Saturday, December 03, 2005
So, I'm not good with sentimental reunion bullshit, so lets just skip that part altogether. Why the long hiatus? Well, the only thing that could keep me from blogging for so long of course--not having a computer. Yes, it was one of the most traumatic experiences of my young adulthood, and I'd rather not dwell. Needless to say, I am now in joyful posession of my very own lappy. And after careful deliberation, I decided against the iBook. Yes, thats right! I'm a rebel, okay? And I'm quite happy with my decision. And was even happier when I saw those monsterous, bright red iPod "murals" in the Atwater metro towering over me like Lucifur himself. I had a little self-rightious moment there, with a dollop of smugness. Oh, and lest we forget the horendous new Eminem iPod ads? All of this just furthers the theory that Apple is far on it's way to beating out Microsoft for the "most fucking omnipresent, greedy high-tech corporation in the universe" contest. And I want no part in it, I say! ....except of course, if I decide to get one of those iPod nanos. They're so pretty!
In other news, I've discovered that working 21 hours a week, and taking a full course load does not so much encourage good sleeping habits. Especially if you are as determined as I am to still go out on the weekend and have a good time (and by "good time" I mean "stay out untill 4 am"). Nor does having a new kitten, whose sleeping patterns seem diametrically opposed to my own, and has a yin for batting at my face at 5 in the morning, when I'm trying to squeeze in 3 precious hours of sleep. Oh, Cecily... please get old, fat and lazy soon.
I'm off to see Telefauna tonight, who I got to see at the Pop Montreal Fest in October, at Preloved, a recycled clothing store. This time, they get a real stage, which is a plus. But unfortunately, we won't be able to try on over-priced patchwork sweater-vests while listening to the band. What a pity.
I'll be back soon. Promise.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Due to circumstances beyond my control, such as, like, having a life and stuff, I have been utterly neglecting my blogging responsibilities. Yes, resposibilities. I feel that being the inspiration for so many other blogs, I have a duty to set a good example. It was going okay for a while there… Meh…
I’m now faced with the problem that I’ve waited so long to recount my various engaging anecdotes to my adoring public that there’s too much crap to put in one blog entry. Now I could solve this by transporting myself back to those various days I should have actually posted, and pretend to post for each event separately (I could even doctor the dates at the top, if I was really fukin’ evil) in order to create the illusion of a duteous blogger. But, honestly, the effort involved vastly outweighs the possible satisfaction of 3 comments. If I’m lucky.
So I’m going get in touch with my inner
The title of this piece is:
Thursday, May 12, 2005
What I'm trying to lead up to here, in a very inefficient manner, is that it is on the whole ridiculous that I am living out here in this capitalist wasteland. There is just no reason for it. I go to school downtown. I work downtown. I spend most of my weekends downtown. Not only that, but I also spend just as much on food and rent out here as I would downtown. So why, for the love of God, am I still in the suburbs?
Oh, I need "savings," or a "toaster" or a "place to live", or some such BS. Well, that is quite enough Miss Aurora! It's time to get off your fanny, and blow this two-bit concrete excuse for a town, and go to where all the action be. Mui ondolay.
Besides, I qualify for a student loan. Yay instant gratification!
Friday, May 06, 2005
The most original, reliable and creative music reviews I've found online are not at Pitchfork, but at a small Canadian-based, ads-free site called cokemachineglow. Many of their reviews go off on wild tangents. This is usually a good thing. Getting to the point here, a recent posting caught my fancy, with its indie-rocker self-reflections/analyses. While trying to explain why the Russian Futurists album is so fantastique the author delves into the drawbacks of being an avid, relentless chaser of the next greatest band you've never heard of. Here is his point (mind the excessive use of quotes) :
My point: if we are indeed supporters of "honest" and "meaningful" music, we do an awful lot of trading-card-level torch-bearer-disposal. Especially when our torch-bearers are adamantly exalted by "Us" as the penultimate purveyors of honest music by artists who sincerely "pour their souls into their art." How did we get to a point where, instead of latching on to our dear bands for dear life forever truelovealways, we play virtual-knockdowns, or shred the albums in our spokes until they no longer make any noise? Do we realize that our trading cards are, at their very bases, actually made up of (if we believe ourselves and the artists, which we do) months of hard work, soul-searching, epic pursuits of the perfect rhyme, various forms of in-band bickering over musical minutiae, perseverance through stolen gear and, in the very best cases ( Funeral, Sunset Tree, Either/Or, Personal Journals) blood/guts/boogers diary exposure? No we don't. We binge/purge/repeat, soulseeking an assembly line of recorded, digitized catharses. If music was food we'd all be morbidly obese from a gluttonous intake of empty calories. Q: "Was it good?" A: "Yeah it was great" Q: "What did it taste like?" A: "...."
There is something so romantic and innocent about those days when owning their records was an essential element to being a fan of a certain artist (I recall here my Futureheads obsession, and how not owning their one album seems to be merely a mild oversight). In the 60's and 70's, kids listened to their Joni Mitchell or Clash or Led Zepplin albums over and over, clutching the sleeves and fawning over the liner notes and artwork so much they would never get theirs mixed up with their friend's since it had that smudge of grape jelly in the top left corner, and a little "I heart John Bonham" next to the listing for the Wanton Song. There is something so tangible in that. Something that goes far beyond the satisfaction of downloading a bunch of MP3's. It's the fact that music has become too accessible that has taken away from the basic appreciation of its goodness. Don't get me wrong, as a starving student, I am extremely grateful I have the ability to discover all this wonderful music without having to spend, like, a trillion dollars. It's all very hippie-commune . But sometimes, the pressure gets to me. Just when I'm starting to really get into a couple new bands, and remember the words to their songs, I think, "oh, shit--I have like twenty new albums I've been meaning to check out!"
Yeah, so that thing about less being more.....
Monday, May 02, 2005
At the Pony Up! show on Tuesday, Ingela commented on how indie girl bands have a tendency to have little to no stage presence. It seems as though the Entertain video goes in evidence baggie number 3, minus Carrie's random arm spasms. That right arm of hers is a lean mean twitching machine.
And I thought there couldn't possibly be any more shows that I would want to see this summer. Ha ha ha! E-gad. My cash flow is in serious danger of being clogged with a huge hairy ball of concert tickets and empty beer bottles. I'm thinking job number two is maybe a must be. Blech.
THE SECRET HISTORY OF PUNK ROCK: VISUAL VITRIOL
I've posted a couple of nice flyers that I got from the now defunct website, cosmicwaste.com to accompany it(no, there is no link- I said defunct!) .
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Friday's Stars show was amazing. Montag, some Montreal man made of pure cheese stole mine and Becky's hearts with his awkwardly delicious dairy, despite the fact that he had a song called "Scrabble Heart" in which he sings: "We'll double the word score.......we'll triple the word score...." in an awful French accent.
And of course, The Wooden Stars were adored by all, regardless of(or perhaps due to) their washed up, settled down ex-punk rocker appearance. We're talkin' wool sweaters, old white tennis shoes and receding hairlines. It was a little endearing, really. And the lead sing has this amazing voice, so full of urgency, guts and teeth.
The Organ, on the other hand was a bit disappointing. They didn't seem to like being in Montreal. Or being on stage. Or playing instruments. The only thing that was keeping them going was the fact that they were robot zombies, being controlled with funny little joysticks by the members of the Stars backstage. That has to be it. We were very happy to see the Stars. And they were fantastic.
The Brunettes opened for the Shins. I liked them. They were a big 7 piece band from New Zealand, and their lead singer's name is pronounced Hitha, because in crazy backwards New Zealand world, they pronounce ea as i, and er as a.
Blah ditty blah blah.... Lets get to the jumpy jumpy fun fun fun.....
FRIDAY NIGHT: The Futureheads show! We got there late apparently, thanks to tons of high school kids and their lack of any sense of fashionably-lateness. Thank god I knew they were there for Hot Hot Heat, and I could completely disassociate myself from them, and you know, mock them and stuff. But the scoundrels were packing the joint up so tight that we were unable to squeeze our way to the front. We weren't really that far back at all, just enough so that lead singer Barry couldn't spot us dancing. I tried to wave at him a few times, all friendly-like, as if we were great pals. He didn't see me. I think Ross the guitarist might have, but we didn't speak to him when they were here last time, so he had no idea that we were Barry's Montreal Girls. I told Ingela to yell out "Ingela Travers plus one!" but it didn't really fly. Nor did any of my other conniving schemes to get backstage, or somehow signal to Barry to go to Korova's instead of crappy Pistol.
We almost left when Hot Hot Heat came on, but thank god we endured them for about 40 minutes, because they ended up saving our butts. Mr. Stupid hair announced that the after-party was at the Green Room. We made our way there shortly after. We got there at about 11:30, and waited such a long time. Just when we were beginning to feel particularly dejected and disappointed, Barry and Bassist Jaff walked in, and we ended up having a wild night of dancing with Barry. He was pretty wasted by the end of the night, and that totally worked in our favour. He was completely ours. It was unbelievable. The second best part of the night was when he moved my hand onto his ass, and I'm just thinking "holy FUCK, I am groping Barry Futureheads butt!" while trying to remain perfectly cool and not step on his feet. What was the first best part of the night, you ask? Good question.....
I really think he would have stayed with us until 6 am, had his tour manager not dragged him away from us. I gave him my favorite pin, the pink Robot one, in honour of their song of the same name. It better be put to use. I love that pin.
Even still, I would trade robot pin for that night again in a heartbeat.
Oh, Barry. You really can't dance very well to hip hop. But we still love you.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
she read the news about shakespeare today
she opens her mouth but has nothing to say
the world is not as it appears
she drinks some more to quell her fears
she acts the part of juliet
in her bedroom for her tabby cat
he stabs the dragon in the toe
and for a while it's touch and go
he prevails though in the end
so his ego's well defended
she licks its blood from off his hand
they fuck right there in dragonland
don't you wanna be regaled
with a fractured fairy tale
don't you wanna close your eyes
we control our own demise
we flew paper airplanes in parc jean-drapeau
I'm having trouble letting go
yours flies steadier than mine
I guess I've always been behind
the things that move the things that grow
I'm having trouble letting go
now I just need a tune!
other things that made me happy today:
-a yummy spinach and cheese pastry from Altaib for 1.75
-2 Marlboro lites from korea
-being able to explain Romanticism and how it relates to Nationalism, tying it all in a pretty bow with Wagner (I wowed 'em, let me tell you)
-a creepy homeless guy complimenting my blue shoes
-a guy rapping (quite eloquently) for spare change to take the bus home to Candiac- which I believe he rhymed with heart attack.
-a ticket to Of Montreal
-a ticket to the Stars/the Organ
-a ticket to Pony Up!/the Lovely feathers
- the guy at esoteric recognizing me (I've only been to this record store 5 times in the past two weeks)
Saturday, April 02, 2005
April 24th: Of Montreal
April 26th: The Lovely Feathers and Pony Up!
And my very last exam is on the 22nd. What a beautiful way to say "So long, suckaas!"
Friday, April 01, 2005
We won't even go into guys here. That's a bit too obvious. What I'm talking about is much more vapid and shallow.
There is a poster. A brilliant poster from the late '80's to early '90's that I must have, but I cannot find it anywhere. It's of actual kittens, dressed in little Rat-pack suits, smoking in a public bathroom.
Stop and think now. Can you see it? Yeah, I know! Isn't it great?
It's a classic, I'm sure of it, and yet somehow, it has ceased to exist. Is it possible that this pop-culture fabrication is fading from our collective unconscious? And I, and perhaps a few others like me, are the few sad folks who will remember this tasteless, yet charmingly irreverent piece of Americana and when we die, it shall be wiped from the world's memory forever. What a sad sad day that will be.
P.S. It looks way better than this, the one I'm thinking of. There also should be a kitten Brando. Can't find that either.
Oh, and he's Of Montreal Kevin Barnes' brother.
And he'll do your portrait for 150 smackers!
. . . right after I watch Lost.*
. . . and do some laundry.
. . . and pee.
*addendum: fuck. that was such a good episode. Locke is probably the most interesting charachter on tv this year. And Sawyer is the hottest- even wearing dorky frankenstein glasses.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Is this what limbo feels like, the biblical limbo where all those good kids who weren't baptized go?
And I only lost it for an hour too.
We have to fill out the application, which asks who your favorite artists are, and why you want to have a radio show. So I figure I'll post my possible answers here, and people can tell me if I sound hip.
Favorite artists: (I'm thinking I should have some classic stuff, but also some stuff that's a bit obscure. So that hopefully someone there will look at it and go, "Oh, yeah! Those guys are the shit! But, hmmm... who is that? Interesting.") The Clash, The Futureheads, Blondie, pre-1998 Liz Phair, Nick Drake, Matthew Sweet, Sleater-Kinney, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Sonic Youth, The New Pornographers, Radiohead, Bjork, MC5, Iggy and the Stooges, The Raincoats, The Slits, X, Neutral Milk Hotel, Iron and Wine, The Lovely Feathers, Broken Social Scene and Television.
Why I want a radio show: (this is a fukin' hard, fuckin' pain in the ass question and it violates my constitutional right to have a college radio show.) Music is a HUGE part of my life. I am the embodiment of rock n' roll. Not really, but I've read some books about people who are, and I try to be like them. I get abnormally excited when two songs I mix sound really great next to each other, and sometimes, when I'm alone in my room, I'll listen to the transition over and over again(this part is good, eh?). Also, I talk a bunch.
Also, we need a super-fantastico name for our show. Becky suggested "happy hour." Please, we need help. What about "A to B"? It's a Futureheads song, and we are Aurora and Becky. Clever? Lame?
Thursday, March 17, 2005
She should totally sell them on e-bay too. This one would look swanky on my winter coat.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
No? Okay, I'll keep yammerin' then.
I went to a Concordia ArtMatters party on Friday. It was meant to be a video instillation, with . . . weird arty pretentious videos, or something? But it turned out to be this horny love-crazed house (it actually took place in a Concordia building) party instead. Gay guys were hitting on straight guys, straight girls were hitting on gay girls, gay girls were hitting on gay guys, and straight guys were hitting on doorknobs. By the end of the night, I was quite smashed (thanks to $2 beers), and I had this odd sensation that, unbeknownst to me, I had just participated in some strange psychological experiment/arty pretentious video. Things were done. . . . naughty things involving bathroom line-ups and conveniently(strategically?) located empty storage cabinets. But you don't want to hear about that.
Maybe you'll see it all at next year's "video instillation" party.
I was mad for a minute there because I thought it was telling me I smelled like butt. Like, how can you determine that from a quiz? Unless one of the questions was "do people often tell you that you smell like butt?" or "when you walk into a room, do people make strained faces of anguish? Do some of them leave?" Apparently, I am just the kind of person who would tell someone they smell like butt. Which I, strangely enough, did already today.
congratulations. You are the "you smell like
butt" bunny. you're brutally honest and
always say what's on your mind.
which happy bunny are you?
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Apparently, we are not alone.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
And I so wanted to write all about the wonderful evening of Saturday last. Accompanied by my dear friends and then some other people whose names I was relieved to remember when I had to make introductions, I went to Le Swimming (Bienvenue to Quebec, land of le confused french article-engish verb combo) and saw the Lovely Feathers, and the Golden Dogs. Both acts were inspiring. And when I say inspiring I mean that the music effected me physically. And by that I mean I stood 2 inches from the stage, dancing like a marionette being controlled by the choreographer from Footloose if he were actually an evil mastermind bent on avenging the death of his Yorkshire terrier, who had been trampled by a mob of very organized ballroom dancers, by making them all dance like retards. You follow?
Becky and Walter's friend Angela were kind enough to dance next to me, enabling further retardation on my part. The music was fantastic, by the way. I'd never seen the Golden Dogs before. They were so full of energy, a la MC5's/Stooges. The tall, lanky lead singer with hippie hair kind of reminded me of the guidance counselor from Freaks and Geeks, Mr. Rosso, but better looking--or a hot Jesus who knows how to kick out the jams!
Speaking of sexy religious icons, I went to the Eternal Egypt exhibit at the Montreal Museum of Fine art yesterday. They have some pretty breathtaking stuff. Pages from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, statues, stelae and even some jewelry. And, damn, some of those Egyptian Kings were hotties. Especially Sesostris III, who's about 3800 years old. Nice pecks, dude.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
I got to Mount Royal metro, and Ing was already there. As we waited for tardy Becky, I applied my mascara with only a vague Plexiglas reflection to assist me ("how perfectly white trash," I remarked) as Ing told some disturbing tale about Becky's cat swallowing, and subsequently pooping out a rubber balloon--un-inflated, I'm assuming.
Becky arrived, and as we made our way towards El Salon, we promptly revived our discussion from the previous evening: our band name. Crucial, crucial stuff here. Suggestions were plentiful, and plenty uninspiring, ranging from "Misanthrope" to "The Latin Lovers" to "Faux beaver." Lacking jazziness, to say the least.
A sign on the door of the venue "requests" that we do not smoke. Scoffing ensues. Inside, the coat check lineup is ridiculously long. But that's okay, because the first opening act is easily ignorable, inspiring no desire to rush to the front of the stage and revel in their crappieness. Plus, waiting in line gives us the opportunity to scope out the crowd, and point and laugh at people. One guy in particular captures our attention. Coke-bottle glasses, tapered jeans and white keds. E-gad. I whisper to Ing, "wouldn't it be funny if he ended up being in one of the bands," and we all have a good laugh. Slipping by the merch table, Ing notes the names of the opening acts, "The Shout Outlouds" and "Highspeed Scene", and their lack of the all-important jazziness factor. I buy a pack of Futureheads pins for 3 bucks. Irresistible, as they conform to the pink-black-white motif I've got going with my current accumulation on my purse. I kid not.
Our coats are secured away, and we venture towards the right side of the stage.
In a beautiful, beautiful moment, the second opening act comes on, complete with coke-bottle -glasses-guy, as drummer. Priceless. These Shout Outlouds turn out to redeem themselves, however, by a) being from Sweden (which somehow excuses any fashion accidents) b)having a lead singer who vaguely resembles Jason Shwartzmann, and c) actually being pretty damn good, and rockin' the joint like a bunch of crazy "Scandies-" as Becky chooses to refer to them as. They are a crowd pleaser. And that is a rare thing for an opening act in Montreal, let me tell you....
The Futureheads jump on stage shortly after, and they seem just as happy to be here as we do. It's quite refreshing, really. They look all spiffy, in loafers and black dress pants, but their mischievous smiles and the random jabs at each other betray this formality. Like a bunch of young hoodlums being forced to dress up for church by their mums. It's endearing.
The music starts, and we're infused with massive amounts of energy. I'm dancing like an idiot. I can't stop myself. I'm a slave to the sound. By the third song, the three of us have maneuvered our way to the very edge of the stage, in arms reach of the bassist, Jaff. They can't help but notice us, the dancing fools that we are. Every look from Jaff, lead singer Barry and drummer Dave, inspire us to no end. And just as we think we've run out of steam, they play "Hounds of Love" and there's that second wind. But, uh... gross, my bangs are all sweaty! Oh, fuck it. Dance on!
When the show is over, we are buzzed, but disgustingly hot. There's a back door that the bands have been coming in and out of, and no security whatsoever, so we cross the line into "backstage" territory, and step out the backdoor for some fresh air, and a smoke. A few minutes go by, and two of the band members walk right by us. I call out to them "Great show guys!" One of them says thanks, and I say, "It was really awesome." Awesome? Really? Oh, crap. Possibly the lamest words ever. Or at that moment in time they were anyway. Soon, the four of them are about to turn the corner, and I'm thinking.... do it you fool! Just ask them! Before it's too late! So I do.
"Where are guys going?" The lead singer hears me. He turns back. "After the show," I add, "Are you going somewhere?"
"Yeah. Some party, " he says. Oh, great, I think. A private thing. No fans allowed kinda deal. But wait! He calls out to one of his bandmates, "What's this place called?" He turns back to us. "Pistol? You know this place?" Do I?!
"Yeah. Yeah!" we all chime in. " It's just a few blocks down," and "they have good sandwiches,” and "good fries."
"Right. Thanks." And he's off. Cue giddiness.
Oh. My. God. We look at each other and exchange profanities. "Tell me I am the coolest person in the world," I say, or something to that effect. They do.
Soon after, some homely looking girl pokes her head outside, all frazzled and lost, and asks us if the band left. She gave them a CD (to sign, I'm assuming) and wants it back. We just sort of shake our heads and tell her we think they're getting changed in the tour bus. She leaves, and we reflect on the insipidness of autograph collecting.
We decide that the best thing to do is waste an hour or so, as we don't want to be sitting at Pistol waiting for them when they arrive. 'Cause, you know, that would just be sad. Ahemm. Yes.
We go for noodles right across from the Pistol, and talk about our fabulousness some more, and work out some of our band logistics. Then, the time comes.
Once inside, we wait for a table to open up at the bar, nursing our Heinekens, and assessing the Furtureheads sitch. They're all stuffed in this little corner together with their friends. We see little opportunity for mingling. But, the night is young, and a table frees up. We sit. Soon enough, someone appears at our table.
"Hi Girls." It’s the lead singer. And HE came to talk to US. "I'm Barry." He offers his hand. We shake. No hesitation there. At first, he just crouches at the edge of the table, and we talk briefly about our dancing, the Montreal crowds, and the music scene. He turns back to his group, and says, "hold on a minute," very politely, and Ingela says "smooth exit."
"You don't think he's actually coming back," I ask, not out of naïveté, but from the sense that he seems like an honest guy, who, if he were finished talking to us, would actually say a proper goodbye. And, whatdaya know, he does come back. Pulls up a chair in fact, sets his glass of white wine firmly on our table, and chats with us for a good 15 minutes. About sleeping on a tour bus, Conan O’Brien, Kate Bush and weird stalker fans that follow them from show to show. And of course, about our band: Leave it to Beaver (working title). Honestly though, I don’t think that impressed him much.
Of course, Ingela simply mentions the fact that she's heading back to Toronto the next day, and he offers to put her on the guest list. But she's floored. He goes out of his way to find a pen, and proceeds to write her name, plus one, on his hand. She's dying inside. And in the good way. Becky and I wish we lived in Toronto, so he would write our names on his hand too, until we realize.... wait.... that would mean we would actually have to live in Toronto. Never mind.
We wait until they've cleared out completely to leave the bar. Ing insists on doing some zany arm-flailing dance on Boul. St Laurent, accompanied by some literal woo-hooing, to my and Becky’s chagrin.
I console myself with the fact that Ingela owes it all to my courageous act, of daring to speak to them. It's sort of working.
Lying awake in Becky’s living room, too wired to fall asleep, I tell Ing, "I'm never not doing that again . . .. If that makes any sense."
"I'm pretty sure I know what you mean," she tells me. As I write this, she is probably on her way to the Toronto show. Have fun Ing. I hate you.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
2. The last CD you bought was... Pony Up! Yes. I am that cool.
3. What was the last song you listened to before reading this message? Of Montreal - Jaques.
4. Write down five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you. Okay. These songs all represent major musical landmarks in my life:
1)The Dead Kennedys - Holiday In Cambodia: Unbeknownst to me, I am exposed to punk rock, and like it (about 7 years later). Age 10.
2)REM- Losing My Religion: I "discover" my first band. Age 12.
3)Nirvana - Polly: I learn about teen angst. Age 12.
4) The Beatles - Elanor Rigby: I learn how to play the guitar on this song. Age 15.
5) Sonic Youth - Self-Obsessed and Sexxee: Not only does this sum up my self-image at this point in my life perfectly, but I'm listening to something really weird, and starting to understand it. Age 16.
Also, in honour of my birthday(march 2nd) The Lovely Feathers were kind enough to schedule a show on Saturday, the 5th at Le Swimming. So I'm dragging everyone downtown-kicking and screaming.
Monday, February 21, 2005
"On our way back to the motel after Friday's races I warned Steadmen about some of the other problems we'd have to cope with. Neither of us had brought any strange illegal drugs, so we would have to get by on booze. 'You should keep in mind,' I said, 'that almost everybody you talk to from now on will be drunk. People who seem very pleasant at first might suddenly swing at you for no reason at all.' "He was a brilliant man with an acid tongue, who wasn't afraid to say exactly what he thought. This got him into trouble, but it also made him a kind of cult-hero. Someone for bitter, disenchanted youth such as myself to look up to.
"My first feeling was a wild desire to drive a stake in the sand and claim the place for myself. . . . I had never seen such a place. I wanted to take off all my clothes and never wear them again."When you read Hunter Thompson, you get this feeling, that if you were to hang out with the man, you would fear for your life, and yet, if somehow he got you killed, it would be worth it. It would be the most dazzling, spectacular death the world had ever seen.
"No matter how much I wanted all those things that I needed money to buy, there was some devilish current pushing me off in another direction--towards anarchy and poverty and craziness. That maddening delusion that a man can lead a decent life without hiring himself out as a Judas Goat."Passion, intoxication, and brutal honesty. What more could you ask for in a journalist? Oh, there's talent. That was never an issue.
Goodbye, Raul Duke
Quotes: 1) from "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" 1970.
2 and 3) from "The Rum Diary," started: 1959 published: 1998.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Wow. I just realized that I, tragically, have zero
vampire-related content on my blog. I apologize for
this oversight, and will rectify the situation.
Here is one of my rejected McSweeney's Lists:
Where Vampires are a Valid Form of Currency, and
also Exist OR Taking Common Expressions About Money
and Replacing the Word Money With the Word Vampires
and Seeing Which Expressions Still Hold True
1. Time is vampires.
2. Put your vampire where your
3. Not for all the vampires in the world.
4. Vampires don't grow
5. Vampires are the root of all evil.
6. It takes vampires to
7. Vampires can't buy you happiness.
8. Vampires talk.
9. Vampires make the world go round.
10. Your vampire, or your life.
11. Take the vampires and run.
12. He's got vampires to burn.
13. Give me all your vampires, or the old lady gets it!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
(Walter: If you read this, leave me a "comment" for god's sake! Otherwise, I will go through Walter withdrawls. You know what I'm saying. Something about endorphines and... intoxicated monkeys?)
Sorry, everyone else.
Come to think of it, even if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, that was still kinda funny, wasn't it?
So Nancy, Steph and I went tobogganing on Friday at the BGC, or more accurately, krazy-karpeting. Now one might easily jump to the conclusion that "crazy" is just one of those words tacked on to a product name to boost sales, like "mega!" or "XXX" or the Quebec favorite "super!" In this case, you would be wrong. Krazy Karpets are in fact crazy. Certifiable. They aren't especially fantastic at flying down hills, but they are, like a crazy person, impossible to predict, irrational, easily startled and I think mine was drooling a bit at the mouth. And like when spending time with a crazy person, one feels somewhat uncomfortable, yet exited at the same time, and the craziness rubs off on you a bit too, because even though your Krazy Karpet just flipped you over, and you think you might have a mild concussion? You run back up that hill to have another go.
In other news: My classes are going really well this semester. I think I'll be doing the Honours program. Although, it would be nice if I had some money to pay for school. I hate looking for a job. I just don't like selling myself. It makes me feel......... dirty. And not in a good way.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Sunday, February 13, 2005
So, normally, I'm on the up-and-up, as far as new music is concerned. But lately I've noticed a few people saying things like "you know, The Fiery Furnaces? Oh, of course you do. You're Aurora."
Somehow, Limewire slipped under my radar. I've been struggling with Soulseek for months, and their elitist regime of "the more files you have, the higher your downloads priority." Brutality. Accursed I-pod-people.
Well, I'm a socialist, baby. And so is Limewire.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Anyway, I've discovered they are changing their name to "The Living Blue." I guess they really liked the name of their album. And this all leaves me quite curious as to the deeper meaning behind the "living" and the "blue" or perhaps the blue-ish qualities of said life.
My favorite show went off the air last night
My band got arrested when they got in a fight
My bike got stolen from off my front stoop
Oh Jesus, oh man, I'm asking you
How do I believe in a god who
lets stuff like this slide
I don't want to pray to a god who
isn't on my side
I can't find a vegan putine anywhere
Punk rock is corrupted and nobody cares
The metro never gets me to the bus on time
Can't the cops see skateboarding isn't a crime
God God God
I don't believe in you
God God God
So sad , too bad, boo hoo
God God God
I might just feel inclined
To suddenly change my mind
If I found a hunderd dollar bill
Or if I fell gravely ill
Anyway, I guess it's about some sad, self-centered, whiny college kid. I think we've all been that kid at some point in our lives. Admit it.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Intelligent Design is a label fabricated by Fundamentalist Christians, to make it sound all acedemic, when infact, it's simply creationism: the idea that some more intelligent, powerful being is responsible for the creation of the universe, eg-God. These religious fundamentalists believe it should be taught along side Evolution, as an "alternative theory". They get all bent out of shape, whining about how Evolution is "only a theory."
See, the problem is that a theory is a hypothesis that has stood up to rigorous scientific testing, and thus been accepted by the scientific community, published in a journal and whatnot. Can't really see that happening with Intelligent Design. And it's not that kids shouldn't know that this idea is out there, it's just that it should not be taught in the context of a science class. It isn't science
It's too bad that so many people can't manage to reconcile their spiritual beliefs with the world of science. Maybe they find it cold and inaccesable. Maybe they just don't understand how science works. Sure, Evolution is just a theory. So is gravity, relativity, and lots of other junk that we just assume is true about the universe. But scientists acknowledge that. Nothing is written in stone. Maybe that's what really scares the religious fundamentalists.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
I played around with Flash MX 2004.
I started a blog.
I don't know. Maybe I only tend to notice the freaky or pathetic looking loners when I'm at a show, and there are really all these really cool loners who just kinda blend into the crowd. But would I be a crowd blender? That is the scary question.
Well hopefully I'll get another chance to see Pony Up! I bought their new mini album last week. It's catchy and fun. Kinda like Liz Phair, circa 1994. Apperently, they are Montreal's "hot up-and-comers" or some such rubbish, according to Spin Magazine. And It's not just one Montreal band getting attention. Suddenly, This is the City. The new epicentre of indie rock.
Well, according to the people who write the articles, anyway.
...the next big pop movement will not involve accordions accompanied by crooning chanteuses. This one involves a coven of English speakers who have banded together up and down Boulevard St. Laurent in the Mile End neighborhood, filling lofts, community centers, bars and restaurants with sumptuous noise. Montreal, which leaves serious business to Toronto and revels in its work-to-live ethic, has drawn Anglophones from all over Canada to form bands, record labels and a full-blown scene.
Cold Fusion: Montreal's Explosive Music Scene, David Carr
February 6, 2005
The New York Times
Whatever. I just likes the good music.