Mood Surgery

When I was a kid, and right up on through high school, all I did was draw. I was talented; everybody said so, even the pretentious art school prick that taught the subject to me in high school. Even years after we had our little falling out and he swore up and down that he'd never in this life reccommend me to any art school, I discovered by chance that he was still using a bunch of my shit in his "teachings." It's a piddling thing, I know, but if I'd known that stuff was gonna become his fucking property, I'd certainly have done much of it differently.

But yeah, whatever. My point is that I could draw sorta nice. My problem was, though -and I think this is ultimately why I gave it up- that I was, and remain, both an exasperating perfectionist and an uninspired slacker. That's gotta be the most useless combination of human attributes in the fucking universe. I had skill, and I enjoyed the process, but nothing ever really seemed worth depicting. What do you create when you have the ability but nothing inside you? Maybe I should've gone into architecture.

So I'd fix on one thing, some arbitrary thing, and spend hours upon hours meticulously recreating it with pen and paper, idealizing it, conforming it to my view of the universe, and get maybe three-quarters of the way finished when I'd make some wrong etch and the whole thing would be ruined to me, and I'd just tear it up. Eventually I just stopped trying again. Even the process, which I once used to enjoy for its own sake, started to seem pointless and absurd.

But, see, even with that I still had the option of starting over when I ruined something. Life doesn't really work that way.

Fuck. Crumple me up and throw me out.
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The last federal election was my first time voting, and the first time I endeavoured to give a shit about the Canadian political scene. I figured it was the "grown up" thing to do, and I was, after all, 24 years of age.

So I watched all the debates, read all the papers, chatted up several storms in coffeeshops and bars with hippies and punks and lesbians and all other manner of mythical politicos. I "cared," I suppose, insofar as I made Electionmania my main preoccupation. But it was an affected sort of concern; I forced myself to soak it all up until my head was just swimming with what in the end just amounted to a bunch of arbitrary rhetoric and sound clippage and buzz-terminology, like a jigsaw puzzle floating witlessly in a toilet filled with some congealed slow-moving goo -let's say, oh, I dunno, Campbell's cream of mushroom soup- devoid of any inherent meaning as individual peices, and the absurd hope is that they will miraculously assemble themselves into some sensible form by the action of flushing.

So I flushed... er, voted, and what followed was both less-incredibly-unlikely and more sane. I went back to not giving a shit, but this time with some self-knowledge of exactly why I hadn't given a shit in the first place, and my brain was now happily voided of that cheap, indigestible soup.

I watched the first ten or twenty minutes of the first "debate" this time around, and in short order promised myself that I would quite ardently not give another shit (haha, it's so rare that the word "shit" is allowed to take on the vivid metaphorical properties that it deserves). Viewed in this light, the candidates just seemed to me to be some kind of cultish fanatics. Or robots. Or cultish robot fanatics. Yeah, that's the ticket. It's the same impression I get when I go to church with my grandmother for Christmas. It's all so arcane, so elaborate, and so very arbitrary. Fuck it, I was not even gonna pretend to care this time. Not voting isn't necessarily nihilistic; it is a vote for my inarticulate contempt for the entire procedure. A non-vote for my non-opinion. Spoiling a ballot is just retarded. Sorry, but it really is.

So I woke up late this afternoon with the intention of getting a much-needed haircut. I don't know what happened. I'd promised myself I would not feign knowledge of or interest in this weird pagan ritual, and spent the last month quite happily ignoring the whole fiasco. Rolled outta bed, showered, ate, took Java out, and checked the time: 7:45 PM.

All the barbers were closed. So I went and voted NDP on my way to grab a cup of coffee, even though that Layton guy is pretty obviously an out-of-work used-car salesman that the party elected on a drunken dare.

I feel so cheap.
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What I said:

"EEEEEEEEE!!!

That show was so fun! Buried Inside, though I couldn't see shit of them playing from where I was situated, were fucking great. I really dug the atmospheric stuff they were doing. The Literati are now officially my new favourite Halifax band, and I'm stoked to start playing with Paul, who is one helluva standup guy, although I am saddened in proportion to this that Ross will no longer be with us. (Christ, that sounds so formal, [Edit- and morbid, haha] but I really mean it.) We had our usual bunch of "technical difficulty" crap, but it was kept mostly to between-songs stuff, and I think all-in-all we played well and with lots of energy, and effectively saw Ross off on a wicked note. Having Colleen dancing up a storm right in front of me (and pouring vodka+cran down my throat while I was playing, haha) just got me way into it. I'm still not sure if that was mocking or not, haha, but either way it was straight outta left field, as were the not-entirely-negative comments she made afterwards. "Yr band sucks, but yr drummer is fucking amazing." And he is. Or, as Derrick Hiltz put it: "Will was on fucking fire! "

The afterparty was a blast too. Thanks so much to Ger and co for putting this on. And thanks for the pick save, Carolyn!"

What the Tobias said:

"Buried Inside (Ottawa), This Message Will Self-Destruct and the Literati all played in our livingroom last night. It was 1899% dynamite. It was our last show playing with Ross; and even though the microphone wasn't working Ross belted out the songs with every ounce of breath he had. He was so loud you could actually hear him without a mic. I can't believe he's moving. We've been playing in bands together for the last two years. Life changed so much so fast. But I have no complaints. I'm so glad his last show was in my apartment with two other awesome bands and not opening for shekills.. ha! We retired the infamous handclap song where I sing and Ross plays bass. Although since we couldn't get the mic to work properly in time I just danced around led the clapping, made eb drop his pick, and kissed Ross 4000 times. It was a great finish. Will was so tired I had to beg him to even play it. I could hear him screaming in pain during his blast beats and his whole body was bright red. I think in the end he's glad we played it too. After he went straight to my room fell to his knees and just collapsed on the gear trunk with a puddle of sweat forming underneath him. I like the idea of playing as hard and fast as you can until your body just can't take it and then pushing yourself even further. So I was happy with the set."

Word.
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Listening to the Pointed Sticks.

Girls.

Man, you guys kill me. You really do.

Yeah.

Pretty much.

But yeah, the show/party tonight was fucking fantastic. The Literati are the best band in Halifax. I think we played ok too.

Last show with Ross. It's gonna be weird without him.

Bands are intense.
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Whoa. I just dreamt that my dog's skullcap was somehow missing, and she was wandering around frustratedly with her brains dangling precariously from her spinal cord and unravelling down the side of her head. Every so often, she'd go sit near the door and groan at me to do something as she generally does when we are overdue for a trip to the park. I tried several times to fit the absent contents of her brain pan back inside her head, but they seemed to have expanded as they further unfurled, and all I succeeded in doing was to smear a bunch of gooey, white-ish brain gunk all over her face in the futile process. She whimpered in fear and looked up at me as if to say "please stop me from losing my mind."

She started behaving erratically, but before I could do anything else my dreamscape had shifted, and I was lounging on the shore of some forgotten childhood swimming hole with a bunch of naked girls.

I don't want to go jam right now. I want to take my dog for a walk.
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I think too goddamned much.
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Hey, anybody wanna lend me a digital camera for a couple days?

Also- anybody wanna go see a movie tonight? I haven't done that in forever.
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I wonder if I'll ever become who I am in my head.
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Tobias moved into the Hunter street digs a few days ago, and, needing to get rid of as much excess baggage as possible for the move, dropped by here and gave me the birthday present he'd been preparing for me a month early. It is a personalized, hand-painted and stencilled VCR, and it rules. Most excellent, especially considering that I haven't had one in upwards of two years, and I'd sure like to watch some of these really cool movies I own (anybody up for a Plan 9 From Outer Space night?). Not to mention catch up on two years of big-screen pop-culture crap.

Thanks, man. A gift with personality and potential. I didn't even give you anything, did I? I suck at gift-giving.

But what this really means, and what I'm really driving at, is that I turn 29 in exactly one month and two days. Jesus.

I made a comment in someone else's journal the other day regarding indecision and anxiety about one's direction in life that was full of bravado and stoicism, and I might as well just come clean and admit that any of these attitudes I try and exhibit are flat-out lies. I am fucking terrified. 29 years old, and this is the life I've made for myself? Slave away at some disposable nocturnal shit-job all week for less than a pittance, reward myself on Saturdays by climbing on some stage somewhere to bash out a bunch of lunatic noise for an audience of boys wearing girl-pants and girls I can't even legally look at below the neck, come home drunk and alone and sit around in my underwear watching Star Trek re-runs with my ever-faithful dog who barfs all over the ugly grey carpets in my absurdly-overpriced vermin-infested apartment if I don't feed her the most extravagantly-priced "Holistic Blend" dog food, and wake up the next day to spend my hangover chattering uselessly about it on the World-Wide-Waste-of-Time and jerking off to internet porn so my dick doesn't atrophy and my computer gets the viruses instead of me. Oh, and Wednesday nights I get drunk with crust punks.

Twenty-fucking-nine years old. I am the last of my old group of friends who still goes to rock and roll shows, who still lives spontaneously, still cares about all the silly things we did when we were teenagers. I used to think there was a certain sort of integrity in that. I never "sold out," I guess you'd say. But where's the fucking integrity in being a 29-year-old man-boy who obsesses over weirdo music that appeals almost exclusively to antisocial obscurantist douchebags and hack rock journalists, and still has to call Mommy half the time to shoosh the evil Uility Bill Monsters from under the bed?

Some fucking integrity. Slowly but surely I'm dismantling myself at the seams. I used to think this was a good thing too. I over-analyse everything. But what's gonna be left to put back together if and when I ever conclude this ridiculous experiment in self-destruction?

And if I changed, what would I do anyway? I don't want to stop playing in bands. I don't want to stop hanging around people nearly half my age. I steal vitality from them, and they never mind. People my age, for the most part, have lost their lustre, and I'd like to think I still have some of that to balance out the flab and hair that age seems to be randomly embellishing my body with.

All I want, I guess, is a little security. I'm sick of having my stomach tied up in knots about how I'm gonna make rent each month. What am I gonna do if by some sick twist of fate I actually live to be old? Stock grocery shelves under-the-table in my rocket wheelchair to pay for my longevity pills?

The smart thing would be to go back to school, but to study what? Nothing I give a shit about is gonna earn me a career with the freedom to continue doing these things I love. And this is all moot anyway, considering that no university worth shit is ever gonna let me back in after my little breakdown, and the rich great-aunt that was paying for my education is now dearly-departed. No way I'm fucking the rest of my life more than I already have with some retarded student loan in pursuit of some useless arts degree. It's all a fucking crapshoot anyway. My friend Yanth, fed up with the beaurocracy of Academia, dropped out with like two credits to go on his degree in literature, and he still managed to snag a job as the editor of a daily national newsletter, making per year what I maybe make in five. And all he dreams about is dropping it all and moving to Spain to make gentle electronic music. My friend Pete, who played bass in my first band and was at one time the wastedest PCP flake-case I've ever seen in my life got a job cleaning bathrooms on trains a few years ago, and is now a certified conductor. A year or so ago he and his beautiful newly-wed wife bought a beautiful house three lots down from where I grew up. My friend Mark, who is possibly the most brilliant person I've ever met, completed his university degree and now decorates donuts for about the same living I make.

Several of my old friends are on kid number two. I was there for the birth of one of them. Pretty amazing shit. A lot of you will probably laugh at this, and justifiably, but I wouldn't mind having that someday. Y'know, like, when I'm grown up and shit.

Look at me. I'm a paunchy, stubbly, shit-for-brains chain-smoking 15-year-old.

This is why I never think about the future. It scares the shit outta me.
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I mean, how often d'you meet girls who give a shit about, say, which is the best song on side B of Psychocandy?

Where does side B start? I only have it on CD.

Never Understand

Well it's obviously Never Understand then.

Well duh.

Wait, what were we talking about again?
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If we could see clearly
What we would decide
If there was no desperation
(Would we be alive?)

If there were no windows
That we sit inside
If there were no ugly feelings
(Would we be alive?)

Would
we
be
alive?

(Help us)

Won't you make me helpless
So that I can be
Longing for the sight of something that I cannot see
I'll be floating on* the ocean
Floating on the sea
Floating in the drifting wind, I wish that I could be
Floating in a liquid
Nice and thick and warm
Floating where there is no pleasure and there is no harm
LIFE WOULD BE SO PLEASANT
IF WE ALL COULD BE
HELPLESS HOPELESS CREATURES
JUST MARCHING TO THE SEA
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I'm always alone in the parking lot

Turning to stand straight and let the wind and rain have at my face

I'd swear I can smell my grandmother's lilacs

They used to smell like the opposite of lonely

I remember in my first week of grade 7 some older guy tried to make fun of me, so I mouthed off at him like the little wiseacre I was, and he replied by shoving me down a large flight of stairs. I curled up in a little injured ball at the bottom and tried to make like I wasn't crying.

These poofy-haired popular girls came up and asked what was wrong.

I looked up with spit and snot and blood and tears on my face, and spat at them.

FUCK OFF

I screamed at them to fuck off. That was all I could say. "Fuck off!" I don't want yr fucking pity, lady. I screamed and screamed at them until my voice cracked and snot was bubbling out my nose.

At that moment I felt nothing but hate. Everything in existence was an enemy to me.

They had no idea how to react to this. I was supposed to feel privileged to have their sympathy. The popular vote. I was a broken little kid, and all I was was quaint to them.

My entire life would probably be different now if I hadn't spat again at that head Heather.

"Eew. No wonder everyone hates you."

I tend to forget a lot, but I will never forget those words.

Those words became my life.

Lilacs still just smell like I'm on my own.
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My brain's been pretty empty lately. Nothing insightful going on here.

I am still feeling pretty good though. I played chicken with a city bus this morning, skateboarding the downhill stretch home from work. As that might indicate, I'm beginning to regain a little bit of confidence on the thing. Confidence on a skateboard = reckless. I really gotta give that thing a tuneup though. I wonder if Siobhan's all done working at that skateshop in the mall.

The outdoor show was a success. It was sunny and nice out, and attendance was fantastic. Kids everywhere, and a whole squadron of punks drinking their faces off stage right. Got there about 15 minutes before we were to play, still not nearly awake and squinting harshly at the sunlight. Tuned the guitars up, muttered a few bleary words into Kid Savini's travelling radio show microphone dealie, and played a quick, mostly-competent set with This Mess. I'd give it a 6.5, I think. To tell the truth though, I really don't remember much about it. I just wasn't awake, and it seemed like it was over before it even started. I remember someone tossing a bucket of neopolitain ice cream onstage, and I remember being blown away by how many people came up to watch us, and then I remember jamming doubletime to get offstage so the Burdocks could set up, while some old-ish longhaired guy chatted me up about the gear I was using. Dude, even if it were my amp, chances are I wouldn't know what kind of tubes were in it. Nice guy though. Just... talk to me once I've got all this shit offstage, y'know?

Anyway, I was a little more awake by then, and the Burdocks played a great set that suited my mood perfectly. I don't know how I managed to live in this city for nearly six years without encountering that band until just recently. Too much time spent in dog-infested apartments getting shitfaced with punks, I guess. Speaking of which, I spent most of the rest of the early evening hanging out in the impromptu beer tent the punks had set up for themselves, and was treated to cold beer fresh outta the case while several gullible passersby were treated to warm, freshly-bottled urine in the guise of "Golden Glow." One guy took like six giant gulps. Man.

Hey, they're not "punks" for no reason. Can't say I'm exactly down with the pee-pandering, but it was entertaining to say the least, and I still like them more than most people on the planet. There was some violent shit over there later on that I'm happy to say I missed. Jock shit get outta punx.

I suppose this was all fairly appropriate in setting the stage for System Shit to play, and I think we played a pretty decent set, especially considering how quickly and recently this incarnation of the band was thrown together. And now we're going on tour in like three weeks. Hah. This is definitely gonna differ from the tour with This Mess. I anticipate less hygiene. And more drunk. It's only like five days though, so I'm pretty sure I can manage to get through it without contracting like, Hepatitis Z.

Came back to my place afterwards and had beers with Crystal and Kc and Tobias, and that was nice. I really should make less of a shithole of this place, 'cause I really do enjoy having good company over. I remember once upon a longass time ago when I was the guy who threw all the cool parties. I suppose I didn't have a sociopathic dog back then though. Or a cockroach infestation. Or an anal sex plaster mannequin taking up most of the closest thing I have to a couch. Come to think of it, I doubt my hometown had even ever heard of cockroaches and anal sex.

...

Ok, I promise never to combine those two things in a single sentence again. I think I just grossed myself out.

So yeah, um, it's really really nice outside, and Jav and I just got back from basking in the sun on the freshly-cut grass of the north face of Citadel Hill. That's sort of an unrevolting note to end this on, right?
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Come see the show this evening. It's outdoors on the waterfront, and the day's shaping up to be fairly beautiful. I'm in two of the 22 bands playing. So that's like, eleven-hundred percent me or something, right? I dunno, I can't find my calculator right now. Anyway, it's free, so you needn't even feel shafted about seeing me twice.

Speaking of getting shafted though; the promoters -who are basically just kids trying to keep the scene accessible to other kids- just had one of their major sponsors ditch them at the last minute, so if you do go, it'd be pretty cool if you put aside a loonie or two to keep them from going massively in debt for the sole crime of putting on a pretty cool show.

If I go to bed 15 minutes ago, I should get about four hours of sleep. Fun.
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