Small Betrayals

I published an article in Friday's Metro and was censored.

It was quite the innocent joke. But the fact remains that I feel cheated. I was not advised or consulted. Proof reading at the last minute needs to be done fast, I guess, but that doesn't soothe me : being "politically correct" is still an obsession for many papers, and it makes me want to puke. I wonder if I'll go through the whole process every time I'll publish something...



The title was changed as well, and the one that they came up with does not necessarily reflect my personality. But who cares ? All they seem to be interested in is publishing formated articles, that could all have been written by the same robot, united in their lack of style and courage.

One of the things that make me stay away from any written media is this lack of personality, the dull way in which the events are objectively exposed and commented. It lacks humanity. And since I'm not a robot, I guess this is not for me, right ?

*

Looking for a gig, when you're an unknown DJ in a city of egos, can prove to be hard. I went to visit a club yesterday, in the hopes of launching something there rapidly. I could have one Friday a month, and the place is amazing. It's a fetish club on some nights, and the design is done accordingly; big steel beams everywhere, red lights, lots of leather, with even a motorbike at the back !

But the manager looks a bit depressed, and very vague. He couldn't give me a date for a "first" since he gave the next couple of Fridays to other promoters and wants to see if they'll do good.

In other words, I'm left waiting. Venues are hard to penetrate, so much that if I am to organize something that doesn't give me constant headaches, I'm inevitably surprised and I'm wondering what's wrong. You bring your crowd, you organize everything, you make the bar owners richer, and you get a kick in the butt as thanks.

*

I learned about Jane Jacob's death by reading the Maisonneuve Mediascout, a daily email about what's going on in the world that I always read too late.



She died at 89 on the 25th of April. She wrote many books, among them her most popular "The Death and Life of Great American Cities", now a classic. It's funny that I had to read this book for a course at UQAM last year titled : "Dimensions Morphologiques et Patrimoniales de la Ville". I couldn't read all of it, of course, cause the copy I had was an awful french translation that didn't make much sense and probably didn't keep the original spirit of the book, but the biggest downer was the time and the work overload.

When you have four courses - the minimum required to get student loans - and a full time job - the minimum required to keep your financial sanity - you can hardly find some time to read...

It's a sad thing that she died, of course, but she lived a full life, wrote many books I have yet to read, and changed the way we think about the city forever. These are fine accomplishments that shoud allow her to... rest in peace.

*

Unity II burned down yesterday, during the afternoon, quietly. All streets around the club were blocked by firetrucks and there were huge traffic jams everywhere. I went back during the evening, looking for mourners, or at least guys that would bring roses to deposit among the ashes, but could only find people walking by, looking intrigued, and even amused.

I was planning on paying a few visits to its terrace over the summer, but I'll have to walk to Sky, and maybe even dip my toes in the delectable jacuzzi installed on the roof.

Be ready, burger boy : I'm comin' up !

Try Not to Cry

It could be hard, in the next few years.

Because I am not seeing any good news appear anywhere soon. The gap between the very rich and the very poor is widening every day, prices are sky rocketing, salaries aren't raising along, and the planet is about to blow the fuck up.



Gas is going up. It's about to run out. Metal prices are also rising, along with electricity and public transit. Food is turning more poisonous than ever. Housing prices are on the verge of becoming ridiculously impossible to afford, on top of tax hikes. Governement funding disappears, nobody can afford anything anymore. The "money-making" working fields are getting overcrowded and rare as pope shit.

On top of that, a war between the US and China is predicted, the one in Irak is far from over, Afghanistan is still a minefield, Darfur is as fucked up as it ever was, and trouble in Africa never seems over. It's not really recommended to set foot in Haiti either if you're white, because you might get kidnapped - and killed, since the ransoms asked for your worthless ass will most likely be unrealistic, and unpaid.



Global warming is a reality we have to live with. And the privatisation of the medical system is also coming along, folks - our system is no longer able to finance that either. So if you get sick, too bad for you : you probably will not be able to pay the astronomical hospital fees you will inevitably contract, and will either die alone in your corner, suffer in silence or be chased the rest of your life by lawyers because you'll owe big bucks.

I don't want to sound depressed, or make you - these are facts. Perhaps I'm seeing things at their worst, and I'll be quite happy to report I was wrong, in the next couple of years, if the globe doesn't explode from all this internal pressure. But for the moment, from my angle at least, things don't look good AT ALL.



I don't know ANYBODY who's financially healthy these days. My friends who used to do good are now starting to worry they might not make it at the end of the month. Our society is spending more than it earns. Which means the income is slowly diving into the negative part of the bill. Earned this year : minus 3000$. Next year, because the habits won't change, the prices will not go down and the salary will not go up : minus 7000$ (interests).

Move to Madagascar already. Wait for a train for days without worrying you'll be late for work. Be eaten by a lion in the middle of a vast plain while the sun makes your soul melt.

It's the best thing that could happen to you.

For Fuck's Sake

I have been trying to locate the latest issue of Metropolis during my lunch break and it looks like an impossible task.



Don't get me wrong - I looked in all the right places. There are three - THREE !! - shopping centers around the area, and they're all linked by the underground aisles of the McGill station : Eaton Center, Les Ailes Complex & Promenades de la Cathédrale. In a media-dominated world, however, nobody sees fit to offer customers a proper magazine store.

There used to be a Maison de la Presse Internationale across the street on Ste-Catherine but it was turned into a sports shoes palace two years ago. And the Indigo on McGill College isn't what I'd call well stacked in architectural magazines...

So I'm screwed, and I'll have to hunt the Metropolis down like a rarity, which it is not. Everybody should adopt an issue.

*

Laurent Garnier is in town tonight, at Parking's Overdose night, and I don't feel like going. Am I a monster ?



I think I really need some sleep and quietness. Until May 31st, clubs will always have this bleak appeal to me, the realisation that it will be so much better afterwards. No more smelly clothes, no more pulmonary diseases floating around me... No more cigarette burns on my arms on the dancefloor... No more drunks lightning up one cigarette after the other as if it was oxygen...

Garnier is the godfather of French techno, but sometimes his tastes are a bit too techno-ish for me, as a matter of fact. I'll sit back, relax, listen to loud music alone with my thoughts, and watch a movie or two. Nothing better than a big nothing, sometimes.

*

Went to Boîte Noire yesterday and rented some flicks. Watched LORD OF WAR, a Nicholas Cage vehicle that reminds us of any "rise and fall" movie such as BLOW or other of its kind. It rather is a chronicle, with various events in an arm dealer's life, with over-the-rop visuals, over-dramatic twists & turns, and Cage talking directly in the camera (Steve Coogan style) and narrating over the scenes in a witty voice-over.



Jared Leto plays his junkie brother, with no depth at all, and in fact all the other characters feel empty, like accessories put there so all the pieces of the improbable story fit. Cage himself cannot even give us a slight idea of the internal torments of his character. Instead, he serves us one-liners and his usual looks, unaffected by the chaos and death surrounding him. And the fact that this very same chaos and death is represented so lightly, due to some directional choices, made me scratch my head in dismay.

The emphasis that is put on telling the story puts everything else behind. People die a lot and nobody seems to care. And this violence is presented to us in such a way, that we don't care either.

The only part that made me laugh out loud was at the end, when these words appeared in the screen : "This story is based on actual events".

How much of a cheat, and intellectual imposture, can a Hollywood movie be ?

Leaving la Belle Province

Here today, gone tomorrow.

Miss Bijoux is gone to Ottawa to visit her family for the next few days. I'm a single, sad fellow. It's often when that happens that you realise you miss the person you live with a lot. But in her case, there's no need for that to happen : I miss her as soon as I set foot out of the house, every day. Strange it should happen to me at the tender age of 28.

She is coming back on Friday and it feels like weeks ahead. I know time will pass in a flash, but still...

*

Some food court thoughts : I work in an office above the Eaton Center, and I don't always carry my lunch around, you know. So sometimes, when I do extra long shifts and my colleague Miss PMS isn't there to provide me with a lunch, I have to give in the food industry's wheel and go down and eat.



With time, you spot the best deals, and it's no longer a jungle with too many suits walking by.

I have found out, today, that there was a lebanese war going on. I was paying 4.55$ (taxes included) for a Shish Taouk at Amir. I used to go there because it's next to Subway and when there were too many people in line to get a 6", I'd opt for Amir. However, just under the stairs lies a Basha, a restaurant which was responsible for introducing me to lebanese food in the first place back when they still had a store in Laval, on Curé-Labelle street. Now, I believe it's an armenian hang-out where you can eat sheep brains in a pita - which I did last time I passed by.

So, to come back to where we must stay, I bought a Taouk at Basha's today and it cost me exactly 3.90$, taxes included !! They've got a new client - for life !

Subway is also a good choice for the small budgeted. Every day of the week they have a "Sub du Jour" special going on, with a 6" offered at 3.45$ taxes included. You, of course, do not have the choice of flavours. Since, most of the time, I am stuck with having to pay for a lunch only on Tuesdays (Rosbif) and Thursdays (Pizza), the flavors are not at all exciting. I'm more into the "cold meat" selection of their menu, usually.

I guess that's not very useful reading this if you don't work in the same area as me, ain't it ?

*

Today's sky has seen an alternance of clouds, rain, and sun. Make up your mind already.

*

It's been hard for me to accept, but my car's transmission is fucked, and it looks like I might not have it fixed over the summer, due to a lack of 3000$ to invest in that. I've been thinking about throwing a big party called "Fix my Car" where people, on top of paying a cover charge that would go directly in my pocket, would be able to - anonymously if needed, of course - donnate a few bucks for the good cause.

I ain't expecting much from that, of course.



It would be really cool if I personally knew a mechanic willing to work on that during his spare time, for some kind of minimal fees. So if a reader out there has an idea, a demented cousin that's into fixing old german transmissions, or a maniacal mechanic who would like to engage in a battle to the death with an old Porsche in the dusty heat of my garage over the summer, send him my way.

That would be really neat.

Goth Blood on my Rainbow Backpack

It's not that I don't like Mondays - I actually HATE them. With a passion. A bad passion, in fact.

Lately, the company I'm working for is fucking with me. I'm on the verge of burning out. We're a small "reception" department in a crappy call center run by corporate americans, and our staff has been vanishing for the last six months. Either they're in the Bermuda Triangle, have quit or were fired. Thing is, nobody was hired to replace them.

The load of work, unfortunately, has remained the same. I don't know how much we are left, but it's not a lot. We used to be "full staff" (between 10 and 15 employees) on a Monday like this, with the rain and all, and so far tonight there's me... and some other guy. Which means we don't have time to breathe, really, and it's starting to bust my balls. Some new procedures have been set up, and they're trying to pass this on as "disciplinary measures" when, in fact, it's just "trying to get the best out of the agents we have left while they're still alive by denying them any basic decent right". I've discovered this blatant truth when I received a memo stating we could no longer drink in a lidless cup, eat at our "workstation" or read non work-related material. And since "work-related material" tends to be boring as hell, it basically means we just can't read at all.

So with extraordinary measures usually come a salary hike, but not for us, oh no.

I began sending resumés last week, to get the fuck outta here as fast as it's humanly possible to. At my own chosen speed : the speed of fuckin' light.

*

I ate like a pig on Saturday. My friend Kim invited us over for another fusion meal at her place, where seven - count 'em, SEVEN - different plates were to be served. All of which were chocolate-themed. Tuna sushis, chocolate-shrimps with rice, cheese with nuts, lots of other delights, and an INCREDIBLE cake. Not good for the tour de taille, I must say.



Mr. Bérêt & I opted for water, while everybody else went for some wine. I didn't want to get drunk because of my party on Friday, where I drank cheap beer all night, and I must admit I was also quite exhausted after coming home on Saturday. I took a three hours nap with Miss Bijoux and we went to Kim's afterwards, still thinking of our couch.

I also read an article about traveling Europe for cheap in the current issue of the New Yorker, and that was quite hilarious. Grab your copy quick as a new one is on the way tomorrow.

*

Johnny Cash is dead, viva Johnny Cash ! I watched WALK THE LINE yesterday, and I wish I would have read Cash's biography before doing so. Because from now on, I will not be able to distinguish reality from Hollywood's fantasy.



The movie is fine, and pretty well directed by James Mangold, but it's still a biopic. It's interesting that Joaquim Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon (respectively as Cash and June Carter) sing their own tunes in the movie, and it's interesting for the romantic viewers that the movie is pretty much centered around their love story, but when the movie ended 35 years before Johnny's death, I couldn't help being disappointed.

That's a directorial choice, of course, but the story's far from over.

The "musical" aspect is also very present. Luckily, I really like Cash's stuff, so I wasn't annoyed by the lenghty concert sequences, But I imagine that the post-MTV generation might be slightly irritated by such emphasis. In the end, I wasn't thrilled by the whole experience, it helped me see Johnny Cash in a whole new light - but the only question I am left with is what part of reality can I believe in when I watch such a movie.

Samedi de Rire

Hier après-midi, en allant régler mes frais de scolarité à l'UQAM, j'ai vu un mirage. Il ne faisait pas assez chaud pour que le soleil fasse danser l'asphalte devant mes yeux, et lorsque je l'ai vue, j'ai tout d'abord cru à un fantasme. Toutefois, le son du moteur et un pincement sur mon avant-bras m'ont confirmé que je ne rêvais pas : c'était bel et bien une Delorean qui roulait devant moi, sur Ste-Catherine.



Je crois que j'étais le seul à réaliser l'ampleur de cette vision, sur la rue. Je ne croyais jamais croiser un de ces bolides à Montréal !! Immatriculé au Québec, en plus. Ce qui me rappelle que j'ai croisé ma mythique Ferrari 308GT rouge à côté du Lafleur du Carré St-Louis, il y a quelques semaines, quand le temps a commencé à être plus clément.

Il ne manque donc plus que moi !

*

Je suis un peu scrap ce matin car j'étais DJ pour le party de fin de session des étudiants en Arts Visuels de l'UQAM, hier soir. Ce fut bien agréable, à part pour les inévitables jeunes filles saoules qui venaient me faire des demandes spéciales irréalistes. Je n'ai pas entendu le classique "As-tu du hip hop ?" mais on m'a demandé beaucoup de "francophone" et les demoiselles avaient l'air effarées que mes chansons ne soient qu'en anglais. Honnêtement, de l'électro, c'est axé sur le rythme, non ? Devrait-on se préoccuper de la langue dans laquelle les insignifiances sont chantées ? Est-ce que les DJ's devraient avoir des quotas, comme à la radio ?

Je ne crois pas. Et je trouve que les individus qui se retrouvent dans une situation musicale qui ne leur est pas familière (un party avec DJ, par exemple) devraient profiter de la découverte, et non tenter de modeler les paramètres de la situation selon leurs repères habituels.

Quand un dancefloor est plein à craquer de gens qui s'amusent et qu'une hippie imbibée vient insister pour entendre sa chanson favorite, j'ai envie de lui dire de devenir elle-même DJ ou de l'écouter chez elle avant de sortir, sa "toune" !

*

Parlant de DJ's, j'ai effectué hier soir une entrevue avec les gars de Quattrophonic - Éloi Brunelle, François LeBaron, The Autist & Véga - pour le compte de mes nouvels "employeurs", Noctambules.tv (un site internet traitant du nightlife montréalais). Bien sympathiques, les gars. L'entrevue devrait normalement paraître dans l'édition du Métro de vendredi prochain.



Ma nouvelle position en tant que "journaliste" présente pas mal d'avantages, mais pour l'instant n'est pas rémunérée. On me laisse entendre que ça va probablement changer dans les prochains mois, et j'ai bien hâte de voir si ça sera le cas.

*

Mon ménage de cassettes VHS s'opère lentement, mais sûrement. Je suis venu à bout cette semaine de la post-apocalypse australienne de DEAD-END DRIVE-IN, de Brian Trenchard-Smith. Je compte en parler en détails sur VHS Vault dans les prochains jours.



J'ai aussi passé au travers de KILLER WORKOUT, une perle de slasher, que je n'avais jamais osé visionné vu sa réputation calamiteuse, et le peu de considération que mes collègues collectionneurs ont habituellement pour David Prior. Son SLEDGEHAMMER a laissé un souvenir impérissable dans la mémoire de tous ceux qui ont osé le visionner...

Si vous aimez le spraynet, la musique 80's cheap, les jolies filles et les belles bagnoles, et que vous n'avez pas peur du ridicule, je suis bien prêt à vous DONNER ma VHS, à condition de ne plus jamais la revoir. Contactez-moi.



En attendant une légion de fans en délire, je vais tenter de passer un reste de week-end honorable.

Easter Ate my Balls

It's all a chocolate lover's dream. Except when your head is in the clouds and you do not actually realise what's going on. Like me, for instance. Every year, around springtime, in between a drink and a glance at a mini-skirted girl passing by, I ask myself "This easter thing, when is it again ?!".

This year, at the office, someone reminded be by throwing a Cadbury Egg behind my head. I ate the egg, and then got another one. But so far, this is the only chocolate I have received. Not that I have given any either.



Easter doesn't mean shit to me. Sad to say. I'm not a very religious person. I know that Christ was resurrected on that day and that we are not supposed to eat meat during forty days or something, to suffer along, but the main problem is that fiction shouldn't have to interfere in everyday life. Being dictated what to do by a crazy - and boring - novel like the bible is just, well, scary.

I once worked in a shop (as in sweatshop, without the sweat) and I was reading a lot during lunch breaks, just to avoid starting conversations I knew I'd regret. One guy came up to me and said : "You'll end up going crazy with all this reading ! A book a day ?! The only good book, anyway, is the bible !".

Huh... okay.

*

Yeah, I have also seen Spike Lee's THE 25TH HOUR, an interesting drama about a drug dealer on the verge of going to prison. Edward Norton spends his last 24 hours of liberty trying to solve problems, settle relationships and accept the fact that he's going inside for the next seven years. It was one of the few Spike Lee joints I had not yet seen, and it sure made me want to hunt down the remaining others.



The movie opens with poignant shots of New York, and since it was the first feature film to take place in NYC after the 9/11 events, there is a certain gravity to it. The cast is rock solid; Barry Pepper and Philip Seymour Hoffman play Norton's best friends, and bootylicious Rosario Dawson plays his curvy girlfriend Naturelle.



It's funny how Norton's character echoes the one he played in AMERICAN HISTORY X. He's going to jail, and it will probably change his life. He is, however, far from the muscular neo-nazi skinhead here, with his soft voice and manners.

Lee made this flick just after BAMBOOZLED, another great title I highly recommend. I don't, in fact, remember seeing a bad Lee flick, ever. Let's hope it stays that way in the coming months !

*

I partied way too much over the week-end. I saw Jordan Dare at Parking on Thursday, yes, with most of my friends... The guys from A Touch of Class were in town on Saturday, and we had a blast. They were late, but they stopped playing at 4 to make up for it. Sweet anything goes in the mix... It was a rather noisy, but fun & decadent evening. I even joked around with Thomas Von Party while passing flyer for the Balroom's "No Excuse" night.



And Sunday, Tommie Sunshine, who managed to kick our asses while playing with our nerves. He apparently got way better when I left the club, at 7, on Monday morning, but my feet were already bleeding and my heart longed for my bed. For full coverage and Bruce Benson's expert opinion - because believe me, he has become an expert in the afterhours field - about the Tommie Sunshine gig, go take a look at our twin blog "Mirror Balls & Mirror Shades".

Animal Instinct

We humans, as the natural offsprings of old timer monkeys, have evolved, of course, but we still have some very animalistic tendencies. In sexual mating as in drinking, we ressemble our simiesque cousins.



Spring is almost there, even tho it rains. The sun will shine, and mini-skirts will grow out of the sidewalk cracks. Cleavages will start blooming and our eyes will burn. Like watching a treasure chest, really. I wish this weather could last forever. Without having to move to Miami.

I hope the animal in me does not hang out too long. Or too much. I'll be at the bar, waiting for an expensive drink, if you need me.

*

Wes Craven has been swallowed whole by Hollywood - beware of a holy whore. His most recent productions smelled like moneygrabbing attempts at keeping it big, and RED EYE is no exception. However, when something honest is done, we have to acknowledge it. We cannot judge a movie by its artisans, can we ?



So here's a nice thriller about a hitman trying to pull a trick to a chick taking the "red eye", an overnight flight that's probably cheaper by the dozen. You get lots of conversations in the same location (here the plane seat, as opposed to the phone booth in... PHONE BOOTH) and all the action happens at the end of the flick. It's explosive, it's brutal, it's a surprise. Cillian Murphy has some icy blue eyes and a brit pop / hipster haircut, and the movie only lasts 85 minutes. Why deny the fun of it all ?

*

I just learned that the long-promised Muslim Free Press, due to be launched on April 15th, will only be distributed in Montreal in a mosque located on Jean-Talon. Yeah, sure, I'll go this far just to pick it up. The Toronto bi-weekly's initial press run is 5 000, and the publishers hope to see this grow to 500 000 copies in a few months, to deserve the whole canadian muslin community. Considering the effectiveness of their distribution, I doubt it will work. I was curious to see what a muslim paper & perspective looked like... maybe next time ?

*

Tonight, at SAT, new yorkers Domie le Touch & Oliver T. Class will rock your asses if you dare showing up. Dr. Octoboobies (Raf from the now defunct "Disko Akimbo" Mirror column) and Jordan Dare open.



So yeah, for a mere 15$ at the door, you will get two fabulous DJ's who know how to keep a party's flame burning. They represent their label, of course (A Touch of Class), and they mix faster than their shadows. I have seen them DJ before (at Neon Loves valentine in '04) and I've never been the same since then.

Miss it at your own peril.

Get Paid, Get Laid

Thursdays in Montreal have always been the kind of days where the cops would go "Oh, I wish I stayed in bed this afternoon". A homeless guy would start screaming nonsense at people waiting for the bus, some drunk jocks would throw half empty beer bottles in storefront windows, and then fight for a 14 years old girl they need to take home at 11. Sleazy elderlies would walk the Village streets cruising for a young ass, and people from the north & south shore would arrive downtown in huge buses blaring cheap dance music from the 90's.

The clubs know it's pay day, and they know how to snatch your money. They give you the IMPRESSION you're getting a good deal, and slowly empty the last cent out of you, to leave you drunk and lonely on the sidewalk in front of the club at 3:30. You need to eat something, but you gave your last buck as a tip on your last beer.

Yeah, bar owners are the true kings of Thursday nights... So if you feel like putting some money in Greg's pockets, head over to Parking tonight as Jordan Dare & Mini will make you dance 'til the wee hours and Bruno will make you spend all your money with his excellent and rapidly served 2.75$ drinks. Six months ago today, I met someone that's very special to me at Parking. It was October 13th, a Thursday, and Jordan Dare was spinning as well. Strange coincidence, no ?

See you tonight, baby !!

*

There is a very interesting article about the upcoming smoking ban in today's Mirror.



We learn that Peter Sergakis, the money-hungry owner of Sky, is taking the new law to court, stating it's anti-constitutional. He says : "We're not forcing non-smokers to come to our establishments. If you don't want to come, don't come." Which is exactly what I'll do, you fat fuck. Not that I went there often, but I definitly will not set foot at Sky again in the near future. A owner who doesn't care about more than 50% of his clients having their health compromised just to make profits off smokers is a menace II society. He's not out there pointing guns at people; his actions are more subtle - and dodgy. He's lobbying for one of the last of society's wrongs and that is unacceptable.

I'll never say it enough : cigarette stinks. It's not useful, it's not hip, it costs you money and makes you smell like an ashtray. It makes you impotent, makes your teeth brown, your fingers yellow, and it gives you cancer. It incomodates people around you. It stinks up the planet and it needs to go, or stay at your place if you insist on ruining your health.



Nick Robinson, Barfly owner, sums it up : "There's a realisation that it's time for it to end".

The article reveals that most of the bar owners agree with the ban, but think that the government's bill is hypocritical. Of course, government makes money off smokers, and banning them from "public" places seems like an irrelevant gesture, but that ideological revelation doesn't change the goddamn fact that the less smokers I come across, the better I feel. And when I go out clubbing, I don't want to come home smelling like shit and having to shower before going to bed. When I go to a restaurant, I would like to eat without having to breathe your thick smoke and being on the verge of puking, thank you.

May 31st will be a holy day, for sure.

STM (Société de Transport de Marde)

Les cieux cléments auxquels on a droit aujourd'hui nous dissimulent la tumulte ayant lieu au sein d'une société que tous les montréalais connaissent plutôt bien; de nombreuses crises de rage et de multiples désagréments résultent de notre utilisation quotidienne de leurs services. Je veux bien entendu parler de la STM, mieux connue sous le sobriquet de "Société de Transport de Marde".



Régissant les transports en autobus, métro et train de banlieue, la STM est dépendante des fonds publics, et enregistre - comme toute société de transport en commun de par le monde - un déficit important chaque année. Malgré la constance du financement et les revenus tirés de la vente mensuelle de leur CAM (Carte Autobus-Métro, un laisser-passer nous permettant de nous déplacer de façon illimitée à travers le réseau), ajoutés aux revenus publicitaires de plus en plus importants - la STM "loue" le moindre espace disponible à l'intérieur de ses infrastructures à des firmes de pub, comme en témoignent les innombrables murales et cette abomination qu'est "Métrovision" - la qualité des services offerts se dégrade irrévocablement depuis plusieurs années.

La logique de marketing est simple, et aberrante : payez plus pour moins de service. Comment une société peut-elle se permettre un tel mépris pour sa clientèle ? Un mot : monopole.

Faudrait qu'une compagnie de transport concurrente attaque le marché, et il serait très amusant de voir la STM mordre la poussière, chier dans ses culottes, manger ses bas, ce que vous voulez.

Parce que question service à la clientèle, ils sont plutôt nuls. Aucun suivi des plaintes, un service qui se dégrade de façon hallucinante (retards, équipements désuets, fréquences de passage aberrantes), et une attitude incroyablement distante de la part du personnel : ils se foutent de tout, y compris de représenter une compagnie n'ayant aucune considération pour sa clientèle.

A une époque où on nous incite à délaisser nos voitures et à agir de façon responsable pour augmenter la durée de vie de la planète et tenter désespérément de repousser sa "date d'expiration", et où l'écologie est une des considérations premières de toute société qui se respecte, il est un peu inquiétant de voir que rien n'est fait pour améliorer "l'image" d'une société de transport dans la métropole la plus importante de la province. Sûr, je vais laisser ma voiture chez moi pour aller m'ensardiner dans un autobus qui arrive 20 minutes en retard, retard qui cause une surpopulation monstre, et je vais perdre mon emploi parce que je n'arrive jamais à l'heure, le tout grâce à ma sensibilité pro-Kyoto.



Si vous n'avez jamais partagé un autobus avec 300 autres usagers qui suent, puent et ont l'air aussi en sacrement que vous, vous n'avez rien vécu. Je peux vous dire que c'est assez pour vous dégoûter à vie et réfréner toutes vos pulsations environnementales.



63$ pour que l'on se moque de moi avec 10 interruptions de service par jour dans une ville souterraine qui donne envie de vômir et de blêmir, non merci. Je choisis sans hésiter le vélo, et mon gros bazoo. En attendant mieux.

No Transition

There you are. We have more and more kids, these days, staying at their mom's for eternity. I recently heard a collegue say : "I'm not moving from my mom's as long as I don't have a house bought".

Of course, some demographics will tell you that this practice is more current in some cultures, where family is a deeply rooted value. But it doesn't change the fact that more and more "Tanguy" are out there. Having their clothes washed and their asses wiped by their genitors. They're so used at being serviced food and having their bed sheets taken care of that I'm worried about their future.

Sure, it's better for your mental and economical health to immediately own a property to live in, instead of wasting half your life paying for something you rent, but there is a transition to be made.

Is somebody that never lived alone, never cooked a meal, and never knew what it is to come back in an empty house after a working day set to find immediate balance when he / she reaches adulthood and moves on his / her own ? A condo or house has stuff that needs to be done to maintain them. Is a spoiled kid fit to do that ?



We'll find out very soon in the next episode of "The Future of Teen Housing".

*

I sometimes feel like I am the world's receptacle of cretinism.

Today would be the perfect day to take it easy on a terrasse and write. Watch the cars go by. Blankly stare at people walking the streets. Reconsider the natural order of things. Shape the future of design and electro-house. But alas, I am stuck in what ressembles a dentist chair, without the beneficial view of an assistante dentaire dressed in shiny white.

My own personal hell / dentist chair is my cubicle. Where I get to hear the most annoying voices in the world, and listen to the most perfect example of repeat moronism at an approximate rate of twice per five minutes. Angry people, idiots, retards, elderlies, it would seem that the worst that humanity has to offer is a credit card holder.

Some of the callers are lonely, and would like to talk a bit longer, and tell me stories about themselves. The thing is that most of the time, we're understaffed, so if anybody surpasses the average call time, we're screwed. A queue is formed and unanswered calls are accumulating. Managers start running around, with panic in their eyes. We're not lacking managers, tho. We have tons of them. Almost more managers than "regular" employees, in fact. But whenever someone wants to speak with one, it's as if they smelled it : they all disappear. They have lunches all at the same time, or special secret meetings meaning that really, nobody knows where the fuck they are.

I know it's not healthy writing about my office life like that, for so long, but I can't help it. I'm trying to quit.

*

Who knows where A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE wants to lead us ? Cronenberg's most "commercial" film to this day - he admits it himself - was a nice discovery, yesterday, after a hard Sunday of slackin'. I did not do much - went to take a walk in Centre-Sud, so see a rather passive drunk rocker lie on his couch - and just wanted to spend some time with Miss Bijoux. We started by trying to watch a french dub of Paul Morrissey's MIXED BLOOD, which proved tedious, so I got the VHS out of the VCR and decided it was time to watch Viggo Mortensen go wild.



I had seen the trailer, so I was wondering when all hell would break lose. I did not expect, however, things to go this far. Cronenberg makes us violence's accomplices, to such extent that we CRAVE for the bad guys to die in a violent, horrible manner. And violence there is. The mad torontonian's legendary prosthetics are here, in all their gory glory. The special effects are nauseating.

Mortensen does a good job and he truly is a scary fuck. His wife, Maria Bello, is a gorgeous blonde with a well maintained body, and some nice dramatic aptitudes. And as much as I'd like to trash Howard Shore and the usual ineptitude of orchestral "scores", I have to admit that the one he did for this flick is subtle and effective, without being too rigid. Nice job !

Foolin' my own self

So I refrained from going to my architecture class today - about museums - just to work on a bibliography I was set to give to my teacher a couple of weeks ago. The irony of this is that... I didn't even work on the thing. I am trying real hard to, but it's kinda complicated to work with multiple windows with a Powerbook, with no "alt + tab" function to switch from page to page, and no printer to AT LEAST have paper by my side to help.

Fuckin' touch pad.

So while these retarded construction workers are making noise in my basement and listening to the radio as loud as they can, I'm listening to Matthew Dear's "Leave Luck to Heaven" and reflecting on the fate of mankind.



I am supposed to reflect on Zaha Hadid's Rosenthal Center for the Performing Arts, in Cincinnati, and the way it was perceived by the architectural media at the time (2003) of its inauguration. Sure sucks to be me. There are about 20 articles I have to read and so far, I didn't even put my hands on a single one.

C'est un bon début.

*

Saw Gus Van Sant's LAST DAYS yesterday. Not much to say. Unpainfully slow. Michael Pitt mumbles for an hour and a half and then kills himself offscreen. After GERRY (which I haven't seen) and ELEPHANT (that I liked better) LAST DAYS is the closing point of a trilogy.



After an unnecessary PSYCHO remake, I wonder what Van Sant has in mind next.

*

I also saw Robin Aubert's SAINT MARTYR DES DAMNÉS a couple of nights ago, and I have to say that I wasn't disappointed. Three persons out of three had told me that the last hour really sucked, and I don't consider it did.



Without giving too much away, let's just say that the explanations didn't appear too ridiculous to me, even tho I was really curious to see how Aubert would pull it. The mystery is constant, and the atmosphere is hard to beat. Plus, if you like rural Québec it's an extra fascination to see these weird landscapes and the sketchy bikers that populate them.

*

I don't know if it's the weather or the 113 calls I answered during my shift yesterday, but I felt like shit all evening and got out of my course because I was fuckin' falling asleep ! My zoned out head must have felt weird to those sitting behind me.

Not that these courses are uninteresting, but after a full day of work, it's hard to sit through three hours of urban theory. Even if this is the kind of stuff I could be lectured about eternally, there are limits to what I can absorb. I don't think it's socially fair for me to have to work full time while studying, but I made my choices many years ago and I have to live with them.

Let's just say that being cut off 5000$ by the Ministère de l'Éducation for my loans this year didn't help. Because, of course, everything revolves around money these days. Work more to pay your stuff, even tho you will not enjoy this stuff because you're way too busy working.

It's a Grey Day

Yet another shitty day in Montreal. April ate my balls. What can be more disappointing that waking up and not being able to get out of your heavenly bed cause it's too damn cold everywhere but under your blankets ?

You know you hate what is commonly being called "grisaille". I almost learned to love grey days thanks to Zoot Woman's wonderful track of the same name. But a song won't do to heal a bleeding heart - and a freezing ass.

I don't want this blog to become an "evil whiny Meteomedia twin" but for my complaints to stop, the problem would have to be resolved. Tell that to the weather woman. Tell her I've had it with the cold, and that it's time for the sun to shine. Feels like fuckin' autumn right now if you wanna know what I'm thinking...

*

Canada Post just released a stamp with Fay Wray on it. It's part of the "Canadians in Hollywood" series. Funny sense of timing, with the King Kong remake and everything, don't you think ?

Three more faces will be unveiled in the next few months. They're keeping it a surprise, just like in Hollywood. And that reminds me of the good old days I was still a kid, collecting stamps and making friends who shared the same interests. My mother was worried about me - rightfully or not, that is still debatable. I was a library rat, except that the library was right at home. I would spend my whole evenings at home, reading. The week-ends were no different. That the sun was shining or not did not matter; in fact, the more beautiful the day was, the more I'd be inclined to stating outside and read.

In order for me to make friends - geeks like me, that's what everybody was afraid to admit - my mom signed me on to some stamp collectors association who held workshops in a cultural center somewhere in Laval. Or was it when we were living in Trois-Rivières ? I cannot honestly remember.



The "workshops" basically consisted of about an hour of "stamp talk" where old collectors would give us young thugs their tricks, and then we'd just sit around and talk, and exchange stamps. There were people of every age, all reunited by this "passion". The older ones were more generous, giving us free stuff, and advice. I even visited a few "stamp conventions" at Place Bonaventure, and it all seems extraordinarily surreal for me right now. But that was a wonderful gesture coming from my mom, and even tho I do not have any friends left from that era, I'd like to thank her for that.

*

Which brings me to a disastrous babysitter we had during that same era, and that I hated. She was what we commonly call "B.S." - unemployed, and not looking - and living in a trashy social housing complex behind the Guzzo cinema - it was not built at the time - in Laval. I don't know how my mom found her, but let's not elaborate on that.



Her boyfriend was a biker who worked as a mechanic, and who had an impressive stash of hard rock albums on vinyl. I remember listening to Ozzy's "Bark at the Moon" while sitting in his appartment. Because yes, the babysitter was taking us there, to be "at home" while doing her "work". My little brother had some kind of "girlfriend" in the area and this is where I started noticing stuff that belonged to us popping up at the babysitter's. A distinctive pen we had lost a few days ago magically appeared in her living room. And so on.

I was also collecting money at the time, and had built quite a reasonable stash, thanks to donations from all over my family. I had this HUGE binder with coins & bills from all over the place, mainly Canada. I even had a cent from 1878, 100 years before I was born.

Around this time of our life my brother had started to befriend thugs - a trend that would go on and amplify over the years - and he was hangin' out with the bad kids of the block. The Laval-des-Rapides posse. Brats, really.

So one evening we came home from school to find the place completely devastated. We had been robbed. Everything of value had disappeared. It didn't take too much snooping around to find out that some of my brother's "friend" had decided to sneak into our house and help himself with our stuff. When we confronted him and suggested we could rightfully call the cops, he gave us back what he had taken. Everything... except my money collection. He swore that he had not seen such a thing at our place.

Turned out that it was that fat, cleptomaniac babysitter who stole it. We were never able to get it back. It was kinda ironic to have so many thieves in our lives around the same time, and to get to know Laval's pathetic and desperate small time criminals. But I guess it's better to meet this kind of trailer trash early in your existence - and to learn to keep them away afterwards, for the rest of your life.

*

I ALMOST went to see "Lucky Number Slevin" yesterday. I won tickets with the Mirror, once again, and I went to pick them up in time. However, I changed my mind, because the movie was at 7:30 at Paramount and I didn't feel like going out in the FUCKING COLD. I spent all day outside, walking around to do some shopping, and believe me that was quite enough.

I tried to give away my tickets but nobody wanted to see "that". So if you ever pass by my blog and happen to have seen the movie, let me know how it is, okay ?

Regression

I feel like partyin' on a beach with rocket launchers, napalm and hookers. It would eternally rain and we'd be humping our weapons on a desert island, waiting for a ship to pass by, aiming at it and making it drown in flames. We could raise a few hippies, have some zombie fights for entertainment, and I would forever delay the payment of the prostitutes' services.

Spring is not going to happen here, it seems. We'll have to move to Miami or something, if we still care for some sun. I crave for heat, I long for summer, and it will probably abruptly come up on June 21st, with no transition whatsoever. It was snowing downtown, earlier. Big golf balls of white shit splattering everybody's face. Sorry buddy, my tuque and mitts are locked away until next year, and there's no fuckin' way I'm bringing them back.

Seriously, we need some nice weather. After a shitty winter like the one we just went through, everything's grey, and my moral, personally, could be better. Nothing depressing is going on in my life, but winter dragged me so low that I need a strong hook to bring me back up. And there ain't no pirate that's gonna lay his hands on me, so find something else.

If things do not change around here, I'm moving. Tell Mother Nature, that slut. Montreal will lose a good element. I'll take my friends with me, all my belongings, my wisdom, and my car that won't start. We'll go to my desert island and start the aforementioned party. The party will never stop. It will be like the Dead Milkmen's "Beach Party Vietnam", only crazier. Cass & Mangan will come visit and do a DJ set. We'll be able to let the volume go as high as we can because, well, we won't have any neighbors.

And once summer's here, we'll come back in town to haunt you.

*

You know what The World is, right ?

Or you THINK you know. When in fact you don't. Think big. Then think bigger.

Think artificial islands in the middle of nowhere. Think Dubai. Think about an island you can buy and own, and let's say it would be named Belgium. Or Croatia. Or fuckin' Australia.



Some promoters in Dubai have thought about it, and they also made it happen, which is a big step ahead of you or me. And then the sales begun. Some big name celebrities are starting to buy their own islands, and will build a house on them. They'll have their own little universe of rich islanders, which is better than a gated community if you think about it. And if we ever get tired of seeing them flash their money around, a couple of torpedoes should do the trick.

Who knows, I could even fire them from my own private desert island during one of these infamous, cocaine-fulled parties...

Eternal Annoyance

I have a very simple theory about humanity. We do, in a way, make progress. But society is divided in two : those who are productive, and those who are not. And those who are not - we'll call them "slackers" from now on - slow down those who are by sucking the life out of them.

Our civilisation would be pretty much advanced if it wasn't for slackers. They are the complete opposite of productive : they destroy what we build. When we steer away from problems, and avoid trouble, they bring both to us in their quest for help. They basically need a guide written for them so they can find their way out of this cruel life.

By their constant need for attention, and for people to have a chat with, slackers can rapidly become a burden. They'll slow your intellectual reasonings by painfully narrating you every detail of their worthless week-end. They'll litterally DESTROY any attention span you might have left by interrupting you every chance they have. They will also give you missions, ask you to do things for them, things they don't have time or capacities to do, as if you didn't have enough trouble just dealing with them.

Slackers are necessary, in a way, because without them we'd be an hyperactive civilisation. Can we find the perfect balance ? Can we find what amount of slacking we need per capita ? We need a certain dose of lazyness, otherwise we're not happy. But what is this dose ? Is our body telling us we're doing too much when we fall asleep after being awake for five hours ?

*

I was half disappointed by Don McKellar's CHILD STAR. I don't know what I expected. Something less subtle ? Probably. I underestimated McKellar, that's what I did. I thought that the movie would be centered around a hysterical child star and in a way, I was right. But the guy's 12 years old, so he does not destroy his hotel room, he does not get in fights... He does, however, get to bang some kind of whore and party a bit.



The tone is biting. McKellar spares nobody. He's half likable, half bad, in what is his typical self : a reasonable intellectual, ready to face anything in anybody and to answer any question with tact and wit.

So the movie is a reflection, if you will, of the sad state of foreign productions coming to shoot in Canada. A "child star" is sent to Toronto to shoot a dud called "The First Son" and, basically, so that the studios can get rid of him and breathe for a while. McKellar is the chauffeur, and as an extra he gets to bang the mother. He'll befriend the little brat and try to teach him how to pick up chicks, something that will contribute to him losing control of the situation.



The movie had echoes of RODGER DODGER, but lacked something. The ending, bitter as can be, leaves us unsatisfied. It still is an interesting flick to watch, with some uncommon views about the film industry and those who live off it.

Ne Priez Pas Pour Moi

Une étude effectuée par Herbert Benson, un cardiologue directeur de l'Institut Médical Mind / Body, près de Boston, vient d'être publiée après 10 ans de recherche et d'analyses. Elle nous révèle - grosse surprise - que des prières offertes par des étrangers pour des patients en pleine chirurgie cardiaque n'ont aucun effet sur le déroulement de leur opération, ou sur leur guérison. De plus, les patients au courant qu'on "priait pour eux" présentaient davantage de complications post-opératoires, probablement dues à l'anxiété et aux attentes créées par les prières. 1 800 patients ont pris part à l'étude au fil des ans.

Bon, c'est certain que je n'avais pas, personellement, besoin qu'on me prouve scientifiquement que la prière était inutile. C'est le genre de truc qui, tout comme la méditation, ne fait du "bien" qu'au pratiquant, à l'auto-satisfaction. Surtout au sein d'une église où on vous exhorte à la prière quotidienne, à toujours avoir une pensée pour votre "prochain", à faire preuve d'une dévotion de tous les instants.



Le New York Times publiait hier (vendredi 31 mars) un article présentant les résultats de la recherche, nuançant qu'au moins dix autres études sur le même sujet avaient été conduite au cours des six dernières années. Je ne veux pas sonner comme un "gérant d'estrade", mais c'est assez décourageant de voir que des subventions de recherche vont à des idées aussi farfelues... et peu pertinentes.

*

Pourquoi la météo conditionne-t-elle autant le comportement des gens ? Sommes-nous comparables à de petites bestioles effrayées par deux gouttes de pluie et trois grains de neige ?

J'ai toujours occupé des emplois qui me permettaient d'observer ce phénomène de manière privilégiée. J'ai travaillé deux ans dans un Club International Vidéofilm. Il n'avait absolument rien "d'international" - surtout pas sa sélection, composée à 99.9% de titres américains merdiques sélectionnés par un gérant de Repentigny à demi retardé - et chaque fois que le ciel se couvrait, les voitures roulant sur le boulevard Concorde, à Laval, bifurquaient toutes vers le stationnement pour venir louer de quoi boucher le grand trou noir intellectuel qui trônait dans la tête de leurs conducteurs / trices.

Plus tard, je me suis recyclé dans la vidéo porno, avec pour seul avantage que je n'avais plus de clients de moins de 18 ans, et les jours de pluie donnent envie de se masturber, en ai-je conclu par le taux de fréquentation du sympathique petit palace.

Maintenant, du haut de mon centre d'appel, je peux vous assurer qu'une journée pluvieuse nous laisse anticiper le pire, à mes collègues et moi. Les gens se souviennent comme par magie de leurs problèmes, de leurs commandes, des opératrices de l'agence de voyage dont le timbre de voix les faisait bander lors de leur dernier appel, etc...

Outre les gens qui règlent leur réveil, le samedi matin, pour être les premiers à appeler nos bureaux dès l'ouverture à 8h AM (mention spéciale aux gens de Vancouver qui doivent se lever avant 5h pour y parvenir, avec le décalage), on aussi droit aux gens qui n'appellent jamais au bon département - ils composent le premier numéro qui leur tombe sous les yeux. Dyslexie sociale ou autisme pur et simple ?

Je dirais paresse... La même paresse intellectuelle qui pousse la masse à consommer les dernières parutions de Garou ou Céline Dion "parce que tout le monde aime ça"... christ de bonne raison, Georgette. Ou alors à écouter Star Académie et à en discuter le lundi matin au bureau.

Civilisation désespérée. Il n'y a rien à faire pour vous, messieurs-dames... Je suis épuisé de vous le dire.