31/05/04
Man, I finally managed to get Lightning Bolt's Wonderful Rainbow album back from Ross on Saturday's trip to Truro, and it has managed to supplant, at least for the time being, the three early-to-mid 80s Fall albums I've had in constant exclusive rotation for what seems like the past several millenia. Good shit.
BAAMFest version 2.0 was another frothing freakasaur of a good time, and the first occasion I'd ever had to share the stage with myself. Despite that, nobody took any pictures of me, so I ain't posting any. Jerks. Somebody, quick; stroke my ego so I can go back to comfortably disparaging myself whilst secretly grinning inside. It hurts right here.
I broke about as many strings as anyone who's seen me play might expect on any average night (times two), but never any that were too terribly integral to the songs I happened to be playing at the time, so no one hadta grit their teeth through any poorly-improvised song endings on my part. I dunno what it is with Truro, but things always seem to go well there. Graham (System Poop) and Will (This Mess) both pulled off drum duties extraordinarily despite drum kit issues that would cause lesser percussionists to flee into the wilderness and re-devote their lives to pan floutism. ZAAT suffered unwaveringly through an even shittier version of the Drumkit From Hell, and played a crazed disco song that put anything remotely danceable that This Mess does to utter shame.
Special Noise, who played before all this jazz, just keep getting better and better everytime I see them. They were unprecedentedly tight, and if they keep it up at this rate they're gonna be blowing everyone in this city outta the water and into the farther reaches of the Solar System by, like, mid-July.
Got back into town just in time to catch the tail end of the "underground celebrity" pie-eating contest, and there were so many people crowded around that I couldn't see a fucking thing. I hate being short. Anyway, I guess buddy from Hell City Love won, so at least now they have some legit claim to fame other than being the city's most offensively soporific band. Sucks that we missed Sharp Like Knives. Not one, but two of those guys are trying out for This Mess, and I was looking forward to seeing them in their own element. They are both really nice guys, and it's proving to be a tough decision. I'll never understand the girl pants thing, but hey, to each their own.
Oh God had a bunch of technical difficulties, and Jim smashed his SG. Jesus. I've wanted nothing more than to smash my guitar so many times in my life, but that irksome little voice of reason that occasionally pops up in the back of my mind has always managed to stop me just short of doing so. I really do understand that white, blinding rage though, and if I ever come into any significant amount of money, I will purchase several expensive guitars and smash them all into splinters, light a bonfire with the splinters, and piss on the fire to put it out. Just to, y'know, make up for all these years of pent-up and unsatiated guitar-related frustration. Once, at a show, I calmly put down my $200 Wayne's World-model Strat, and smashed a large-ish push broom instead. Hey, it was my only guitar. Let's just say that it wasn't particularly satisfying, so I can only respect Jim for following through on his impulses. Scares me a bit too though; I just recently managed to get my hands on an SG myself ('72, and none of this Epiphone nonsense. Thanks Mark! I have money for you, haha), and the thing is basically my fucking dream guitar. It's been a long climb up the guitar ladder (I bought my first remotely "real" guitar a few years ago on an $800 inheritance from a grandfather I'd never met), and the thought that some heat-of-the-moment primal urge could kick in and cause me to smash the pinnacle of my assent into itsy-bits freaks the hell outta me. I've done enough irrevocable damage to myself and my future already, thanks.
So yeah, what the fuck was I talking about? I guess it doesn't matter. I just got up to grab a beer from the fridge, and Java was asleep in my open guitar case in the living room. Cutest. Thing. Ever. I really wanted to take a picture, but she woke up and got all inquisitive when I started rooting through my bookbag for my instant camera. Damn.
Antics. Goodnight. Or morning.
|
BAAMFest version 2.0 was another frothing freakasaur of a good time, and the first occasion I'd ever had to share the stage with myself. Despite that, nobody took any pictures of me, so I ain't posting any. Jerks. Somebody, quick; stroke my ego so I can go back to comfortably disparaging myself whilst secretly grinning inside. It hurts right here.
I broke about as many strings as anyone who's seen me play might expect on any average night (times two), but never any that were too terribly integral to the songs I happened to be playing at the time, so no one hadta grit their teeth through any poorly-improvised song endings on my part. I dunno what it is with Truro, but things always seem to go well there. Graham (System Poop) and Will (This Mess) both pulled off drum duties extraordinarily despite drum kit issues that would cause lesser percussionists to flee into the wilderness and re-devote their lives to pan floutism. ZAAT suffered unwaveringly through an even shittier version of the Drumkit From Hell, and played a crazed disco song that put anything remotely danceable that This Mess does to utter shame.
Special Noise, who played before all this jazz, just keep getting better and better everytime I see them. They were unprecedentedly tight, and if they keep it up at this rate they're gonna be blowing everyone in this city outta the water and into the farther reaches of the Solar System by, like, mid-July.
Got back into town just in time to catch the tail end of the "underground celebrity" pie-eating contest, and there were so many people crowded around that I couldn't see a fucking thing. I hate being short. Anyway, I guess buddy from Hell City Love won, so at least now they have some legit claim to fame other than being the city's most offensively soporific band. Sucks that we missed Sharp Like Knives. Not one, but two of those guys are trying out for This Mess, and I was looking forward to seeing them in their own element. They are both really nice guys, and it's proving to be a tough decision. I'll never understand the girl pants thing, but hey, to each their own.
Oh God had a bunch of technical difficulties, and Jim smashed his SG. Jesus. I've wanted nothing more than to smash my guitar so many times in my life, but that irksome little voice of reason that occasionally pops up in the back of my mind has always managed to stop me just short of doing so. I really do understand that white, blinding rage though, and if I ever come into any significant amount of money, I will purchase several expensive guitars and smash them all into splinters, light a bonfire with the splinters, and piss on the fire to put it out. Just to, y'know, make up for all these years of pent-up and unsatiated guitar-related frustration. Once, at a show, I calmly put down my $200 Wayne's World-model Strat, and smashed a large-ish push broom instead. Hey, it was my only guitar. Let's just say that it wasn't particularly satisfying, so I can only respect Jim for following through on his impulses. Scares me a bit too though; I just recently managed to get my hands on an SG myself ('72, and none of this Epiphone nonsense. Thanks Mark! I have money for you, haha), and the thing is basically my fucking dream guitar. It's been a long climb up the guitar ladder (I bought my first remotely "real" guitar a few years ago on an $800 inheritance from a grandfather I'd never met), and the thought that some heat-of-the-moment primal urge could kick in and cause me to smash the pinnacle of my assent into itsy-bits freaks the hell outta me. I've done enough irrevocable damage to myself and my future already, thanks.
So yeah, what the fuck was I talking about? I guess it doesn't matter. I just got up to grab a beer from the fridge, and Java was asleep in my open guitar case in the living room. Cutest. Thing. Ever. I really wanted to take a picture, but she woke up and got all inquisitive when I started rooting through my bookbag for my instant camera. Damn.
Antics. Goodnight. Or morning.
|
26/05/04
Oh Suzie Derkins
why did I waste so much time throwing snowballs at you
when we should have been off playing doctor instead?
|
why did I waste so much time throwing snowballs at you
when we should have been off playing doctor instead?
|
20/05/04
This entry has been edited. Upon second reading, those two thoughts juxtaposed seemed unintentionally tasteless.
|
|
17/05/04
What the fuck is up with my template now? Does it look all off-centre to anyone else? Fuck, I spent way too much time and energy figuring out how to customize this thing just-so, and then like a month later Blogger goes and massively upgrades their system, making their new templates about as user-friendly as frigging livejournal or something. And now this. I'm tempted to throw my arms up in defeat and just go with one of the cheater templates.
I guess it's cool though, since I did learn a little about this web stuff troubleshooting the thing myself. This is my own custom template; my baby. It's surely more than a little pathetic how proud I am of it. I just know I'm gonna fuck it all up trying to re-centre it.
So I went to the mall to buy new boots today, and came home with a record player instead. I really wish my duct tape hadn't gotten lifted at the show in Ottawa, because my current pair is threatening to fall right off my feet at any moment if I don't somehow reinforce them. So tomorrow it's a trip to Canadian Tire for some Shoe Goo and a new roll of duct tape.
Geez, the past month or so has found me skateboarding, smoking dope, wearing unstrategically-ripped jeans (not to mention that my favourite, wear-everywhere shirt these days is plaid), and now duct-taping my boots. Who wants to come over and help me re-dread my hair? I'll throw on something by Nirvana to complete the scene.
Anyway, at least I finally got myself a record player. Now I can even listen to my own bands' records! Too bad I don't have any grunge on vinyl.
|
I guess it's cool though, since I did learn a little about this web stuff troubleshooting the thing myself. This is my own custom template; my baby. It's surely more than a little pathetic how proud I am of it. I just know I'm gonna fuck it all up trying to re-centre it.
So I went to the mall to buy new boots today, and came home with a record player instead. I really wish my duct tape hadn't gotten lifted at the show in Ottawa, because my current pair is threatening to fall right off my feet at any moment if I don't somehow reinforce them. So tomorrow it's a trip to Canadian Tire for some Shoe Goo and a new roll of duct tape.
Geez, the past month or so has found me skateboarding, smoking dope, wearing unstrategically-ripped jeans (not to mention that my favourite, wear-everywhere shirt these days is plaid), and now duct-taping my boots. Who wants to come over and help me re-dread my hair? I'll throw on something by Nirvana to complete the scene.
Anyway, at least I finally got myself a record player. Now I can even listen to my own bands' records! Too bad I don't have any grunge on vinyl.
|
Him: So basically yr gonna hit on 13-year-old girls, and then go make a drunken idiot outta yrself at the preppy alternative party?
Me: Ummm... er, something like that.
Him: Ok, well, if you get bored I'll be at the metal party. Got a smoke?
Me: Actually man, I'm fresh out. Sorry.
Him: Then here, have one, fucker. *hands me a cigarette* Have fun, cocknuts!
Tobias and I sit smiling on the sidewalk in front of my apartment as he ambles back down Creighton lugging that giant overstuffed hockey bag full of beer and satan-ated Cookie Monster puppets and dubbed cassette tapes of Ugandan crust punk, singing "169," the address of the party he's headed for, to the tune of the Slitch song "Fuck 4-9."
Man I love Drock.
My knowledge of and experience with theatre being mostly limited to the time I played "Xmas Elf #4" in grade 3, and way too many productions of Grease in high school, I really have no established critical spectrum with which to guage the quality of the play we attended, but I sure enjoyed it. There was much yelling and boisterousness, and what I thought was a fairly novel and interesting incorporation of much more of the room beyond the traditional stage boundaries into the body of the play. Perhaps I liked this in part because it sorta mirrors what we also try and do in our silly, screamy rock band. All-in-all, it proved to be quite the opposite of the sombre affair that I'd secretly feared it might be.
I'd forgotten that Tobias had himself been a child actor, and was interested to discover that he'd actually read quite a lot more "Sart-er" than my uncultured ass, including the play in mention. I've only read a few essays, and, to be honest, I was not compelled by them to further search out the man's work. I don't doubt that this fully discredits any and all future pretentious snobbery that I might aspire to, but hey, who gives a shit? The Transcendentalists are more my bag. (Heh, actually, I'm pretty-much talking out my ass at this point. I've really mostly only read Thoreau, and some of that other dude who lived like two towns over. To further expose my full-o-shit-ness, I even recall telling KC, later on at the party, "Dude, I'm not an 'ist.'") Anyway, this led to some engaging conversation as we left the play for the LC and beyond.
Back Hali-side, we ran into roadie extraordinaire Electric Ian as he biked around my neighbourhood being a street tough. The three of us joined forces and set out for the party, stopping only to do shots of tequila in an alley near crack corner.
The "preppy alternative party" (please, don't anyone be offended by that; it's Drock, and cracks like that from him are practically terms of endearment) was great. Lots of people I like in various stages of inebriation, and music that I actually listen to at home voluntarily. I'm sure I'd never heard Mission of Burma at a gathering not hosted by myself before. Spent most of the night lounging on the deck, and holy fuck do I love that it's that time of year again. Phillip came out at one point and gave everybody slices of bread? Somewhat, er... odd. But hey, thanks for the heel, man! I don't think I made an ass of myself, but I did get sufficiently in my cups to go about exchanging Jiu-Jitsu techniques with a relative stranger. You know I'm drunk when.
Considering that my former drummer/sparring partner is now in town teaching from his own dojo, I really ought to get back into that stuff. I'm so very outta shape, and, putting aside the superficial aspects of it for a moment, being in good physical condition tends to foster a certain mental/emotional fortitude as well. Not to mention that having discernable abs again probably wouldn't hinder, y'know, the getting of the sex. Anyway, if by some stretch of the universal laws of slack-indie-rocker-dynamics I do get off my lazy ass and back into a dojo or gym or something, I promise never to flaunt my endorphins. I'll never be a fucking jogger
So yeah, great play; great party; model weekend. Now I go to bed, and dream of a day when I actually get my taxes sent in before the deadline.
|
Me: Ummm... er, something like that.
Him: Ok, well, if you get bored I'll be at the metal party. Got a smoke?
Me: Actually man, I'm fresh out. Sorry.
Him: Then here, have one, fucker. *hands me a cigarette* Have fun, cocknuts!
Tobias and I sit smiling on the sidewalk in front of my apartment as he ambles back down Creighton lugging that giant overstuffed hockey bag full of beer and satan-ated Cookie Monster puppets and dubbed cassette tapes of Ugandan crust punk, singing "169," the address of the party he's headed for, to the tune of the Slitch song "Fuck 4-9."
Man I love Drock.
My knowledge of and experience with theatre being mostly limited to the time I played "Xmas Elf #4" in grade 3, and way too many productions of Grease in high school, I really have no established critical spectrum with which to guage the quality of the play we attended, but I sure enjoyed it. There was much yelling and boisterousness, and what I thought was a fairly novel and interesting incorporation of much more of the room beyond the traditional stage boundaries into the body of the play. Perhaps I liked this in part because it sorta mirrors what we also try and do in our silly, screamy rock band. All-in-all, it proved to be quite the opposite of the sombre affair that I'd secretly feared it might be.
I'd forgotten that Tobias had himself been a child actor, and was interested to discover that he'd actually read quite a lot more "Sart-er" than my uncultured ass, including the play in mention. I've only read a few essays, and, to be honest, I was not compelled by them to further search out the man's work. I don't doubt that this fully discredits any and all future pretentious snobbery that I might aspire to, but hey, who gives a shit? The Transcendentalists are more my bag. (Heh, actually, I'm pretty-much talking out my ass at this point. I've really mostly only read Thoreau, and some of that other dude who lived like two towns over. To further expose my full-o-shit-ness, I even recall telling KC, later on at the party, "Dude, I'm not an 'ist.'") Anyway, this led to some engaging conversation as we left the play for the LC and beyond.
Back Hali-side, we ran into roadie extraordinaire Electric Ian as he biked around my neighbourhood being a street tough. The three of us joined forces and set out for the party, stopping only to do shots of tequila in an alley near crack corner.
The "preppy alternative party" (please, don't anyone be offended by that; it's Drock, and cracks like that from him are practically terms of endearment) was great. Lots of people I like in various stages of inebriation, and music that I actually listen to at home voluntarily. I'm sure I'd never heard Mission of Burma at a gathering not hosted by myself before. Spent most of the night lounging on the deck, and holy fuck do I love that it's that time of year again. Phillip came out at one point and gave everybody slices of bread? Somewhat, er... odd. But hey, thanks for the heel, man! I don't think I made an ass of myself, but I did get sufficiently in my cups to go about exchanging Jiu-Jitsu techniques with a relative stranger. You know I'm drunk when.
Considering that my former drummer/sparring partner is now in town teaching from his own dojo, I really ought to get back into that stuff. I'm so very outta shape, and, putting aside the superficial aspects of it for a moment, being in good physical condition tends to foster a certain mental/emotional fortitude as well. Not to mention that having discernable abs again probably wouldn't hinder, y'know, the getting of the sex. Anyway, if by some stretch of the universal laws of slack-indie-rocker-dynamics I do get off my lazy ass and back into a dojo or gym or something, I promise never to flaunt my endorphins. I'll never be a fucking jogger
So yeah, great play; great party; model weekend. Now I go to bed, and dream of a day when I actually get my taxes sent in before the deadline.
|
15/05/04
Haha, reading my last speil, I just now remembered that, while in Toronto, I was told that I "know how to wear a pair of pants." I think my pants would beg to differ.
I think that's a compliment though? So thanks, I think.
Anyone care to accompany me to Dartmouth this evening to see a high school performance of Sartre's The Flies? I do believe it will be good. I haven't been to see a play since I was in high school myself. I feel that this is a fine time to rectify that.
If no one chimes in on this I'm just gonna go buy a new pair of boots with my vacation pay. OMG ANYONE WANNA GO TO TEH MALL!? I'LL BYE YOU A PRETZUL!
Seriously though, I will.
And to everyone with whom I am seriously remiss in e-mail correspondence: I haven't forgotten about anyone; I've just been really preoccupied. I'll be on it soon. Promise.
|
I think that's a compliment though? So thanks, I think.
Anyone care to accompany me to Dartmouth this evening to see a high school performance of Sartre's The Flies? I do believe it will be good. I haven't been to see a play since I was in high school myself. I feel that this is a fine time to rectify that.
If no one chimes in on this I'm just gonna go buy a new pair of boots with my vacation pay. OMG ANYONE WANNA GO TO TEH MALL!? I'LL BYE YOU A PRETZUL!
Seriously though, I will.
And to everyone with whom I am seriously remiss in e-mail correspondence: I haven't forgotten about anyone; I've just been really preoccupied. I'll be on it soon. Promise.
|
12/05/04
Oh yeah; the train station.
I'd taken the train with Jav on board once before like five years ago, and it was such an incredible hassle I vowed never to do it again. Other than the Amherst bullshit, this time really wasn't so bad. Both boardings went pretty smoothly, but disembarking in Hali was a bit of a bitch.
I'd worn a pair of unremarkably-ripped jeans for the tour. Nothing is more comfortable than a pair of jeans at that just-past-broken-in stage. The rip was slight and just underneath my left ass cheek.
The problem with jeans at this stage of decomposition is that you never really know when they'll just decide to fall apart. They survived all the antics of the tour, and gave me no indication that they were about to blow out. Rushing to get Jav and all her various doggy accoutrements loaded up into the baggage car leaving Bathurst, I bent down for a moment and heard that familiar "ri-ii-ip" that you always know will someday come, but the anticipation of which you keep nice and repressed because you so love this old, familiar article of clothing that you just don't want to think about its demise.
It didn't turn out to be so bad though; the fissure now extended roughly halfway around through my inner thigh. Nothing scandalous. "Oughta do something about that when I get home," I think to myself.
Getting off in Hali was a bit more hectic. It was raining, and I really wanted to hurry up and get Java and her shit and myself and my shit out of the rain and into the station as quickly as possible. Dropped my bag, and bending over this time the ripping sound had a few more decibels. And consonants. "RRZZZIIFFPT." Something like that, anyway.
Now the rip extended from my ass, all the way around my inner thigh, to the bottom of my left front pocket. There wasn't much left holding the pant leg on. Or my package in. Thankfully I was wearing charcoal-grey underwear, which roughly matched the faded black of the jeans, so I don't think my bulge was too conspicuous. Nonetheless, I attracted more than a few double-takes, what with my drive showing up an hour later than I'd expected. Man I was glad to finally get outta there.
I have another, newer pair of black jeans, but the damn things just look so effeminate when they're new. I can't quite put my finger on why, but I just feel like I'm setting off gaydar all over the map when I wear un-broken-in black jeans. Whatever. All my blue ones are filthy right now, so I'll be busting them out come tomorrow regardless. I've felt so reinvogorated since getting back from the tour that I could give a shit. Gay me up, Charlie.
Really though, I think I can safely say I am experiencing a newfound sense of well-being since I've gotten back. I mean, I'm not exactly frolicking gaily about town showcasing every misaligned tooth in my atrophied grin -this is both more subtle and more sublime than that- I'm just feeling good. To an extent that I think I'd somehow sorta forgotten I was capable of. I'm sure it'll pass.
Before it does though, there are a few things I hope to milk from this bizarre wave of self-assuredness:
- Nudge myself ever closer to a serious quitting-smoking mindset.
- Take up a strenuous physical activity. I'll need this for quitting, 'cause I'm totally gonna pork out otherwise. I'm thinking sex.
- Yeah, sex. I should be having more of that. How do I turn off these eunuch pheromones that I'm pretty sure I've been emitting?
- Actually, for the first time in a few years, I think I'm in enough of a decent headspace to participate in a "relationship," not out of some lame angsty fear of loneliness, but a genuine desire to be intimate and have fun with somebody else. Not sure how I'd find the time for that, but whatever. It's in no great jeopardy of happening anyway.
- Become a better guitar player and a more prolific songwriter. This is a big one. Possibly gear myself up to start singing again.
- Finally rid this place of roaches. They are the cocksuckingerest bugs in all existence.
- Get my skateboard fixed up. What with the newfound youthful exuberance, I've been nearly killing myself all over the north end on the thing for the past week or so. It needs a serious tuneup. Why did I ever stop skateboarding? I can't believe it's been ten years.
Since I started playing in bands, haha.
I guess that's about it. Everybody doin' ok?
|
I'd taken the train with Jav on board once before like five years ago, and it was such an incredible hassle I vowed never to do it again. Other than the Amherst bullshit, this time really wasn't so bad. Both boardings went pretty smoothly, but disembarking in Hali was a bit of a bitch.
I'd worn a pair of unremarkably-ripped jeans for the tour. Nothing is more comfortable than a pair of jeans at that just-past-broken-in stage. The rip was slight and just underneath my left ass cheek.
The problem with jeans at this stage of decomposition is that you never really know when they'll just decide to fall apart. They survived all the antics of the tour, and gave me no indication that they were about to blow out. Rushing to get Jav and all her various doggy accoutrements loaded up into the baggage car leaving Bathurst, I bent down for a moment and heard that familiar "ri-ii-ip" that you always know will someday come, but the anticipation of which you keep nice and repressed because you so love this old, familiar article of clothing that you just don't want to think about its demise.
It didn't turn out to be so bad though; the fissure now extended roughly halfway around through my inner thigh. Nothing scandalous. "Oughta do something about that when I get home," I think to myself.
Getting off in Hali was a bit more hectic. It was raining, and I really wanted to hurry up and get Java and her shit and myself and my shit out of the rain and into the station as quickly as possible. Dropped my bag, and bending over this time the ripping sound had a few more decibels. And consonants. "RRZZZIIFFPT." Something like that, anyway.
Now the rip extended from my ass, all the way around my inner thigh, to the bottom of my left front pocket. There wasn't much left holding the pant leg on. Or my package in. Thankfully I was wearing charcoal-grey underwear, which roughly matched the faded black of the jeans, so I don't think my bulge was too conspicuous. Nonetheless, I attracted more than a few double-takes, what with my drive showing up an hour later than I'd expected. Man I was glad to finally get outta there.
I have another, newer pair of black jeans, but the damn things just look so effeminate when they're new. I can't quite put my finger on why, but I just feel like I'm setting off gaydar all over the map when I wear un-broken-in black jeans. Whatever. All my blue ones are filthy right now, so I'll be busting them out come tomorrow regardless. I've felt so reinvogorated since getting back from the tour that I could give a shit. Gay me up, Charlie.
Really though, I think I can safely say I am experiencing a newfound sense of well-being since I've gotten back. I mean, I'm not exactly frolicking gaily about town showcasing every misaligned tooth in my atrophied grin -this is both more subtle and more sublime than that- I'm just feeling good. To an extent that I think I'd somehow sorta forgotten I was capable of. I'm sure it'll pass.
Before it does though, there are a few things I hope to milk from this bizarre wave of self-assuredness:
- Nudge myself ever closer to a serious quitting-smoking mindset.
- Take up a strenuous physical activity. I'll need this for quitting, 'cause I'm totally gonna pork out otherwise. I'm thinking sex.
- Yeah, sex. I should be having more of that. How do I turn off these eunuch pheromones that I'm pretty sure I've been emitting?
- Actually, for the first time in a few years, I think I'm in enough of a decent headspace to participate in a "relationship," not out of some lame angsty fear of loneliness, but a genuine desire to be intimate and have fun with somebody else. Not sure how I'd find the time for that, but whatever. It's in no great jeopardy of happening anyway.
- Become a better guitar player and a more prolific songwriter. This is a big one. Possibly gear myself up to start singing again.
- Finally rid this place of roaches. They are the cocksuckingerest bugs in all existence.
- Get my skateboard fixed up. What with the newfound youthful exuberance, I've been nearly killing myself all over the north end on the thing for the past week or so. It needs a serious tuneup. Why did I ever stop skateboarding? I can't believe it's been ten years.
Since I started playing in bands, haha.
I guess that's about it. Everybody doin' ok?
|
04/05/04
When I close my eyes all I see is highway. It's a sensation not unlike vertigo, except the "falling" is unidirectional. I wonder when this'll pass.
(ADDENDUM: Ok, truth be told, it took me so long to write this excruciating piece of shit that the feeling's long since passed.)
So yeah, I'm back. I'd hoped to update along the way, but that proved more difficult than I'd anticipated. It seems that the content filters in most internet cafes find this thing objectionable. I guess I should curse less. So here I am stuck with a backlog of thoughts and anecdotes. I guess I'll just start at the beginning. Novel concept.
It was decided the preceding midnight that I'd leave for Bathurst a day earlier than originally scheduled, so little-to-none of the planning/packing/sleeping that I'd had laid out for that day got done. Little did I know how much of a trend this was to become. Timing was tight, but I made it on board, and once the train got rolling everything seemed to be going smoothly. Then we stopped in Amherst. And stayed stopped. Man did we stay stopped. After two hours or so the news got leaked that the Regional Director of Health and Safety for CN had safely directed himself between two connecting cars about a mile up the tracks and got flattened into a railroad pancake. That sucks and shit, but call a fucking mortician and let's get this train rolling again, eh? Not a chance. We ended up parked in Amherst for six hours while some forensics team re-enacted the scene. What the fuck is there to re-enact? CHOO CHOO! "Hey, what the?" *BANGSQUASH*
So whatever. I read The Elements of Style nearly cover-to-cover (something I'd been meaning to do for years; I've been using it as a casual reference since I began this thing, but I'd never actually sat down and read it.), and my mom picked Java and I up at the Bathurst station around 3 AM. I slept a little more than three hours, snagged the van, said my hellos/goodbyes, and hightailed it back to the Faxe machine. The van was equipped only with a cassette deck, so I borrowed a few of my mom's tapes for the first leg of the trip. Everything was pretty swell until around the time I passed Moncton, when the thing abruptly decided it would from this point on only not try to eat Combat Rock. Fucking Combat Rock. I'm not big on the Clash in the first place, but that album is just a fucking travesty. How long did it take the Chinese to perfect the water torture method? Amateurs. Hell, even the Inquisition sounds like a cakewalk compared to three hours of the Clash doing earnest white reggae in the prime of their sucktitude.
Rolled into Will's driveway around suppertime praying that somebody'd remembered to pack one of those CD-to-tape-deck adapter dealies. Some band (the Academic maybe? I know I caught a glimpse of Mike Bigelow down there) was recording in Pierce and Michaela's studio downstairs, and they were kind enough to put things on hold for 15 minutes or so while we lumbered up and down the stairs loading our gear into the van. Sorry 'bout that.
The van was sketchy. First thing that everyone noticed upon piling in was the bright, shining "check engine" light that had been on since I'd picked the thing up. Dude who rented it to me had said not to worry about it, and I wasn't exactly in a position to argue. Fucking thing stayed on throughout the tour, but it turned out that the engine was actually one of the few components of the van that wasn't fucked up in one way or another. I won't even bother getting started on that. Ross had indeed packed one of those adapter dealies, and so we took off for Quebec listening to anything and everything but the fucking Clash.
The first night driving was a fucking nightmare. We'd originally planned on crashing in Sackville, NB, but with so much ground to cover in so little time it seemed to make sense to get as much of it over with as humanly possible, so we decided to aim for a hostel in Riviere-du-Loup instead. And then the weather set in. The twisted little deathtrap they call a highway between Moncton and the Quebec border was so absolutely covered in fucking pea-soup fog that I ended up having to drive an average of about 70 kliks for most of it. Toward the end of it I felt like I was playing some insane video game, and was starting to have borderline hallucinations reminiscent of the one and only time I'd done any signifigant amount of highway driving on acid as a teenager. Exhaustion is a badtrip. We passed through Edmonston at some ungodly hour of the morning, called the hostel to find out they'd long been closed for the night, and decided to crash in the van surrounded by giant semis in the parking lot of an Irving Couche-Tard just across the Quebec border. Five guys in a minivan crammed to the gills with gear doesn't equal much sleep. Must be nice to be big famous rockstars like them there Burdocks.
(Relax. I'm kidding. Just seemed like a relevant opportunity to toss their tour blog in here. Read it.)
The sun came up about two hours later, and we piled out to go clean up as best we could in the bathroom of the place. I'd slept maybe half an hour. Ordered the "traditional" breakfast, which was roughly equivalent to a Ghetto Barrel big breakfast, just with three times the meat and one of those little paper coleslaw receptacles filled with funky-tasting baked beans. Will liked the beans. I thought they were retarded. Hit the road again, and, other than a freak rainstorm coming into Montreal (and this was seriously like nothing I'd ever seen before- visibility was ZERO. Worse than any blizzard I've ever been in... all while going 130kph in rush hour traffic. Crazy), everything went pretty smoothly from there. Once in the city, we bummed around downtown for a bit, and I had probably the most hilarious hissyfit of my life at Will on Ste. Cat's west. I now find the term "nervous exhaustion" somewhat less-implausible when applied to travelling rocker types. I'm sure it's still just a euphamism for "took too many drugs" in most cases, but at any rate I was pretty fucking wonky from lack of sleep by then. We ate dinner at a fucking fantastic restaurant (Mexican salad, where have you been all my life?) just off of Ste. Laurent -the name of which I vowed to remember and promptly forgot- and split up into teams for the night. Ian and Tobias did the requisite punk stuff and crashed some hippy party, puked in some alleyways, and broke into an abandoned apartment. Will kept it artfagcore and got hammered on genuine absynthe at some dorm on the McGill campus. Ross and I procured beds in a really nice hostel (my first time staying in one- I'd pictured like, a gymnasium with a bunch of cots or something, but this place was fucking aces) and headed out to see if we could catch the tail end of Einsturzende Neubauten's set, which turned out to be pretty much over by the time we got there. Bit of a letdown, but probably for the best considering I was near-delusional from exhaustion by now. Went back to our room, took showers just for the absolute frivolity of it, and passed the fuck out.
I slept so frigging profoundly that I woke up like three hours earlier than planned. Couldn't fall back asleep, and I didn't want to disturb Ross or the slightly-weird drunk guy that was sharing our room, so I headed downstairs for breakfast and the promise of internet access, but the former turned out to be nearly as overpriced as the $14.00 plate of Chef-Boy-R-Dee I'd shelled out for on the train outside Amherst, and the latter was a total drag, what with the aforementioned content filter bullshit. So I gathered up my shit, jumped in the van, and proceeded to get pleasantly lost in beautiful-morning downtown Montreal. That was really fun, and a bit of a chance to get caught up on my own thoughts. Had a long chat about Halifax with the prettiest redheaded coffeeshop girl, and had one of those little epiphanies where everything just seems simple and awesome and right. Picked everybody up at their various crash pads around 11, and everyone but Ross and I looked like holy hell. Heh. Ate shit food at the worst fucking diner ever, went on a quick mission to pick up shades, and took off for TO.
Man that diner was bad. I'm pretty sure my souvlaki was an animal penis of some sort.
Rolled up to Sneaky Dee's with a couple hours to kill. Schmoozed for a bit, and I ran into the first of a couple fellow projectdecoy boardies I'd meet along the way. Cool. Cougar Party (best girl band name ever) played a good set, but I was still pretty stiff and burnt from the drive and just wasn't capable of getting that into things. We played sorta stiffly too... like a bunch of guys who'd been stuck in a van too long, I guess, but we jumped around like monkeys and I think we went over ok. By the time Mach Tiver went on I was starting to loosen up, and I was digging it enough to pull a modified Gerry, one foot on the stage with my arm around the rail. The band with the even-longer name than ours had two or three songs I really liked, but were mostly forgettable. After all the bands were done we were just sitting around the bar mingling a bit when this toughass-looking bouncer approached Ross. Toby and I were sure he was gonna hassle him about looking underage, but it turned out to be Mike from Murder Squad, who'd just recently played Halifax. He'd heard Tobias mention during our set the long drive we'd just endured, and came up to talk about how he could relate. What an awesome guy. He bought a record, and set us up with a show at this little punk bar he runs in the Kensington market for what was gonna be, up until then, a day off in our tour schedule. The plan had been to go see Japanther in Montreal, but fuck that over playing a show anyday. Ate some second-rate Mexican type food, headed over to the inimitable Matthew Carrol's place, and crashed like cozy sardines.
Spent way too much time at Rotate This the next morning, got the best pizza in the entire history of Americanized Italian cuisine and a parking ticket next door, and left in great haste for Windsor. Some guy in a Honda followed us almost the entire way there. I experimented with various speeds, lanes, and styles of driving, and buddy kept on our tail no matter. It was like the end of an era when he finally exited the highway in search of his own destiny.
Windsor was sketchy from the get-go. The whole place had just a really artificial vibe. Total tourist town. The venue was sort of a low-rent version of the Marquee (and not in any good way you might picture) with the show being in the part roughly equivalent to Hell. The show had not been promoted, period, and the "promoter" turned out to be the singer in the other band on the bill, who, as indicated by the various posters littering the walls, apparrently take this advantage to play every goddamn show ever held in the place. The rest of This Mess and Ian (go team merch!) took off to go eat, and I stayed behind to keep an eye on our gear and size the place up. I hit it off with this nifty punker chick who went by the name of "Tex," and quickly discovered that this other band was roundly loathed by the locals, and that everyone who was there to hang out and drink was, as a matter of routine, gonna take off the moment the show started. Great. She was pretty cool though, and took to buying me drinks in such rapid succession that I had to start declining, what with being the driver and all. I seriously can't even remember the last time a woman has bought me a drink in a bar, let alone a cool rocker chick buying me several, but of course it would only happen while I'm the designated driver in some weirdo alien shitass town. She gave me her phone number and address, suggested that I (er, and the band too, but that seemed sorta incidental at the time, haha) head over to her place to drink and crash after the show, and took off for a more happenin' bar along with pretty much everyone else in the place. We went on maybe ten minutes later, and played one of those sets that just wouldn't let up with the technical difficulties. I wanted to smash my guitar. The whole scene was pretty lacklustre, but, oddly enough, this was the only show of the tour where people (all twelve of them) called out for an encore. Encore? What do we look like, KISS? But whatever, we played one of our newer songs, and nailed it enough to feel like we were ending things on a high note.
The other band was terrible. I mean, they sorta had their shit together, but their shit really fucking sucked. Toby and I were the only people standing throughout their set, and I wanted outta there by about 30 seconds into their first song, but the singer/promoter dude had one of those 400-foot patch cords on his mic and was obviously pretty stoked that anyone at all was awake during their set, and took every opportunity to slam around and make crazy Rock Singer faces at us. Leaving, in such a situation, is pretty much tantamount to screaming "YOU SUCK!," so I held off for as long as I could, which was about two and a half songs. Ross and I took off in search of wings, and got back to find the hubcaps stolen off the van. Who the fuck steals hubcaps off a fucking Plymouth Voyager? Whatever. The wings were good. Being the weird old guy/non-hunk of the band, I gotta say I was pretty into heading over to the one girl who's smiled at me more than sideways in two or three years's place to crash and/or etcetera, but the town had bad vibes and everybody else just wanted to get the fuck outta there. Like I ever really give a shit about getting laid anyway; we hit the highway back for TO around 2 AM. I listened like fuck to my new favourite Fall album to keep awake while everyone else snored away.
Perverted by Language was the first album by the Fall that I ever heard, and it remained my favourite for over ten years. I even own the DVD. This Nation's Saving Grace has finally managed to unseat it for first place.
Overtired and borderline-delusional again, I drove us back into busy morning Toronto traffic at about 160kph. I passed everybody in the fast lane. At that point, driving recklessly was the only way to keep awake. It's a good thing -and I'm not trying to brag here, it's just basically sorta true- that I have such innately good driving instincts. I woke everyone up once we were in the city, and no one could figure out what the fuck to do with our asses, so we got the 6:00 AM "Early Bird Special" at some underground parking garage and crashed there for a couple hours. I tried to hang a towel from the rearview mirror to block the glaring fluorescent lights, and the thing just fell off. I think I tried to throw it at somebody before I laid back and tried sleeping. I slept maybe another half-hour. Maybe.
Once everyone was awake and it became apparent that we had nowhere to go and nothing to do with ourselves until the show that night, things got pretty nutso. We spent 63 billion hours in a Canadian Tire parking lot trying to re-glue the rearview mirror to the windshield while Ian stole fresh socks from Zellers, and tied his old ones to the roof rack. Little smelly white flags. At this point it was decided that we'd go to this nifty Jo-Jo girl's house. This drive was epic. We were all still a little brain-damaged from the lack of oxygen in the parking garage in the first place, but once this caricaturishly crotchety-looking old guy honked his horn indignantly at us for trying to merge into his lane, we turned into the giddiest dipshits on the face of the planet. We followed that poor old guy for I dunno how many blocks until we managed to get ahead of him. Then the moonings began. I don't remember exactly when or where gramps turned off, but it sure didn't end with him. All of a sudden everyone in the van was mooning everything that moved. Ian's asscrack imprint was still on the window of the van when I delivered it back to the rental dude three days later.
Spent most of the day at Jo-Jo's place (thanks!), and I somehow managed to not take the nap that was, initially, the central mission of my day. I mean, besides the show that night. Took an afternoon stroll to check out the venue, and the place turned out to be perfect. It was tiny and stank of the fish market next door and had little framed pictures of Ice-T on the wall and was blaring Nomeansno when we walked in. Wicked. Headed over to Matt's place again for a bit, waited for the rest of the posse to arrive, and made our way back to the venue, this time to play.
This was the best show of the tour, and possibly in the history of the band. The atmosphere in the place was just fucking fantastic. Everybody got tipsy on Red Baron and sang along to the Misfits and just soaked up the great vibes before we played, and when we did play, it was the kind of set that we always aspire to, but usually fall just short of. I dare say we ripped shit up. Mach Tiver must've caught the vibes too, 'cause they melted faces that night. Definitely the best live show I've encountered in a long time. Sucks that they're breaking up soon.
So we got our $12 pay from the crusty chick behind the bar, and a fuckload of people piled into the van to go check out some eviction party we'd been invited to, with xMattx now at the helm. The place was fucking destroyed by the time we got there, and with the rabble and ongoing clamour of destruction we guaged the arrival of the fuzz at about three minutes hence. Me being the only legal driver of the van and relatively tanked at this point, it was decided that Matt oughta wheel us outta there post haste. So the plan instead became a SODA PARTY at Matt's, and we took off in search of quality non-alcoholic carbonated beverages. Well, by "we," I should say "everybody but me," because I was still taking full advantage of this lone opportunity to imbibe. We came within an inch of running down a beat cop as we sped the wrong way onto a one-way street, but he didn't seem to even notice, and everything went according to plan from there. Had a great, goofy time at Matt's place again, and the best sleep ever.
Thanks Matt. A lot.
We'd been up pretty late, and slept accordingly, so getting up and out the door for Ottawa was a blur. I'd demanded a shower to get the booze-stink off myself, and by the time I was presentable everything had been tossed back into the van all fucking haywire, and we jetted in similar fashion.
From an objective standpoint, this was probably the least notable drive of the entire trip, but it weirded me out a little. We passed directly through the town that my father, sister, stepmom, et al. live in. I didn't know any of those people until my early twenties, and I haven't seen them since the one time I visited like seven years ago. They still bug me to visit once or twice a year, and this leg of the trip served only to remind me of what a useless jerk I am.
Bleh. Whatever. That's a whole 'nother rant.
The venue in Ottawa was ridiculously easy to find, and we got there with what we thought was time to spare. This Scallon guy promoting the thing was still spazzing out though, and we'd only find out later on that this was due to the behavior of the "professional" bands on the bill. I thought we played well, but I'm told the mix was pretty fucked-up out on the floor. People bought records, so it couldn't have been too bad. Hooked up with another projectdecoy regular after our set, and Toby and I set out across town with him and his gang for fat man salad and a five dollar shake. We did the Pulp Fiction routine, of course.
Headed back to the venue, chatted with Scallon for a bit, and he turned out to be a decent enough guy once the pressure was off. It was obvious from all angles that he was losing big money on this "Exclaim Aggressive Tendencies" show from looking at attendance alone, so it was much appreciated when he pulled a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to me for gas.
Unless the thing was somehow funded by Exclaim, in which case I'm a sucker and fuck that guy.
So yeah, end of tour.
Guh?
We were so just getting started, just settling into the routine. No way I'll ever do this for only a week again. Totally fucking anticlimactic.
Left Ottawa an hour or so after the show, and drove and drove and drove until I couldn't drove no more. Parked in some ultra-rural gas station's gravel parking lot and got the first genuine sleep of my prematurely-ended van-sleeping career. Almost three hours' worth! Ross stayed up for a bit to continue in his role as navigator extraordinaire once we set off again, but it wasn't long before it was just me and the sound of snoring again. Hit the Couche-Tard we'd slept at the first night, sprawled around on the pavement in the hot sun, ate, and picked up a few last-minure souvenirs. Au revoir Quebec. I am not impressed by yr poutine, but you sell cool shit at truck stops.
New Brunswick was a beautiful girl pumping gas, a shitload of coffee, a lot of sunny rural route, and then my mother's place. Everyone else took off from there. I brought the van back, reunited with Java, and holy fucking slept. Took the train back home the next day, and here I am still writing this useless account of it more than a week later.
Funny thing is, I still have plenty to say. I think this is quite enough for now though.
|
(ADDENDUM: Ok, truth be told, it took me so long to write this excruciating piece of shit that the feeling's long since passed.)
So yeah, I'm back. I'd hoped to update along the way, but that proved more difficult than I'd anticipated. It seems that the content filters in most internet cafes find this thing objectionable. I guess I should curse less. So here I am stuck with a backlog of thoughts and anecdotes. I guess I'll just start at the beginning. Novel concept.
It was decided the preceding midnight that I'd leave for Bathurst a day earlier than originally scheduled, so little-to-none of the planning/packing/sleeping that I'd had laid out for that day got done. Little did I know how much of a trend this was to become. Timing was tight, but I made it on board, and once the train got rolling everything seemed to be going smoothly. Then we stopped in Amherst. And stayed stopped. Man did we stay stopped. After two hours or so the news got leaked that the Regional Director of Health and Safety for CN had safely directed himself between two connecting cars about a mile up the tracks and got flattened into a railroad pancake. That sucks and shit, but call a fucking mortician and let's get this train rolling again, eh? Not a chance. We ended up parked in Amherst for six hours while some forensics team re-enacted the scene. What the fuck is there to re-enact? CHOO CHOO! "Hey, what the?" *BANGSQUASH*
So whatever. I read The Elements of Style nearly cover-to-cover (something I'd been meaning to do for years; I've been using it as a casual reference since I began this thing, but I'd never actually sat down and read it.), and my mom picked Java and I up at the Bathurst station around 3 AM. I slept a little more than three hours, snagged the van, said my hellos/goodbyes, and hightailed it back to the Faxe machine. The van was equipped only with a cassette deck, so I borrowed a few of my mom's tapes for the first leg of the trip. Everything was pretty swell until around the time I passed Moncton, when the thing abruptly decided it would from this point on only not try to eat Combat Rock. Fucking Combat Rock. I'm not big on the Clash in the first place, but that album is just a fucking travesty. How long did it take the Chinese to perfect the water torture method? Amateurs. Hell, even the Inquisition sounds like a cakewalk compared to three hours of the Clash doing earnest white reggae in the prime of their sucktitude.
Rolled into Will's driveway around suppertime praying that somebody'd remembered to pack one of those CD-to-tape-deck adapter dealies. Some band (the Academic maybe? I know I caught a glimpse of Mike Bigelow down there) was recording in Pierce and Michaela's studio downstairs, and they were kind enough to put things on hold for 15 minutes or so while we lumbered up and down the stairs loading our gear into the van. Sorry 'bout that.
The van was sketchy. First thing that everyone noticed upon piling in was the bright, shining "check engine" light that had been on since I'd picked the thing up. Dude who rented it to me had said not to worry about it, and I wasn't exactly in a position to argue. Fucking thing stayed on throughout the tour, but it turned out that the engine was actually one of the few components of the van that wasn't fucked up in one way or another. I won't even bother getting started on that. Ross had indeed packed one of those adapter dealies, and so we took off for Quebec listening to anything and everything but the fucking Clash.
The first night driving was a fucking nightmare. We'd originally planned on crashing in Sackville, NB, but with so much ground to cover in so little time it seemed to make sense to get as much of it over with as humanly possible, so we decided to aim for a hostel in Riviere-du-Loup instead. And then the weather set in. The twisted little deathtrap they call a highway between Moncton and the Quebec border was so absolutely covered in fucking pea-soup fog that I ended up having to drive an average of about 70 kliks for most of it. Toward the end of it I felt like I was playing some insane video game, and was starting to have borderline hallucinations reminiscent of the one and only time I'd done any signifigant amount of highway driving on acid as a teenager. Exhaustion is a badtrip. We passed through Edmonston at some ungodly hour of the morning, called the hostel to find out they'd long been closed for the night, and decided to crash in the van surrounded by giant semis in the parking lot of an Irving Couche-Tard just across the Quebec border. Five guys in a minivan crammed to the gills with gear doesn't equal much sleep. Must be nice to be big famous rockstars like them there Burdocks.
(Relax. I'm kidding. Just seemed like a relevant opportunity to toss their tour blog in here. Read it.)
The sun came up about two hours later, and we piled out to go clean up as best we could in the bathroom of the place. I'd slept maybe half an hour. Ordered the "traditional" breakfast, which was roughly equivalent to a Ghetto Barrel big breakfast, just with three times the meat and one of those little paper coleslaw receptacles filled with funky-tasting baked beans. Will liked the beans. I thought they were retarded. Hit the road again, and, other than a freak rainstorm coming into Montreal (and this was seriously like nothing I'd ever seen before- visibility was ZERO. Worse than any blizzard I've ever been in... all while going 130kph in rush hour traffic. Crazy), everything went pretty smoothly from there. Once in the city, we bummed around downtown for a bit, and I had probably the most hilarious hissyfit of my life at Will on Ste. Cat's west. I now find the term "nervous exhaustion" somewhat less-implausible when applied to travelling rocker types. I'm sure it's still just a euphamism for "took too many drugs" in most cases, but at any rate I was pretty fucking wonky from lack of sleep by then. We ate dinner at a fucking fantastic restaurant (Mexican salad, where have you been all my life?) just off of Ste. Laurent -the name of which I vowed to remember and promptly forgot- and split up into teams for the night. Ian and Tobias did the requisite punk stuff and crashed some hippy party, puked in some alleyways, and broke into an abandoned apartment. Will kept it artfagcore and got hammered on genuine absynthe at some dorm on the McGill campus. Ross and I procured beds in a really nice hostel (my first time staying in one- I'd pictured like, a gymnasium with a bunch of cots or something, but this place was fucking aces) and headed out to see if we could catch the tail end of Einsturzende Neubauten's set, which turned out to be pretty much over by the time we got there. Bit of a letdown, but probably for the best considering I was near-delusional from exhaustion by now. Went back to our room, took showers just for the absolute frivolity of it, and passed the fuck out.
I slept so frigging profoundly that I woke up like three hours earlier than planned. Couldn't fall back asleep, and I didn't want to disturb Ross or the slightly-weird drunk guy that was sharing our room, so I headed downstairs for breakfast and the promise of internet access, but the former turned out to be nearly as overpriced as the $14.00 plate of Chef-Boy-R-Dee I'd shelled out for on the train outside Amherst, and the latter was a total drag, what with the aforementioned content filter bullshit. So I gathered up my shit, jumped in the van, and proceeded to get pleasantly lost in beautiful-morning downtown Montreal. That was really fun, and a bit of a chance to get caught up on my own thoughts. Had a long chat about Halifax with the prettiest redheaded coffeeshop girl, and had one of those little epiphanies where everything just seems simple and awesome and right. Picked everybody up at their various crash pads around 11, and everyone but Ross and I looked like holy hell. Heh. Ate shit food at the worst fucking diner ever, went on a quick mission to pick up shades, and took off for TO.
Man that diner was bad. I'm pretty sure my souvlaki was an animal penis of some sort.
Rolled up to Sneaky Dee's with a couple hours to kill. Schmoozed for a bit, and I ran into the first of a couple fellow projectdecoy boardies I'd meet along the way. Cool. Cougar Party (best girl band name ever) played a good set, but I was still pretty stiff and burnt from the drive and just wasn't capable of getting that into things. We played sorta stiffly too... like a bunch of guys who'd been stuck in a van too long, I guess, but we jumped around like monkeys and I think we went over ok. By the time Mach Tiver went on I was starting to loosen up, and I was digging it enough to pull a modified Gerry, one foot on the stage with my arm around the rail. The band with the even-longer name than ours had two or three songs I really liked, but were mostly forgettable. After all the bands were done we were just sitting around the bar mingling a bit when this toughass-looking bouncer approached Ross. Toby and I were sure he was gonna hassle him about looking underage, but it turned out to be Mike from Murder Squad, who'd just recently played Halifax. He'd heard Tobias mention during our set the long drive we'd just endured, and came up to talk about how he could relate. What an awesome guy. He bought a record, and set us up with a show at this little punk bar he runs in the Kensington market for what was gonna be, up until then, a day off in our tour schedule. The plan had been to go see Japanther in Montreal, but fuck that over playing a show anyday. Ate some second-rate Mexican type food, headed over to the inimitable Matthew Carrol's place, and crashed like cozy sardines.
Spent way too much time at Rotate This the next morning, got the best pizza in the entire history of Americanized Italian cuisine and a parking ticket next door, and left in great haste for Windsor. Some guy in a Honda followed us almost the entire way there. I experimented with various speeds, lanes, and styles of driving, and buddy kept on our tail no matter. It was like the end of an era when he finally exited the highway in search of his own destiny.
Windsor was sketchy from the get-go. The whole place had just a really artificial vibe. Total tourist town. The venue was sort of a low-rent version of the Marquee (and not in any good way you might picture) with the show being in the part roughly equivalent to Hell. The show had not been promoted, period, and the "promoter" turned out to be the singer in the other band on the bill, who, as indicated by the various posters littering the walls, apparrently take this advantage to play every goddamn show ever held in the place. The rest of This Mess and Ian (go team merch!) took off to go eat, and I stayed behind to keep an eye on our gear and size the place up. I hit it off with this nifty punker chick who went by the name of "Tex," and quickly discovered that this other band was roundly loathed by the locals, and that everyone who was there to hang out and drink was, as a matter of routine, gonna take off the moment the show started. Great. She was pretty cool though, and took to buying me drinks in such rapid succession that I had to start declining, what with being the driver and all. I seriously can't even remember the last time a woman has bought me a drink in a bar, let alone a cool rocker chick buying me several, but of course it would only happen while I'm the designated driver in some weirdo alien shitass town. She gave me her phone number and address, suggested that I (er, and the band too, but that seemed sorta incidental at the time, haha) head over to her place to drink and crash after the show, and took off for a more happenin' bar along with pretty much everyone else in the place. We went on maybe ten minutes later, and played one of those sets that just wouldn't let up with the technical difficulties. I wanted to smash my guitar. The whole scene was pretty lacklustre, but, oddly enough, this was the only show of the tour where people (all twelve of them) called out for an encore. Encore? What do we look like, KISS? But whatever, we played one of our newer songs, and nailed it enough to feel like we were ending things on a high note.
The other band was terrible. I mean, they sorta had their shit together, but their shit really fucking sucked. Toby and I were the only people standing throughout their set, and I wanted outta there by about 30 seconds into their first song, but the singer/promoter dude had one of those 400-foot patch cords on his mic and was obviously pretty stoked that anyone at all was awake during their set, and took every opportunity to slam around and make crazy Rock Singer faces at us. Leaving, in such a situation, is pretty much tantamount to screaming "YOU SUCK!," so I held off for as long as I could, which was about two and a half songs. Ross and I took off in search of wings, and got back to find the hubcaps stolen off the van. Who the fuck steals hubcaps off a fucking Plymouth Voyager? Whatever. The wings were good. Being the weird old guy/non-hunk of the band, I gotta say I was pretty into heading over to the one girl who's smiled at me more than sideways in two or three years's place to crash and/or etcetera, but the town had bad vibes and everybody else just wanted to get the fuck outta there. Like I ever really give a shit about getting laid anyway; we hit the highway back for TO around 2 AM. I listened like fuck to my new favourite Fall album to keep awake while everyone else snored away.
Perverted by Language was the first album by the Fall that I ever heard, and it remained my favourite for over ten years. I even own the DVD. This Nation's Saving Grace has finally managed to unseat it for first place.
Overtired and borderline-delusional again, I drove us back into busy morning Toronto traffic at about 160kph. I passed everybody in the fast lane. At that point, driving recklessly was the only way to keep awake. It's a good thing -and I'm not trying to brag here, it's just basically sorta true- that I have such innately good driving instincts. I woke everyone up once we were in the city, and no one could figure out what the fuck to do with our asses, so we got the 6:00 AM "Early Bird Special" at some underground parking garage and crashed there for a couple hours. I tried to hang a towel from the rearview mirror to block the glaring fluorescent lights, and the thing just fell off. I think I tried to throw it at somebody before I laid back and tried sleeping. I slept maybe another half-hour. Maybe.
Once everyone was awake and it became apparent that we had nowhere to go and nothing to do with ourselves until the show that night, things got pretty nutso. We spent 63 billion hours in a Canadian Tire parking lot trying to re-glue the rearview mirror to the windshield while Ian stole fresh socks from Zellers, and tied his old ones to the roof rack. Little smelly white flags. At this point it was decided that we'd go to this nifty Jo-Jo girl's house. This drive was epic. We were all still a little brain-damaged from the lack of oxygen in the parking garage in the first place, but once this caricaturishly crotchety-looking old guy honked his horn indignantly at us for trying to merge into his lane, we turned into the giddiest dipshits on the face of the planet. We followed that poor old guy for I dunno how many blocks until we managed to get ahead of him. Then the moonings began. I don't remember exactly when or where gramps turned off, but it sure didn't end with him. All of a sudden everyone in the van was mooning everything that moved. Ian's asscrack imprint was still on the window of the van when I delivered it back to the rental dude three days later.
Spent most of the day at Jo-Jo's place (thanks!), and I somehow managed to not take the nap that was, initially, the central mission of my day. I mean, besides the show that night. Took an afternoon stroll to check out the venue, and the place turned out to be perfect. It was tiny and stank of the fish market next door and had little framed pictures of Ice-T on the wall and was blaring Nomeansno when we walked in. Wicked. Headed over to Matt's place again for a bit, waited for the rest of the posse to arrive, and made our way back to the venue, this time to play.
This was the best show of the tour, and possibly in the history of the band. The atmosphere in the place was just fucking fantastic. Everybody got tipsy on Red Baron and sang along to the Misfits and just soaked up the great vibes before we played, and when we did play, it was the kind of set that we always aspire to, but usually fall just short of. I dare say we ripped shit up. Mach Tiver must've caught the vibes too, 'cause they melted faces that night. Definitely the best live show I've encountered in a long time. Sucks that they're breaking up soon.
So we got our $12 pay from the crusty chick behind the bar, and a fuckload of people piled into the van to go check out some eviction party we'd been invited to, with xMattx now at the helm. The place was fucking destroyed by the time we got there, and with the rabble and ongoing clamour of destruction we guaged the arrival of the fuzz at about three minutes hence. Me being the only legal driver of the van and relatively tanked at this point, it was decided that Matt oughta wheel us outta there post haste. So the plan instead became a SODA PARTY at Matt's, and we took off in search of quality non-alcoholic carbonated beverages. Well, by "we," I should say "everybody but me," because I was still taking full advantage of this lone opportunity to imbibe. We came within an inch of running down a beat cop as we sped the wrong way onto a one-way street, but he didn't seem to even notice, and everything went according to plan from there. Had a great, goofy time at Matt's place again, and the best sleep ever.
Thanks Matt. A lot.
We'd been up pretty late, and slept accordingly, so getting up and out the door for Ottawa was a blur. I'd demanded a shower to get the booze-stink off myself, and by the time I was presentable everything had been tossed back into the van all fucking haywire, and we jetted in similar fashion.
From an objective standpoint, this was probably the least notable drive of the entire trip, but it weirded me out a little. We passed directly through the town that my father, sister, stepmom, et al. live in. I didn't know any of those people until my early twenties, and I haven't seen them since the one time I visited like seven years ago. They still bug me to visit once or twice a year, and this leg of the trip served only to remind me of what a useless jerk I am.
Bleh. Whatever. That's a whole 'nother rant.
The venue in Ottawa was ridiculously easy to find, and we got there with what we thought was time to spare. This Scallon guy promoting the thing was still spazzing out though, and we'd only find out later on that this was due to the behavior of the "professional" bands on the bill. I thought we played well, but I'm told the mix was pretty fucked-up out on the floor. People bought records, so it couldn't have been too bad. Hooked up with another projectdecoy regular after our set, and Toby and I set out across town with him and his gang for fat man salad and a five dollar shake. We did the Pulp Fiction routine, of course.
Headed back to the venue, chatted with Scallon for a bit, and he turned out to be a decent enough guy once the pressure was off. It was obvious from all angles that he was losing big money on this "Exclaim Aggressive Tendencies" show from looking at attendance alone, so it was much appreciated when he pulled a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to me for gas.
Unless the thing was somehow funded by Exclaim, in which case I'm a sucker and fuck that guy.
So yeah, end of tour.
Guh?
We were so just getting started, just settling into the routine. No way I'll ever do this for only a week again. Totally fucking anticlimactic.
Left Ottawa an hour or so after the show, and drove and drove and drove until I couldn't drove no more. Parked in some ultra-rural gas station's gravel parking lot and got the first genuine sleep of my prematurely-ended van-sleeping career. Almost three hours' worth! Ross stayed up for a bit to continue in his role as navigator extraordinaire once we set off again, but it wasn't long before it was just me and the sound of snoring again. Hit the Couche-Tard we'd slept at the first night, sprawled around on the pavement in the hot sun, ate, and picked up a few last-minure souvenirs. Au revoir Quebec. I am not impressed by yr poutine, but you sell cool shit at truck stops.
New Brunswick was a beautiful girl pumping gas, a shitload of coffee, a lot of sunny rural route, and then my mother's place. Everyone else took off from there. I brought the van back, reunited with Java, and holy fucking slept. Took the train back home the next day, and here I am still writing this useless account of it more than a week later.
Funny thing is, I still have plenty to say. I think this is quite enough for now though.
|
