IDs and DJs

I lost my wallet yesterday. It's amazing how much of a persons life can depend upon the contents of a folded up piece of leather. Who am I without my student ID? My jazzy neon bus pass!My bank card, drivers license and Java U coffee stamp card! I only needed one more stamp until the free one! Why god, why? Suddenly, I'm transformed into a non-citizen, a street urchin. I have no picture ID. How will I prove I'm over 18 when I'm buying cigarettes for the high school kids?

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.

* * *

So Becky and I are applying for a slot on CJLO this summer. I am totally stoked. And I am also stoked about incorporating "stoked" into my first on-air commentary as much as humanly possible, likely forcing Becky to hurl the mic across the studio until it's in itty-bitty pieces.

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?

Advanced Geometry/Crocheting 201

A model of a hyperbolic plane, or a new toy for kitty?

Apparently, mathematician Daina Taimina is the first person to create an accurate model of the crazy fucked up geometric shape, the hyperbolic plane. And she did it with knitting. Right on, sistah!

She should totally sell them on e-bay too. This one would look swanky on my winter coat.

Holy Toledo!

In some strange act of kizmit or serendipity or whatever crazy mojo happens when you never saw it coming, the Lovely Feathers will be playing with my other favorite Montreal band, Pony Up! Outstanding. April 26th, Sala Rossa. It boggles the mind I tell you! I think I'm going to pass out now.

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.

Oh Happy Bunny, I am your slave.

I know, I know. Goddamn quizzes. But I could not resist the Happy Bunny. Please Forgive me.

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?

I'll show you stupid and shallow!

This website is like crack. For shallow, self-absorbed people. But in a very post-modern way. Like, it's cool that I'm shallow and stuff, because I am actually one with my shallowness. And I can turn it on and off at will. Or maybe it's because neither I nor any of my friends look like supermodels, so we feel entitled to insult other people's bad fashion choices, to boost our egos.

Apparently, we are not alone.

dogs and gods

Yeesh. It's been too long, friends. And it's not even that I had nothing to blog about, I just came down with a bad case of schoolitis. It was ugly, let me tell you. More than one evening of uninterrupted studying-in a row! Unbearable.

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.

E.T. has a bladder too!

To make up for my tardieness, here is something from me!

Little Feather

Late. Sorry.

Futureheads Revisited

I don't even know how to begin conveying the fantastic-ness that was the Futureheads show. Whoo, boy. This is going to take a while.

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.

Obligatory questionnaire

1. Total amount of music files on your computer? 520. If my music file gets too big, my dad will get pissed. Please pity me.

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.

My uncharacteristically up-beat blog entry

Yeah, daddy! I got my first employment insurance check today, earlier than I thought. Which is a very good thing, considering I had merely enough to buy my March bus pass, which was really starting to depress me. Also, I finally found a new job. I'm going to be a receptionist for one of the programs at Concordia (sounds too exciting for words, doesn't it!). I owe this job find to my good friend Nancy, who recommended me. This is actually the first time I've found a job through connections, as opposed to random resume dropping, and the ever-professional showering of zillions of cv's tossed out the hovering helicopter technique. That one's always an attention-getter.

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.

Gonzo Forever

One of my favorite writers, Hunter S. Thompson, died last night.

"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.

He lived.

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.

Reverse Dictionary

This is the coolest thing ever!

I mean, if you are a big dork and stuff...

The other day, I couldn't remember the word "misanthrope." So I searched under "dislikes humanity" and presto-magico!

Blah!

 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
mouth is.
3. Not for all the vampires in the world.
4. Vampires don't grow
on trees.
5. Vampires are the root of all evil.
6. It takes vampires to
make vampires.
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!
  

> True:4,6,7,8,12

Little Feather

new feature!

Okay, not so much a new feature, as an actual feature. I will be posting a weekly comic strip called "Little Feather" by Walter Scott. So stay tuned!

(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?

Mentally ill floor coverings

Okay, so I've been posting drawings instead of actually writing about what's been going on with me lately. But look at the pretty pictures! Preetee!

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.

Sometimes, I can draw. Here's an angry kitty. But he's cool, 'cause he likes the Clash.

Hey... I like the Clash! Weird.

Class notes

My friend Walter and I took notes together in Biological Anthropology yesterday.

He's the good artist.