On that note...

Alright, this here is the last post of 2003. I wanted to do a whole retrospective on the year, but it occurred to me that large portions of it are lost in the mists of time and alcohol fumes, making such an endeavour all but impossible. So instead, I'll leave this year with a quote from former Creem scribe Peter Laughner (via Lester Bangs):

"Here I sit, sober and perhaps even lucid, on the kind of winter's day that makes you realize a New Year is just around the corner and you've got very little to show for it, but if you are going to get anything done on this planet, you better pick it up with both hands and DO IT YOURSELF."

Happy new year.

Resolutions, numbering nine.

Making these things is a mug's game, I know, but what the fuck....

This Year I Will....

1. Quit smoking.

2. Quit drinking (at least for January).

3. Drink more water.

4. Save money.

5. Buy a goddamned proper bed.

6. Exercise regularily.

7. Read more.

8. Make new friends.

9. See the world.

I guarantee, I will shit the bed on most, if not all, of the above. But: hey!

Lists galore

The Year in Lists.

These two sides of my brain need to have a meeting.

Oh yeah: while dining at a local burger joint yesterday afternoon, I heard a disco-ized cover version of the White Stripes' "Fell In Love With A Girl". Very weird. I wonder if it's from this.

Hurrgh. Hugh.

Five days of wallowing in one's own crapulence (look it up) can really take a toll on a guy. I think I've put on 15 punds of snack-weight in the past week. Thank god the end of the year is nigh and we can consign this one to the crapper of history.

Anyway, here's a holiday recap (even though y'all were probably there).

Tuesday: TransAtlantic. Despite expecting this annual night of BritPop etc to blow, it actually ended up a good time. I got just drunk enough, danced a fair bit and they played "Hey Ya".
Wednesday: Saw "RotK" again (and noticed a few things that bugged me this time out that I missed last time.) Ate MacD's. General chillage.
Thursday: Christmas, as previously noted, was spent watching the "Band of Brothers" box set and feeling maudlin.
Friday: Boxing Day famliy fun. Drank loads of rum, ate a ton of food and then went to see Old Reliable with my friend from Vancouver. Good gig, good night.
Saturday: Cool dudes, loose moods. Shopping, lunch etc. Watched the Oilers pound Vancouver. Drank beer. Played video games.
Sunday: Went with a high school buddy to the Oilers/Flames Batttle of Alberta, which the Oilers lost. If I had paid for the seats, I'd be pissed off. Watched "Down with Love" with Ms. S from Van-city, which started promising but spiralled into self-parody. Kinda like my life.

So that's pretty much up to date. Too boring? Tough. You want funny, then go elsewhere. I'm not your goddamn fun-monkey.

Drink up and get out.

Anyway, last post before the holidays. I'll be back Monday, barring any unforseen defenestrations or other such misfortunes over the next five.

So happy fucking holidays, you fucks.

Once upon a Tuesday dreary

I've spent a good part of my morning chasing a tiny fly that is circling 'round my office. He's not precisely taunting me from his perch atop a pallid bust of Pallas, but I expect his prescence (and ability to change direction in the blink of an eye, thus avoiding hands, notebooks and full coffee cups propelled in his direction) will drive me insane nonetheless.

You know you coulda been a wonder....

As the clock ticks down towards Christmas, I must confess to feeling a wee tinge of excitement, though it has less to do with the actual event as it does with the fact that I get to spend the next five days drinking and stuffing my face.

It all starts tonight at this shithole. It's gonna be retarded.

Trouble in mind.

Just when I thought I could start climbing out of this pre-holiday funk, along comes disgraced domestic mogul and former Iraqi tyrant (no, wait: that's t'other guy. Oops.) Martha Stewart to kick me when I'm down by declaring this Christmas "...the saddest holiday ever."

Now granted, she could be speaking for herself (and to be sure, facing charges of conspiracy, securities fraud, obstruction of justice and making false statements could be enough to dampen anyone's enthusiasm for the season), but I figure if the woman who built an empire on showing bored, Xanax'd-to-the-tits suburban housewives how to craft crepe paper angel tree ornaments and brew mulled wine (psst..the secret ingredient is wine) is sour on the spectacle that is the celebration of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ's first moon landing, what hope is there for the rest of us? None, that's what.

Then again, upon re-reading the story in question, I musty confess to feeling no small amount of schadenfreude at Ms. Stewart's fall from grace. And, as anyone who knows me would attest, schadenfreude is pretty much my favorite thing. Even though I can't pronounce it.

Doink.

The preceding post was not particularly funny, nor all that insightful. I suggest wasting time on this instead.

2003: The year that wuz.

1. What did you do in 2003 that you'd never done before?
traveled by myself for the first time ever.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I'd like to think I did a good job on the "resolution" that kicked off 2003. As for the new year, I've made a few resolutions, some of which I've already broken (do they count if you break them before New Years? Ah, fuck it.)

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No.

5. What countries did you visit?
The U.S. of A twice.

6. What would you like to have in 2004 that you lacked in 2003?
More money, internal harmony.

7. What date from 2003 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
October 25, seeing the Strokes in Seattle.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
traveling alone.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Failing to install a functioning democratic republic in Iraq.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, been in O.K. shape all year.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Probably my plane ticket to Austin.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Everyone who took to the streets to protest the war on Iraq and my roomie.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
George W. Bush, me.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Booze, drugs, clothes, music.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Seeing the Strokes live an' loud.

16. What song will always remind you of 2003?
"Hey Ya"-Outkast: Song of the Year.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
Sadder.

ii. thinner or fatter?
Slighty thinner, I think.

iii. richer or poorer?
Richer.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Fucking.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Drinking.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
Watching DVDs on my couch.

22. Did you fall in love in 2003?
Nope.

23. How many one night stands?
1/3

24. What was your favourite TV programme?
The "O.C"!!!

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Hate? No.

26. What was the best book you read?
"Psychotic Reactions..."- Lester Bangs

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
KoL. The Shins. Granddaddy. Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Black Keys

28. What did you want and get?
An Eskimos Grey Cup win.

29. What did you want and not get?
Mandy Moore.

30. What was your favourite film of this year?
"RotK"
obvs.

31. What did you do on your birthday?
Went to New City for a couple of beers.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Mandy Moore.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2003?
Urban casual. Whatever the fuck that means.

34. What kept you sane?
Pot. Blogging.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I'm drawing a blank....Mandy something....

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
War.

37. Who did you miss?
Johnny Cash.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
I dunno.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2003.
There's no need to stay up till 7 a.m. Tomorrow is a new day.
Also: If it seems like a great idea at 3 a.m., it probably isn't (exhibit A: vodka shots).

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"Things fall apart, I don't know why we bother at all."-B&S

In the latter stages, subject became erratic, violent and really funny to watch.

It's an interesting experience to go through an entire weekend without tasting the bitter fruit of a hangover. However, I expect me and my old nemesis the hangover will become reaquainted very soon.

Ah, Homestar, you've got the perscription for the daily blues.

The Greatest Blog in the World

Dude ain't just whistlin' Dixie either.

Ah, for the sweet embrace of sleep.

The only thing worse than actually having to do work is having to wait for other people to do their work so you can go home. This going out on school nights stuff is for sterner constitutions than mine. A nap is in order, as there is much to do this weekend and allah knows I'll need to keep my strength up.

I know my personal level of shit incredulousness is at an all-time high.

A classic for a reason: 73 per cent of Americans unable to believe this shit.

Me, I'd rather not give a flying fuck about the whole goddamned thing, but, as Frank said: "That's life."

Reckless, abandoned.

Oh yeah: being the lazy sod I am, I neglected to get tix for tonight's Corb Lund Band show until the last minute, only to find it was sold out. Nurtz.

I used to be sad, now I'm just bored with you.

So why, despite last night's mostly successful experiment with moderation (that, like all things, being a purely relative concept), why do I still feel like 30 miles of muddy road this morning? Doubtless the combo of too much rye and not near enough sleep are culprits, but I suspect the ringleader of this merry band of ills is none other than my old friend cigarettes. Cigarettes and I have what can best be described as a love/hate relationship. There are periods where I smoke entirely too much in a go, only to regret it later when I awake with a hacking cough that ejects a rainbow-coloured assortment of fluids from my lungs and a dull pounding in my head. And the sniffles. And don't get me started on the cancer. Altogether, that's simply too steep a price to pay for a few microseconds of nicotine-laced pleasure. So, having smoked a good half a pack last night, I can say that I hope I never touch cigarettes again (though it should be noted that the preceeding statement comes in the form of a wish and not a declaration). Some bad habits are best left by the wayside before they can do any more damage than they've already inflicted.

You don't jump away from a situation- you fuckin' confront the hell out of it!

Today's the kind of day where anything can happen if you keep your foot stuck up in the air long enough.

You'll be doing alright with your Christmas of white...

It's official: X-mas wil be a strictly solo joint this year. The pater familias is going to be out of town and, therefore, unable to feed me. So it's simply a matter of rustling up the "Band of Brothers" box set, a couple of bottles of Chilean red, some KFC and pot. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

Comes the hour, comes the man.

For every man, there comes a time when it seems the threads of his life's tapestry lie torn and frayed, where dreams are shattered and he finds himself alone against the furious assault of the cruelties and insult of the world. It is at this time, when hope seems as faint as fog on the breeze, that but one thing can pull him back from the brink of disaster.

It's time to grow a moustasche.

Outtamind, Outtasite

Holy shit. "Return of the King" is 10 pounds of awesome in a five pound bag. I'm not sure where to really begin as the movie is just so fucking huge and so fucking intense in the way it comes at you with breathtaking landscapes, big fucking trolls and orcses, thousands of orcses that you can't help but overlook the inherent silliness of the whole swords'n'sorcerers genre, the clunky dialogue and the lame deus ex machina ghost army and just sit back and grin like an idiot for the whole three plus hours. The way Peter Jackson moves the film seamlessly from moments of epic grandeur to up close and personal humanity is remarkable. Purists will no doubt sneer at the liberties Jackson and company have taken with Tolkein's story, but then the books were bloated messes anyway. The films have managed to bring out the books' core ideas and characters, giving us the essence of a mammoth story that not only touches on some Big Themes, but also kicks fucking ass. So good.

Mostly irrelevant, but how cool would it be to work at the Beer Institute?

I lifted this from TMFTML (from whom I've also totally ganked my writing style; call it blogger's envy). All I can add is that "Beer Institute" would look pretty fucking sweet on a business card.

Muddling through.

Anyone who has dared ventured down into the depths of the past week's posts will know I have a special dislike for this time of year. For various reasons (which I shan't burden anyone with), I, at best, don't give a shit about Christmas and, at worst, fucking loathe it. Now, the holidays are a difficult time for many and I'm certainly a member of that particular group. That said, I have a sneaking feeling that the 2003 edition is going to be extra-super gay (in the Grade 6 sense of the word, that is). I don't know what it is, but I feel an extra-large sense of impending doom as the whole Christmas-New Year's double team inches inexorably closer.

Now, normally, I'd figure on simply drinking myself into a state of near-unconsciousness, but I think moderation will be the watchword in that regard this season. See, the secret is to get just drunk enough. Your average amateur drunk will, upon finding themselves blessed with a decent buzz, simply try to consume more to keep things rolling (a sin I myself was guilty of on Saturday night,with disastrous consequences). The key, as I'm sure Frank would tell you if he wasn't, you know, dead, is you gotta know when to say when. So there you have it: a kinder, gentler, less vomity drunk holiday season it will be. And if that doesn't numb the pain, there's always hard drugs.

No choice now, it's too late

Jesus Christ, I'm tired this morning. It's bad enough actually being at work, but being at work and sitting through two and a half hours of pointless "training" (especially when I have a shitload of real work to do today) is decidedly not what the doctor ordered.

I do, however, have two tix to an afternoon showing of "RotmfK", after which I might as just lay down and die.

But I don't even believe in Jebus!

As we are in the midst of the season celebrating the birth of Christ, it's important to remember that you're all going to fucking burn in hell. Thank you.

If you can keep your head when those about you are losing theirs, you probably have no idea how totally fucked you really are.

Just when it seems like my life is crumbling to teeny-tiny pieces before my very eyes, along come the evil geniuses at the the Black Table with another Black List. This week, the list even gives a shout-out to Maggie Gyllenhaal, who I will never mistake for Tobey Maguire.

As for the rest of today: fuck it.

Okay!

Mystery solved. My long lost Grandaddy CD just appeared, lodged in the case with the White Stripes CD I lent out a month ago and just got back. So I got one thing going for me today.

Gone are the days.

With your faithful correspondent mired in what can only be called a full-on case of the winter blues, it's as good a time as any to try to scrape through the slush and snow in search superficial distractions (superficiality, after all, being the true spirit of the season). So bottoms up, you bastards.

Dec. 17: "RotK" premiere
Dec. 19: Corb Lund Band @Ukranian Cultural Centre
Dec. 23: TransAtlantic @New City Suburbs
Dec. 26: Annual Boxing Day piss up (Black Dog Freehouse)/Old Reliable 9th Anniversary show @ New City)
Dec. 31: New Years Sucks @New City Suburbs

I neglected to include "drinking alone on Christmas Day" as that should go more or less without saying.

Soon there will be a fucking PILE OF FACES around my foot.

I am contemplating buying Chrismukkah gifts, but I don't know if any of the ingrates I know deserve anything short of an ass-kicking. I know I should probably be beaten up this year. This whole holiday business is a big fucking scam anyway: one month (give or take) of forced good-will, which does nothing but make the hypocricy of the other 11 months even more rank and the abuses we commit against our fellow man on a daily basis even more egregious. "Over there" they're eating dust and cockroach shit while we grow fat and stupid. And what have we done to deserve any of this? Fuck all. We fluked out is all. So the next time you agonize over Christmas presents, bitch about the lack of convenient parking spaces at the mall or lament having to spend time with your (no doubt) execrable relatives, think about those other folks whose day-to-day "to-do" list is usually topped by "not fucking die".

Jesus. This wasn't going to be a manifesto, but a guy can only take so many Wal-Mart commercials and smug jingoism in a day before something inside snaps. That also means it's time to just go home.

My slow descent.

Dear Saturday Night:

I know we had some good times together, but the way you treated me at the end was disgraceful and embarrassing to us both. Please give me back the two hours you stole from me and I promise I will never speak of this, or touch Jagermeister, again.

Thank you.

PS: On second thought, keep the two hours. I'm probably better off not knowing.

When it's time to party, we will always party hard.

You know things are shaping up for a good party when a hot and statuesque aquaintance sends an e-mail confirming her attendance with the following epilogue:

"I'll try my bestest to round up the sluts!"

Please, god... come through for me on this one. Just this once.

I think I'm going to prep on Saturday by throwing on the AWK and smashing stuff.

We're talented and bright, we're lonely and uptight.

Total yawner today. (Surprise? No.)

The path to a impromptu long weekend was smoothed considerably by me shuffling around the office and groaning quietly. People are even telling me to go home. I'd like to thank the Academy...

(Now, watch me get sick for reals and miss out on all the fun and frivolity. That would so fucking suck.)

Interestingly enough, I reckon I've used the word "fuck" or one of it's variants or derivatives in each and every post on this bizzitch. I deserve a cookie or something. Sorry: a fucking cookie.

I'm hooked on e-mails. I regularly correspond with about three people during the day. In fact, most days, that's all I do. Today, however, two are M.I.A., leaving me with a yawning emptiness in my Inbox. It's got to be so bad that the appearance of new mail causes a Pavlovian reaction of pure delight, which is invariably followed by crushing disappointment when I see it's just a random update from the IT people or a reminder to buy tickets for the holiday party. Fuck that. (See? I did it again!)

C'mon 4:30...there's rye and cokes to drink.

(Another factoid: on the Blogger spellcheck, "fuck" appears as "Fuji". So Fuji off, motherFujier.)

One last thing: I had two cigarettes last night, my first since Saturday. The first one was awesome. the second not so much. Lesson learned.

Everybody wants to be a showman.

Sunterra's pecan squares are so good, I could eat an entire tray, lapse into a sugar coma and spend the rest of my days in a happy fantasy land in my head dancing with giant, anthropomorphic pecans and be content.

Kings of Leon: "California Waiting"= so good.

A bit I wrote and have to post or else delete.

The snow has been falling for days. Last night, you ran down the sidewalk, catching the fat white flakes on your tongue, flinching ever so slightly at the sharp, cold bite that lasted an instant before fading like a memory. You were drunk then and today the light snowflakes weigh a hundred pounds as you shake them off your coat and sit down at a booth near the back, next to the stack of week old newspapers and empty ashtrays on the bar. You pat your flushed cheeks and idly stare at the menu, all the while silently cursing the dull ache in your skull and the unease in your stomach. You consider orange juice, but when the waitress arrives, you order coffee instead. She's small and pretty, with dark hair and circles under her eyes. She doesn't smile. Neither do you.
You don't know if he's going to show up or not. Your not even sure why you agreed to meet, but he seemed so earnest and so desperate, like a lost dog begging for scraps at the back door, that you decided the least you could do was hear him out. You'd had too much to drink the night before and something about the cold and gray of the passing days made you crave something warm and familiar. Today, though all you can think about is how you wish you'd stayed in bed and how much he let you down. The waitress returns, smiling now with a cup of coffee and an apology for the wait. You smile back, and can see sadness in her eyes and, for a moment, you're unsure if it's her or your own reflected back.
You sigh and reach for the cream and sugar as the door opens and he walks in.

From the black of the night to the red morning light.

Holy shit. It's so cold this morning that my nuts have taken up a residency somewhere under my liver. Brrr. No wonder I was a half hour late for goddamn work this morning: who the fuck wants to get out of bed for this shit? I feel a "sick" day coming on.

I just picked up Martin Brodeur and Todd Bertuzzi in a blockbuster deal in my hockey pool. Hope it helps. Those Canucks old-school unis? Schweet.

Oilers GM Kevin Lowe has balls. He won't pull the trigger on a deal with Anaheim for holdout and malcontent Mike Comrie until the pipsqueak coughs up $2.5 million of his own money. Nice.

Saturday's party has been upgraded from "shindig" to "hootenany" with a possibility of "debacle" later in the evening.

Y'know, for a guy whose all about "fair trade" this and "peace" that, Chirs Martin (of Coldplay) is a real douchebag.

These little problems, they're not yours, they're mine

So there's this girl who works as the receptionist over at HR. I'd like to have the sex with her. (I tried to think of some more clever way to say that, but " I wanna show her my 'human resources'" sounded, well, fucking retarded.)

All the cool kids today have iPods. Now I want one so I can be cool too. Can I get one PLEEEEEEZE?!

This has got to be the slowest week in history. I can't believe it's only Wednesday when it feels like last Tuesday. I'm excited about my party. I hope it blows up like high school. Well, not my high school, because my high school was L-A-M-E. TV high school, then. Da-donka-donk-donk.

You know how, on "Star Trek" and shit, spaceships always come with self-destruct mechanisms (though I've never really understood why)? Wouldn't it be rad if people had those, complete with the chick computer voice going "Warning: this unit will self-destruct in 10...9...8..."? That'd be cool and it would give you a lot more time to get clear before they go BOOM!

I'm wondering how many people are going to show up at my little soiree either on coke or carrying. I'm betting at least two. I just hope they bring enough for the whole class.

Oh I forgot my favorite moment from the weekend. See, we've had this planter on our balcony for several months, the plant inside having shuffled off this mortal coil a long time ago. Since then, it's been serving mainly as an ashtray and a testament to me and the roommate's laziness. Anyway, Friday night, I'm enjoying a cigarette and ashing into Mr. Planter, when I turn to the roommate and say "Ya know, we should really throw this fucking thing out one of these days." No sooner had the words left my lips than buddy was out on the balcony like a shot, grabbing the planter and, in one smooth motion, whipping it off the balcony and into the winter air, where it hurtled into the alleyway behind our place, missed a parked car by a couple of feet, and shattered into a bizzilion pieces against the asphalt. Now, you probably had to be there (and drunk) to fully appreciate the hilarity, but the real moral of all this is: if you don't think throwing crap off balconies be funny, you are no friend of mine.

I just found out this thing has a spell check function. How long has it been there and how long have I been giving people the impression I'm a 'tard with my fucked up spelling and mangled syntax?

Just ask this scientician.

Inneresting....

This article says that more and more 20-30-somethings are putting off taking on the traditional trappings of grown-updom (marriage, spawning) in favor of "bonding and maturing together in 'urban tribes.'" (Psst...that's "friends" to the rest of us.)

Which isn't a revelation of epic proportions, as this is a phenomenon I've observed first hand from watching my friends and, to a lesser extent, the television program, also called "Friends."

My question is, what happens when these "tribes" go to war?

I can't think 'cause I'm just way too tired.

I've been having a bitch of a time getting out of bed in the morning of late. Which is weird, since I've been going to bed extra early these days. Bah. Also: humbug.

Worry not, dear reader: these lamentations of boredom will no doubt soon be replaced by complaining about being tired/hungover/still drunk/dead.

Ryan Adams' "Rock N Roll" is kinda growing on me. I mean, it's still too Bryan Adams for my liking (see what I did there?), but there's some songs and bits of others that are pretty sweet. It's frustrating being an R.A. fan because, ever since the almost-perfect "Heartbreaker", we've been getting nothing but hints and teases of the man's talents. However, these are usually obscured by overt homages to his influences and total throwaways. I mean, c'mon dude: you're better than that. (Thing is, I just know I'm gonna pick up "Love Is Hell Vol. 2". 'cuz I'm a chump, yo.)

Uhm. More shinny hockey in the offing tonight (this time with actual sharp skates! Yay!), this time with my cuh-cuh-cuh-razay friend Josh, who, when I invited him to the party this weekend, asked if he could "bring his moustasche." Of course, anyone ballsy enough to sport a 'tasche can throw down at any party of mine any day. Then it's Stella time!

It’s always worth living at least for a while.

It occurred to be last night as I sat on the couch watching "The Simple Life" (the novelty of which has worn off after just three episodes) that I really, really need to get out more.

What happened to me? I used to be fun.

-

I don't remember the last time I saw the sun. I hate this time of year for that. We get all of six hours of daylight here, so most days, the only time I see sunshine is through the windows of the office (assuming it's not obscured by the ever-present layer of slate-coloured cloud). It's fucking depressing.

By the way, if you are reading this (and you know who you are), the third track on the new Belle and Sebastian always reminds me of you.

Dead in the water.

I'm going to miss the Supersuckers tonight since it's $17 and I'm poor. Well, not poor. I'd just rather spend that $17 on liquor. Don't judge.

I am looking forward to the arrival of friends from near and far over the next couple of weeks, mostly because my friends here are all fuckin' jerks.

Just kiddin'.

Kind of.

Strictly television.

What the fuck happened to "The O.C." last night? I don't remember asking for a shot of the horrible and inexplicably popular "C.S.I.", yet that's what I got. Fuck that.

At least "Newlyweds" and "The Simple Life" are on tonight.

T.V. has taken my soul. And it feels great.

Eww.

Someone here at work (I think it's my boss) regularly brings in soup that fills the whole office with a scent somewhere between wet cabbage and a dank armpit. It's fucking gross.


And people 'round here wonder why I always have my door closed.

Say "Oh my!" and a "Boo-hoo."

See, just when you think you've got me all figured out, *WHAM!*: I bust out on the old school Stooges tip. Iggy's old posse gets the nod this a.m. 'cause of this little tidbit, which raises out the possibility of a Stooges/Jack White/Rick Rubin collaboration. So badass.

Owned!

Totally gangsta: Clic!

Apeshit: y'know, sitting around the campfire... Apeshit!

Amazing how this blog, moribund for so long, has been revitalized with the nigh-ness of the holiday season. That and the fact that I've no desire to tackle the crap work sitting on my desk right now, its very prescence like a bleak harbringer of doom.

After viewing back to back installments of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended editions, no less), I'm finding it difficult to relate to the world in non-Middle Earth terms. For instance, I was earlier contemplating how awesome it would be to send a meal back at a restaurant with the instructions to "cast this back into the kitchen from whence it came". Or something.

I also can't wait for "RotK" to come out, if for no other reason than it'll stomp the truly Godawful-looking "Mona Lisa Smile" into celluloid mush. Seriously, I expect that kind of trite, mass-market, focus-grouped to death paplum from Roberts and Stiles, but Maggie G.? Say it ain't so.

Maybe I'll go see "The Last Samurai" this week (samurai being almost as cool as wizards) or perhaps the Coen brothers-produced "Bad Santa". I thought Billy Bob Thornton was the best thing about "Intolerable Cruelty" and I'm sure as shit not gonna pass up a chance to see Lauren Graham play a sex kitten.

The U.S. Secret Service is looking into a alleged Eminem lyric to determine if it constitutes a threat to Semi-President Bush.
NME Hmm. Someone should keep an eye on Fiddy.

Girls act too much and boys act too tough.

Enough is enough.

Decent weekend, it was nice to escape for a while. Friday night was something of a return to form, with much boozeahol consumed (and props to my man Ay-ron for all them free beers. It helped the weekend go smoove). Took the roomie to the Savoy where we hooked up with soem friends, rolled to the Strat for cheap draught, then back to the casa for more drinking, Suede on the stereo, me chasing the roomie 'round the kitchen with my ass and table dancing.
Saturday was Hangover Central, so I took it easy most of the day. We watched most of "The Fellowship of the Ring" and "FUBAR" called it an early night. Sunday was steak'n'eggs for brekker with Liam (who is heading back across the pond tomorrow. Boo.) and lots of loafing. Finished "Fellowship..." started in on "The Two Towers" before I headed off for dinner with Liam's folks who put out a sweet spread of fine wine, prime rib and tiramasu. Yum. So, feeling slightly stuffed, I went home, finished "TTT", which leaves me breathless in anticipation of "RotMFK" (Return of the Mother Fucking King", yo.)

And now I'm at work and hating every minute of it.

This weekend, I came up with a couple of pre-New Year's resolutions to guide me through the Chrismukkah season.
For starters, I've decided to knock the smoking on the head (finally: Friday was the last straw). Secondly, I've decided to stop indulging (and engaging) in the juvenile, high-school bullshit that keeps fucking things up in my circle of friends. Which ties nicely into the final Chrismukkah resolution, which is to treat people as they deserve to be treated. That means sunshine and lollipops for some, full-on, sneering contempt for others. Yay! Contempt!

So, no sooner are we shipping the Ginger off, than Big Irish Easy rolls into town, an event I'm looking forward to with a mix of excitement and dread. Belfast's loss is our gain for the next three weeks. I just hope my sofa can survive the experience.

Finally, this Saturday is the first ever 509ers' Chrismukkah bash. It should be pretty juicy, provided that we don't get shut down early by the landlord. There will be much consumption of boozeahol and no doubt a fair amount of drama. Me, I'm just planning on drinking my weight in Heineken and telling random people to go fuck themselves.

The soul of wit?

"Fat fuck, hit in nuts. Then rolling down hill."

My hat's off to Big Irish Easy for his definition of comedy. I stand in awe.

Music of the mo':
Rolling Stones: "Dead Flowers"

Historical tidbit or allegory for my life at this moment?

The Chinese Cultural Revolution in 1965 was a comprehensive reform movement to eliminate counterrevolutionary elements in the country's institutions and leadership. It was characterized by political zealotry, purges of intellectuals, and social and economic chaos.

Big ups to the American Undershirt for the factoid.

Red-eyed and blue.

Blah blah blah.

So, the boss man sticks me with a big fucking project, lots of "responsibility" and all that other crap. However...

A) It's bullshit busywork.
B) It's not something my area, let alone my department, should even be touching with a ten-foot pole.

This week has totally licked balls. And not, you know, in the friendly way.

An offer you can't refuse.

L:"Say, would you be interested in coming for dinner on Sunday? There'll be prime rib and a 20-year-old bottle of wine."

Me: "Yes. Yes I would."

Things fall apart, I don't know why we bother at all.

Dusted myself off after shinny last night (no goals, but some good chances; added bonus: I didn't vomit!) and dragged my ass out for a few Stellas at the usual haunt. Had a pretty good chat with my pal Buck last night, which led to more pondering...but shit, I have a diary for that b.s.: this is about fun.

Uh...

Alright, no fun right now. Carry on...

Faced with a rush of options, boy's mind blows.

So, I followed through on my plan of yesterday which, I have to say, was a smashing success. A bottle of Concho Y Toro, combined with a pack'o'Camels is like an enema for the brain. Plus, watched Monday's "The O.C." on tape, which was, of course, awesome. "Chrismukkah" is the most brilliant holiday idea since Festivus for the rest of us.

Uh, work blows ass today and things aren't so shit-hot as far as the rest of it (meaning life) goes. But I'm going to go play hockey tonight and then maybe go for pints, so maybe the world will be a better place after that.

Fuck you, Mandy Moore: this is how to deal.

If there's ever been a day where staying at home and killing a bottle of vino is a Fucking Great Idea, it's this one. I can't wait to see the look on my roomate's face when he comes home to find me sauced up Merlot-style. If you motherfuckers think I'm taking on tonight's "The Simple Life" premiere with a clear head, you're sadly mistaken.


P.S: Mandy, you know I didn't mean it, baby. Give us a hug....

Oooh: lists!

Let's say, oh, the Top Seven Albums of 2003...

1. The Strokes: Room on Fire

The sophmore effort from New York rock saviours finds the patented Strokes sound enfused with synth-y guitar licks, cheeky handclaps and hooks galore. Familiar, yet refreshing.

2. Kings of Leon: Youth and Young Manhood
Derivative? Yeah, sure, but here southern boogie rock is dragged through the gutter for a much needed makeover. Past the moustaches and backstory is a solid collection of rock and roll songs. What more do you want?

3. The Shins: Chutes Too Narrow
The follow-up to the much hearalded "Oh Inverted World" finds the Shins still mining pure A.M. gold from the remenants of the Beach Boys on down to Pavement.

4. Belle and Sebastian: Dear Catastrophe Waitress
A new producer and a new focus for the rainy-day Scots results in a re-invigorated colelction of pop Nuggets.

5. White Stripes: Elephant
Would have been higher, but for the fact they ripped off their own stuff twice on the same album. Otherwise: huge.

6. Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Fever to Tell
Though mired in art-fag pretension, still kicks you in the junk harder than just about any record this year.

7. Grandaddy: Sumday
The spiritual descendant of Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is all electro bloops and guitar twang, but it's the tales of broken robots and office workers lost in the forest that make it better than good.

It's all a bunch of shit.

Yeah, Ryan Adams' "Wish You Were here" is a pretty good song. I'm man enough to admit that. There's something about the line "It's totally fucked up/I'm totally fucked up" that's so insanely great in it's simplicity that I just can't help but nod and say "Fucking-A. You said it, man."

Oh, I have -$25 in my bank account today. I have no idea where my fucking money went.

What's up with this shit right here?

I hate my work computer. Bitch won't play Flash, so I can't watch a good chunk of the sublimely awesome stuff on Homestarrunner.com. It also occasionally refuses to display images (which sucks when you're trying to scope out new picks of Britney Spears or something) and, worst of all, the fucking sound keeps cutting out on my fucking Windows Media Player, leaving me rockless.

Windows and PC's suck ass, y'all. And Bill Gates can eat a bowl of dicks.

How the mighty have fallen.

Okay, you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger fan of The Simpsons than yours truly, but it seems they're really slipping. Used to be The Simpsons were the highlight of Sunday night, one last hearty guffaw before the work week sunk its talons of despair into you. Now, it's a victory for the show to elicit so much as a chuckle. The writing is flat and uninspired, the gags clunky and the set-ups just ridiculous. Take yesterday's "Simpsons go to London" episode (the latest in a series of "The Simpsons go overseas and wackiness ensues" episodes, most of which, quite frankly, blow). The episode hinges on Bart finding a $1,000 bill which blows through an open window. Trouble is, the set-up was shamelessly ganked from an earlier episode (the classic "Junior Campers" 'sode from back in the day, where Bart and Milhouse find $20 that is blown out of the Simpsons' window). Later, they reduce themselves to pointless and not-funny celeb cameos (JK Rowling and a squandered Sir Ian McClellan) and, worst of all, biting gags from National Lampoon's European vacation. Nosirree, the once-mighty juggernaut of laughter that was the Simpsons is no more. I sure hope they put it out of its misery soon so we can look back with fondness instead of disappointment.

Got the Monday morning blues again.

So I think I'm getting sick (my lymph nodes are like golf balls today), work is boring and I've got four more days of this horseshit before the weekend. Fuck Mondays, man. Fuck 'em all.

The kid is not my son...

...he's my lover!

There's my obligatory Michael Jackson joke. Now fuck off.

Tell us a story, I know you're not boring...

See what happens when you go out drinking on Tuesday? You wind up with posts like these on Wednesday.

Adventures with income:

The Shins-"Chutes Too Narrow":$17.99
The Strokes-"Room On Fire": $14.79
The Stills-"Logic Will Break Your Heart":$11.79
Medal of Honor: Rising Sun (PS2)- $54.99

Yay!

In the meantime, Brit music magazine Q has shit the credibility bed with its 1,001 greatest songs of all time.

See the Top 100 here.

Eminem twice in the top 20? Enrique Inglasias' "Hero" above Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On"? No Ramones?
The motherfucking Darkness in at #53? I think I need to lie down...

Get Your War On is still the funniest shit ever.

But this totally fucked up German safety video is close.

Ya know, these guys might be onto something.

Fuck this...

She don't lie, she don't lie....

The UK's The SUN tells of a a sex drug you can snort.

My question is: what's wrong with good, old-fashioned cocaine?

Matrix: Unloaded

Saw the final installment of the Matrix trilogy yesterday afternoon. Whoever gave the Wachowskis (sp?) the billions to make this piece of dog shit should be strung up by the liver. I'll spare all the gory details, but suffice it to say that "Matrix: Revolutions" makes absolutuely no fucking sense whatsoever and will leave you puzzled and annoyed. Save yer money for the "Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" extended edition DVD which drops next week.

Oh, baby...

In the meantime, to recap the last couple of weekes (since I've been woefully negligent in updating this mofo) there's been an awful lot of drinkin' dancin', smokin' and various shenanigans going on (albeit nothing too juicy-like). Buenos tiempos.

Stuff'd!

Re-read my wishlist post from a few weeks back and realized that I've since picked up 4 out of the 6 items on it. Yay (I guess).
Now, barring any more spontaneous concert trips, I'll be able to start working towards taking care of that whole bed situation...

Stroke'd!

Rock'n'roll, like good sex, should do a few things. It should leave you dizzy, breathless, exhausted, blissed-out, exhilarated and with the feeling of one who has felt, for a moment, lifted out of themselves and into something bigger. Kinda like seeing God.
If that’s the criteria that we shall measure our rock by, then The Strokes' appearance at Seattle's Seahawks Exhibition Centre was everything a good rock show-cum-religious experience should be.
Despite being stuck in a cavernous hall that was well below sold-out status, the New York rock-revival standard-bearers lined the smallish crowd up against the wall and machined gunned 'em down with a perfectly balanced set of sexy, raw New Wave-inspired tunes from Is This It and new one Room On Fire. While media profiles and haters alike tend to focus on the band’s fashion sense, background and throwback sound, more than anything else these guys are pros. Tight, focused, almost machine-like in their efficiency. And, while some would criticize the lack of onstage action (with the exception of Julian Casablancas' wandering about and Albert Hammond's bobbing 'fro action), I'll take the Strokes' lean songs and razor-sharp delivery over a thousand furiously pogoing poseurs any day.
Openers and Southern preacher-spawn Kings Of Leon set the tone with a raw loose set of CCR-ish boogie-rock. The band, all moustasches, leather jackets and tight trousers, fell on the Philistinistic crowd like a Led balloon, but still proved to be a hearty appetizer for the main course
The Strokes swaggered out to the Clash's "Clampdown" and kicked straight into Room On Fire "ballad" Under Control, which dripped with Casablancas' trademark East Village ennui and Hammond and Nick Valensi's serpentine guitar licks. Despite nursing a throat ailment (which manifested itself a couple of times during the show), Casablancas was the focal point, bantering easily (albeit nonsensically) between songs, swearing like a sailor, and diving into the crowd (twice) during new single "12:51". And then there was The Moment. Every great show has a Moment, when everything comes together to make your mouth drop open slackly, your fists to clench involuntarily and the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. On this night, it was during "Reptilia" a song that pretty much embodies the Strokes' "sound": the tight groove of Nikolai Fraiture's bass and Fab Moretti's airtight drumming meeting the frenzied duel guitar attack, all propelled into Mach speeds by Casablancas’ vocal explosion. As the angular front man leaned into the mic to beg the crowd to "Please don't slow me down if I'm going too fast!” and the strobes bathed the crowd and stage in a flash of blinding white, The Moment hit me and I rocked back on my heels like a Pentecostal at a old time revival. Saved by rock'n' roll. Saved by the Strokes.

We can go and get 40s, fuck going to that party

Holy shit. I'm 36 hours or so removed from seeing the Strokes in Seattle. Just thinking about it makes my pants small, ifyouknowwhatImean.

I wrote a big-ass review of the new Ryan Adams album for this piece, but my fucking computer ate it. Here's the abridged version:

"The new Ryan Adams record, "Rock N Roll", is really boring."

November looks like it's going to blow up BIG! My homie Liam is in from Manchestah next week (just in time for Halloween; me and the crew are going as the cast of The Royal Tennenbaums). There's also some great shows on the way, including the Vertical Struts on Nov. 1, Broken Social Scene on the 9th and Hot Hot Heat on Nov. 22. Big sports month too, with the Eskimos hosting the CFL's Western Final on Nov. 9 (which i hope to attend), the Heritage Hockey Classic , and tons of NFL and Premiership action to catch. Shit, I may have to quit my job just to keep up with life...

Anyway, stay tuned for Seattle shenanigans and (hopefully) the long-delayed Austin entry. Peace The Fuck Out.

This is it.

I'm going to Seattle next weekend to see the Strokes. Now, who wants to touch me?

Update, long overdue

A la Nickleback, it's been a while. (Sorry.)

That's mostly 'cause there's sweet FA to report. Been keeping things on the downlow for a while, no shows, no new CDs (though I listened to the roomie's copy of the new Belle and Sebastian a couple of times and, I gotta tell you, it could be my new fave B&S joint.)

This is the dead time for Deadmonton: the days are crawling into their hidey-holes and winter waits at the bus stop, destination: here.

(I did watch Spun t'other day: pretty weak. Get Requiem For A Dream instead.)

Bad math.

Gin+bummed cigaretttes+"Lost in Translation"= good times (or X)

X+lack of sleep+work=1 (one) shit day.

Flotsam and jetsam

I know it's a little late to jump on this bandwagon, but the new Grandaddy album is sublimely good. Also, the latest Weakerthans offering confirms that John K. Samson is the best lyricist in the biz today. I really should start practicing my frigging scales, but can't seem to get motivated. Plus, I'm convinced both my guitars need tune-ups. Today is moving too slow.

Wishlist

I want stuff. Does that make me a shallow victim of hyperconsumerism, striving in vain to fill the void in my life with material goods? Yeah, probably.

1) A new, half decent winter jacket. Maybe I'll go with a yuppie fleece or something, though I'd like to find something woolly for work.

2) Shoes. For work and for play. Went sneaker shopping this weekend to replace the tattered Converses with something more durable: no joy at all. I fail to see how stores and companies can justify prices like $250 for a fugging pair of sneakers.

3) The new NHL 2004 for PS2. Yes, I know I've been let down by every hockey videogame since NHL '98 for the Genesis. But that doesn't mean I don't want something to tide me over till Medal of Honor: Rising Sun drops in November.

4) "Main Lines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste": the new Lester Bangs antholgy. I've ordered it from Audrey's Books just to stick it to Chapters. Boo ya, you fucking souless corporation!

5) A new amp. Nothing fancy, though something in a Fender would be sweet...

6) A bed. A real bed.

Movies, movies, movies

Going to see "Lost In Translation" tomorrow. Saw "Charlie's Angel's: Full Throttle" yesterday. Now, the first one didn't make much sense, but it was a fun, brainless romp. The sequal, on the other hand, is a train wreck. It's as if they had the three screenwriters working in seperate rooms on seperate scripts and then just randomly slapped the finished products together. God, but it was awful. Demi Moore is, naturally, brutal, while Crispin Glover's "Thin Man" (the only good character from the first movie) appears for about 5 minutes, then gets killed for no particular reason. Bernie Mac is pretty funny, but not enough to save this steaming piece of horse crap from itself. Ugh. That's two hours I'll never get back.

Also, at the roomate's behest, watched part of the film "Dreamlover" starring Madchen Amick and James Spader. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard at a movie. This one was like a weird, extended episode of TV's "the Red Show Diaries" (itself based on a crappy movie). Truly hilarious in its awfulness.

The new beer.

Gin is the new beer.

Adrift in a sea of lameness

1) The fact that the new season of "Friends" starts tonight makes me more excited than is probably healthy, natural or normal is disturbing on a large number of levels.

2) Bachelorette parties are, if possible, even gayer than stags. Nothing says "pathetic loser resigning herself to a life time of mediocrity and infrequent, joyless sex" than a girl drinking out of a plastic cup shaped like a big cock. 'cept maybe an embarrassed looking mechanical engineer in khakis pulling a "What would my mom think?" face while he flips Loonies at a peeler's twat to a chorus of drunken hoots from his former frat buddies.

3) Tuesday's Black Halos show was precisely the kind of gig that, five years ago, would have had me hopping up and down like an excited schoolgirl who just found a pony under the Christmas tree. As it was, I just sorta stood there, drinking water and occasionally nodding.

4) Non-Tiki themed bars. Seriously, why can't more bars rock the bamboo and voodoo mask motif? Bars 'round here are either too meticulous in their artiness (ie. Halo, the Savoy) or are the esthetic equivalent of "I just rolled out of bed and through on the first thing I pulled out of the laundry basket." (hellooo New City). Sure, you don't want to drink out of a coconut every night, but it'd be nice to have the option, dig?

5) The upcoming NHL season will likely be the last for a while, unless through some miracle the league and players can get a new CBA done before next fall. That's unlikely as the players won't accept a salary cap, which is pretty much the only thing that could save the league from over-pricing, fan-alienation and increased crappiness (if such a thing is possible in today's league). Assholes.

The Man in Black

Rest in peace, Mr. Cash. I'll raise a glass for you tonight.

I loved Johnny Cash.

Not just as a fan. I loved him. He was, and will always be, a legend of a musicianship and artistry. Some people are born to share their talent with other people, and that is what he was, and that is what he did.

He was not perfect. As a matter of fact, he was the definition of imperfect. His face was stony and uneven, eyes heavy, crooked smile. His voice, so lauded by all kinds of singers as being so moving and inspirational, was not perfect, but it was Great.

So great that his impact on sonwriters and singers is without parallel. No one but Willie and Merle,and I guess George Jones, remain now in that group of legendary alumni. Today is George Jones's birthday, as a matter of fact. It won't be a happy one. That was the first thing I heard on the news this morning when I got in the car at 6:30. I thought to myself "these guys are getting old," and had this funny feeling... and then ten seconds later, they announced about Johnny. I wish I had turned around and gone home.

It is a tremendous loss. When any sort of artist passes away, no matter their medium, a void is created that can never be filled. Someone may come along some day who is as talented as Johnny, but it won't be him.

His maudlin style was more intelligent than most others in his class. It was the sort of quiet intensity about him that made him so alluring to people. He wore black, as everyone knows, and became famous for it, representing the downtrodden and maligned with his black clothes, black hair and black eyes. What an amazing man. People identified with him because they felt like he was one of them, on of their own representing them, but he wasn't. He was much bigger and much stronger. Johnny Cash was a hero - not in the sense that he saved people from drowning in wells, or lead an army - he was the literal figure of a hero. Bigger and stronger. Man, yes, but more.

His weaknesses were well documented, but isn't what forms people into heroes their ability to overcome weakness? It's in every hero story from Greek myth to the Bible. Most heroes suffer the weakness of pride, and he was no different. Johnny Cash was the first to admit the abuse he heaped on himself back in his darkest of dark days. He gave all the credit for his redemption to his wife, June, who died not very long ago.

Their relationship was what hero stories are made of in the oldest stories of the oldest books. He loved her. He loved his wife. If you've ever seen the footage of the two of them singing "Jackson," you can see it plain as day. He did some bad things to his family, he said, drinking and carousing and generally abusing himself almost to death many times. What makes him a hero is that he used the depth of his wisdom to control his pride - he didn't do it for June or his children, though. I think he did it because he was too smart to let himself go down like that. Bigger and stronger.

The Cash's relationship is one I want my own to emulate. I know I sound like I am doing that Southerner's thing where we get dramatic and stomp around saying "by God," but I assure you, I am being as serious as I have ever been. In life, you don't have to love somebody. There's no law. As a matter of fact, it's harder to do it than to not do it. There is no guarantee, at birth, that each person in the world will experience love on Earth. Human beings are not pack animals, by nature. We are singular and individual, and to commit yourself to another person is a chore and ocassionally in the middle of it, you wonder why in the world you're bothering. There are times when it takes superhuman, heroic strength to love someone, even if they are good and beautiful. That is the imperfection inherent in being a person. It's equally hard at times to just be good and decent, and to rise above these flaws in their makeup and become better than what they are, just out of a pure desire to do it, makes someone like Johnny Cash a hero.

The man was just a brilliant performer and American songwriter. Willie Nelson, who I think may be this country's greatest poet, loved to hear Johnny Cash sing. I feel like, when I hear Johnny sing, that he's telling the truth. He was a great storyteller, a real writer of stories crafted into songs. Kris Kristofferson may have put it best: "Johnny Cash's voice... it sounds like the real thing, which is what he is."

No question. To see him go is heartbreaking. I'm sitting here at my desk at seven in the morning, crying about Johnny Cash. It's amazing. If you go back and look at the man's life and career, from an historical perspective, you can see very plainly the literary path of the hero. He was bigger and stronger and when people heard him they were affected by his depth and by his honest way of living - even when he was living crazy and kicking out lights on the Opry stage, high as a kite. They were watching what seemed like the spiral into downfall. But, they saw him come back up. He didn't just clean up his act, he transformed himself into his destiny, and he was smarter for it. He made other people smarter just telling them about it. This last album of his has a song on it that he said he spent more time on than any song before. It's all over the place and includes a bunch of stuff from the Book of Revelations. Listen to it, and try to figure out what he was trying to tell you. Even at the door of death, Johnny Cash was allowing things to be revealed to him. If every generation is given a hero, I hope whoever comes next can do even half the job.

-Lifted from here.

The Metric system

Took in Toronto buzz band Metric last night. First, why do shitheel promoters in this town start weeknight shows so goddamn late? The headliners didn't go on till about 11:30, and the first band (an appalling Evanesence-esque goth-prog outfit whose name mercifully escapes me) got about 45 minutes of stage time. 45 minutes for their first show! Jebus. Anyway Metric was a thrill, especially for the boys in the crowd. Vocalist Emily Haines (who also does duty in Broken Social Scene) is one foxy rock'n'roll mama, bouncing and shimmy all over the place inna itty-bitty skirt. The music took me by surprise, as pre-show buzz indicated atmospheric electro-pop would be on the menu. Instead, Metric offered up a tight set of bouncy, synth-flavored, Blondie-ish guitar pop that got heads nodding and a few feet moving. Check out the band's Web site (ilovemetric.com) or read this Exclaim magazine article. Or just buy the album, dingleberry.

Weekend fallout
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
I don't why, but for some reason it seemed like a good idea to wade into a beer-and-absinthe-fueled argument with my best friend (a rather belligerent drunk in her own right) at New City's One Night Stand on Friday. Now she's not speaking to me and I feel like a bit of a shit (though, in my defense, it takes two to tango and I wasn't totally in the wrong.) Agh.

Oh well. "Maybe the Weakerthans will ease my troubled head," I thought on Saturday. While the Winnipeg folk-pop-punk combo put on a stellar performance, the small, unenthusiastic crowd and the cavernous Shaw Conference Centre venue put a damper on what would have been an otherwise outstanding show. And don't even get me started on the fucking hippies.

Sunday's Black Dog free show featuring locals the Film Stills and the Vertical Struts (ska-sters the Mad Bomber Society also played, but I bailed before they came on) were an improvement. The Film Stills are a neat little '60s inspired pop combo with revolving vocalists, while the Struts are a two-piece British Invasion guitar/drums explosion that is, hands down, the most exciting band our little burg has to offer.

This week, I've decided to adopt a new theme: sobriety. I figure, if I'm going to attempt to make it to Texas next week for the Austin City Limits Festival, I'd better save some dough. One way to do that is lay off the sauce for a bit. It'd probably be a boon to my liver and my waistline too. Of course if it turns out that I need a passport to go to the States, I'm totally hooped.

Aw shit.
Yeah, I had the best of intentions of doing a nice big write up of my Vancouver trip. I honestly did. However, I wasn't counting on work to be such a pit of rabid dogs this week, so that plan went down the shitter. Instead, enjoy this Reader's Digest condensed version.

Highlight

Radiohead, fer sure. A full on sensory experience. It was like being born and seeing the world for the first time (while surrounded by thousands of pot smokers).

Lowlight Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks.
"Hi, I'm Stephen Malkmus. I hope you don't mind if I waste everyone's time for the next 40 minutes with a truly half-assed set of the most inaccessible gibberish going, do you? Thanks."

Best Bar The Railway Club.

Best demographic observation by an obsessive fan
Sue, the Dandy Warholoholic who was rocking out during the (rather mellow) Dandy's set on Friday, on the rather aged appearance of the crowd in the Zone (a fenced off area in front of the stage, apparently reserved for the elderly and infirm): "Look, there's a guy wearing a fuckin' Peter Gabriel shirt!" Yeah, everyone knows Peter Gabriel sucked since he quit KISS. (Note: Sue was heading down to Bumbershoot on Saturday for the Dandy's show there. Hope it was fun)

Best Dive
The Cambie, baby.

Best way to kill 2 hours on a hot afternoon
TAFU on Granville has cheap suds and an itty-bitty, but strategically located, patio. Perfect for sighting gap*.

Best stage banter
Wilco's Jeff Tweedy: "I just had sinus surgery, so I may sound a little funny. I don't know why they had to shave my scrotum for that, though."

Weirdest phenomenon
The lack of men's medium T-shirts at every wacky boutique on Granville. Still kicking myself for not buying the kick ass shirt with the cover of the "London Calling" single on it, though.

Fuck-me-in-the-ass-that's-expensive!
$7 pints at YVR's lounge. If we hadn't been so drunk already, we wouldn't have stood for it.

Well that about wraps it up, kids. Stay tuned for highlights from One Night Stand, the Weakerthans and a bunch of other shit that no one but me will give a crap about.

*Gap: (n) The visible portion of a girl's back between the bottom of her shirt and top of her pants. See also: awesome.

I'm leeeavin' onna jet plane etc. etc.

Tomorrow I hump my ass off to Vancouver for what should be a weekend of sheer, unparralelled awesomeness. I'm so excited, I could just plotz.

Stay tuned for the full chronicle of my Wet Coast adventure, coming soon.

In the meantime, go and read Something Awful or some shit like that.

A bank vault full of idiocy

Okee-dokie. First: saw stoner rockers Nebula and rock and soul outfit the Bell Rays last night at New City. Nebula's "music" is comparable to having one's head encased in concrete and then jackhammered free. Rather unplesant. The Bell Rays, despite much local pre-show hype, were a bit of a letdown. Granted, the sound quality was awful (Memo to Nebula: your fucking Marshall stack may make you think you're in Sabbath and enable you to knock beer glasses off tables from across the room and liquify the grey matter of the hippie morons crowding the front, but when you actually blow speakers in the club's PA system, you've got it turned up Too Fucking Loud), but they came off as something of a one-trick pony. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

Woke up this morning (after 6 or so pints last night) with a lovely combo of hangover and head cold. My eyes felt like two Japanese bullet trains trying to speed out of their sockets.

I don't quite understand it, but caffeine seems to fight colds. The past three days, I've generally felt like shit, but can function at near normal capacity ("normal" in my case being no great shakes anyway) after knocking back enough java. Yet another reason to worship the humble coffee bean.

The Jayhawks; New City Suburbs August 24, 2003

My little city on the prairie is known for few things; Wayne Gretzky, bitterly cold winters and being home to the world's biggest shopping mall would pretty much top the casual observer's list of Fun Factoids about Edmonton. Your humble correspondent would now like to add "alt-country hotbed" to the list. Okay, maybe "hotbed" is an overstatement, but if one was to go by the mass love-in that was The Jayhawks' visit to our town, it's a forgivable one. Most twang shows in Edmonton draw respectable turnouts, but this was the biggest since last year's Wilco gig. Like Wilco, The 'hawks came to town riding waves of praise for their new record Rainy Day Music and thus had hype on their side. Now me, I haven't really soaked in the new record, but my inital take was taht it is far too precious, a trait that seems to have dogged the Jayhawks records from the git go. Consequently, I was anticipating a laid back, acoustic effort from the Minnesota quartet. I was wrong. After sharing a pitcher upstairs, me and my concert buddy for the evening caught the last half of a set by Calgary's Agnostic Mountain Gospel Choir. Their line up consisted of a guitarist, banjo player, stand-up bass and a drummer whose kit included pots, pans, milk jugs and hubcaps. They played a warped breed of country-blues, including a dynamite Son House cover and will certainly get some more of my money next time they're up Highway 2.
But on to the main evernt. The Jayhawks took the stage early to some mad love and launched into a heavy "Life Floats By" from their "pop" record, Smile, knocking any thoughts of mellowness out of my head for a while. Live, the band has teeth, something that never seems to come across on record, with Gary Louris's work on a gorgeous vintage Gibson SG putting some welcome grit into the band's sunshiny sound. The night consisted of a good balance between some ballsy pop-rock numbers (including a pumped-up "Save It For A Rainy Day" off the new record) and Neil Young-ish acoustic work (including a cover of the grubby icon's "Expecting To Fly."). No matter which way the band went, the Edmonton crowd zigged with 'em. The band noticed it too, and Louris' declarations of "you're a great crowd" were well beyond typical "Thank you, Cleveland!" rock-isms. The man was genuinely impressed (and rightfully so: we Edmontonians are friendly folk). The show did have it's low spots: drummer Tim O'Regan's meandering folksy compositions generally left me cold and the fat, bearded goof who kept belting out the choruses of nearly every fucking song at the top of his lungs got on my nerves about 5 seconds in, but those are small complaints. There's nothing better (in my book) than leaving a show on a warm late summer evening knowing full well that the 25 buck ticket was money well-spent. So thank you, Jayhawks and come back real soon. Edmonton loves you.

Think you got worry?

I just got an e-mail from my brother down in Calgary. His company (they monitor the structural integrity of various pieces of infrastructure) is sending him down to Maine next week to look at some sensors they have on a bridge out there. They're also sending a fellow with him of the ...er... Arabic persuasion. So to recap: my brother (a fairly swarthy fellow in his own right) and a man of Middle Eastern descent crawling around on a large piece of infrastructure in the States around the 11th of September.

I told him to have a good time in Cuba.

Movin' on up

Just a quick word about the Big Move this weekend. First: any way you slice it, moving sucks. Packing boxes, lifting boxes, loading boxes into the truck, unloading boxes, unpacking boxes, etc. etc.: there's not a single part of that than can be construed as remotely enjoyable. That said, this one went relatively smoothly and was over in three quick trips. Only problems now are contending with the lack of space (I've been forced to relegate several boxes of books and whathaveyou to the closet until further notice), and the fact that I'm in desperate need of a bona fide grown-up bed. You know, the kind that's not a battered mattress/box spring combo tossed onto the floor. While I'm at it, I might as well wish to be turned into a Real Boy so I can put said bed to proper use.

Cold Play

Great. Just great. Am getting set for a huge week of fun and frivolity, only to awake this morning with the early signs of a cold. I guess I'll just have to settle in tonight with a big steaming cup'o'The Jayhawks, performing live this evening at New City.

Sure, they've got good moustaches. But can they play?

Kings of Leon
Youth and Young Manhood

It's totally understandable, completely natural even, to greet these newcomers and their debut LP with a healthy amount of skepticism. After all, Kings of Leon have already been anointed as the Next Big Thing by the British music press (certainly no guarantee of success, longevity or, indeed, quality), while deploying an impressive level of devotion to a rock'n'roll vernacular that was last in style back when the Rolling Stones didn't suck. (See also: The Strokes, though the Kings' musical roadmap is more gravel road than Avenue B). With ages ranging from 16 to 23 and a perfect pre-packaged mythology (three brothers and their first cousin, scions of a family of itinerant Southern Baptist preachers, blah blah blah), this is a band that would be really easy to hate, were it not for the fact that Youth and Young Manhood is pretty much the most unabashedly kick-ass rock debut since the afore-mentioned Strokes' Is This It (and if you don't like that, you've got more problems than I can help you with, hombre).
Like 2003's other mucho-hyped freshman rock entry, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Fever To Tell, Youth and Young Manhood faces an uphill battle against listener expectations and the burden of hype. Unlike Karen O's crew, the Kings of Leon emerge at the top more or less unscathed. A lot of that has to do with the simplicity of the King's formula: part neo-Skynyrd Southern boogie-rock, part Iggy-esque proto punk with a smidgen of Uncle Tupelo's front porch swing. Where Fever to Tell bogs down in art-fag meanderings, Youth and Young Manhood puts the pedal down and keeps it down. Most of the sides on Y.&.Y.M are straight up, windows down road rockers anchored by a steady-as-she-goes rhythm section and guitars that nip at and climb over each other like a pair of feisty Rottweiller pups. No doubt much of the credit for keeping these newbies on track goes to producer Ethan Johns (Ryan Adams, Jayhawks) whose invisible hand seems to keep the whole works from veering sharply into the ditch of bald-faced imitation. In fact, it's vocalist Caleb Followill who comes closest to sinking this ship. The frontman runs tha gamut from mush-mouthed slurs through barstool braggadocio and onward into high-pitched spaz outs that plainly aim to fill the former James Osterberg's "No Fun" era boots (by the time Followill's histrionics on "Trani" fade into a raspy squeal, you can imagine it as a show-closer, with him twitching on stage with a mic cord wrapped around his throat amid screaming wails of gi-tah feedback). It's a good voice, mind you, and suited to the K o L esthetic like PB to jelly, but it's also a reminder that these are a handful of young Southern bucks trying their damndest to make good and sometimes, young fellers, there's such a thing as trying too hard, y'know?
All the same, these days you can't swing a White Stripe without bashing some garage rawk revivalist band. The term itself is now being applied with the same reckless abandon that turned "grunge" into an epithet (George Satayana said that those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it. He did not mention that these same folks all seem to work in the music industry. Or are U.S. presidents. But I digress.). Now, no rational human being could, after listening to Youth and Young Manhood, consign Kings of Leon to the same pit, but rationality is not a hallmark of our discourse today, and that's fine, because this is really a blood and guts record anyway, all ass, gas and grass. It's derivative, sure, but I challenge anyone to name a truly original musical act from the past 20 (fuck, let's make it 50) years. I sure don't know if it will hold up down the road, but I do know this: in uncertain times, a little certainty goes a long way. You can't really go wrong with a meaty slice of rock'n'roll with a side of grits and that's exactly what Kings of Leon serve up here. Now: what's for dessert?

Left and Leaving...

It's been a week of transition. The Big Move is scant hours away and much of the week has been spent bidding adieu to various belongings and to the old pad itself. It was cold in winter, too hot in summer and kinda gross, but I lived there for three years and I'm gonna miss the place.

In the meantime, I picked up my ticket to the upcoming Jayhawks show at New City, which kicks off what should be a pretty hectic few weeks of gig-attending, beer drinkin' and dancin'. The Weakerthans are here on September 6, followed closely by Modest Mouse on the 9th. Good times, good times...

Man falls down stairs

Link.

You can also make him get run over by a truck.

I'm bound to pack it up.

T-minus 8 days to the Big Move and I started packing yesterday. I then realized, after filling about six or seven boxes, that I have virtually nothing. I'm pretty much halfway done and it should only take me a couple of hours to finish up. This is not a bad thing, as it will make the actual moving/unpacking process a damn breeze.

What if they held a blackout and nobody came?

What's wrong with folks out East these days? A massive blackout and no fucking rioting?! Have people completely abandoned their standards? I expected so much better from you, New York... *shakes head sadly*

In the summer's when you really know.

I am sick of summer. This is nothing new for me. In fact, this usually kicks around this time of the year (right around the Fringe Festival). Dunno if it's the inescapable heat, the smoky haze that's held sway over the skies of the city for the past few weeks (giving the whole place a real big-city smog vibe),the work-drink-sleep rut that I find myself in these days, or the lack of hockey on the telly, but the dog days suck ass. Maybe it's just that, for jaded twenty-somethings slowly sinking into the quagmire of adulthood, summer really doesn't have the significance it once did. The carefree days of sleeping through the morning and spending sunny afternoons running through the sprinklers on the front lawn are long gone. More's the pity, too, because let's face it: none of young adulthood's usual pursuits (drinking, smoking, rocking out, fucking) are ever half as fun as a good long dash at a Slip'n'Slide.

'Course, this is all just revisionist nostalgic bullshit. I spent most of my youthful summers cooped up inside with a book or staring at the TV which, now that I think about it, means things really haven't changed all that much. Er, right. Carry on, then.

Now that I've got the pointless self-examination out of the way, I picked up the Nuggets 2 box set from my local lie-berry this afternoon.
Which brings me to today’s Public Service Announcement: Hug your library today.

11 days to the Big Move and I'm off to get a cup of coffee.

Music of the moment

Made a new mix CD last night. Coming soon to a mix tape near you:

Lou Reed-"Vicious"
Tom Waits-"Goin' Out West"
Yeah Yeah Yeahs-"Mystery Girl"
Jackie Wilson-"Your Love Lifted Me (Higher and Higher)"
Hot Hot Heat-"Oh Goddamnit!"

things i hate today vol. 1

1. Summer. The most overrated of the seasons between winters.
2. Bars that are closed on Sunday. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was living under the fucking Taliban!
3. Office coffee. Tates like the AIDS in a mug.
4. Bad Gigli reviews. Haters probably dissed Ishtar too.
5. "Straight Pride" T-Shirts. Joining rednecks in closets across Alberta.

Under the "B"...

Oh, those wacky hipsters.

This Will Make You Crap Your Pants

Or maybe it's just me. George W. Bush: Elite Force Aviator! (Crotch bulge sold seperately.)

London Calling?

So nothing pisses on an otherwise decent weekend quite like a trans-Atlantic phone call from four of your closest pals, drunkenly crowing about what an awesome, superfun time they're having in Manchester when you're stuck in your apartment and facing another wretched week of humping your ass for the Man. Call me self-absorbed, call me an asshole, but the notion that I'm obliged to toast someone else's good fortune is for the birds.

Now that I've got that out of the way, I'm totally stoked about seeing Radiohead and Wilco in Vancouver at the end of the month. It's going to be awesome superfun time. And you should be totally happy for me.

List crazy?
Tinymixtapes is your friend.

Don't feed me planned obsolescence.

Why is it that we can send monkeys into space, but we can't or won't make home electronics equipment that doesn't break down for absolutely no reason whatsoever? Take my DVD player. Please (ha ha ha). I watched "The Anniversary Party" last night (which proved so damn boring that I opted to stop it part way through) when my DVD player decided to give me the big "fuck you, organic boy" and shut down. Nothing worked. Not the remote. Not the buttons on the machine. Nada. So I decide to unplug it and see if I could get that bad boy moving again. Uh uh. No power. No nothing. Dead as the dodo.

That my DVD player is now a $250 paperweight doesn't bother me (I can get it fixed). But what does piss me off is that there's a rental DVD trapped in the bowels of that piece of crap that will soon start costing me late fees. And to add insult to injury, it wasn't even a good movie, unless you happen to be the kind of person who can get into the lives of quirky Hollywood millionaires and feel sorry for the poor, rich Xanax'd up bastards. Me, I wanted to hit them all with a fire axe. Maybe that's a tactic I could try on my DVD player.

The most aggravating thing of all is that I know damn well that the corporate fucks who build these pieces of crap have the technology to make them last forever, but choose to install some kind of self-destruct mechanism to keep people coming back for more shoddy home electronics. Or maybe it's the fact these things are assembled by 8 year-old Malaysian kids working for $0.06 an hour. Compared to that, having a busted DVD player isn't such a big problem, I suppose. But still: late charges blow.

Ever feel like you've been cheated?

Johhny Rotten said that at the very last Sex Pistols show. I get that feeling all the time, but most especially during work when it occurs to me (and this happens on an almost daily basis) that what I'm doing doesn't really make an iota of difference.

On the bright side, tonight is beer time as two of my friends are off to the UK for three weeks, during which time they'll be taking in the Reading music festival.

The bastards.

Oh well, I've been promised a T-Shirt and other swag, so I've got that going for me at least. Plus, every day is one day closer to the end of the month when I'll be winging my way to Vancouver, BC to catch a pair of top-notch gigs (R.E.M. with Wilco and Radiohead with Stephen Malkmus), as well as big fun on the old, damp town.

Let it blurt.

Just wrapped up Jim DeRogatis' "Let it blurt: the life and times of Lester Bangs, America's greatest rock critic". Inspired by Bangs' legendary excesses (ie. writing while totally jimmied-up on Romilar cough syrup), I chugged a bottle of NyQuil and sat down to pen my magnum opus, only to end up passing out face down on my coffee table. I woke up some time later in a puddle of cherry-scented drool, my inspiration lost but my sinuses remarkably clear. Okay, not really, but Bangs' "Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung" is a fantastic piece of work, despite (or perhaps because of?) being written during a series of speed benders. Fortunately, you don't have to be on speed to enjoy it. Though if you are, that's entirely up to you, man.

Of course the rumours of war were completely unfounded...

Economy in the tank? Unemployment soaring? Tax cuts for the wealthy ain't doing the trick? Why, it's all that crazy media's fault!

"The stock market started to decline in March of 2000. Then the first quarter of 2001 was a recession. And then we got attacked 9/11. And then corporate scandals started to bubble up to the surface, which created a lack of confidence in the system. And then we had the drumbeat to war. Remember on our TV screens, I'm not suggesting which network did this, but it said march to war every day from last summer till the spring. March to war, march to war, that's not a very conducive environment for people to take risks when they hear march to war all the time."
-"President" George W. Bush, July 30, 2003

And, uh, where do you suppose they get that idea, Mr. President?

(Quote culled from the New York Times)

All this sounds gas

Hey, kids: do you like the rock'n'roll? Kings of Leon's long-awaited (by me) full-length debut
"Youth and Young Manhood" drops in these parts on August 19. Good band. Better moustaches.

An expert on such things tells me Belle and Sebastian's latest offering is due out in the UK October 6.

And Rolling Stone online sez the Strokes, bless their shaggy, Drew Barrymore-dating heads, are set for an October 21 release for their follow up to "Is This It?" Hipsters everywhere prepare to snort derisively.

(Cheers to themodernage.org for the link. Jeers to this rusty tailgate.)

This is where it all begins.

I've been watching the remarkable growth of this phenomenon known as "blogging" for a while now when it hit me: if blogging is a way for every self-absorbed, pretentious halfwit with web access and literary aspirations to voice their utterly meaningless ramblings in the big, wide, web world, then it's high time I, as a self-absorbed, pretentious halfwit with web access and literary aspirations, got in on the action.

So here it is.