30/11/03
29/11/03
So I went to the show at the Vogue last night. I hadn't been in that building since before I moved to this city, when it was still the old Wormwood's theatre. That was the first building I ever hung out in, in Halifax. Motorcar Mark (who posts here under a baffling range of pseudonyms) and I visited in, what, 97? for the Atlantic Film Festival debut of the film Unspoken, which had a bunch of my first band's songs on the soundtrack. Mark was the co-producer of the flick. I think this was around the time that I joined his band. Anyway, it was a fun trip, and pretty much kickstarted my love affair with this town. My mom offered the solemn advice to "just stay away from Gottingen street," and, haha, where else does the debut happen? Place seemed pretty innocuous to me, with just the right dose of seediness. After moving here shortly thereafter (yet another story worthy of its own entry), and living here for five years, I still think the North End's where it's at.
The debut went off without a hitch, besides being delayed by an hour or so, and got huge cheers from the audience. Probably 'cause it mostly consisted of people involved with the film, heh. I can't really offer an objective opinion, but, well, it's no Citizen Kane. To the writer/director's credit though, it was his first effort, and the entire thing was done on a budget of like five grand. FIVE GRAND! Yr lucky if you can get a decent haircut for that kind of money these days. The vast majority of the cast had never acted before, and everyone involved did their part for free. Dude who made the thing is now the head of the film department at UNB. If you wanna see a cross section of my mid-nineties circle of friends, or hear my painfully-earnest first band, go rent the thing at Video Difference. There's even a coupla girls with whom I had brief flings in it. One of 'em dies a nicely ironic death.
Anyway, I hit snooze a few too many times on my alarm last night, and ended up missing the first bit of the show. People whose tastes in music I generally trust tell me the Action Set sucks, but I'd like to at least be able to form my own opinion. Oh well. I got there just in time to see Capital Death, and it was the best I've ever seen them play. It almost made me wanna go slam around a bit, and I haven't done that in years. Mikey Scapegoat and some gargantuan punx fucker were bringing the testosterone though, and I'm on my last pair of glasses, so just as well. Right before their set, Dave finally presented me with my Mystery Gift. The anticipation for this moment had been building for months. Was it a record player? A trip to Disneyland? A punch in the face? It was...
...a Huey Lewis and the News LP?
Hey, cool. Dave Brown, you are one odd motherfucker. One of these days you'll realize that Doug and the Slugs is where it's at.
My stomach was eating itself at this point, so after Capital Death's set, I headed over to the diner next door to eat breakfast, garnering a surprising amount of Huey Lewis-related commentary on the way. Rushed through a plate of fettucine with melted-plastic sauce (that's what I get for asking for the quickest thing on the menu, I guess), and headed back to the Vogue to catch the tail end of what turned out to be some forgettable sxe band from Vermont. I'd thought the Hold were up next (so did they, apparrently), and I really didn't wanna miss their set. I'd finally gotten around to seeing 'em just the saturday before, and damn. They're fucking authentic. Crystal is cool shit, too. They ended up playing later for some reason, and I hadta fuck off to work before their set. Bummer. I'm also kinda pissed that I didn't get to see Envision, if only for the sheer absurdity of seeing Gerry play bass in a straight edge band. Stupid fucking job.
It didn't occur to me at the time, but I also had quite possibly the nerdiest conversation ever last night, having a cigarette outside between bands:
Her: What's yr name?
Me: *introduces self*
Her: Oh, cool. I read yr website!
Me: Wow, neat! What's yr name?
Her: *introduces herself*
Me: Oh, cool. I read yr website too!
I can see how this sort of conversation might be commonplace at, say, a Star Trek convention, or a Magic; The Gathering tournament, but outside a punk rock show? Haha, what an age we live in. Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Claudette. You seem like a pretty righteous gal, and definitely someone I'd enjoy talking to more extensively if we ever run into each other again.
There is absolutely fuck all to do tonight. I'm recording until nine, and then nada. I'm gonna go out on a giant, unexplored, possibly extremely-lame limb here. Nattyroo? Natty? I don't know what to call you. Anyway, what you should do is ignore the retarded e-mail I sent you, and give me a call. I'm in the phone book. I've been coy all my life, and I'm sick of it. Life is short, and I never meet girls I'm even remotely interested in. Let's meet.
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The debut went off without a hitch, besides being delayed by an hour or so, and got huge cheers from the audience. Probably 'cause it mostly consisted of people involved with the film, heh. I can't really offer an objective opinion, but, well, it's no Citizen Kane. To the writer/director's credit though, it was his first effort, and the entire thing was done on a budget of like five grand. FIVE GRAND! Yr lucky if you can get a decent haircut for that kind of money these days. The vast majority of the cast had never acted before, and everyone involved did their part for free. Dude who made the thing is now the head of the film department at UNB. If you wanna see a cross section of my mid-nineties circle of friends, or hear my painfully-earnest first band, go rent the thing at Video Difference. There's even a coupla girls with whom I had brief flings in it. One of 'em dies a nicely ironic death.
Anyway, I hit snooze a few too many times on my alarm last night, and ended up missing the first bit of the show. People whose tastes in music I generally trust tell me the Action Set sucks, but I'd like to at least be able to form my own opinion. Oh well. I got there just in time to see Capital Death, and it was the best I've ever seen them play. It almost made me wanna go slam around a bit, and I haven't done that in years. Mikey Scapegoat and some gargantuan punx fucker were bringing the testosterone though, and I'm on my last pair of glasses, so just as well. Right before their set, Dave finally presented me with my Mystery Gift. The anticipation for this moment had been building for months. Was it a record player? A trip to Disneyland? A punch in the face? It was...
...a Huey Lewis and the News LP?
Hey, cool. Dave Brown, you are one odd motherfucker. One of these days you'll realize that Doug and the Slugs is where it's at.
My stomach was eating itself at this point, so after Capital Death's set, I headed over to the diner next door to eat breakfast, garnering a surprising amount of Huey Lewis-related commentary on the way. Rushed through a plate of fettucine with melted-plastic sauce (that's what I get for asking for the quickest thing on the menu, I guess), and headed back to the Vogue to catch the tail end of what turned out to be some forgettable sxe band from Vermont. I'd thought the Hold were up next (so did they, apparrently), and I really didn't wanna miss their set. I'd finally gotten around to seeing 'em just the saturday before, and damn. They're fucking authentic. Crystal is cool shit, too. They ended up playing later for some reason, and I hadta fuck off to work before their set. Bummer. I'm also kinda pissed that I didn't get to see Envision, if only for the sheer absurdity of seeing Gerry play bass in a straight edge band. Stupid fucking job.
It didn't occur to me at the time, but I also had quite possibly the nerdiest conversation ever last night, having a cigarette outside between bands:
Her: What's yr name?
Me: *introduces self*
Her: Oh, cool. I read yr website!
Me: Wow, neat! What's yr name?
Her: *introduces herself*
Me: Oh, cool. I read yr website too!
I can see how this sort of conversation might be commonplace at, say, a Star Trek convention, or a Magic; The Gathering tournament, but outside a punk rock show? Haha, what an age we live in. Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Claudette. You seem like a pretty righteous gal, and definitely someone I'd enjoy talking to more extensively if we ever run into each other again.
There is absolutely fuck all to do tonight. I'm recording until nine, and then nada. I'm gonna go out on a giant, unexplored, possibly extremely-lame limb here. Nattyroo? Natty? I don't know what to call you. Anyway, what you should do is ignore the retarded e-mail I sent you, and give me a call. I'm in the phone book. I've been coy all my life, and I'm sick of it. Life is short, and I never meet girls I'm even remotely interested in. Let's meet.
|
28/11/03
Shake it like a polaroid picture.
Um... Toby, why are yr pants undone?
Could I possibly look a little more gay?
...nope, but I know who can. Love the scarf, Will!
Christ, I look like Sam the Eagle.
Soooooo... Buy Nothing Day again, eh? Good thing I bought beer yesterday, har har!
I remember the raging debate about this whole deal on the old Punk Board last year. A lot of people were calling into question the purpose of such an exercise in apparent futility. I took the position that it's intended as a symbolic gesture, designed to highten general social awareness or somesuch, rather than some sort of pathetic attempt at grinding capitalism to a cute little 24-hour halt. I sure hope I'm on the right page about that, 'cause it really would be abjectly silly otherwise. I can't say as I really know, 'cause I stopped reading Adbusters around the time it turned into some kind of quarterly pop-up-book for depressed semioticians. I suppose I'll get the skinny if I ever get around to reading Kalle Lasn's book. God help me if it's a collection of photo essays.
Funny, it was not long after that debate that a good portion of the regulars retreated back to the 902 board (I'm too lazy to make linky-link right now- maybe I'll come back and edit this after a solid eight hours'). Whatever. Anyway, as with just about every other damn thing under the sun, I'm ambivalent about Buy Nothing Day. It's an idea I'm willing to propagate, but I feel no need to practice it. Call me a hypocrite, but with something like this, the thought is all that counts. The gesture itself is perfunctory.
So yeah... speaking of, um, semioticians and shit (try that segue in day-to-day conversation):
You are Michel Foucault! You wrote groundbreaking
histories of prisons, hospitals, asylums, and
sex. Interestingly, you thought basically the
same thing about all of them. Your historical
accuracy is a bit dodgy, but that was never
really the point. You were very obsessed with
power roles - so obsessed that you frequented
gay S&M clubs, and died of AIDS in 1984.
What 20th Century Theorist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Cripes. Good thing I dropped outta Contemporary Studies before it came to that.
|
Um... Toby, why are yr pants undone?
Could I possibly look a little more gay?
...nope, but I know who can. Love the scarf, Will!
Christ, I look like Sam the Eagle.
Soooooo... Buy Nothing Day again, eh? Good thing I bought beer yesterday, har har!
I remember the raging debate about this whole deal on the old Punk Board last year. A lot of people were calling into question the purpose of such an exercise in apparent futility. I took the position that it's intended as a symbolic gesture, designed to highten general social awareness or somesuch, rather than some sort of pathetic attempt at grinding capitalism to a cute little 24-hour halt. I sure hope I'm on the right page about that, 'cause it really would be abjectly silly otherwise. I can't say as I really know, 'cause I stopped reading Adbusters around the time it turned into some kind of quarterly pop-up-book for depressed semioticians. I suppose I'll get the skinny if I ever get around to reading Kalle Lasn's book. God help me if it's a collection of photo essays.
Funny, it was not long after that debate that a good portion of the regulars retreated back to the 902 board (I'm too lazy to make linky-link right now- maybe I'll come back and edit this after a solid eight hours'). Whatever. Anyway, as with just about every other damn thing under the sun, I'm ambivalent about Buy Nothing Day. It's an idea I'm willing to propagate, but I feel no need to practice it. Call me a hypocrite, but with something like this, the thought is all that counts. The gesture itself is perfunctory.
So yeah... speaking of, um, semioticians and shit (try that segue in day-to-day conversation):
You are Michel Foucault! You wrote groundbreaking
histories of prisons, hospitals, asylums, and
sex. Interestingly, you thought basically the
same thing about all of them. Your historical
accuracy is a bit dodgy, but that was never
really the point. You were very obsessed with
power roles - so obsessed that you frequented
gay S&M clubs, and died of AIDS in 1984.
What 20th Century Theorist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Cripes. Good thing I dropped outta Contemporary Studies before it came to that.
|
26/11/03
-Bringing fresh laundry in from the laundry room, only to find it still fairly damp when you dress. Finding the dryer now in use when you go back.
-Having a giant painful zit inside yr nostril. What the fuck? Do you look like a teenager? Oh shit, wait... you do.
-Pressing "send," only to decide maybe .08 of a second later that, shit, yeah, that letter was pretty dumb. While trying in vain to somehow delete it before it's sent and recieved, you discover that not only is it pretty dumb, but the font is all fucked-up, and it looks like it was written by a schizophrenic.
-Having to cram a double order into the world's smallest "Super" store because some fucking assclown in the warehouse sent you two of EVERY GODDAMN CASE YOU ORDERED. ON A BIG ORDER. Jagoff.
-Cheapo Molson swill.
-Shaving
-Being unshaven.
-Yr right ear. You will someday amputate this burdensome appendage. You''ll tell everyone it is in tribute to Van Gogh, even though that's a load of crap, and yr not entirely sure offhand which of his he lopped off anyway.
-Dwelling on past injustices.
-Settling for the Blues Explosion because you can't find yr Pussy Galore album.
-Not being able to spend enough playtime with yr dog lately.
-YR STUPID FUCKING RESUME.
-Sacharrine "adult contemporary" cover versions of classic rock n roll songs. THEY WERE RADIO-FRIENDLY ENOUGH IN THE FIRST PLACE.
-Being seemingly-incapable of reacting appropriately to affection.
-The word "pretentious."
|
-Having a giant painful zit inside yr nostril. What the fuck? Do you look like a teenager? Oh shit, wait... you do.
-Pressing "send," only to decide maybe .08 of a second later that, shit, yeah, that letter was pretty dumb. While trying in vain to somehow delete it before it's sent and recieved, you discover that not only is it pretty dumb, but the font is all fucked-up, and it looks like it was written by a schizophrenic.
-Having to cram a double order into the world's smallest "Super" store because some fucking assclown in the warehouse sent you two of EVERY GODDAMN CASE YOU ORDERED. ON A BIG ORDER. Jagoff.
-Cheapo Molson swill.
-Shaving
-Being unshaven.
-Yr right ear. You will someday amputate this burdensome appendage. You''ll tell everyone it is in tribute to Van Gogh, even though that's a load of crap, and yr not entirely sure offhand which of his he lopped off anyway.
-Dwelling on past injustices.
-Settling for the Blues Explosion because you can't find yr Pussy Galore album.
-Not being able to spend enough playtime with yr dog lately.
-YR STUPID FUCKING RESUME.
-Sacharrine "adult contemporary" cover versions of classic rock n roll songs. THEY WERE RADIO-FRIENDLY ENOUGH IN THE FIRST PLACE.
-Being seemingly-incapable of reacting appropriately to affection.
-The word "pretentious."
|
25/11/03
I'm in pain, and sorta at a loss for words right now, so, in lieu of saying anything useful, or at least interesting, I stole this from Gerry's blog.
A is for - Age: 28, but I still get carded all the time.
B is for - Boyfriend/Girlfriend: Nope. Not in a long time.
C is for - Career in future: I'll figure that out when I grow up.
D is for - Dad's name: Bill. He's the epitome of a Bill, from what I know of him.
E is for - Essential item to bring to a party: Do several beer count as an "item"?
F is for - Favorite song at the moment: Planet Claire by the B-52s or Would We Be Alive? by the Residents.
G is for - Guy/Girls you've kissed: Uh, what? Yes?
H is for - Hometown: Bathurst, NB.
I is for - Instruments you play: Geetar. I usedta sing.
J is for - Job title: Grocer? I dunno if that counts now that I'm on the graveyard shift, and don't wear the apron or carry around a spray bottle anymore.
K is for - Kids: I am a big, sulky one.
L is for - Living arrangement: A cockroach-infested basement apartment right next to the laundry room. It's a nice-enough place if you ignore the vermin and my slobbiness.
M is for - Mom's name: Donna
N is for - Number of people you've slept with: Less than 2 hands' worth, more than 1 (besides adding the apostrophe, I stole that verbatim from Mr Hubley)
O is for - Overnight hospital stays: Suck.
P is for - Phobia[s]: I am deathly afraid of heights.
Q is for - Quote you like: "I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well." -Thoreau
R is for - Relationship that lasted the longest: Three or four months with Gen.
S is for - Sexual position: Hard up.
T is for - Time you wake up: Seven or eight in the evening.
U is for - Unique trait(s): This would be better posed to someone who knows me. I dunno, my lop-sided face? I'm uniquely skilled at being perpetually late.
V is for - Vegetable you love: I like 'em all. 'Cept maybe brussels sprouts, but I'll eat 'em if they're on my plate.
W is for - Worst habit: I'm an alcoholic chain-smoker. Take yr pick.
X is for - X-rays you've had: More than I could count.
Y is for - Yummy food you make: I make killer: guacamole, chocolate chip cookies, and veggie chili. I haven't been cooking at all lately though.
Z is for - Zodiac sign: Cancer. How appropriate.
Cara, I'm doing the resume thing tonight. 100% for real.
|
A is for - Age: 28, but I still get carded all the time.
B is for - Boyfriend/Girlfriend: Nope. Not in a long time.
C is for - Career in future: I'll figure that out when I grow up.
D is for - Dad's name: Bill. He's the epitome of a Bill, from what I know of him.
E is for - Essential item to bring to a party: Do several beer count as an "item"?
F is for - Favorite song at the moment: Planet Claire by the B-52s or Would We Be Alive? by the Residents.
G is for - Guy/Girls you've kissed: Uh, what? Yes?
H is for - Hometown: Bathurst, NB.
I is for - Instruments you play: Geetar. I usedta sing.
J is for - Job title: Grocer? I dunno if that counts now that I'm on the graveyard shift, and don't wear the apron or carry around a spray bottle anymore.
K is for - Kids: I am a big, sulky one.
L is for - Living arrangement: A cockroach-infested basement apartment right next to the laundry room. It's a nice-enough place if you ignore the vermin and my slobbiness.
M is for - Mom's name: Donna
N is for - Number of people you've slept with: Less than 2 hands' worth, more than 1 (besides adding the apostrophe, I stole that verbatim from Mr Hubley)
O is for - Overnight hospital stays: Suck.
P is for - Phobia[s]: I am deathly afraid of heights.
Q is for - Quote you like: "I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well." -Thoreau
R is for - Relationship that lasted the longest: Three or four months with Gen.
S is for - Sexual position: Hard up.
T is for - Time you wake up: Seven or eight in the evening.
U is for - Unique trait(s): This would be better posed to someone who knows me. I dunno, my lop-sided face? I'm uniquely skilled at being perpetually late.
V is for - Vegetable you love: I like 'em all. 'Cept maybe brussels sprouts, but I'll eat 'em if they're on my plate.
W is for - Worst habit: I'm an alcoholic chain-smoker. Take yr pick.
X is for - X-rays you've had: More than I could count.
Y is for - Yummy food you make: I make killer: guacamole, chocolate chip cookies, and veggie chili. I haven't been cooking at all lately though.
Z is for - Zodiac sign: Cancer. How appropriate.
Cara, I'm doing the resume thing tonight. 100% for real.
|
23/11/03
A kid did that.
I was gonna write a big rant about recurring themes in my dreams over the past few nights, but I'm coming down with my bi-annual ear infection, and I'm almost outta cancer sticks.
*cough*
Somebody say something interesting.
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22/11/03
Between my ears/ behind my eyes/that checkered flag sensation lies/ broken down at the starting gate/ I wait I wait I wait I wait
The opening line to a song I wrote six or seven years ago with a band called, quite coincidentally, Motorcar. It was probably one of our better songs, particularly showcasing Mark's incomparably twangular guitar stylings. I've yet to encounter, to this day, a more unique, proficient, and prolific guitar player, and dude, if you move back to Bathurst before I can get you in a band here, I wiw fokking kiw you mang. So anyway, even years later, I'm still pretty not-embarrassed by those lyrics (the remainder of the song continues with the vague drag strip imagery, as some sort of analogy for going nowhere fast in a small town... To stand on one side of this line/ objective as-yet undefined/ I'm never coming/ never late/ I wait... and I wait etc.), and the song even ended up on some obscure compilation put out by the local studio magnate and free music rag editor in my hometown. All-in-all, a snappy little tune, and I wish I still had a copy of the recording.
BUT.
I can't sing it in the shower, hum it at work, or even have it randomly pop into my head (as it did tonight) without bursting into giggle fits. See, my hometown is just a shade north of the Acadian Peninsula, and around the time we wrote that song, Pretty Man was selling drugs in cahoots with this guy, One-Eyed Pete. One-Eyed Pete was a stand up guy who would regale us with a seemingly-limitless spate of stories of the (mis)adventures of his glass eye. He even got Pretty Man a job (a job!) bouncing at the local strip club, but that's fodder for another rant. Anyway, Pete was a good guy, and he genuinely liked the band, despite being categorically unfamiliar with whatever musical place we were coming from. The thing was, well, he was really... well, French. Like, backwoods, northern New Brunswick French. Not that that's in any way a bad thing, but they're just plugged in to their own version of culture, y'know? If you haven't lived there, yr just not gonna understand. Anyway, Pete loved that song, and I loved hearing his drunkenly-emphatic, off-key renditions of it, until I noticed a misinterpretation on his part.
"Away" in Acadian vernacular (or "Franglais") is similar in meaning to its English etymon, but has different connotations. It means something sorta in-between "holy fuck man, hurry up!" and "get that fuckin' thing outta my face." "Be gone, swiftly" might suit as a definition. Anyway, it turned out that ol' One-Eyed Pete had heard "I wait I wait I wait I wait" (certainly one of my more profound lyrical moments to begin with) as "away away away away!" It put a whole new spin on the song, and I ended up regularly having to stifle myself from unconsciously singing Pete's version live, sometimes to the extent of precariously avoiding mid-song onstage giggle fits. It sure didn't help with the dry, caustic stage persona I was fumbling to cultivate, haha. Thanks a lot Pete, you one-eyed French fucker.
God I wish I still had recordings of that band in a format I could actually listen to. Anyone got a DAT machine and/or reel-to-reel eight track? Do those things even still exist?
I'm waiting for/ the checkered flag/ I've been here before/ and it's always a drag
|
The opening line to a song I wrote six or seven years ago with a band called, quite coincidentally, Motorcar. It was probably one of our better songs, particularly showcasing Mark's incomparably twangular guitar stylings. I've yet to encounter, to this day, a more unique, proficient, and prolific guitar player, and dude, if you move back to Bathurst before I can get you in a band here, I wiw fokking kiw you mang. So anyway, even years later, I'm still pretty not-embarrassed by those lyrics (the remainder of the song continues with the vague drag strip imagery, as some sort of analogy for going nowhere fast in a small town... To stand on one side of this line/ objective as-yet undefined/ I'm never coming/ never late/ I wait... and I wait etc.), and the song even ended up on some obscure compilation put out by the local studio magnate and free music rag editor in my hometown. All-in-all, a snappy little tune, and I wish I still had a copy of the recording.
BUT.
I can't sing it in the shower, hum it at work, or even have it randomly pop into my head (as it did tonight) without bursting into giggle fits. See, my hometown is just a shade north of the Acadian Peninsula, and around the time we wrote that song, Pretty Man was selling drugs in cahoots with this guy, One-Eyed Pete. One-Eyed Pete was a stand up guy who would regale us with a seemingly-limitless spate of stories of the (mis)adventures of his glass eye. He even got Pretty Man a job (a job!) bouncing at the local strip club, but that's fodder for another rant. Anyway, Pete was a good guy, and he genuinely liked the band, despite being categorically unfamiliar with whatever musical place we were coming from. The thing was, well, he was really... well, French. Like, backwoods, northern New Brunswick French. Not that that's in any way a bad thing, but they're just plugged in to their own version of culture, y'know? If you haven't lived there, yr just not gonna understand. Anyway, Pete loved that song, and I loved hearing his drunkenly-emphatic, off-key renditions of it, until I noticed a misinterpretation on his part.
"Away" in Acadian vernacular (or "Franglais") is similar in meaning to its English etymon, but has different connotations. It means something sorta in-between "holy fuck man, hurry up!" and "get that fuckin' thing outta my face." "Be gone, swiftly" might suit as a definition. Anyway, it turned out that ol' One-Eyed Pete had heard "I wait I wait I wait I wait" (certainly one of my more profound lyrical moments to begin with) as "away away away away!" It put a whole new spin on the song, and I ended up regularly having to stifle myself from unconsciously singing Pete's version live, sometimes to the extent of precariously avoiding mid-song onstage giggle fits. It sure didn't help with the dry, caustic stage persona I was fumbling to cultivate, haha. Thanks a lot Pete, you one-eyed French fucker.
God I wish I still had recordings of that band in a format I could actually listen to. Anyone got a DAT machine and/or reel-to-reel eight track? Do those things even still exist?
I'm waiting for/ the checkered flag/ I've been here before/ and it's always a drag
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21/11/03
Strangest phenomenon. "E-friends" have been calling me to chat on the telephone. My brain is scrambling to decide whether this is really lame or really cool. Whatever the verdict, it's certainly indicative of how little of a life I posess. I'd have laughed myself outta the building three years ago for even deigning to use the term "e-friend," but, dammit, I gotta admit that, without ever having met these people, I feel really close to them. Whatever. I'd have been loathe to admit it before I got this glorified adding machine, but this is as valid a social medium or mode of communication as any other. I've started bands, conducted business, and even ended up in real-life friendships with people with whom my only prior contact had been electronic. Nary a one of them turned out to be a 14-year old girl or fat, balding, middle-aged man, both of which invariably come up when I discuss my online friends in regular social settings. I don't doubt for a minute the existence of the e-charlatan, but I sorta fail to see why either demographic would have any interest in moi. Neither attractive, vulnerable, nor monetarily-endowed am I.
So anyway, yeah. My little gang of e-pals is pretty cool. Several of them have gone to great lengths to meet each other, flying and roadtripping across states and provinces to hang out or hook up. Say what you will, but it warms my heart. I hope one of these days I end up in a real road warrior band, so I can tour everywhere and meet these folks in person.
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So anyway, yeah. My little gang of e-pals is pretty cool. Several of them have gone to great lengths to meet each other, flying and roadtripping across states and provinces to hang out or hook up. Say what you will, but it warms my heart. I hope one of these days I end up in a real road warrior band, so I can tour everywhere and meet these folks in person.
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19/11/03
Friends who hate friends are hard to be friends with.
I feel strangely inspired. To do what, I'm not exactly sure yet, but something will come of this. I feel a change coming. I welcome it with tentatively open arms. I'm nervous like that. I'm also pretty drunk.
My sister, who is a virtual stranger to me, has grown up. She's decided that we need to learn to know one another. More than ten years my junior, and still more adult than me. She wants to visit. This is causing me to assess my existence in ways I'm not comfortable with. I guess you could say I've gotten cozy outside of the mainstream mileu, and I'm not quite sure howta not come across like a scumbag if and when she really does visit. Anyone wanna borrow some cockroaches and a drinking habit? I really do wanna get to know her though. More than words can express. I'm just not grown-up enough for this yet. She eclipses me.
Cara called last week to chat about her new job as a dispatcher for HRM's Animal Control Services. We'd talked before about how I enjoy working with animals, especially game and/or aggressive dogs. Turns out that they currently only have three out of an allotted seven Animal Control Officers. Surprisingly, it doesn't pay much more than what I'm doing now, but I'm still giving it some thought. I'm certainly qualified, and it's been awhile since I've had a job that even came close to reflecting my interests. This blog thing would undoubtedly become more interesting were I to delve into that. Not that I don't still masturbate at work, but I digress. Now, to dig out my resume...
Cara has also proposed that I start a band with her and Derrick from the Chitz. I'm really into this idea, seeing as they're both pretty awesome people, and Derrick especially seems to share some of my musical tastes. I fucking adore playing in TMWSD, but I'd love to be in a band that reflects my more midtempo, melodic side too. Not to say we wouldn't still be agrro as hell... I wouldn't have it any other way, and I'd imagine C and D would agree. Hell, maybe I'll even try my hand at singing a little bit again. Maybe. Funny how I've gone from a singer, to a singer/guitar player, to just a guitar player. It's cool though; it was what I wanted from the get-go. I was coerced into being a singer in the first place. Just so happened that I wasn't bad at it. I've never been much of a frontman though, and, really, that's more important than being able to sing in the rock n' roll world anyway.
God, now I'm starting to reminisce about old bands. Bah, my point was gonna be that Cara, Derrick and I need a drummer. This has gotta be the only city ever where you can't find a freaking drummer.
I think I need a woman. It's been about long enough. Too bad the only girl to express any kind of interest in me lately lives in freaking Minneapolis.
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I feel strangely inspired. To do what, I'm not exactly sure yet, but something will come of this. I feel a change coming. I welcome it with tentatively open arms. I'm nervous like that. I'm also pretty drunk.
My sister, who is a virtual stranger to me, has grown up. She's decided that we need to learn to know one another. More than ten years my junior, and still more adult than me. She wants to visit. This is causing me to assess my existence in ways I'm not comfortable with. I guess you could say I've gotten cozy outside of the mainstream mileu, and I'm not quite sure howta not come across like a scumbag if and when she really does visit. Anyone wanna borrow some cockroaches and a drinking habit? I really do wanna get to know her though. More than words can express. I'm just not grown-up enough for this yet. She eclipses me.
Cara called last week to chat about her new job as a dispatcher for HRM's Animal Control Services. We'd talked before about how I enjoy working with animals, especially game and/or aggressive dogs. Turns out that they currently only have three out of an allotted seven Animal Control Officers. Surprisingly, it doesn't pay much more than what I'm doing now, but I'm still giving it some thought. I'm certainly qualified, and it's been awhile since I've had a job that even came close to reflecting my interests. This blog thing would undoubtedly become more interesting were I to delve into that. Not that I don't still masturbate at work, but I digress. Now, to dig out my resume...
Cara has also proposed that I start a band with her and Derrick from the Chitz. I'm really into this idea, seeing as they're both pretty awesome people, and Derrick especially seems to share some of my musical tastes. I fucking adore playing in TMWSD, but I'd love to be in a band that reflects my more midtempo, melodic side too. Not to say we wouldn't still be agrro as hell... I wouldn't have it any other way, and I'd imagine C and D would agree. Hell, maybe I'll even try my hand at singing a little bit again. Maybe. Funny how I've gone from a singer, to a singer/guitar player, to just a guitar player. It's cool though; it was what I wanted from the get-go. I was coerced into being a singer in the first place. Just so happened that I wasn't bad at it. I've never been much of a frontman though, and, really, that's more important than being able to sing in the rock n' roll world anyway.
God, now I'm starting to reminisce about old bands. Bah, my point was gonna be that Cara, Derrick and I need a drummer. This has gotta be the only city ever where you can't find a freaking drummer.
I think I need a woman. It's been about long enough. Too bad the only girl to express any kind of interest in me lately lives in freaking Minneapolis.
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18/11/03
My little sister? My little half-sister? Sis? I dunno, it's been maybe eight years, and I still don't quite know howta deal with having a long lost sibling.
I grew up an only child of a single mother.
The first time we met was also the first time I met my father. I was 20, I think. She was 11. He was peripheral. She blew my mind. Since then she's been the sole reason I keep in contact, in my halfassed way, with that side of my family. I visited when she was 12, and we haven't seen each other since. She's either 18 or 19 now, I'm not sure.
I'm eyeing this can of worms. Let's see if I can open it just a little bit.
Nope. Not without spilling messy shit everywhere. She called Saturday night, and I'm still dealing with it. She's already more mature than I'll ever be.
I don't know how to have a younger sister.
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I grew up an only child of a single mother.
The first time we met was also the first time I met my father. I was 20, I think. She was 11. He was peripheral. She blew my mind. Since then she's been the sole reason I keep in contact, in my halfassed way, with that side of my family. I visited when she was 12, and we haven't seen each other since. She's either 18 or 19 now, I'm not sure.
I'm eyeing this can of worms. Let's see if I can open it just a little bit.
Nope. Not without spilling messy shit everywhere. She called Saturday night, and I'm still dealing with it. She's already more mature than I'll ever be.
I don't know how to have a younger sister.
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17/11/03
15/11/03
Played that last-show-ever thing at the Ceilidh last night, and didn't break a single string.
I'm still creeped out.
The Residents aren't helping.
Kick a Picnic.
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I'm still creeped out.
The Residents aren't helping.
Kick a Picnic.
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12/11/03
Self-indulgent entry, please ignore.
Mark, I have sooo much to say to you. I'm gonna write a full response to yr last e-mail when I wake up tonight. The riff rules.
Melissa. Do you even still read this? If so, will you please just call me tonight? This has gone too far.
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Mark, I have sooo much to say to you. I'm gonna write a full response to yr last e-mail when I wake up tonight. The riff rules.
Melissa. Do you even still read this? If so, will you please just call me tonight? This has gone too far.
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I am so hopelessly enthralled by messageboard culture... if such a thing can be argued to exist. Case in point: http://www.omglikewhoa.com/msgboard/viewtopic.php?t=4323
Some of you are already familiar with this debacle. Most of you wouldn't be. Basically, some chick who posted on the aforementioned messageboard was hit by a car, thus losing the use of her legs. Not long after, she threw in the towel and ODed. Or so everyone thought. Someone noticed something fishy, and all-of-a-sudden everybody's an internet detective, and the result is fourteen pages (sprung up literally overnight) of the most entertaining internet intrigue I've ever encountered.
I don't doubt that this all seems more than a little absurd to the casual reader, but... well, it's hard to explain. This is a messageboard devoted purely unto itself, something I've never really encountered before. People congregate there under no auspices other than that self-sustaining community. I've become a little detatched from it myself, but the sense of community there is still quite unlike anything else I've encountered in the online world. Serious real-life relationships, even engagements, have sprung from this tightly-knit gaggle of internet scenesters. Hell, I as much as introduced the most infamous couple, heh.
Anyway, I suppose my point is that there is, in general, a deeper level of trust there than you might usually encounter on the internet, and that this mystery is hitting some people on a genuinely-personal level. It's extremely fascinating, at least to me. I can't say I'm entirely unaffected by it. It's kind of exciting, in a weird way.
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Some of you are already familiar with this debacle. Most of you wouldn't be. Basically, some chick who posted on the aforementioned messageboard was hit by a car, thus losing the use of her legs. Not long after, she threw in the towel and ODed. Or so everyone thought. Someone noticed something fishy, and all-of-a-sudden everybody's an internet detective, and the result is fourteen pages (sprung up literally overnight) of the most entertaining internet intrigue I've ever encountered.
I don't doubt that this all seems more than a little absurd to the casual reader, but... well, it's hard to explain. This is a messageboard devoted purely unto itself, something I've never really encountered before. People congregate there under no auspices other than that self-sustaining community. I've become a little detatched from it myself, but the sense of community there is still quite unlike anything else I've encountered in the online world. Serious real-life relationships, even engagements, have sprung from this tightly-knit gaggle of internet scenesters. Hell, I as much as introduced the most infamous couple, heh.
Anyway, I suppose my point is that there is, in general, a deeper level of trust there than you might usually encounter on the internet, and that this mystery is hitting some people on a genuinely-personal level. It's extremely fascinating, at least to me. I can't say I'm entirely unaffected by it. It's kind of exciting, in a weird way.
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10/11/03
Well shit, I mostly logged on to this thing to post a bunch of great pictures from Saturday's basement show in Truro, with Capital Death and Zaat, but buddy-who-took-the-pictures' site seems to be down at the moment due to bandwidth issues. It was fun as hell. I'm gonna haveta say, from my limited experience, Truro is just an awesome place to play. Popular opinion around the 'Fax is that the place is a shithole, but my only experiences with the place have been shows, and I've had loads of fun every time I've played there. Maybe it's 'cause the place is a shithole. I know that's a good part of what engendered my hometown's short-lived scene. Whatever, I dunno. A few dedicated people is all it takes, and Truro has that in spades. Plus, kids actually dance there.
Toward the end of the night, we bands three conducted a semi-coherent three-way interview that should be available on the Punk Site once I get off my lazy ass and upload the thing.
So I have tonight off, due to this holiday dealie. Anybody else free? I'm gonna go check out that Satisfaction thing at the Khyber. I've been wanting to check it out for months, but work usually dictates otherwise. Company would be nice. Just don't call before eight pm, please and thanks.
In the absence of the pictures I was gonna post, here's one from the Halloween show with Death From Above:
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Nighty-night.
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Toward the end of the night, we bands three conducted a semi-coherent three-way interview that should be available on the Punk Site once I get off my lazy ass and upload the thing.
So I have tonight off, due to this holiday dealie. Anybody else free? I'm gonna go check out that Satisfaction thing at the Khyber. I've been wanting to check it out for months, but work usually dictates otherwise. Company would be nice. Just don't call before eight pm, please and thanks.
In the absence of the pictures I was gonna post, here's one from the Halloween show with Death From Above:
.
Nighty-night.
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07/11/03
Satellite conferencing after being up all night working yr ass off sucks. I really oughta be making more money than I am for this job.
Y'know what really scares me though? That I don't thoroughly hate it. I wish I did- then maybe I'd have the motivation to seek out something more fulfilling, or at least more lucrative- but I don't. The other guys on my crew have been doing this very same job for eight, fifteen, and thirty years. The friday kid is the boss's son. They golf together, and discuss their pension options.
I mean, don't get me wrong, it's hard work (enough to keep me from developing a ginormous beer gut), but it's... I dunno, comfortable somehow in its complacency. That comfort scares me. I'm approaching thirty, and, though I think it's safe to say I've lived a few things that the majority of people just read about, it was all pretty directionless, and never really resulted in anything. And really, a lot of that shit just sorta happened to me, and wasn't much of my doing in the first place. I'm slack. A product of the 90s. Now that I've finally acheived relative autonomy (and christ, was that a chore), I'm faced with the novel proposition of being, ugh, decisive. It takes me a fucking hour to decide what I want on a goddamn pizza ferchrissakes, let alone what to do with my life.
The only academic fields that interest me require, upon graduation, an entrepreneurial spirit that I sure don't have. I'd like to be edumacated and all, but university is seeming more and more like a crock of shit to me. And besides, my benefactor died last year, and fucked if I'm gonna saddle myself with that student load bullshit. I need to fluke into something really cool sometime soon, 'cause I sure ain't coming up with anything. Something challenging. Something I can fuck with. Something rock and roll.
Serendipity, flap thine fickle wings back the fuck over this way. I'm bored.
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Y'know what really scares me though? That I don't thoroughly hate it. I wish I did- then maybe I'd have the motivation to seek out something more fulfilling, or at least more lucrative- but I don't. The other guys on my crew have been doing this very same job for eight, fifteen, and thirty years. The friday kid is the boss's son. They golf together, and discuss their pension options.
I mean, don't get me wrong, it's hard work (enough to keep me from developing a ginormous beer gut), but it's... I dunno, comfortable somehow in its complacency. That comfort scares me. I'm approaching thirty, and, though I think it's safe to say I've lived a few things that the majority of people just read about, it was all pretty directionless, and never really resulted in anything. And really, a lot of that shit just sorta happened to me, and wasn't much of my doing in the first place. I'm slack. A product of the 90s. Now that I've finally acheived relative autonomy (and christ, was that a chore), I'm faced with the novel proposition of being, ugh, decisive. It takes me a fucking hour to decide what I want on a goddamn pizza ferchrissakes, let alone what to do with my life.
The only academic fields that interest me require, upon graduation, an entrepreneurial spirit that I sure don't have. I'd like to be edumacated and all, but university is seeming more and more like a crock of shit to me. And besides, my benefactor died last year, and fucked if I'm gonna saddle myself with that student load bullshit. I need to fluke into something really cool sometime soon, 'cause I sure ain't coming up with anything. Something challenging. Something I can fuck with. Something rock and roll.
Serendipity, flap thine fickle wings back the fuck over this way. I'm bored.
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02/11/03
Got a call around noon Saturday. A bunch of people from my circa-1994 gang of friends had come to town to see- get this- the Jimmy Swift Band. Said I was sick, and probably not doing anything that night, let alone going to that show, but it was cool to hear from them nonetheless. Crawled back into bed, and dozed/watched TV intermittently for the next eight or nine hours. Ordered some food, finally, and was surprised to find myself still not-very-hungry when it arrived. I'm usually a pretty hearty eater. Picked at my first meal in two days, and went back to bed, once again. Fell back asleep about halfway through Star Trek; The Motion Picture, wrapped up snugly in about six different blankets, my dog sleeping languorously with her head parked on my tummy.
Woke up a little after midnight, and immediately felt a wave of guilt for not making any effort to go hang out with the old friends, most notably Chelsa, my non-genetic twin sister. So I showered hastily, and headed over to the Planet. Ugh. Place was brimming with pretty much the exact college crowd that I expected, and I was just about to fuck off when I spotted the old gang seated wearily in a remote corner. They were all flying on E, and just tripping like crazy on the wallpaper music. Underfed went off on some crazy shtik about me being there, but everybody else just sat around lethargically, except for Chelsa, who seemed visibly relieved that I'd showed up. She was feeling claustrophobic, and was just about to take off when I showed up. Her douchebag NSCAD-grad boyfriend either didn't notice, or didn't care.
When we first hooked up, all she wore was black leotards, boots, and a black t-shirt with a giant pentagram on the front. No underwear. And I mean that was all she wore. She didn't own any other clothes. She was the first person I ever met with peircings that weren't in or around the earlobe region. I'll never forget the looks on my mom and grandmother's faces the first time I brought her home for dinner. She's still every bit as gorgeous and awesome and slightly full-of-shit as she ever was (see how we're twins?), but seeing her reduced to travelling five hours to drop E and watch a coupla shitty jam bands was... I dunno, weird.
Anyway, she was not feeling cool with the place, and asked me for directions back to the hotel they were all staying at. I gave her my best advice, we hugged, and that was it. I think she wanted me to walk with her, but I was sick and barely awake and thus even more dense than usual. Her boyfriend noticed she was gone maybe twenty minutes later, and left in a big scramble. Waddaguy.
I was happy to fuck off outta there after that. Not wanting to waste my silly all-access HPX pass, I stopped in at the Seahorse, and then the Attic, and caught the tail-ends of a couple of mediocre-to-bad bands. Started out for home, but got sidetracked into the Marquee at the last minute, as always. The place sucked, but I got caught up in some interesting chit-chat with a few of the decent people in attendance, some familiar, some not.
And that was the end of my four-day weekend. I'm still sick. Bring me soup.
Jordan's visiting in December, and System Poop's gonna do a "reunion" show.
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Woke up a little after midnight, and immediately felt a wave of guilt for not making any effort to go hang out with the old friends, most notably Chelsa, my non-genetic twin sister. So I showered hastily, and headed over to the Planet. Ugh. Place was brimming with pretty much the exact college crowd that I expected, and I was just about to fuck off when I spotted the old gang seated wearily in a remote corner. They were all flying on E, and just tripping like crazy on the wallpaper music. Underfed went off on some crazy shtik about me being there, but everybody else just sat around lethargically, except for Chelsa, who seemed visibly relieved that I'd showed up. She was feeling claustrophobic, and was just about to take off when I showed up. Her douchebag NSCAD-grad boyfriend either didn't notice, or didn't care.
When we first hooked up, all she wore was black leotards, boots, and a black t-shirt with a giant pentagram on the front. No underwear. And I mean that was all she wore. She didn't own any other clothes. She was the first person I ever met with peircings that weren't in or around the earlobe region. I'll never forget the looks on my mom and grandmother's faces the first time I brought her home for dinner. She's still every bit as gorgeous and awesome and slightly full-of-shit as she ever was (see how we're twins?), but seeing her reduced to travelling five hours to drop E and watch a coupla shitty jam bands was... I dunno, weird.
Anyway, she was not feeling cool with the place, and asked me for directions back to the hotel they were all staying at. I gave her my best advice, we hugged, and that was it. I think she wanted me to walk with her, but I was sick and barely awake and thus even more dense than usual. Her boyfriend noticed she was gone maybe twenty minutes later, and left in a big scramble. Waddaguy.
I was happy to fuck off outta there after that. Not wanting to waste my silly all-access HPX pass, I stopped in at the Seahorse, and then the Attic, and caught the tail-ends of a couple of mediocre-to-bad bands. Started out for home, but got sidetracked into the Marquee at the last minute, as always. The place sucked, but I got caught up in some interesting chit-chat with a few of the decent people in attendance, some familiar, some not.
And that was the end of my four-day weekend. I'm still sick. Bring me soup.
Jordan's visiting in December, and System Poop's gonna do a "reunion" show.
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01/11/03
Starting tomorrow, I'm so totally switching to heavier gauge strings. Fucking retarded; I broke five strings, on three guitars, over the course of seven measly songs. Our last song was a fucking joke. I can't keep doing shows like this. We'd have been tight as fuck if it weren't for the stupid string breakage. It must've sounded like I started playing guitar like three months ago. Oh God and DFA were pretty good though.
I'm fucking sick.
After the show (I hadn't eaten anything in two days), I went up to pizza corner to get food. I got about one quarter way through my falafel pita, when I started to notice little chunks of what seemed to be some kind of brittle foreign object in it. I picked them out, and kept eating, until I bit down on a three-inch sheet of thin, green, jagged plastic. I went home and went to bed on an empty stomach.
Woke up shortly before one, and realized that I was supposedta be at the Seahorse to sell Mark Black some System Poop records. Splashed some water on my face and headed down there. I'd never seen My Other Brother Alice (an Alice Cooper tribute band) before, and that was pretty fun. I've never seen so many stereotypical rockers under one roof in my life. Awesome. Still, no Mark Black.
Decided to stop in at the Marquee on my way home, and ran into my old roommate Mike in the line-up. In the true sprit of Halloween, he and his lady friend later left to go egg their bosses' houses. Missed Broken Social Scene, but by all accounts they were pretty bland anyway (Les Savy Fav anyone?). Just as I was about to leave, I ran into Mark. He took off to go get cash, and left me standing with Phillip, who seemed to be in full-on Spock Rock mode, and not particularly interested in talking. Suppose I didn't have much to say either. Talked to Mr. Black, who seems like a fairly interesting person, briefly, until he did one of those "I'm gonna go, uh, stand over there now" things. Haha.
There are like six parties I'm supposedta be at right now. I'm not moving a fucking inch. I'm such a fucking baby when I'm sick.
Last night was really fun (except for maybe Les Savy Fav). Cara, you rule. Best audience scream ever.
Fucking Dirtbombs, fuckholes.
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I'm fucking sick.
After the show (I hadn't eaten anything in two days), I went up to pizza corner to get food. I got about one quarter way through my falafel pita, when I started to notice little chunks of what seemed to be some kind of brittle foreign object in it. I picked them out, and kept eating, until I bit down on a three-inch sheet of thin, green, jagged plastic. I went home and went to bed on an empty stomach.
Woke up shortly before one, and realized that I was supposedta be at the Seahorse to sell Mark Black some System Poop records. Splashed some water on my face and headed down there. I'd never seen My Other Brother Alice (an Alice Cooper tribute band) before, and that was pretty fun. I've never seen so many stereotypical rockers under one roof in my life. Awesome. Still, no Mark Black.
Decided to stop in at the Marquee on my way home, and ran into my old roommate Mike in the line-up. In the true sprit of Halloween, he and his lady friend later left to go egg their bosses' houses. Missed Broken Social Scene, but by all accounts they were pretty bland anyway (Les Savy Fav anyone?). Just as I was about to leave, I ran into Mark. He took off to go get cash, and left me standing with Phillip, who seemed to be in full-on Spock Rock mode, and not particularly interested in talking. Suppose I didn't have much to say either. Talked to Mr. Black, who seems like a fairly interesting person, briefly, until he did one of those "I'm gonna go, uh, stand over there now" things. Haha.
There are like six parties I'm supposedta be at right now. I'm not moving a fucking inch. I'm such a fucking baby when I'm sick.
Last night was really fun (except for maybe Les Savy Fav). Cara, you rule. Best audience scream ever.
Fucking Dirtbombs, fuckholes.
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