one.

I also shared a few bands with Crapman Sacremento, a very well know performer who is still struggling to expand "Musique Domestique" and make it a popular genre. More on that later. Crapman, Penny Perry & I had a "supergroup", the Psychedelic Fruitmen, with real live bass (often played by me) that rendered the songs quite groovy. I also played keyboards.

I wrote the lyrics to most of these songs, and even wrote complete albums for Sacremento & Perry. I was hyper-active, as I've always been, and felt a need to bring all of this creative musical energy to the front of the scene. It sure was fun laying out cassettes by the pound and sharing our chaos together, but I needed to start a real band. So I started talking serious business with drunken punks & rockers I would meet in rock bars, in downtown Shawinigan and seedy Grand-Mère.

I met Philippe St-Onge and he took me seriously. He found us a drummer, a guy we called Alain Bécil - I know it wasn't his real name, but I have forgotten over the years. Alain had a garage that his parents weren't using, so we started jamming in there. We had to come up with a concept, because there were lots of shit bands going around and we had to be special. We found ourselves some names to match Alain's. St-Onge would be Mr. Bation and play bass, and I'd be Nelson Ovabitch, rythm guitar, vocals & songwriting.

At first I wanted us to be called Les Pédophiles. It had to be a name that started with "Les", and coincidentally, Alain Bécil was dating a chick that wasn't quite major. He didn't like the idea and threatened to disband. As we rockers know, the most difficult member of a band to find is usually the drummer; it takes dedication, rythm and, most importantly, a drum kit, to be one. So we bent and we called ourselves Les Ratés, which translates to "The Fuck-Ups". We had some basic rules : we were to write songs about our hometown, those who populated it, and booze, cars & chicks. We'd never play the same venue twice because we'd get kicked out before the end of our set. We'd never play with the same bands because everybody would hate us.

We almost accomplished that, and the only place we played not only twice, but three times, was Café Chaos, when it was still located on the lower strip of St-Denis. I would drink the bar - the only pay we'd ever get - and become really annoying. I'd make loud jokes about the waitresses while we played, and attempt to destroy other band's equipment in a drunken stupor. The cherry on top of every cake was when we played "A poil la compagnie", a song about gettin' your clothes off to cheer people up. I'd slowly start taking my shirt off, and then my pants, and I often finished the song with my pants around my heels, swingin' my cock in the air. There's a picture floating around on the net, somewhere... taken at Troustock ! I even did my little trick at Shawinigan's Bar Campus, when we played an all-ages show with Overbass. We sold more demos than them this day. I guess you can say the cock pays.

I was living in Laval at the time, and every time we needed to practice, play live or rehearse new songs, I'd have to go down, hitch hiking to Shawinigan. I got tired. We were on the verge of recording a kick-ass album when we split. It was raw, rock n' roll and dirty sounding. A friend of us had this studio, on the second floor of his dad's garage - which goes to prove everything goes down in the garage, when revolving around rock - and we did a few sessions there. He was our "producer".

I liked the band, the chemistry, the songs... but there was no way I was going to live half my life in a town like Shawinigan. Mr. Bation & I were starting to experience some "creative discrepancies" - he wanted more punk, and I wanted less; he wanted to sing on some songs, and nobody wanted that... I called it quits.

St-Onge, if you ever read this, gimme a shout out. I wanna know what's going on with ya... and my amplifier !

We recorded a demo in '98, called "Ça va mal à Couche-Ville". We included our phone numbers and sold it in a few placed, including Oblique. Once, I was watching a movie with my mom, and the phone rang. Two giddy guys were on the end of the line, and asked if I was Nelson Ovabitch. "Well yeah", I said. They said they really liked what we did, bursted out laughing, and hung up.

I'll never know if they were being sincere, or just high on pot.

Something's Out There

Something's out there. It's called : winter. Somebody, saddened by the empty snow-filled streets at night, had the brilliant idea of launching a festival called "Montréal en Lumière", a one-day festival, really, that would go on all night as well because, if you're to call it a festival, it needs to last a bit and offer up several things to do.

The 25th of February might not be the perfect date to keep people out all night, drifting from place to place, in the gigantic downtown network of Montreal. I've seen some quiet night in the past years, but on Saturday, we received the supreme divine gift : -30 fuckin' celsius.

Should it come as a surprise that Miss Bijoux's & my enthousiasm were both... cold showered by this "extreme weather" ? We had planned on going, maybe, as far as the CCA, and for sure as far as the MBA to see the expo on the Great Catherine. While waiting for the bus, we gave Bruce Benson a ring to see where he was at. He was at MAC (Musée d'Art Contemporain) and was basically just walking around the lobby because there was a 45 minutes line-up to see Anselm Kiefer's expo.

We then decided to grab the last train on the orange line to go down to Berri-UQAM, and we tried to sneak into the Cinémathèque's SAQ Bistrot to say hi to the Drunk Rocker on his wild short films night. The place was JAM PACKED and the air was thick with cigarette smoke, so we left. We went to UQAM's design pavillon to see the "Design Made in Africa" expo, which was quite sweet. It was basically the last day to see it; funky & functional furniture was at the rendez-vous.

Inspired by a pure Miss Bijoux moment, we went to the Visual Arts Pavillon to see what was going on in there. It was spectral; walking through the "underground city" with no living soul to be seen, except for the mandatory security guard here and there. We went to eat soup & sandwiches in the quiet cocoon that is Resto du Village around this time of the night, and we took a cab home.

*

Which bring us to... Raphaëlle de Groot. She's the artist currently exposing at the UQAM Gallery, with her "En Exercice" show, and let me tell you, it's worth the détour.

Call me a sociophile, but her project with Italian textile workers really touched me. I probably didn't see it the way she intended me to, but isn't this what "art" is all about ? Personal interpretation ? Neuronal connections ?

Raphaëlle spent some time working in an Italian factory, and came up with some projects with the other employees, involving color shemes, mailboxes, and questions they were asking themselves & could answer while taking pictures of their everyday life.

The explanations are on the wall, right there, but something else attracted my eyes when I entered the room : the photographs. Hundreds of 'em, all stuck on the wall following a precise pattern. So yes, I kinda overlooked the "mission statement" on the left, and went straight over there.

At first it just looked like random photographs, probably not taken by the same person, but always shot according to a weird amateur angle, and perfectly framed to capture the moment. One of them stroke me more than the others : a family, on a rock by the sea, playing with a kite. There is a sense of tragedy that we can almost FEEL, and just by looking at the picture, we can almost hear the waves clashing on the beach's rocks, and the wind, and smell the ocean.

There also was a series of images from the factory's everyday life. And a column dedicated to pictures with a bit of finger in the objective. In the room, blaring really loudly, a recording of the factory noises was playing. There also was a section where we could hear some messages the employees left Raphaëlle after she left the country to come back to Montreal. The overall mood of the room was very strong. So strong in fact that the rest of her work didn't seem connected to the rest as methodically.

Raphaëlle is offering live "performances" where she interacts with the public, and her installation is at the Gallery until mid-April. I really suggest you check it out, and I will most certainly be back there soon to investigate further, with a clear head.

Un journal gratuit qui traîne par terre sous la pluie

Le samedi, une tristesse particulière m'envahit : je suis incapable d'adopter une perspective sur le monde qui m'entoure et les événements qui s'y déroulent, car le 24 Heures et le Métro ne paraissent pas. Si quelqu'un me demande mon avis sur un événement ayant eu lieu dans la journée de vendredi, je hausse les épaules d'un air embarassé. Si, par contre, on me fait part de quelque chose qui s'est déroulé le mercredi, ça donne ceci :

-C'est terrible cette pluie de poules décapitées au Kenya, non ?

-Ah oui ! Terrible.

Sérieusement, depuis quand peut-on se considérer comme un individu informé quand on prend un petit cinq minutes, le matin dans le métro, pour parcourir d'un oeil distrait une revue de presse où dominent des gros titres expéditifs ? Avec le nombre réduit de pages dont disposent ces "publications", il est difficile d'aller en profondeur à propos de quoi que ce soit, et une sélection des "nouvelles" doit être effectuée. Et que laisse-t-on de côté ? La plupart des manchettes qui ne sont pas "grand public". Qu'est-ce qui est "grand public" ? Des nouvelles d'intérêt général. Et quand on connaît le moindrement la société dans laquelle on évolue, on sait que l'intérêt général, ça ne vole pas haut et ça ne va pas très loin.

On se demande donc à quoi servent ces quotidiens, dont le nombre de pages augmente à une vitesse alarmante, si ça n'est à joncher le sol des wagons de métro, tuer des arbres, et contribuer au look "conscientisé" de Johnny Everyday pendant son périple quotidien vers Ville Saint-Laurent.

Il est établi que le 24 Heures, publié par Québécor, est une info-pub touffue. Placement de produits, publicités à peine voilées pour leurs hebdomadaires trash et leurs émissions de télé minables...

L'être humain moyen écoute la radio, lit un quotidien gratuit le matin, et les "nouvelles" le soir en soupant. On lui répète trois fois, au moins, les mêmes dépêches, qui se contentent souvent d'effleurer le problème et de le vulgariser, voire même souvent le simplifier. Avec la concentration des médias, leur auto-censure et une tendance à privilégier les histoires de chats écrasés aux véritables problèmes de la société, on est en droit de se demander si cet abrutissement collectif n'est pas voulu, et la prochaine étape serait de soupçonner une intention de contrôler la masse.

Il est devenu tellement difficile d'acquérir une stabilité professionnelle de nos jours que beaucoup de gens n'osent pas s'élever contre cette situation; par exemple, je ne connais aucun employé de Québécor étant idéologiquement en accord avec son employeur. Est-ce qu'un seul d'entre eux le décrète publiquement ? Je crains que non.

Tout ça pour dire que le seul avantage de ces journaux-poubelle, le matin dans le métro, est sans doute que les gens parlent moins de futilité entre eux. Mais est-ce qu'un monde où les gens vivent repliés sur eux-même dans un semblant d'ignorance est préférable ? Je vous laisse trancher la question, car j'ai oublié mon couteau à la maison.

*

J'ai rêvé toute la nuit à des choses barbares, brutales et déroutantes. J'étais dans un Canadian Tire et je me battais avec tous les préposés. J'étais invincible et je cassais la gueule de tout le monde ! Il a fallu qu'ils fassent appel à une femme énorme, massive, qui avait sur le bout du nez des lunettes de myope d'une épaisseur incroyable; je savais qu'elle m'aurait broyé sans efforts mais j'ai empoigné ses lunettes et je les ai garrochées au bout de mes bras, et elle ne me trouvait plus dans la cohue. That takes care of it !

J'ai aussi rêvé que j'avais un chien hypersensible. C'était un bâtard labrador / berger allemand. Il se sentait négligé par mon père - chez qui j'habitais, visiblement - et on avait de grandes discussions sur son sentiment d'exclusion, étendus sur sa couche, dans une étreinte homme / chien savoureuse. Il m'envoyait des courriels poétiques.

Je ne sais pas ce que j'ai mangé pour que mon subconscient se déchaîne de la sorte... Mais il est parfois essentiel de se reconnecter avec le déroutant bordel règnant dans notre tête. On n'a pas besoin d'un thérapeuthe quand on est en mesure de se distancier de nous-mêmes.

La gestion du temps, ça n'est plus comme avant

Je ne sais pas ce qui a changé, au juste, depuis que nous ne nous réunissions plus autour du feu pour fumer la pipe dans une chaise berçante, après une difficile journée de travail, pendant que nos épouses - elles s'appellent toutes Henriette ou Géraldine - nous massent les pieds.  Certains regrettent cette époque, d'autres moins.

Avant que vous ne vous mettiez à faire des comparaisons, je ne suis pas le Vieux Médée.  Vous souvenez-vous de ce "magazine" un peu trop évidemment catholique - RND, pour "Revue Notre-Dame" - jadis distribué dans les Caisses Populaires Desjardins ?  Il y avait toujours, vers la fin, une "chronique" signée "Moi, le Vieux Médée" qui distillait une sagesse de vieux paysan calme aux valeureux lecteurs.  J'émets certain doutes sur l'existence réelle de ce "Médée", qui est probablement une façade pour un auteur fantôme.  De plus, ma mère m'assure que le magazine existe toujours, mais il y a un bail que je ne l'ai pas croisé au guichet automatique !

Nonobstant, donc, le franc parler d'un vieillard qui nous servait des leçons de vie précieuses, certes, mais manquant singulièrement de subtilité, je remarque que la variable temporelle n'est plus du tout perçue de la même façon qu'à l'époque d'Ovila Pronovost.  Si un travailleur manuel pouvait jadis consacrer jusqu'à douze heures de sa journée à une seule tâche, dépendemment de la façon dont il gagnait sa vie, il ne faisait rien d'autre une fois qu'il rentrait chez lui.  Jasette avec le voisin, ébouriffage de cheveux de ses treize rejetons, et dodo.

L'homme moderne n'est plus si simple.

De nouvelles préoccupations ont émergé avec ce que l'on appelle "le progrès", et la plupart d'entre elles sont de nature culturelle. On les appelle des "hobbies". Peut-être que, rétroactivement, cela ne paraîtra plus si importants à nos descendants et qu'ils se demanderont, en contemplant la dérisoire "oeuvre" de notre vie, à quoi on voulait bien en venir...

De nos jours, donc, il n'est plus question de mono-activité pour peupler notre journée. Il existe bien entendu des contraintes sociales, mais contrairement à ce que le professeur de l'UQÀM qui m'enseigne le cours "Durkheim et le lien social" (un peu pénible, soi dit en passant) tentait de nous faire croire, nous ne sommes pas "contraints" de travailler, regarder la télé et dormir.

Je plains les élèves qui ont, suite à cette déclaration, hoché la tête en murmurant "C'est vrai..."

Sur ce, je pars pour ma séance de gym quotidienne après avoir updaté mes trois blogues, ensuite de quoi j'irai passer quelques heures au bureau pour gagner un peu de fric, en répondant à mes courriels et en terminant un travail de mi-session, et ensuite j'ai un examen d'architecture. Ce soir, après un happy hour au Club Satan, j'irai danser dans un afterhour et je parviendrai quand même à être au bureau à 9h30 bien tapantes après avoir observé le soleil se lever du haut du Mont-Royal en déjeunant avec mon avocat.

*

Observation bureaucratique : comme vous le savez sans doute, je travaille dans un centre d'appels.  J'ai observé un phénomène inquiétant, dernièrement : le coefficient de retardés augmente sensiblement avec les semaines et les mois.  Habituellement, le pourcentage d'appels d'idiots demeure relativement stable, mais il a récemment commencé à enfler - jusqu'à la boursouflure - d'une façon tout à fait alarmante.  Est-ce que les gens ont du mal à se débrouiller avec la vie et éprouvent le besoin de se faire dicter des instructions ?  Faudra-t-il dorénavant inclure des pictogrames sur les emballages de rouleaux de papier de toilette ?

Tremblez, populace, car une ère nouvelle se développe : l'ère de la loque !  Manque d'autonomie, emploi incorrect de toute syntaxe, structure et phrasé déficients, gestion pitoyable des émotions & réactions : l'homme nouveau ne marchera plus, il rampera en bavant !

Divided We Fall

You can say what you want about about family, pretend you're a rebel and stop talking to your mom, but in the end you share the same blood and you'll always come back in the womb.

Come to daddy indeed.

I have come across people, everywhere, who got in big fights with a family member and still are. They don't talk to each others. How stubborn is that ? I could understand you not wanting to make it up to someone you don't care about, not going the extra mile to say you're sorry or solve the feud, but someone from your own family ?! It would take a minimal effort. A phone call, really.

I have always been in good terms with my mother, because she's impossible not to like. I've had a few fights with my dad - mainly around his current wife, who embodies the meaning of "drama queen" - but we never stayed brouillé for more than a few days. He lives in Shawinigan, and is not really the type of guy to hang out far from his hometown, except when he goes on camping trips with his fifth wheel, or to Banff to snowboard. Funny thing, he's been a ski patrol for a long time, and always hated these "snowboarding bums", and now it would take a bazooka to get him to put on some skis instead of his dear board. All of this to say we aren't face to face a lot, these days.

Anyway, my dad was adopted, and has a sister who also was adopted. I don't know how deep their differences are, but they always end up fighting. Well not really my dad and her, but rather my dad's wife and her. I always think about "grown-up fights" as immature behavior, or over-compensating egos - it's all about, really, admitting your wrongs.

One of my best friends is currently in a fight with her dad over him openly admitting he regrets having conceived her. She, in other words, was an "unplanned mistake". Gotta love the feeling you get when somebody as close to you as your dad tells you that. On top of that she has a mythomane mother and a father-in-law who doesn't really know what "reality" is. The effect all of this has on her everyday equilibrium isn't very clear, but it probably doesn't help a lot.

I think that a family, as fucked up as the concept might be these days, is meant to be united. Even when divorce or separation has occured, two people have built something quite uncommon, and given birth to children; it should not be overlooked. This is a situation involving more than two clashing egos. Even separated, there has to be a link between family members, a link that may provide sanity to everybody.

Divided We Fall is not just a Czech movie, it's also a guideline. Use it safely.

It's a Wireless World

Word on the street is... that more and more american cities are "going wireless".  After Philadelphia and Hollywood, it's time for South Florida, according to a Miami Herald article that ran yesterday, titled "South Florida could go wireless".

"Many cities across the United States -- and even the world -- have taken an intense interest in offering free or cheap wi-fi citywide. Many say it democratizes access to the Internet, and that it's little different from other services cities offer, such as utilities and trash pickup."

According to Daniel Aghion, of the Massachusetts Wireless Internet Institute, Internet is a "universal connectivity for economic, social and educational development.''  I couldn't agree more.  Even tho most of the cities are planning to charge minimal fees for the service, and fund the rest with taxpayer's money, it's still worth the investment.

ISP's (Internet Service Providers) are of course freaking out over this.  It would mean that some government level would litterally take business out of their hands, but isn't it high time people stop making profit out of this populist network where everything's supposed to be free ?  Some networks are installed for government use and the "heads" would appreciate making a quick buck out of them.  Even tho it probably means it would slow the service down, you can't spit on a "minimal fee" that won't be so minimal, after all, if everybody chips in !

There is a lobby of ISP's protesting, and arguing that private ISP's will serve the customers better than the state, who shouldn't interfere.  But should we trust some money-hungry sharks ?  Their goal is not the "democratic access to people"; it's profit.  They're not into socialism, but into capitalism.

I've always considered wireless internet to be a major part of civil progress.  Along with ecologic worries, it is perhaps not the best we could do to make the world a better place to live in, but being connected to the world is, in my opinion, a nice way to stay grounded in contemporary preoccupations and to keep a clean conscience of the planet we live on & the people that surround us.

Technology can be inhuman, yeah, but in that case it's quite the opposite; most people use the net mainly to stay in contact.  Major aspects of work now also require an internet access.  Being confined to the office on a warm & sunny summer day sounds like a nightmare.  What if we could bring our laptop anywhere in town, sit down to get a tan & keep working ?  This is a "dream" that we can easily achieve.  "Ile sans fil", a Montreal association that has been struggling to implant free wireless access in various city hot spots, is gaining more and more territory & members, building on its manpower to convince more store owners of the benefits of free internet among their clients.

It's not just about profit; it's about the democratic use of the net waves.  Sure, there are net addictions, but whenever something good comes out, there always be somebody whose willpower is too low to resist overdosing on it.  All good things have to be used with moderation, as the SAQ would say.

*

Other significant changes are happening in Miami these days.  A conference called "Tropical Green", that was presented by the architecture monthly Metropolis, on Feb. 9 & 10th, hoped to provide alternatives in tropical urbanism, new ways to elevate high rises or urban dwellings, ways to incorporate the elements of nature into the planning.

An interesting example would be the way most hotel rooms in town do not propose windows that you can open.  You are basically trapped inside and reduced to suffer the A/C.  A drift of the Miami breeze is not an option.

Buildings also consume a lot of energy, and are responsible for the emission of a good portion of the polluting gas floating in the city's atmosphere.  There are ways to manage this, materials builders could favor...

While I didn't personally attend the conference, I believe it's high time urban planners start looking into MANDATORY construction techniques that everybody would benefit from.  The residential & commercial boom is seemingly here to stay, so let's make the best of it !

*

Speaking of Miami, I watched a rather strange - but aren't they all - Miami Vice episode yesterday, off the Season II box set.  I'm kinda sad I'm almost done and wish Universal could release the other seasons faster, but there's not much I can do to speed them up and it would be a pity to be done with the whole series in a jiffy !

The episode's called "Free Verse". It features an ugly piece of skank named Bianca Jagger (Mick's ex wife, who also appeared, in all her glory, in C.H.U.D. II - BUD THE CHUD in '89) and director Michael Bay... as an actor ! Luis Guzmàn also appears as a tough guy, and that was WAY before his current "stardom". Anyway, the story revolves around a poet from a slovac country, coming to Miami to receive some honorific prize before appearing as a witness in Washington for some important trial regarding some revolution.  Of course, several groups are trying to have him killed, so our favorite members of the Vice Squad have to do all they can to protect him & his daughter.  They "have to make it until Washington".  But the old man's a wild one, and his wheelchair won't keep him from grabbin' cute girl's asses, or even invade a dancefloor !

Which brings us to a very interesting scene : the guy, dancing in his wheelchair, in some kind of trendy "metal" club where our friends from the Suicidal Tendencies are performing onstage !!  I couldn't believe my eyes.

That just goes to say that in this amazing show, there's always a little something for everybody.

Avez-vous déjà bu du café qui sent le chien mouillé ?

Moi ci. Ce matin même, d'ailleurs. J'ai l'habitude de me faire un café dès le réveil, quand le temps me le permet, et je le verse dans cette immense tasse artisanale qui contient l'équivalent d'une charge de dynamite dans mes neuronnes - d'autant plus que je n'y vais pas de main morte sur la poudre.

Depuis que Caron m'a appris qu'il fallait mieux manger ou boire un petit quelque chose avant de se pitcher sur le café, j'essaie de boire un peu de limonade ou de manger un yaourt et j'y parviens habituellement.

Mais... du café qui sent le chien mouillé ? That's a first. La semaine commence bien !

*

Je souffre probablement d'une maladie inconnue. Quand je suis étendu dans mon lit - comme Étienne Daho, par exemple - je ne peux plus me réveiller, rien à faire. Enfin, je peux me réveiller, mais très difficilement en sortir, ce qui fait que je me rendors assez rapidement.

Et ça serait probablement comme ça tous les matins si je dormais seul.

Disons que ça mine particulièrement ma productivité, car normalement je suis une étincelle ambulante, le matin. Ça pétarade dans mon cerveau et si je me fixe des buts, je les atteins généralement d'assez bonne heure. Que ça soit une tâche physique ou intellectuelle, j'arrive à bout sans problème.

Mais bon, peut-être que je suis tout simplement fatigué.

*

Miss Bijoux est à Las Vegas pour la semaine. Elle est partie vendre des montres en sol américain et prendre un peu de soleil, ce qui est légèrement impossible pour nous en ce moment avec cet hiver fort désagréable.

Ville de gamblers, ville d'architecture tape-à-l'oeil, Vegas est l'endroit de perdition par excellence. Une ville plutôt anormale qui est toujours théâtre de quelques drames, et qui propose une certaine dimension surréaliste. Que ça soit dépeinte au cinéma (dans LEAVING LAS VEGAS, elle est le paradis des alcoolos, alors que dans le plus rare THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS, d'Antonio Isasi, elle devient le paradis des cambrioleurs) ou dans un jeu vidéo (Grand Theft Auto : San Andreas la propose comme une ville peuplée de cowboys et de pitounes typiques) elle inspire toujours le délire.

J'espère que Miss me ramènera de jolies photos et qu'elle n'enregistrera pas trop de pertes au casino de son hôtel !

Private Eyes - They're Watching You

You just gotta love Darryl Hall & John Oates. Moustached heroes from the late 70's and 80's, they composed the pop rock soundtrack of many people's coke binges and found glory with a series of irresistible hits that are still timeless as we speak. Of course, we don't really "speak" since I'm writing and you're reading, but you get my drift.

I always dreamed of driving a Porsche while listening to "Private Eyes" - ex aecquo with Toto's "Hold the Line" - with the sunroof down, and I recently achieved this dream several times over last summer. But my transmission burned alive and now the car won't move.

In September, Hall & Oates did a "come back" - like everybody else these days, if they're still alive that is - and came to play at Place-des-Arts. I'm not sure if that's where they belonged, but the tickets were pricey and the promo pictured looked discouraging, with their all new-agesque looks and acoustic guitars. So I ended up not going even tho I really like what they did for the homoerotic rock scene back in the good old days (and by the way, I was always surprised never to hear their songs in Miami Vice episodes).

Yesterday, while going to Mr. Mâ's, in the Place Ville-Marie shopping center, I passed in front of Cole's and decided to stop by to see if they had a book I've been seeking lately, Dusan Sevjic's THE EDIFICE COMPLEX.

Of course they didn't, and I had to order it. While filling the form, I heard "Every Time You Go Away" finish and "Private Eyes" start on the store's sound system. I knew it was a Hall & Oates "best of" playin', so I told the guy : "Nice musical selection". Her thanked me quite coldly, probably thinking I was kidding.

-Did you go see them in September ?

His face lightened up :

-Actually yes !!

Then he knew I was a real fan too, and began telling me how much he was surprised that the show was all accoustic, that they had almost cancelled it, and that next time they were coming they had liked it so much that they'd do it unplugged again. Tell me, how often will you find a librarian who's a Hall & Oates ho' ?!

I was glad I didn't go to the show, when I left the store. But that won't stop me from blasting "Out of Touch" in my car when the heat comes and I'm waiting at a red light at the corner of Ontario & Pie IX !!

Souvenirs de la Vallée des Toilettes pas Flushées

Je débouche beaucoup de toilettes, ces jours-cis.

Je ne sais pas si c'est la haute saison des crues, le positionnement lunaire qui cause des marées de salle de bain, ou l'hiver qui modifie la composition moléculaire de l'eau souillée de déjections humaines, mais les occasions d'utiliser ma toute nouvelle ventouse, récemment achetée au Rona du Village, se multiplient.

J'ai presque envie d'appeler Ron Jeremy, le plombier.

Ce qui me rappelle de drôles d'aventures vécues au bureau récemment. Pour des raisons sur lesquelles je n'ai pas enquêté, les administrateurs de l'immeuble dans lequel je travaille coupent régulièrement l'alimentation en eau potable pour "effectuer des travaux". Ces coupures ont toujours lieu pendant qu'il y a des gens qui travaillent, et jamais en dehors des heures d'ouverture.

Alors qu'habituellement les employés d'un bureau se contentent d'utiliser les facilités sanitaires pour uriner, au fil des habitudes certains prennent leur aise et oublient de plus en plus une règle d'étiquette assez simple : la gestion intestinale. D'où le concert de borborygmes multiples et les odeurs inquiétantes qui flottent constamment dans l'atmosphère à chacune de mes visites dans cette "salle". Le trafic pour ce genre de besoin physiologique est assez sporadique, le rythme inconstant, mais dès qu'une coupure d'eau est annoncée, l'effet est immédiat : tout le monde a envie de chier.

On a donc droit, à cette occasion, au triste spectacle des cuvettes profanées, remplies à ras bord du fruit du labeur de nos vaillants bureaucrates qui n'y vont pas de main morte sur le café. Question de timing, je suppose. Ou suggestion collective qui sert de rappel à des individus normalement trop absorbés par leurs tâches pour penser à des fonctions corporelles primaires ?

On ne le saura jamais, et je crois que je préfère ça à un diplôme de bio-comportementalité intestinale.

The Science of Porn

It never occured to me that stroking my cock to images of videos found on the net might have some drastic consequences on the lives of some, huh, "porn stars".

So yesterday, when Miss Bijoux mentioned she was sickened by guys keeping files filled with porn on their computers, I told her it was part of North America's masculine identity. We argued a bit about the power of erotic imagination, and she told me it was mainly sad that some poor needy girls were drinking stranger's piss on the web for 500$. I have to agree.

Porn is a vast subject that I long ago decided not to explore too much here, because my blog is mainly about the pornography of existence, its gross-out factors, and how obscene our life can sometimes be.

Not about... porn. But when we come to think about it, you'll have to excuse my fatherly monologue.

A girl that needs easy money can find a fast way to make some in most major north american cities. Porn on the web is huge - porners always need fresh faces, and innocent amateur girls are a plus. They most of the time do not think about very long before giving in and gettin' on their knees. But the web, as vast as it is, is never vast enough when a picture of your cum-covered face is flying around, and eventually landing on your father's computer screen while he masturbates his andropause away.

Some amateur sites have blurred or dotted faces, but it takes away all the fun ! And the fast grow of sex-oriented websites have forced webmasters to use more and more imagination and to take some fetishes to their most extreme... extremity. Just take a look at some bukkake or piss sites these days and your gag reflex might not stand the heat.

That is why I recommend judgement, discretion, and empathy. I know a girl turning 18 is entitled to willfully chose to appear in such "productions", but is her judgement developed enough at this tender age ? You be the judge.

*

And I'll be the judge of that : I saw SAW II yesterday. Quite similar to the first one, except for a few plot points, and some way more extreme scenes. The tagline doesn't lie : there has been blood.

Think about a syringe and all the possibilities it brings and multiply it by several thousand numbers. Think about all the eyes can see, and what every oublic's phobia is : eye surgery is not fun to look at. No sir.

This is very dark stuff, but it however loses a bit of its efficiency due to the treatment given to the direction. It's all clipped-out, clever epileptic editing and loud rock music. You just cannot seem to shake the feeling you're watching a "trendy" movie. Therefore, the suspension of disbelief barely happens. You suffer for the characters, but not as much as if Gaspar Noé or Michael Haneke had been behind the camera.

There's a spoken reference to LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT as well as a minor visual reference to a scene in Dario Argento's OPERA, but it's not too fan-oriented and the plot is really surprising at some point. You gotta give credit to a vilain that's played by a Terrence Stamp look-alike !

So I don't know, really, why this movie has been so vastly associated to St-Valentine's, apart that it was domestically released on DVD on Feb. 14th... and that it will scare whichever chick you're watching it with's pants off.

More Inhuman Than Human

St-Valentine's is a bloody useless festivity. Romantics feel bad if they don't have a date, and those who do - they feel compelled to do something special.

I can understand some "couples" are tired to fuck each others, and it already takes them enough efforts to endure their tender half, and giving chocolates isn't enough to mark this day as a "special occasion". But think about those who don't have anybody to share their joy with. Think about the elderly, and the young. Too old or too young to have a romantic candlelight dinner and then a good screw.

I saw a girl carrying roses when I came back from work yesterday, in the subway. I also saw a couple on the bus. They had just rented SAW II and were going to watch it, and then probably have sex on the couch. Or maybe not.

The subject is way too depressing to evoke here, anyway.

*

I found a Danielle Ouimet autobiography today at the Mont-Royal public library. Probably written by a ghost writer - unless Danielle proves me wrong - it still features an interesting chapter on all the movies she appeared in. This is a read I am very much looking forward to do.

*

I also stumbled, quite erratically, on Ryu Murakami's THANATOS. The last part of his now infamous trilogy also comprising ECSTASY & MELANCHOLIA. This is a read I am very much looking forward to do.

*

I watched Christopher Nolan's BATMAN BEGINS yesterday. No opinion yet, altho I don't think it's the kind of movie you need to have an opinion on. It's generic superhero good work, the kind of think Hollywood-polluted minds acclaim, the kind of thing that's entertaining to you if you don't mind a bit of cheese on your bat wings, and if you don't mind the Batmobile being revamped outta its Stingray shape. Christian Bale is way OK as the masked avenger, and there are quite a few stars. However, there are good chances I will confuse this installment with the others in a couple of days, when the souvenir will fade from my overbusy memory.

*

Today marks a special day for me. The weather's nice outside, and I feel real smooth. I don't think it means anything for my near future, or I rather wouldn't risk hoping in vain, but I just french kissed with Miss Bijoux for about 30 minutes in the backstore of her craft shop.

She invited me to her place tonight to see SAW II. Is this a late St-Valentine's ? I'll let my destiny decide that.

Travel Light

There has got to be a way for us to go through life without carrying all this junk around.

Every move is painful; packing and unpacking millions of little items we'll probably never need again. Putting enormous boxes in a truck and filling it until it's ready to explode.

There is something you need to know about me. I am, as a delicate ex-girlfriend would say, a "pack rat". Well, not really. I like the term, with all its white trash implications. I'm not about to have a yard sale and offer up baby clothes & motor parts. I have accumulated lots of movies over the years because I consider myself a eurotrash scholar. These motherfuckers can be really hard to find, most of them have never been released domestically on DVD, and when I began "collecting" them, the VHS medium was beginning his slow descent into discontinuation. So of course, all the video rental stores were discarding what we, among collectors, like to call "grosses pochettes", or big boxes for those of you not in the know.

I have been a "trader" for a long time. That kinda implies piracy, but maybe not. It's in a "flou juridique", really. So here I am, stuck with thousands of VHS tapes, wondering what the hell to do with them.

Another problem : I'm a bibliophile. I suffer from some kind of compulsive curiosity and there are lots of stuff I want to read. So of course I buy lots of books. And once I have paid for them, and they're in my hands, I know there's no hurry in reading them : they're mine !! So I put them on a shelf and forget all about them. Then I look for something else to read, and I buy some more. And so on.

Being a DJ is also problematic, especially when you work with vinyl. These 12" are big, and heavy ! I bought some shelves at Ikéa last year and made sure my LP's would fit in there. However, since I keep buying some new 12" - the point here being that I have to be "on the edge of new music" - I'm starting to run out of shelving space ! And there's a thing with vinyl : it's really hard to sell them afterwards. Less & less DJ's are using them, and when a song has passed its prime time, honestly, nobody wants it !

I also like to keep up with current affairs, and have my favorite magazines. Among them MacLean's (for the canadian content) and the New Yorker (because, frankly, it's the best magazine ever). Problem is... they're weeklies. And with my studies and the big stash of books I have accumulated, plus the books that I borrow at the public library, I can't bring myself to keep up with all that !

So... am I a pack rat ? I'll never know. But I wish I could travel light !

Broken Flowers

I listen to my friends when they say : "It's destiny, it's meant to be this way !".

*

People are strange. People are loud. My head is pounding like a motherfucker. I'm in a vodka-induced coma after going to bed at 5 AM this morning and waking up just in time to catch a bus to work. I almost puked when I took a sip of water earlier.

Tylenol, a can of Coke & some rice chips (salt & vinegar flavored) will do the trick to get my body back to normal, operating as if nothing ever happened.

But what about my heart ?

*

I saw a Miami Vice episode yesterday - and no, it's not the cause of my heavy drinking - that was quite interesting. It was called "The Fix", off the season 2 DVD. The storyline was rather "normal", according to MV standarts, and revolved around a corrupt judge trying to pay off a gambling debt to some crook. The crook in question was Kramer.

How do you expect a bad guy to be believable when a goofy Kramer plays him ?

*

I also saw Jim Jarmush's BROKEN FLOWERS. Which is a touching, slow road trip, with an underdeveloped character played by Bill Murray. His name here's Don Johnston, and he's an aging seducer on a quest to find a woman that may have given birth to his son 20 years ago.

He goes through the country in search of himself, and encounters various lonely souls, including a very crass & toothless Larry Fessenden in what looks like a metalhead community established deep in the woods. You have to see this scene to believe it.

The increasingly sexy Chloé Sevigny also stars, and we can get a good glimpse at her legs.

*

I also saw an episode of SEINFELD that was laugh out loud, hilarious material. "The Red Dot". And fuck knows I need to laugh these days. I started watching it with a beer can in my bed around 9 PM and finished at 4:30 AM, half dead drunk. No, it's not a 7h30 long episode; however, you'll never believe me if I tell you what happened in the meantime.

*

Huh huh huh, as far as I know.

Un Pigeon Dans le Salon

Je me suis fait crisser là hier. Ouch.

Je ne sais toujours pas si ça va modérer mes élans créatifs ou les propulser au firmament. Pour l'instant je me sens complètement neutre, comme engourdi.

C'est certain que je vais avoir plus de temps à consacrer à whatever, mais est-ce que ces temps libres seront sous le signe de la bonne humeur ? I wouldn't think so.

Période "contemplative"... ça va durer combien de temps, ces longs regards dans le lointain à évaluer tout ce que j'ai perdu avec cette rupture ? Tous les plans qu'il va me falloir abandonner, ces espoirs idiots qu'une vie commune était enfin possible, ces convictions ? C'est du behaviorisme : des mois de conditionnement à effacer. Il y a des court-circuits dans mon cerveau, et une flaque de sang sous mon coeur.

Je le prends au sérieux cette fois-ci. Je me disais toujours que j'avais amplement le temps de rencontrer la fille parfaite pour moi, et voilà que j'ai pu la côtoyer à peine quatre petits mois d'automne. On peut dire que les circonstances sont mal choisies, mais les choisit-on ? Le "time frame" est mal choisi, certes. Le mois le plus déprimant de l'année. Deux jours avant la St-Valentin. Symbole d'échec.

Je crois que je vais réaliser, si je choisis la thérapie par l'écriture, beaucoup de choses déprimantes. Parce que c'est le contraire de se "changer les idées" : on se plonge dedans volontairement, on s'en étend plein la face, et c'est similaire à cette vieille expression éculée - tourner le fer dans la plaie.

Je ne suis pas certain d'en avoir envie, folks.

Un Poulailler

Been a long time since I wrote about office life.

Some people have done it before; UK's THE OFFICE is there to prove it, and the DVD's lyin' on my shelves remind me everyday that I should have a look at the series. I will, I will.

Won't be a long complaint because I know how boring these things can get. A guy sitting in front of his computer while some other workers are freezing their nuts in this arctic climate may seem like a heartless fuck.

I work in a call center and people are litterally BOMBARDING us with calls. Best way ever to spend a day off. Wasting your time on a call center's line. Sometimes I wish I could send electric shocks through their brains.

And... what's it with employees walking around and YELLING in here ? Do they temporarily *forget* that they're in a CALL CENTER, and that some people are working on the phone, trying to understand what a confused, drooling 99 years old farmer from Saskatoon wants ?

On dirait que je travaille dans un poulailler.

*

I won movie tickets in a Montreal Mirror contest. With all the movies out there that I'd like to see these days (CACHÉ, QUE DIEU BÉNISSE L'AMÉRIQUE, VERS LE SUD, DEAR WENDY, HOSTEL...) it would have been very easy to please me...

But no, I won tickets for the "advance première" of FINAL DESTINATION 3.

It was at Paramount at 7 PM on Thursday and I'm still wondering how the hell I could miss my "Planification des Transports" course at UQAM for this. I went with Miss Bijoux and we found a roomful of idiots munchin' on cheap pop corn. The movie itself was quite entertaining, I must admit. If you're there for plot development or revolutionary ideas, forget it. But if you want to see teens die in ingenious ways, in a fast-paced and over-the-top flick, it's for you.

Who knows, I might even see parts 1 & 2 now.

I'm a Bad Seed

Three burials & a funeral.  Two miscarriages & a healthy dose of elephantiasis.  All the catastrophes in the universe are coming to ring your doorbell.  No cheap disco this time around, buddies.  Blood, damnation & some very, very bad feelings.

The mood ring will explode.  There is no such color to illustrate a mood that does not yet have a name.

I'm a doomed writer.  The kinda guy who has a big mouth, uses it a lot, but doesn't get lots of things done in real life.  I do my share, sure, and when I compare my case to others I do a lot, but I'm not doing all I can to achieve something like, let's say, crossing all the "things to do" on my list at the end of each day.

I wouldn't call myself a slacker but often, the discipline I am trying to keep up just... vanishes.

That's why writing something "de longue haleine" is pretty hard.  A novel, for example, might get me real enthusiastic for a while.  I may even write about 100 pages or more... and then something happens.  An unplanned event, something that keeps me away from the computer for a couple of days, and when I go back to "my work", the magic's gone.  It's over.  I give up.

I give up a lot these days.

Anyway, you can't begin to comprehend how MANDATORY it is to write every day, when writing something "important".  Be it a thesis, an essay, a novella or a novel, you can't just leave it somewhere and get back to it when you feel like it.

And I just got an idea.  What about writing a novel and publishing it on a BLOG ?

No contraints.  You do whatever you like, here, fellow blogger.  You can be anywhere in this country and have access to a computer.  You log on, write your daily chapter, post it, and it's automatically stored.  Saved.  Archived.  You don't carry your laptop around.

-I would love to continue writing, but I don't have my "work" on me...
-No problem buddy, it's RIGHT THERE, ON THE NET.

All the subconscious objections, and lames excuses that usually keep me from publishing something - gone.

Listen.  I once completed two novels.  Back in '95 and '96.  I had dreams.  I wanted to write at least two books a year.  I know that if this is the only thing I do, I'm able to.  I have the patience & inspiration.  But in this cruel world, being a cruel man ain't all about layin' back and typing all day.  Put some food on the table.  Get a tan.  Get botox.  Silicone.  Gin tonic.

Typing some words falling from your head on a cathodic screen so they're printed one day and 12 people read them after the year long process it takes to get published ?  What kind of fuckin' hobby is that !?

Stabbin' me with a Knife album

The Knife, y'all.

Look up SILENT SHOUT at your nearby & favorite record shop. It features some of the best songs you've come to expect from these marvelous nutcases, and a duet with Jay Jay Johanson as well.

You can thank me later.

*

I guess I can say I have what is commonly called "roommates problems". Not that the ones I do live with usually mean trouble; they just won't stay long enough for me to breath in between searches.

Getting to know somebody can be fun, but when it's out of necessity, it can be tedious. When I moved into this hell pit last July, I couldn't really predict that my Hydro-Québec bills would scare the shit outta me. I moved in alone at first, pretty sure I'd be able to find somebody to live with in the course of summer. Now the rent ain't cheap, but I was able to afford it... for a month or two.

I found some nice girls from Rio de Janeiro and they moved on July 26th. The younger sister wasn't supposed to stay real long but I still made them aware that the space for rent was pretty small. A tiny room. But the building being next to Parc Lafontaine and all, they still came.

The younger one started missing her boyfriend, who stayed back home. They also left quite abruptly some time in August or September, I can't honestly remember when. I only found my next roommate, a graphic designer originally from France but who has also lived in San Francisco & the UK lately, in October.

She recently started painting these huge ass cannevas, so she has to find a place with a bit more room. She's leaving on Feb. 18th.

I am leaving the place on July myself, but in the mean time, cause we know time can be a real mean mama, I absolutely can't afford paying the rent alone.

The search has begun again. Bring in them horses.

A Month Not to Remember

We're lucky that this damn month only lasts 28 days.  Or 29 in some extreme cases.  Cause it can appear damn long to most of us livin' up north, on this shithole of a continent called "North America".

Political details aside, we don't really benefit from what I'd call a "fun climate".  Sure, we have about 8 consecutives months without snow, but it's not always all sun & games.  Rain, cold, wind, and all these unwanted guests often pollute our streets.  And then there's February.  The worse month of 'em all.

Nothing's going on !  We don't have the holidays excitement to get rid of, or my birthday to celebrate, as we do in January.  And we don't have the hopeful great snow meltings or March to rely on for entertainment.  We don't have Christmas & the mild end of Autumn, as we do in December.  We don't have SHIT.

Everybody's depressed, or seems so, thanks to the surreal sun light - when the sun bothers showing up, of course.

This is a month I truly hate.  And I'm sorry for all of you who were born around this time of the year, but it must suck !  Can't wait for March to come.  Reading week at university, and a shitload of nice bands comin' to town : Justus Kohncke, Hot Chip, Mathew Dear, Felix da Housecat...  Plus we'll see this white shit retreating somewhere else, melt in agony into water that'll be absorbed by the land.  And personally, I'll forget this "water" as fast as I'll forget fuckin' February.

*

Apart from this shit hittin' the islamic fan and our recently elected conservative nazi, morose moods on every Montreal face and a cold ass day, nothing seems important enough to keep me from my main goal tonight : getting some sleep.

Even if I ain't doing shit with my day, I get home and feel as if I've been beaten up by a bunch of pro thaï kick boxers after being hit my a garbage truck and dumped into the St-Lawrence River from the Mercier bridge.  It's no use trying to read my school stuff with a brain that damaged, and it's no use trying to write something useful : I give up.

Islam Ate my Balls

I mean, how childish & immature can they get !?

You flush a Coran down the toilet : riots, deaths, indignation.

You publish a cartoon of Hamas : riots, walking on the Danish flag (!?), deaths, indignation. Some integrist groups even called for their followers to "catch some Danish people and cut them into pieces". Wow, that is a great way to improve your image, folks. Dunno which marketing firm you've hired for that but you should definitly fire them.

I remember those poor bastards in 2001, cheering live on CNN when the planes hit the WTC. They keep on electing maniacs to be head of their "governments". I know some issues are deeper than others, but I mean... what the fuck ?

Is this what progress is about ? Brotherly love ? Global understanding ?

I don't think we're heading for a very bright future with these dudes.

*

I finally ended up missing Omnikrom's launch on Saturday and stayed home instead, taking a much appreciated siesta & watching MIDNIGHT COWBOY with Miss Bijoux. Despite being made in 1969, this Paul Schlesinger gem didn't age a bit. The 18 years & over rating might be surprising to nowadays audiences, and even more surprising is the fact that the movie won the Oscar that year for... movie of the year !

It's this powerful. Clever editing, surreal sequences, fine acting (Voigt & Hoffman, as unlikely a couple as they might be, really develop a great chemistry) and a psychedelic party you won't soon forget.

It was shot during an era where moviemakers still used a "theme song" until our ears bled, ad nauseam style. But still, you can't help liking the movie & its characters. I guess that's one of the reasons why it became, over the years, a classic...

Undersleeping is the new extreme sport

Just when you thought you knew everything about trends & stuff, that crazes couldn't go any crazyer, here comes the latest one : sleep deprivation.

Here at Porn Science, we always aim to please, and we also have a constant worry of keeping our readers (yeah, you) updated about what's going on in the world today, because frankly, we know that y'all ain't doin' much to achieve this on your own. So I looked into the craze myself, yesterday, after seeing Tommie Sunshine DJ at SAT's VOYEUR launch. Truth is, I didn't really see him, since I was piss drunk, but I paid my ticket like anybody else that was there, so I have a right to pretend, no ?

Anyway, when we got outta there I went to eat pizza with Miss Bijoux, Mr. Finances, Rocker & Hugotron, and then I went home. I uploaded the pictures I had taken earlier on my laptop, and realised that I had taken 121. Even while looking at them, I hard a hard time remembering everything. I didn't go to sleep right away because I had to drink LOTS of water to avoid puking. The 99 cents pizza + the "Perrier Fluo" that I drank afterwards didn't really get along inside my stomach.

I fell asleep at 5 and woke up at 8 this morning, since I had to work.

I just finished drinking my first coffee and it feels OK. But I might yell a bit before the day ends, my friends.

*

Tonight, at Zoobizarre, Omnikron are launching their new EP, "24 Pouces Glacés". Word is it's gonna be packed. I hate the place. Looks like a cavern, filled to the lid with smoking retards. Go ahead and blame me.

I like my space fresh & non-smoking. I like my dancefloor spacy and silky smooth. I like a coat check, too. Even if you have to pay for it, at least you don't have to pile up your stuff somewhere, carry it around, watch it all evening long and finally pick it up stinky and stained with bar scum & beer & puke.

But the Piknic Élektronic has been cancelled due to our "tropical" winter. Today almost felt like a summer day. Summer daze. I was coming to work earlier and I couldn't see any snow. Feels like Vancouver, only less boring.

So... if I wanna do something else than grab my balls tonight (or let somebody else grab 'em for me, which is always better) I better head off to Beaubien's shit hole and bounce my ass to the beats. Québec Grimecrunkers, here I fuckin' come.

The Impossibility of Eroticism in the Suburbs

In fact, it's not that impossible. But don't quote me on that one.

I've been going through my stuff lately, since I'm in the process of sanitarising my life. I'm cleanin' up the mess, brothers. I realise that some of the boxes I have yet to open, in my storage room, have been there forever. They followed me with every move, and yet I'm not quite sure what's in them.

I have this "strategy", you see : a box you haven't opened in seven years will contain two things... either big surprises that you'll be glad to finally get your hands on, or just plain junk you'll be quite happy to throw in the poubelles.

What happens in my case is that I have boxes & boxes of VHS tapes. Litterally thousands of 'em. To make a long story short, I'm a big fan of eurotrash movies from the 70's, and they're kinda hard to find these days, so I have devoted a good chunk of my life at hunting them down and "archiving" them in the basement. However, it is categorically impossible that I move with them in July. I'm a bit fed up or carrying them boxes around, you see.

So I'm sorting through them, and I find lots of good ones. Which makes it difficult to decide what stays & what goes.

And instead of investigating about that to downsize my crap, here I am drinkin' coffee, reading the new York Times online and listening to Modjo's "No More Tears" remixed by Alex Gopher.

Was anything of the above of erotic interest to anybody ?

I didn't think so either.

Ain't no Goddamn Way to Survive Here

Ever got harrassed by some office guy with too much free time on his hands, selling chocolate or similar craps to his co-workers ?

There's a band called (insert compromising name here) that has two of its members working here with me. They sell t-shirts to cougar groupies and send mass (annoying) emails whenever they get a gig booked somewhere. They get some girls to go there & pay ridiculously high covers, and that's the way life is.

*

I feel strangely neutral today. As if I felt a urge to move out of the country overnight and disappear.

This is a feeling I've been getting quite often lately. Not that I don't appreciate the path my life has taken so far, or that I'm lacking friends or hobbies. It's just that sometimes, it's so overwhelming I feel crushed. I feel like a tiny, limbless grain of dust floating in the universe and unable to change anything, anywhere.

And that doesn't feel good at all. My bowels are distorted, and I feel like puking.

People going around me, at the office, really look like they don't realise what's going on.

Let me tell you something. A girl I work with had a son. 18 years old. They all moved in from Iran a couple of years ago, to escape the political pressure over there and live a decent life here. Two weeks ago, her son was shot to death. I just received an email with some details about the funeral and I know something doesn't seem right.

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On Friday, Tommie Sunshine is DJ'ing @ SAT. I know I should be excited but right now, I'm in no party mood. Winter's here in full disclosure, and every additionnal snow storm digs a deeper grave for us all. I am litterally burried under all this snow, under an overload of stress, of things to read for school... and I need some sleep.

I feel like moving somewhere warm, where I'll live the good life, take siestas under palm trees and never run, from anything, anywhere. I could die peacefully with a margherita in hand, by the pool, and stay there without anybody noticing me before the end of low season.

Esse Homo

You might say what you wanna, but I still think winter sucks.

High fiber diarreah. Walkin' with my running shoes (that I incidentally never use for running, simply because I never run at all) in the slushy Montreal streets can prove to be a fuckin' calvaire. I always try to see the positive aspects of life, and tell myself that the season won't last (which is a fact that's been proven, year after year, since the beginning of time), but I'm still pretty pissed every time I have to go out.

Which is a lot, these days. That might explain a thing or two.

Courses, work. Curses, dork.

You can call him the mango king, but his girlfriend calls me daddy.

People often think they're profound, when they're shallow & pale. Not as pale as the snow filled streets, if you want my opinion. But yet, there's always a light of hope that ignites in the back of my head, illuminating my vision of things. I always give a first chance to shine to everybody I meet. They benefit from a trial period and it's up to them to become friends or to blow it off.

You can expect big changes soon. This blog will get new friends, and become more active. The door will be open, because here at the Jesus Franco Institute, we open our doors to all kinds of whores.