Paniques Injustifiées

On s'énerve souvent, dans notre habit d'être humain, pour rien.  Crises d'angoisse inexpliquables, niveau de stress qui grimpe en flèche à la moindre contrariété, pression sanguine dans le tapis au moindre éclat de voix.

Et parfois, on s'énerve pour des raisons valables.  Qui peut juger de quel prétexte est valable pour attiser notre colère ?  Personne, à part peut-être le spécialiste en éthique du New York Times, Randy Cohen.  Mais nous n'allons pas l'inonder de courriels chaque fois que nos nerfs sont mis à l'épreuve, n'est-ce pas ?

Mardi, Miss Bijoux est venue m'attendre au boulot parce qu'elle avait oublié ses clés à la maison.  Pour ceux qui ne suivent pas le feuilleton depuis le début, sachez que je travaille dans un immeuble se dressant à l'angle des rues McGill College & Maisonneuve.  Elle a barré sa bicyclette à côté de la mienne et est entrée faire quelques emplettes en m'attendant.  A notre retour, plus de selle sur son vélo !



Autre aventure fantastique : le Festival des Arts du Village vient de commencer, hier matin.  S'étendant sur Ste-Catherine entre St-André et Papineau, il rassemble une multitude d'exposants, dont l'entreprise de Miss Bijoux, dont le kioske est situé en face du sympathique Wega, presque au coin de St-Thimothée.  Vous pouvez sans peine imaginer la faune colorée qui "habite" normalement ce secteur.  Les weirdos, junkies, clochards, squeegees, putes, danseuses, alcoolos et désinstitutionalisés de toutes sortes s'y donnent rendez-vous dès le lever du soleil et hantent les lieux tels des zombies des temps modernes, dégageant des effluves divers et tous plus nauséabonds les uns que les autres.  Il y en a des innofensifs, certains dont il faut se méfier, et d'autres carrément à éviter.  Saouls à 9h, gelés à 11h, et quittant les lieux en ambulance dès 15h, ils sont aussi imprévisibles qu'irritants.  C'est donc sans surprise que nous sommes retournés à la tente de Miss, ce matin, pour s'apercevoir qu'on lui avait volé sa chaise d'artisan pendant la nuit.

Sécurité irréprochable, je te salue.

*

J'ai eu la chance de visionner, au cours du week-end de la St-Jean, un film de Dario Argento appelé SUSPIRIA.  Vous connaissez ?



On a beau être sceptique devant la crédibilité scénaristique d'une telle oeuvre, reste que l'aspect visuel de l'ensemble est magistral.  C'était mon deuxième visionnement, en environ sept ans, et malgré le fait que je ne me souvenais pas trop précisément de tous les retournements et spécificités de l'intrigue, j'ai pu mettre ça un peu de côté et concentrer mon appréciation sur l'esthétisme.

La direction photo, plus particulièrement, est à couper le souffle.  Tous les plans sont baignés d'une lumière rouge et bleue, qui paraît ici spectrale, et là forcée, mais jamais déplacée.  On dira ce qu'on veut de l'édition deluxe sortie par Anchor Bay il y a quelques années, avec un 2e disque comportant un documentaire de 52 minutes et la trame sonore légendaire de Goblin sur un troisième disque en bonus, mais l'absence de version italienne sous-titrée est affligeante.  J'ai dû visionner le film dans un doublage français bourré de voix féminines plaignardes et irritantes, alors que le doublage anglais est sérieusement banal et la version italienne... sans sous-titres.

Avec Argento qui est supposé commencer prochainement le tournage du dernier volet de la trilogie des Trois Mères, ce qui est une bonne nouvelle pour certains et une mauvaise pour d'autres, une rétrospective personnelle s'impose.  Prochaine victime : TENEBRAE !

*

Il est possible que je réponde "absent" plus souvent qu'à mon tour au cours des prochaines semaines.  L'été ne ralentit évidemment pas mes ardeurs, mais c'est une saison de festivités, et comme je suis un être humain festif, je me prête volontiers à diverses activités servant règle générale à célébrer la vie.

Ainsi, outre le travail de bureau ennuyant que je pratique et qui se poursuit malgré le soleil percutant, je serai jeudi soir prochain au Parking pour y entendre Tiga, qui risque de nous y foutre une bonne râclée sonore.  Le lendemain, à la SAT, John Tejada est l'invité de mes amis de DiskHo, et je vais difficilement m'en sortir vivant, car on m'a promis des "drink tickets" en quantité industrielle et je tombe en vacances pour dix jours la veille.  Ensuite, le 8, house party où je ferai office de DJ.  Retrouvailles avec l'ambiance du Piknic le 9, et ensuite les choix sont multiples : visite à Shawinigan pour y voir de la famille et l'expo ayant lieu à la Cité de l'Énergie; visites multiples à des potes producteurs pour créer quelques hits électro avec eux; ballades en vélo dans des quartiers inconnus, etc...  Le week-end suivant, d'autres soirées se suivront sans se ressembler...

L'été est une succession de moments qui nous font nous dire : "Hein, déjà ?!" ou encore : "Oh boy, on dirait que ça fait 10 mois et c'était avant-hier !".  Il se passe tellement de choses que l'on perd la notion du temps.  Chaque jour devrait être étiré en longueur et multiplié par deux tellement il y a des choses à faire et à voir.  Et ironiquement, après cinq minutes de fun, c'est fini.  Septembre arrive avec le retour à l'université, octobre arrive avec le retour du froid, novembre la neige, et décembre la dépression.

Le cycle des années avance... et nous use.  Mais pendant qu'il nous reste un peu de jus, aussi bien en profiter, non ?

So Many Adventures...

...and so little time to narrate them.

Yes, many things happened to me since my last post, on Thursday.  I've been teleported into a party dimension, a good times trap, and even though I didn't get to meet Capitaine Cosmos, I saw glimpses of his glittery uniform, here and there, all week-end long.  I also met a Russian Captain and a Skye pilot.  My liver filed a lawsuit against me, and we're going to court in September.

It is kind of difficult to remember everything that went on.  Places I went, things I did, some of them sober, some of them slouched.  I was lucky enough to BE two different guys, at times.  My girlfriend didn't like all of it, of course.

Just to open the peace talks between you and me, let me tell you about my heresies :



1 - I started to watch William Malone's CREATURE on my old VHS, just to get rid of it afterwards.  It took a couple of shots, and to this day I still haven't finished it.  One reason being that it's not very good.  I mainly picked it up because Klaus Kinski was in it, and so far he must have been there a total of 4 minutes.  The plot is similar to the one in Bava's PLANET OF THE VAMPIRES, and the overall aesthetics reminded me of the former, without its 60's grace.  People landing in a strange land discover weird squeletons, and start turning against each others.  In this one, though, there's a slimy creature walking around and killing them as well.  And the "creature" of the title suspiciously looks like the one in ALIEN.



2 - I have started to watch URGA and I'm not planning on finishing it.  Things is... I have a VHS recorded when the movie played Canal D, it's grainy, and dubbed in french.  The russian guy is voiced by Bernard Fortin and that's the worst job I've ever heard.  So it's kind of a torture to go through it any longer.  Sorry, I tried.

I'll also let you know everything about my crazy clubber's week-end, as another one is coming up already, and I don't want to accumulate the evidence against me.

In the meantime, have a blast - and let the dynamite workers have one too !

The Traveling Montrealers

Just like the Traveling Wilburries, some of them are musicians.  Some of them are not.  Friends in exile, they have developped some sort of habit when it comes to getting away without looking back.  They get away from the rumours of the city, the siren sounds and the truckloads of beer to discover new territories.  They're the traveling montrealers.



Tonight, my friend the Drunk Rocker will leave for New York and only come back on Tuesday.  Tomorrow, it will be sweet MC and Jolaine's turn to leave for Philly, the City of Brotherly Love.  They're only going away during this long week-end because they have the occasion to, while missing all the fun that St-Jean offers here right at home.

Mr. Stitch just came back from Europe.  My friend Myriam is in Berlin right now, and Bender got back from the very same Germany just yesterday.  He was visiting Marc Romboy, Stephan Bodzin and Thomas Schumacher to make plans about the future of electro.

My friend Caroline just got back from Mexico, where she spent the last year completing her Bacc.

My friend Yugo, a.k.a. Expat, is in Barcelona right now, enjoying Sonar.  Fellow blogger LetNoManJack is also leaving for Europe on July 1st where he'll experience Berlin's Love Parade reborn, and the 10 Days Off festival in Ghent, Belgium.



My cousin Hugo, the skater / tattoo artist that all the chicks dig, went to tour the US and Mexico alone at the end of last year and is still reported as missing.  According to Mexican Manu, his fellow Slicked Style Steel collegue in the Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue shop, he's somewhere in Vancouver and reportedly not willing to come back here any time soon.  His heartbreak made him run away, and it will also probably keep him from coming back.

So what's this love / hate relationship we have with our hometown ?  Why does everybody have to leave it to love it more ?  The grass is always greener on the neighbor's lawn ?  It's always better to fuck anybody else than your girl ?

I guess people like to travel.  See different horizons, different sunsets, do things they wouldn't normally do at home...

And just like Claire leaving for New York City in SIX FEET UNDER'S final episode - that I saw yesterday - while these heartbreaking flash forwards appear in the deep blue of her eyes, our traveling montrealers have a chance to get away from their routine to quietly take a look at it from a distance, rendering it easier for them to make the right decisions about their ongoing lives.

Who Knows Why ?

Who knows why males are such big sports fans ?

I mean, they don't actually PRACTICE anything except attempting to ruin their eyes by watching too much TV.  Or eating potato chips and drinking beer.  Or ruining the couch because their asses are getting bigger and bigger every season.  A sport for every season ?



I happen to mention this because I caught this tragic spectacle a few times in the last few weeks.  I do not normally put myself at risk of crossing a sportsfan's path, but since I have to work to pay the bills, I sometimes have to do things I don't enjoy doing, such as coming to work every day.

And in the simple man's agenda these days lies one word, sometimes misspelled, sometimes excited : football.

People of different geographical origins root for their home country.  People from various educational backgrounds root for whoever they think can win.  Gamblers get out of their shameful dens to show their gold teethed smiles and place their bets; overweight guys have a chance to shine and show the world how many useless statistics they like to learn during their free time; chicks have an occasion to see how moronic their men are and love them even more for that - and finally, the rest of the world is just plain and simple fuckin' annoyed.



What's more startling than entering a cafeteria full of screaming jocks sitting in front of a TV ?  Was I hungry ?  Not anymore.  Not after I've seen this.  Going back to our simiesque ancestors, boy ?  Darwin would have been glad to see this.  It would have spared him lots of research to find a specimen to prove his point.

*

Who knows why nobody in this fucking office cares to recycle ?

In every trash bin : the Metro & 24 Heures.  Our supervisors print ten copies of our schedules every week and most of my colleagues just put them in the trash.  They have something to tell us ?  Instead of just saying it, or sending us an email, they print the damn thing and give it to us.  Isn't there some kind of office conscensus to give up doing such environmentally harmful things ?



A couple of years ago here, some employees were trying to educate others about "living in a paperless environment".  I guess they gave up, because everything around here is still done with paper.  Recycling bins are harder to find on our floor than pope shit.

I didn't think I'd have to do this, ever, but here I am : every night, I go around and try to "save" as much paper I can by picking it up from waste baskets and walking the extra distance, next to the printers, to throw all this in a recycling bin.  It's as angering as it is unsurprising that our whole planet is about to blow, or burn, or drown, and nobody gives a shit about anything.

*

WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS ?  Seriously ?

I have seen my share of Pedro Almodovar movies, most of them from the 90's and 2000's, but yesterday was the first time I saw a movie he shot in the eighties.  And believe me, Pedro was meaner when younger !



Carmen Maura plays Paula, a busy housewife who cleans a martial arts gym part time and takes care of her family full time.  Her husband is a distant and illiterate slacker who drives a cab by day and watches TV at night.  His mother lives with them and their two boys - one of them is a drug dealer and the other sleeps with older men.  Their next door neighbor is a funny hooker.  You get the idea...

This is a dark comedy with marvelous characters and so much rythm you almost cannot stand it.  The jokes and situations never let go, and things always go further than you thought they'd ever go.  I don't want to reveal too much for those of you who might be tempted to see it, but you have to be warned that Almodovar knows no limits.

Oddly, even though the situation themselves are as vulgar as the characters that perpetrate them, the movie remains visually flawless, and if there is some nudity, it is always male.  The ladies remain clothed.  Pedro's orientation is no secret, and it's a good thing he objectifies the male body like he does, in a way.  It gives his work a distinct, sweaty and hairy flavour.  And the visual design of the sets are wonderfully colored, adding a certain emphasis to the overall soft madness going on.

Now that I have seen how flamboyant this "old school" Almodovar can be, it makes me want to see his other movies of the same era.

From the Ice Age to Tropicanada

When you live in a city like Montreal, you have to get used to the various weather extremes.  One day you freeze your ass out there and you need a winter coat in June, and the next day you just MELT because it's 3000 degrees.

We live in such an age, I guess.  Yesterday at Piknic we felt like we were going to liquify, and even though I absorbed more vodka than I can honestly remember, I didn't go for a single leak the whole time.  Sweat was the fashionable fluid of the day.  Sweat was flying everywhere.  Sweat was applied on various female body parts by promiscuious amateurs.  Sweat was, shall I say, a way of life.

I got there while David Kristian was unfolding his italo disco madness right after a quite good electro-breaks set by Bliss.  The first thing I did was serve myself a vodka / Guru glass and try to locate people I know in the heat.  When Mini begun her set I was already pretty joyful and let's not mention Jordan Dare's ass-kickin' selection that helped me put an end to it.



The Jacques-Cartier bridge never seemed so steep.  I was struggling with the wind and gravity on my bike.  Yeah, I was drunk.  While some of our friends went to Club Sandwich to grab some grease, we went home with some Ice Cream and turned into flesh eating zombies in our wildest, alcohol-fueled dreams.

T'was kinda hard to get up this morning.

*

I have always appreciated José Larràz, a spanish director who didn't age as well as we would have thought.  The first time I was exposed to his work was at Cinéma du Parc, back in the days when it wasn't quite a "real" theater but rather someone's cozy living room, with a drape passing as a screen, and some computer speakers for sound.  There were rules : at one point during the movie, somebody had to drop an empty beer bottle on the floor so everybody could hear it roll down the room.  Tall anglos with glasses had to sit in front of you and talk loudly while pointing at the screen.  Somebody would cough and you'd lose a whole sentence of what was going on in the movie.



So there I was during a "midnight cult screening" watching VAMPYRES, or rather what the Parc owners tried to pass as a copy of the movie; the print was so old and washed out that I'm still not sure about what I've seen.  There were lots of red spots on the screen, so many that at some point, we felt like blood was raining down on the print.  But this lusty lesbian vampiresses drama left me eager to see more.

And I did, on Saturday : I found my old (and never opened before) VHS copy of SAVAGE LUST (a.k.a. Deadly Manor) and since I'm currently hunting for cheap slashers, I was quite glad to see it still looked good !  I didn't even read the synopsis on the back of the box and I popped the tape in my VCR, and proceeded to watch the magic unfold with Miss Bijoux by my side.



[Note to readers : no, I am not in the process of torturing her to death with crappy eurotrash - she actually loves these kinds of things, or at least she does a pretty good job at pretending !]

So I guess the movie was shot in the early nineties, somewhere in the US, with some very limited acting talent & special effects budget.  This is a classic case of teens on the lose who do all the wrong choices and almost throw themselves on the killer's blade; however, the treatment is something special, almost never seen before.  At least not by me !

Larràz has evacuated any comic relief from the script and all we're left with is darkness.

Not darkness per se; but the lightning of the whole thing is sometimes deficient, and the action unfold in the course of a night; only the introduction and the climax take place during the day.  And all of this is rather creepy.  The characters are not likable, they are not deepened, and we don't really care when they die - but there is still an ever-present tension that never lets go, even in the dumber moments.



That may be due to the visual impressions Larràz creates by putting in place unfamiliar elements in a familiar setting; the house where the teens end up is filled with worrysome hints, and the obsessive way they are shot succeeds in making the viewer feel kind of uneasy.  The final revelation, as poor as it may be, does not erase the overall impression we felt during the rest of the movie, and I'm pretty sure that when SAVAGE LUST played in theaters during its release, it scared the shit out of kids who went to see it.

This viewing also reminded me how scared I could get of random symbols present in movies I watched at the time.  I only saw portions of some movies, or the trailers, and therefore couldn't grasp the ridicule of the whole thing.

And this is how suspension of disbelief works : it hooks you with a strong part that makes you want to give in all the rest.  The problem remains that some of are way too lucid to go in all the way, and you end up with blasé reviews of movies nobody cares about but the three montrealers who still remember who Larràz is.  Which will absolutely not keep me from doing it again in the near future, believe me !

Fêtards & Chauffards

Nous étions un peu des deux hier soir, saouls sur nos bicyclettes à 3h du matin, empruntant les petites rues tranquilles du Plateau pour revenir chez nous et se coucher. St-Joseph non stop avec la belle asphalte neuve, brûlant toutes les lumières rouges, comme si elles ne brûlaient pas déjà d'être constamment allumées et éteintes sans heure de lunch.

On se sauvait de notre soirée au Green Room, où la fête de Thomas Von Party en a déchaîné plus d'un. 26 ans, toutes ses dents, et du bling sans bon sens. Le système de son était assez moyen, mais le plus tragique est sans doute le fait que le premier CD deck était kaput. Pas de mixage pour moi, donc, juste un tag team avec Von Party qui n'a pas duré trop longtemps. Un peu décevant mais on a quand même eu du fun.

*

Juste avant, les Legendary Pink Dots au Cabaret, en plein milieu de la cohue de St-Laurent, des automobilistes déstabilisés par le fait que la rue est barrée à partir de Sherbrooke, et des amérindiens saouls et topless qui lavent les vitres des chars en se criant des trucs incompréhensibles.

Personne dans la place à 21h, on a dû attendre que ça se remplisse un peu, mais Ka-Spell et ses partenaires ont fini par entrer en scène et à allumer la salle avec leur magie inclassable. C'était un spectacle intime, avec les musiciens qui vous regardaient droit dans les yeux en faisant leur solo de saxophone, un éclairage tout sauf discret, mais un son puissant et bien ajusté. Passages temporels flous, chansons de toutes les époques jouées par des musiciens chevronés dans le cadre de cette tournée célébrant les 25 ans du groupe. Impressionnant. Une chimie qui dure tout ce temps... Est-ce que je jouerais avec les mêmes gars pendant 25 ans ?

J'avais peur que l'absence de promotion dans les médias locaux n'occasionne un gros vide sur la piste de danse mais c'était sans compter sur les fans loyaux qui, apparemment, vont les voir à tous leurs passages. Du moins c'est ce que m'a dit Rachel, collègue de bureau que j'étais bien surpris de croiser là.

On aura tout vu !

*

Qu'en est-il de ONE MISSED CALL ?

Miike n'est pas resté indifférent devant la vague de films d'horreur japonais avec des petites filles fantômatiques avec les cheveux dans la face. Il a sauté sur une commande lorsqu'elle s'est présentée et a réalisé cet efficace thriller qui amuse autant qu'il angoisse, offrant au passage une habile parodie du genre sans pour autant nuire à ses objectifs horrifiques.



Les amis de Yoko reçoivent des appels du futur, qu'ils ratent généralement, et se laissent eux-même des messages juste avant de mourir. Les messages arrivent d'une heure précise, et comme par hasard les personnages meurent violemment quelques jours plus tard, au moment même où c'était prévu. Que pasa ?

Miike excelle dans l'art de nous faire sursauter, et d'ailleurs une folie comme AUDITION nous en fournissait la preuve. Il se dépasse ici, créant un malaise, se foutant de notre gueule tout en critiquant le Japon moderne, et l'omniprésence des téléphones cellulaires. Il épice le tout avec un arrière-fond d'abus familial tout à fait malsain, et termine avec un épilogue bizarroïde. Il faut voir le film en DVD pour apprécier toute l'absurdité du "alternate ending", grotesque et baroque, qui a poussé Miike à inclure un "Sorry" bien apprécié.

Si vous ne connaissez pas le réalisateur, ça n'est peut-être pas le meilleur titre pour l'aborder, car il est très peu représentatif du reste de son oeuvre, mais c'est quand même un film efficace et, croyez-le ou non, amusant.

Blue Skies Turn Pink

...and Thomas Von Party turns 25 ! Come celebrate with us at Green Room tonight. You don't have to pay to get in, you get to meet exciting & weird new people, and hear some nice grooves, hopefully !

The Legendary Pink Dots are at it still - after 25 years, they deserve a celebration ! That's exactly what they're up to with the 25th anniversary tour. They stop by Montreal tonight, at Cabaret. Ed Ka-Spell will cast his spell on your ass.



I remember the days where I was an avid industrial fan. I would discover a band, do my best to get my hands on all their releases, and then learn about every goddamn member's side projects - only to try to collect them all before they vanished. Some new names would come up, and the process would eternally repeat itself, draining my finances, sending me on the verge of madness.

That's how I discovered the Pink Dots. Edward Ka-Spell's voice.

Later on, I really got into the Twilight Circus Dub Soundsystem's drugged-up grooves. Especially after I saw him open for the Dots at the end of the 90's, right here in Montreal. I have forgotten almost everything about this show, except the fact that I went alone, because nobody that I knew at the time was into the band, or even heard about them in the first place.

Which hasn't changed in all these years, surprisingly ! I had almost forgotten about the band's existence until I saw their show advertised in the Mirror a few years ago. What kind of strange, twisted trick is my mind trying to pull on me here ?

*

I saw Miike's ONE MISSED CALL for the second time yesterday.

I'll tell you more about all these boiling hot topics tomorrow as I have to run now. Time is a notion that can easily be distorted and some tasks here at work tonight fucked with my brain. I'm fried & dried - need some fresh air.

Signing out - but not for too long.

Le Pissenlit Meurt Aussi

Le pissenlit est considéré comme une mauvaise herbe.  Il est mauvais d'une façon un peu clandestine et occulte, et ceux qui ne l'aiment pas sont en nombre assez restreint.  Il "défigure" les pelouses et jaunit l'environnement visuel.  Toutefois, c'est ces temps-cis qu'il est le pire, quand la jolie fleur jaune se transforme en mousse et s'envole à la moindre brise.



Ma ballade en bicyclette pour me rendre au bureau, ce midi, s'est donc transformée en jeu vidéo : je devais, tout en roulant au milieu du trafic sanguinaire sur Sherbrooke, éviter les balles de mousse qui cherchaient à se loger dans ma bouche ou dans mes yeux.  Je me serais cru dans un champ d'astéroïdes.

*

Paraît qu'Alcan sont en train de changer leur façon de traiter les employés.  Après une période où bien des salariés avaient à travailler six ou sept jours de file, pendant des heures qui s'étiraient bien au-delà des huit habituelles, et au cours de laquelle tout le monde était au bord du burn out, ils entâment des mesures qui surprendraient n'importe quel patron cravaté.



Ils prônent désormais un respect minutieux de la semaine de travail de 40 heures ou moins, offrent des massages sur place à leurs employés, mettent un gymnase à disposition de leur employés, dans certaines usine, et encouragent leurs salariés à faire autre chose de leur temps que travailler, dans une optique raisonnable.

Il est vrai que notre productivité ne s'améliore pas nécessairement si on travaille de longues heures, ou si nous laissons notre vie privée être envahie par du travail que l'on ramène à la maison.  Nina Spencer, de Toronto, est l'auteure du livre "Getting Passion Out of Your Profession", un titre qui me rend perplexe.  Il est bien entendu que ça n'est pas tout le monde qui "trouve sa voie" et qui se ramasse avec une carrière à sa mesure, mais doit-on vraiment considérer notre travail seulement comme une façon de payer les factures ?

Vous me connaissez, il est bien entendu que je ne considère pas ma position professionnelle comme un glorieux fait d'armes et je ne compte pas m'y éterniser.  Toutefois, une fois mon Bacc complété, j'espère trouver un boulot bien payé et motivant, qui m'aidera à faire une différence dans ma communauté.  Et il est certain que je m'investirai dans mes tâches, pas au point d'en faire le point central de mon existence bien sûr, mais quand même davantage que si c'était une job de dépanneur !



Depuis 2003, donc, ce projet-pilote chez Alcan a été implanté de façon permanente.  On encourage les employés à dîner à l'extérieur, et à gérer leur stress, tout en gardant leur focus sur ce qui est "essentiel".  Quelle révolution.  Fallait y penser.

Des mesures essentielles et simples, certes, mais pas si évidentes que ça quand on regarde la façon dont une boîte comme la mienne gère ses employés : les décisions importantes nous sont annoncées une fois qu'elles sont DÉJA mises en application, on nous commande de la pizza une fois aux six mois pour nous donner l'illusion d'être apprécié, et notre salaire grimpe aussi vite qu'un manchot gravit une échelle en feu.

Messieurs les gestionnaires, je crois qu'il est temps que vous vous abonniez à MacLean's.

Hits & Misses

Sometimes we hit, sometimes we miss.  Time out for love.

The weather doesn't help at enhancing our mood.  Waking up every day to see a cloudy sky, a pale grey light shining on the wet pavement and no goddamn birds singing can quickly become depressing.



It all changed on Sunday, we even saw the sun, briefly, through the dark and menacing clouds, but that still didn't convince us to attend Piknic.  I was confused by regrets, and relief.  I wouldn't want this activity to be the focus of my week, but I don't like missing it too often either.  Plus I like the DJ's that played there (Vega, The Autist, Saturnin & Bender) but I had a really big meal at my mom's around 1 PM and I was dizzy afterwards.  Only one Heinekken and I was down for the count !

We went to Parc Lafontaine to look at dogs instead, and when it got too dark, we went home.

*

...where we saw CAPOTE, a movie about my man Truman and the long process during which he wrote IN COLD BLOOD.  The movie is an interesting recreation, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman steals the show with his manners & this incredible voice.  But you know that my suspension of disbelief is hard to kick in and I couldn't help seeing just an actor trying to BE Capote.  I felt, on a lesser level of course, the same impression as when I watched MacKaulay Culkin trying to impersonate Michael Alig in the deplorable PARTY MONSTER.



Now I didn't read IN COLD BLOOD or see its adaptation, but I was kinda relieved that the movie was not centered around the crime itself, but rather around the relationship that Capote had with the criminals.

It is a throwback to an era now defunct, where New York was the center of the world and the New Yorker its voice.  A quite interesting movie that makes us share the long wait that Capote has been through while waiting for an ending to his book.  The "birth" of docu fiction litterature is also put upfront, and in the end the viewer is left to decide what to think about Truman & his unhealthy relationship with the killers.

*

On Friday, I went out for the first time in a while, and actually for the first time since the smoking ban was put in effect.  It was a transition so natural that I didn't realise it until I really looked around and didn't see any cigarette in my widescreen eyesight.  Then I got a flashback from earlier, when we entered SAT and there were all these persons chatting in front.



From now on, you'll permanently mistake this group of smokers for a line-up and it will confuse you forever.

However, with people constantly outside to chat & smoke, a new dynamic is produced and it means that we, at last, have some space to dance !  I could have break danced in there if only I had the strength & skills !

So yes, Voyeur is a nice party to attend, a breezier alternative to the overcrowded Neon events, and a place filled with friends and familiar faces.  Jeff Grosse, DiskHo mastermind, was there with his partner in crime Alex Karaivan.  It was quite a surprise to see him there as he was supposed to be stuck in Boston for a while.  Karen Simpson told me she was a reader of Mirror Balls & Mirror Shades and that she had even voted for us in the Mirror's BOM poll !!  I also chatted with Bliss & re-met with Christian Pomerleau, ex singer of Insurgent and now the official voice of Headscan.  I saw these guys opening for Anthony Rother a couple of years ago and let me tell you, it rocked.

I was of course completely intoxicated and don't remember everything that was said & done, but I sure as hell had a good time.  Let's wish some more nights like this happen.

*

Last winter, my Hydro-Québec bill went through the roof.  It was a pretty sad sight : during minus 30 nights, the wind was blowing through my old appartment windows like there was no window at all.  There is a crack at the bottom of my door, and this door leads on an short aisle leading to the doors that lead outside.  So of course, cold air was coming in this way too.  And my roommate, when she moved, failed to turn the thermometer down and left it heating her empty room at 30 degrees celsius.  I noticed only after a week or two.

One of the conditions of me & Miss Bijoux staying in this money pit one more year, logically, was that my landlord either pays the electricity bill or have the windows "modernised".



He chose the latter, and this morning at 7:30 my doorbell rang.  Three guys came in and started moving the furniture around.  I had expected the worst, and was prepared for it.  Whenever somebody is supposed to come into my appartment and fix something, I get really stressed and nervous.  It may be due to some bad experiences I got back when I was living on Fullum Street, where my landlord hired the cheapest - and most incredibly stupid - handymen I have ever dealt with.

This time around, I was surprised.  The guys worked fast.  They cleaned up the mess they made.  They didn't yell at each others, sing or bring a loud & agressive radio transmitter.  And they were done was earlier than they were supposed to finish.

Now my windows are clean, they smell nice, and I can see through them.  They'll prevent me from heating Sherbrooke Street when the cold times come.  The only thing I'm not sure about is if they'll keep the burglars out.

Psychological torture & its derivatives

Big day ahead.  I got up at 6:30 to come to work and I was half awake all the way.  Near the Loto-Québec building a taxi made a U-turn in the middle of the morning trafic and ended up blocking everybody, unable to manoeuvre.  What an idiot.  I'm the only one who screamed something at him.  I can't help myself.

I went to Indigo looking for the June issue of Metropolis - again - and their magazines selection is pretty lame.  I saw a soft cover edition of Deyan Sudjic's THE EDIFICE COMPLEX at 18$, which completely pissed me off, because I paid my hardcover deluxe edition more than 40$.  And I finally found - restocked - Avi Friedman's "ROOM FOR THOUGHT - Rethinking Home & Community Design" on the shelves, a book I could not resist buying.  Guess you'll hear about it if I finally get to read it !

When I'll get out of the office, at 2, the sky will hopefully not spit rain at me and I'll head to the Mirror's offices to pick up the passes that I won for the AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH premiere tonight.  Then I'll go & get Miss Bijoux at her workshop and we'll get something to eat together, or go browse old books in a second hand library.  A siesta is in the works too.  What my friend Mr. Moto would call a "disco nap".



Because there will be disco tonight : after our movie, we'll head down to Francofolies and catch Ghislain Poirier at Zone Molson Dry at 10.  He'll be onstage with the Omnikrom posse & a dangerous predator named Séba 273.  Outside shows at Francofolies are always fun, especially when they involve third degree gangster crunk.

Afterwards, as part of the Nostalgia pre-party, Chromeo DJ's at Saphir.  Guess where we'll be.  Chromeo can be real mean when they DJ, since they'll pretty much play what they love the most : 80's electro-funk !  The mix they released last year on Eskimo will give you a good idea of the vibe they're able to create.  Be there or be square.

So I think that will all this excitement going on, we'll be able to take it easy tomorrow, then ?  Not quite : the fifth edition of Voyeur welcomes Romeo Kardec, and we'll be more than coerced into dancing all night.  Is Montreal the disco dancing capital of Canada ?

*

Eli Roth started getting some well deserved attention when he directed CABIN FEVER, a 70's inspired horror flick that featured enough thrills to establish him firmly and drive Quentin Tarantino to "present" the next movie he'd shoot, HOSTEL.



HOSTEL has been well received by critics, generally, but not so much by horror fans in general.  Since I'm pretty curious and am not the type to rest on somebody's opinion without checking the movie out myself, I watched it yesterday with a horrified Miss Bijoux.  I knew that the movie started rather slowly, with some dumb americans backpackers traveling Europe and being all about sex & booze, so I wasn't put off by that prologue.

And when the horror comes, we're prepared.  I have observed, over the years, that whenever an american was making a movie about a subject as delicate as snuff films, he'd generally screw it up.  I haven't seen Johnny Depp's THE BRAVE yet, but 8MM was rather crappy and VIDEODROME was shot by... Cronenberg, a canadian.

Roth brings a fresh idea here - those who've seen the movie will understand - by playing on a larger scale.  However, it's so big it's impossible to believe it.  The handling of the paranoia aspect is rather naive.  The conspiration is too extreme.  And East Europeans are presented in such a cliché'd way it's almost laughable.  I don't know if these scripting choices were made not to confuse the american audience too much, but it's sad to see that nothing is done to reverse these aberrant beliefs.

HOSTEL tries so much to be evil and twisted that it just doesn't work.  Those who are easily impressed will acquire a vision of Europe that is completely biased and deformed.  Nice effects, though.  There's enough blood in there to quench your thirst for at least a couple of weeks.

Down the Corporate Ladder... to Hell

When you're nervous, it can sometimes mean that you have something to hide. Especially on this satanic day, June 6th of 2006.

We have some visitors in the office and they're coming from our main branch in Omaha, Nebraska. The big boss is here as well, with his cohort of fans in suits. I got here wearing a t-shirt and my manager gave me a dirty look. I guess our american friends will have to live in the present and accept the fact that I can be efficient even if I'm heavily tattooed.



So my superiors are all nervous and very well-dressed. They act like their job is hanging on a string. Maybe it is. We occupy a beautiful 8th floor with a view on McGill College, just in front of Place Montréal-Trust. We can see busy little people walking around all day, and Eaton Center shoppers smoking cigarettes outside.



[Yet another cigarette remark : some friends told me they were on the verge of never drinking again because swallowing alcohol made them want to smoke. I say bravo to that. The government has achieved a nice goal here : making people realise that they CAN control their impulsions & bad habits. This is the impulse that most of these self-destructing smokers needed. If you can't have a drink without ALSO having a cigarette, you need to seriously work on yourself.]

This "status" is always temporary : you may be among the finest enterprises in town and have nice offices, but you always need to be reminded that you could loose all that tomorrow morning while I snap my fingers at Death's stare. Homeless computers & cubicles aren't very useful. Office space is an expensive bitch.

Part of your manpower is the way your employees are treating your clients. If you treat your employees like dirt, chances are they'll in turn treat your clients like the assholes they probably are. And you'll be losing both of them, and your credibility at the same time. If you're into business, there's one thing you have to respect : your employees. And paying them like they're the last thing on earth you care about is not what I call respect. Not giving them insurances & other benefits after almost three loyal years is not what I call respect.

See how disposable we all are when everybody quits at the same time. Take the calls for me, will ya ?

Now, I'm not about to quit, unfortunately, because I need the money & the stability. And the company is probably not about to close down either, judging on people's smiles today. It's just funny to see how certain human beings can make other human beings very nervous, just by hopping out of a plane from Omaha, of all cities, and showing up.

That's my personal little comedy channel of the day.

*

Miss Bijoux never fails to impress me and she has recently revealed to me that she's a big slashers fan. Not to say she likes serial killers slashing throats for a living in what we commonly call "real life", but she likes to watch movies from the 80's where the spraynet & blood flow freely. Movies that we geeks like to call "slashers".

So I have attacked the gigantic task that consists on extracting all the interesting slashers left in my VHS collection, putting them on a pile next to the TV, and viewing one from time to time, when we feel like we need some extra cheese on our slice of life. I have recently seen ICED, the KILLER WORKOUT, and last week came the time for Buddy Cooper's THE MUTILATOR.



Now this is something stupid. I don't think the french dubbed version helped, but when I mention "mindless fun", this is maybe not what I have in mind.

A kid kills his mother by accident. His father comes home and freaks out. Flash forward a couple of years later. The boy now dates a virgin chick, and has a few friends in college. Also titled "Fall Break", the movie is about that : they have a week off, don't what to do with their time, and end up going to clean the father's house near a beach somewhere in Anytown, USA.

They're clearly in it for the party, to drink beer and run on the beach, screw around & make stupid jokes. However a not so mysterious figure comes out of the dark and starts killing them, one by one. The suspense element usually associated with slashers is evacuated almost as soon as the massacre starts : the killer's identity is revealed. Now, all we have to do is watch the teenagers die in various, uninteresting ways, until there's nobody left, while the time passes... slowly.

So there we are. A very "average" entry in the slashers genre, and one VHS tape I gladly used to copy something else on.

*

Did anybody I know borrow the two Omnibus volumes of George Simenon's complete works I had ? They're pretty big books, and surprisingly enough, I cannot seem to locate them anywhere. So if somebody has them, please return them at my residence, I have recently started feeling a Simenon craving - maybe because of summer ? - that I would like to calm down by reading these old crime novels.

*

Speaking of "old crimes", I watched Robert Enrico's LE VIEUX FUSIL yesterday. It has been staring at me for ages on a jam packed VHS shelf, just beside Henri Verneuil's I COMME... ICARE and LES MORFALOUS. It's a copy that dates back from the days where I captured any interesting movie that would grace Télé-Québec's schedule, back when I was still "au courant".



This 1975 schlock narrates the tale of Lucien (Philippe Noiret), a Montauban surgeon, during WW2. In 1944, working in a hospital and trying to help with war casualties, under the German occupation, with his family - a lovely wife Clara (Romy Schneider), his daughter & the dog, Marcel. He sends this very same family in the provinces, after feeling they'd be safer over there, but something really troubling happens, and changes him forever.

It's a classic tale about a circle of violence, and about an honest, normal citizen turning berserk after losing a part of himself. The violence is cathartic, but the viewer still feels that it's wrong. As with death penalty, I think there's a social limit to vengeance, and I am not adhering to that "eye for an eye" bullshit. What is done to both sides is terrible. Enrico tries to show that, and it works. It's a moment of our history that we are not allowed to forget.

When Romy Schneider dies, we're hit by an emotional charge that may, or may not be, the cinematic translation of her own real premature death. Noiret is exceptional here. The everyday man turned into a cold blooded murderer. Bertrand Tavernier used this Noiret feature to good effect later on in his wonderful COUP DE TORCHON.

LE VIEUX FUSIL is filled with vegetation, as the south of France permeates every gorgeous shot. It is also a naturist drama, that could have been written by Zola or Balzac, if only they had foreseen the future war's atrocities. The old school dialogues were written by Pascal Jardin, Alexandre's father, and they echo this sweet, dusty & flamboyant style that filled european litterature in the 60's. A nostalgic trip it is, even if in that case, nostalgia means remembering something that you have never lived.

The Descent Into Summer

Was I surprised to see the rain, on Saturday ?  Not really.  Was I pissed ?  A little.  You might say I'm slowly getting used to not being able to exercice my right to parade in the sunlight, or to attend Piknic because it takes place at goddamn Fonderie Darling.

Shit happens, as we say.  And that liquid shit makes me wonder why I didn't get my CAM this month.  I'd like to bike all I can to get to work every day, but if it rains like this all goddamn month, my strong will might fail.



So after waking up real late with Miss Bijoux - my 13 hours shift on Friday didn't help my energy level - and ingesting a big-ass omelette for breakfast,  we just hung around the living room, the window opened to hear the rain, and we read the papers.  It was a greasy, easy morning, the type of matinée we should experience more often, if only we weren't so damn busy.

When the evening came, quite suddenly, we had to chose between going to the Stainless in Villeray to say goodbye to a friend of Miss Bijoux who's going to Europe, going to see Gatineau + Omnikrom live at the Main Hall, or going to this loft party on Queen St, in the old port, where Diplo was making a special unannounced appearance.  Must have been madness - but we opted out of all this and stayed home to watch Neil Marshall's THE DESCENT, a movie that was actually quite brutal - like MC Brutalll, minus the brown briefs.

*

Extreme sports are quite popular among americans, and some people seem to live just to practice them.  In Neil Marshall's undistributed 2005 flick THE DESCENT, three friends who used to do extreme rafting together decide, a year after the husband of one of the girls died in a car accident, to explore a cave together - along with a couple of other extreme chicks.

It's pretty dark in there, and some of the passages are pretty narrow, and eventually one of them crumbles, leaving no other choice for them but to go forward, in search of another way out.  One of the girls breaks her leg when she falls in a hole, another complication in an already very complicated chain of events.  When the girl who organised the descent admits that the cave has never been explored and that they might be the first ones to ever walk in there, we know something's up.



Marshall is the guy who directed DOG SOLDIERS and he serves us a bleak and uncompromising little flick, and if you're like me and you're a bit of a claustrophobe, you'll feel a bit of panic if you ever see it.  Because at first, it looks as if the movie is going to be centered around the girls' survival, some kind of sports adventure gone wrong.  And then the movie gets turned around, slapped on the ass, and it takes a whole different, HORRIFYING spin.  Which, of course, I am not going to reveal here.  Let's just hope that your heart is strong and your nerves not too wrecked.

So we get overall strong acting performances, a visual technique that focuses on the essential (here, getting the action rolling without ever letting go) and a conclusion that frightens and leaves you beat up, which prompted an IMDb user to ask : "Was this based on a true story ?"

Probably not, junior.  Or rather : I hope not, for fuck's sake !

*

The Suicide Gang are a bunch of crazies (actually, two of them) who used to dress as beat-ups about two years and a half ago, going out mainly to Saphir's Panic Fridays and sometimes at Parking on Thursdays.  Shredded t-shirts, white bandages, fake blood & wounds everywhere - nothing kept them from looking like somebody beat the shit out if them.



I don't know what inspired them most - PARTY MONSTER or the Japanese flick THE SUICIDE CLUB - but they sure made an impression on a dancefloor.  Those of you who have seen them around might remember.

You know what ?  They're back.  I caught a glimpse of blood & madness somewhere on Champlain street, earlier in the week, and I am under the strong impression that you might see them next Sunday if you go to Piknic.  Can't confirm it - who are these guys anyway ?  But... what do you have to lose after all ?

En Attendant Damien

A défaut d'attendre Godot donc, j'attendrai la venue de l'Antichrist.  Parce que le film que j'ai vu hier ne m'est pas apparu comme un remake, mais bel et bien comme une simple copie "modernisée", à la réalisation plus "punchée", certes, mais presque en tout point semblable à l'original.  Un peu comme le PSYCHO de Gus Van Sant, intentions révisionistes en moins.



Vous auriez dû voir la sécurité à l'entrée de la salle !  Deux mecs de type "bodyguard" fouillaient les sacs et saisissaient tous les téléphones capables de prendre des photos.  Arrivés à 20h35 pour un film supposé commencer à 21h06, c'est à peu près à cette heure que nous sommes entrés dans la salle, après avoir fait la file avec le wannabe Jim Morrisson qui chante à la station de métro Sherbrooke (authentique !).

Nous nous retrouvons donc devant une copie assez semblable de l'originale, un peu plus moderne certes, et habilement réalisée, mais quand même pas très originale.  J'imagine que ça va pour ceux n'ayant pas vu le classique.  Julia Stiles n'est pas trop crédible en tant qu'épouse de diplomate, mais on ne peut pas lui reprocher un mauvais choix au casting.  Est-ce que le journaliste, nommé Jennings, est un clin d'oeil au Peter Jennings de TENEBRAE ?

Il est cependant assez amusant de retrouver Mia Farrow, victime désignée du ROSEMARY'S BABY de Polanski, en nanny tout droit sortie de l'enfer.  Inversion des rôles...  Il est aisé de l'imaginer, lorsqu'elle est ébouriffée et en furie, toutes griffes dehors, en train de labourer le visage ahuri de Woody Allen.

THE OMEN a donc une trame intéressante, puisque déjà vue dans son prédécesseur, mais fort peu d'originalité.  Je le classerais, si j'étais archiviste, dans la section déjà bien remplie des "remakes inutiles".

*

Je me demande ce qui se passe avec les clubs, depuis qu'on ne peut plus y fumer.  Quand j'ai entendu parler d'une possibilité d'injonction désespérée de dernière minute, propulsée par des propriétaires de bar mercantiles et rétrogrades qui ont peur pour leur porte-feuille, je me suis promis que je ne mettrais pas les pieds dans un bar ou un club tant que cette histoire ne serait pas réglée.

En tant qu'amateur du nightlife et DJ, c'est une décision assez grave pour moi, mais c'est aussi une décision que je n'aurai heureusement pas à mettre en application car l'injonction n'était qu'une fausse alarme, comme je le croyais.

Mais ça vous donne une idée de mon intolérance grandissante envers tout ce qui peut nuire à ma santé ou à mon plaisir.

*

Si vous êtes un garçon, vous vous souvenez sans doute de l'excitation ressentie lorsque des jeunes filles vous invitaient chez elle en l'absence de leurs parents.  En plus de vivre nos premières expériences de promiscuïté sexuelle, on a parfois l'impression de violer un territoire sanctifié, de marcher avec des grosses bottes boueuses dans un palace de marbre blanc, ce qui ajoute une certaine charge érotique à l'expérience.  Nous voilà au beau milieu des possessions matérielles des parents de la créature que l'on s'apprête à "profaner" de nos sales mains.

Aussi me suis-je replongé dans la confusion de mon secondaire 4 hier soir, en tombant sur un vieil agenda '93-'94 de la Polyvalente des Chutes de Shawinigan.  C'est l'époque où j'ai fait le plongeon, passant de tripotages & pipes innocentes à une véritable relation sexuelle qui a bien dû durer un gros... trois minutes !

J'ai eu à cette époque un nombre incalculable de fréquentations, passant d'une jeune fille à l'autre comme on change de chemise.  Mais une fois que j'ai laissé derrière moi ce que l'on appelle le pucelage, je me suis sensiblement calmé.



Aussi me suis-je demandé, hier, en lisant ses messages dans mon agenda, qui était Julie Lachance ?

Mon questionnement a perduré jusque tôt ce soir, quand j'ai décidé de raconter mon histoire à Caron.  Et ça m'est arrivé comme une révélation.  Comme bien souvent avec une panne mnémonique.  Je me suis interrogé hier soir, vers 1h AM, et j'ai eu ma réponse 17 heures plus tard, alors que j'avais presque tout oublié de mon questionnement existentiel.  Prodigieuses neuronnes.

Voilà donc.  Je sais maintenant qui est Julie Lachance, cette fabuleuse et sulfureuse rousse de Shawinigan-Sud, qui m'avait séduit avec sa vulgarité verbale et les fishnets sous sa mini-jupe.  Nous gardions des jeunes filles ensemble et nous avions constamment la tête à autre chose.  Tu te demandais pourquoi on ne rebaisait pas alors que j'étais horrifié par ma performance et que je ne tenais pas à me ridiculiser à nouveau.  Nous allions danser à la disco et tes parents me détestaient.  J'ai vômi de la Laurentide et de la Molson Ex partout sur ton gazon un soir de brosse.

Ces souvenirs enterrés ne méritaient pas de l'être et je ne suis pas fâché d'avoir conservé cet agenda aussi longtemps.  Comme quoi mes habitudes de "pack rat" servent enfin à quelque chose...

L'Univers Abrupt

J'ai toujours été assez critique envers la STM et j'ai été acculé aujourd'hui, 1er juin, à une façon de l'exprimer. J'imagine que je ne suis pas le seul à le faire avec l'apparition d'un climat plus clément, alors que les bicyclettes se multiplient dans les rues de la ville comme des mulots en chaleur, mais je n'ai pas acheté de CAM pour la première fois depuis presque sept ans.

Non-geste de protestation, refus d'engraisser une société de transport qui se moque des besoins de ses usagers comme d'un chiffon souillé, et façon économique de me garder en forme. Le trajet que je dois emprunter pour me rendre au boulot chaque jour est assez simple : Sherbrooke vers l'ouest, jusqu'à McGill College, et j'y suis ! Je dois toutefois demeurer assez vigilant, et disons que je ne me risquerais pas à "prendre la route" sans avoir avalé un café pour aiguiser mes sens, parce que la prudence est de mise !



Je n'ai pas hâte aux jours de pluie - qui ne sauraient tarder, on se croirait en Amazonie ces jours-cis - qui me forceront à payer 2.50$ du passage !

*

On m'a surpris hier soir en flagrant délit, sans parapluie. J'attendais la 24 pour rentrer chez moi et je dois dire que j'étais arrivé un peu à l'avance, mais je me disais que ça ne me ferait pas de tort. L'autobus, supposé cueuillir les voyageurs à 21h19 précises, est arrivé sans se presser à 21h35. Il pleuvait de façon "diluvienne" et j'étais trempé intégralement, et de fort bonne humeur !

*

GRAVEYARK OF HONOR, de Takashi Miike - ou "Mike Takashi", comme se plaisait à l'appeler un ancien confrère de travail il y a très longtemps - vu à Fantasia lors de la première édition ayant eu lieu au Main Hall de Concordia, est un film fascinant.



Remake d'une oeuvre de Kinji Fukusaku, pétri d'un réalisme hallucinant - les méthodes de Miike sont bien connues et ont fait leurs preuves dans ses autres films - pendant les scènes de violence, le tout résiste à un deuxième visionnement. La trame sonore jazz mélancolique, couplée aux images du quotidien des gangsters de Tokyo qui ne sont pas sans poésie, est du plus bel effet.

Je ne me souviens pas avoir été déçu par un Miike depuis le début de mon histoire d'amour avec lui, à part quand j'ai tenté de visionner IZO, un film de samouraïs qui ne fait aucun sens. Il faut dire que je ne me suis pas encore attaqué à ses oeuvres ayant été jugées plus âprement par la critique, mais même les films de sa période V-cinema que j'ai vus possédaient ce charme de l'urgence de tourner qui le caractérise.

Ceci dit, j'ai bien hâte de mettre la main sur ZEBRAMAN et un nouveau visionnement de ICHII THE KILLER m'attend au tournant : Miss Bijoux le réclame à grands cris depuis quelques mois et je compte bien aller le déposer dans son bec, perché au bord du nid. Pré-mâchage optionnel.