Mood Surgery

He likes to fuck, but he isn't a duck.
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I think I need a vacation. Any of you pretty girls wanna hitchhike to northeastern New Brunswick with me, say, the second week of September? We can stay in my idyllic little family cottage and go swimming every morning. Then we can walk a mile through the woods and visit my mom and my grandmother, who will feed us wholesome foodstuffs and entertain us. We can play Scrabble all afternoon with my grammy, play fetch with my dog and laze around in our labyrinthine, meadow-like backyard all evening, and drink beers around a firepit until the wee hours with one or several of my various old and newly-homeowning friends. And then sleep in as late as we please.

Well that's what I'm gonna do, anyway. I need a break from this town. For maybe a week. Just long enough to feel rejuvenated. It works every time.
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Band bios. Ugh. I sorta ran into this same snag with my first and second bands. I've never felt comfortable attaching my bands to "movements," however alive or dead they may be. It might seem convenient, and maybe even apt, but in ten years it's always just gonna seem embarassingly presumptuous.

I pretty much just want to say "Be Bad is a LOUD, ABRASIVE, FUCKED-UP and FUN rock band from Halifax, Nova Scotia." Maybe with something like "Imagine, perhaps, Devo going Taxi Driver on the high school bully, while Black Flag goes back to get their math credit." And then I wanna punch myself for sounding like a fucking rock journalist.

Tobias, just use yr thing, ok? I'm sorry I've given you such a hard time about it, but this has been built up too much and nothing I could write would be to anyone's satisfaction at this point.

As an individual, I'd like to make clear that "prog rock" is the distillation of everything that I think could ever go wrong with rock music. But I'm only one of four, and I'm really not as passionate about this as the printed word might indicate. I'm sure it'll all be hilarious in five years' time.
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Ian finally posted all his awesome tour pictures. All the stories I'd have told are contained therein. I imagine Derrick will upload his soon enough, for some of the other car's perspective. Check him out car surfing.

Oh, and hey, can somebody do me a favour and shrink the one in my header a little?
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Ok, dust has settled and I feel good. Maybe it's the beer, but I feel right with the world again -or, at least as much so as I ever do, anyway- and my unease has subsided into what feels like a healthy, productive restlessness. I feel that this is a time for friends, lovers and pursuits to be seen and approached with newfound wonder.

And check this out! I was just surfing around my regular few inter-niches when I clicked on it completely by accident. It's a PEEL SESSION of SONIC YOUTH covering THE FALL! Holy zstwrthrtgkhbgfhscfg! I totally don't even remember ever bookmarking this thing. I recommend you watch this while listening. For atmosphere.

I'm in a bit of a rush right now, and I can't think of any articulate way to say this, but I really wanna make it known so I'm just gonna blurt it out sloppily and for reals: EVERY SINGLE PERSON from the AKITFTK'05 tour posse is like, the best person in the universe. Seriously, it's almost unfair to the rest of the world that I am surrounded by such exemplary people.




I love you guys. Let's do more cool shit. Special shout-outs to Ian Phillips for being ESSENTIAL.
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When I close my eyes all I can see is black tar and a yellow line. I'm home now, but it doesn't feel like home. It was certainly nice to sleep (for 16 hours, no less) after spending 11 or 12 of my last 35 waking hours behind the wheel of a speeding car, but I'm not getting any sense of relief out of being back. Something feels wrong. Something feels off. There are, of course, more stories of the past week than I feel capable of telling right now, but none of it was so high or so low as to warrant this feeling of abject pointlessness with my life here. And, I mean, not to come off as some attention-starved whatever, but this feeling is messing me up. It's not even anxiety. It's something deeper than that. Like there is no place in the universe that I actually belong, and no one in existence that is truly open to me. I usually prefer to be alone because it's an option. Right now I just feel empty and adrift, as if my mooring with the world and the people around me was always an it's-just-better-that-way sort of lie. I wish I hadn't fried my neural pathways with drugs ten years ago. I wish my dog was here. I wish the girl I like lying next to wanted to do that right now. I don't know if that'd make me feel more isolated or less, but at least there'd be that warm body there to give voice to the heart and mind of the other.

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Ok, I wrote that incredibly flaky piece of shit maybe 7 or 9 hours ago, and no sooner did I type that last period when the one person I wanted to see came knocking on my window. I laughed and got her to read it, and then we passed out drunk and intertwined on the floor. I still feel strange, and I still can't isolate why, but it is a better kind of strange now, at least. I will probably try putting the past week into words at some point, but I think I'm gonna wait until pictures have been scanned and uploaded, 'cause they will tell better stories than I ever could.
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Wheeeeee! Seeya later, Stinktown!

Here's hoping I can do a better job of updating from the road this year. Hey Ho, if yr reading this, you should gimme yr email.

Okwishmeluckgottagobye!
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My mom just left for New Brunswick with Java. I was thinking I'd probably enjoy having a day or so with the apartment entirely to myself, but the place already feels weird and empty. It's probably just because I haven't slept in more than a day.

My thoughts are disorganized. Should that be spelled with a "z" or an "s"? I'm too lazy to check right now, so I'm going with the "z" because it reminds me of the Menz Bar, where I had fabulously-cheap, all-you-can-eat, vulcanized brunch on Sunday. Five curried breakfast links and oh my poor colon. On an entirely spontaneous basis, my brunch partner and I were enlisted as the shoestring crew for Gilbert Switzer's upcoming tour-release cassette-only album's album cover. Ok, syntax is clearly becoming a problem here. From now on, I am going to exclusively refer to the band "!!!" in print as "Hyphen-Hyphen." That's the sort of thing they're going for isn't it? I don't even really like that band. But yeah, she took the pictures and I handled the props. Sunday was unexpectedly unforgettable. For the purposes of foreshadowing, I will say "ketchup."

Gay bars? Gay barz. We were supposed to play one Saturday, but they sketched out on us at the last minute. Fuck that place. Then there was Sunday, and then we played another one on Monday. We're putting the "fag" back in "artfag." Today I'm pining for a tomboy, tomorrow I'm stuffing gerbils up my ass and asking her to take pictures. That's how it goes in these crazy postmodern times. Gilbert Switzer actually won the hundred dollar spindown, thus bringing down my own individual tour expenses by some 16 bucks. Which is pretty cool, 'cause once I pay the phone company to not cut me off at 5PM tomorrow, that puts me somewhere around $4.00 not-in-the-hole. I hope my rent cheque doesn't bounce with all this. It'd be a first since I've lived alone.

Oh, did I mention we're going on tour tomorrow? Toronto on the 5th, Ottawa on the 7th, and Montreal on the 8th. Our show on the 6th didn't pan out, so if you've got a basement, garage, party, open sewer, open mic, artspace, whatever, let it be known. GS is bringing a generator, so there is absolutely no public or private space that we could not concievably play. Just nothing with serious heat, y'know?

Ok, I'm dying. And I'm gonna get like two hours' sleep. And I haven't even begun to pack. And I have to play tonight. I'm pretty much fucked.
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