fuckaweeen

FakeSharkReaZombie on Friday night at The Backstage Lounge. The bassist spat on Steve and I; we spat back, kicked the monitor off its stand, smashed and threw a plastic pumpkin at them, and them, in return, threw at us. They were incoherent in song and pretentious in speech. I liked leaving and Steve liked the show

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A ghoulish gathering of stinkers from The Drive appeared on that street, the street being shut down to traffic from 1st avenue to Venables. The costumes were fantastic and in the majority incredibly inventive. My friend got wobbly drunk, then black-out drunk, and then proceeded to vomit in my bed.

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And The Lord made lasagna, and He saw that it was good, and Ali saw it was good, and ate it.

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I'm in the midst of working on a relationship that I didn't handle well the first time around. I'm glad to have another go at it. To err is Human, To give'r, Divine.

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Photo smash up soon. Holler out.

dorm days

mini get to know - A/V

A/V is Philip Clark. He's from New Brunswick. Electronic music in the Maritimes? Who woulda thought. A/V rocks the party ensconced in cords, synths, drum machines, pedals, vocoders, and a bunch of other nice toys. Reference point? A Canadian Dan Deacon?

Check out his myspace (duh) for music:
http://www.myspace.com/avhotaction

He also remixes porn: http://destroyhotaction.com
Fun!

A/V played to a mostly empty Tribeca last Wednesday . We had a brief but amicable chat afterwards.

HotClique: So is there a big interest in electronic music in New Brunswick?

A/V: Yeah I don’t know… there’s a few of us out there….

HC: Is that why you decided to just go it alone?

A/V: Yeah it can be hard to find people to start a band so I just did it myself.

HC: Right on. Just coming from the other side of the country I didn’t really expect to see an act like you.

Surprisingly there’s more electronic music in New Brunswick than in the city here [Halifax].

HC: I guess its just my bias/ignorance, I was probably thinking there would be tons of fiddles.

A/V: (laughs) Where are you from?

HC: Vancouver.

A/V: Oh yeah, I played a show there this summer.

HC: Whereabouts did you play?

A/V: Ummm…

HC: Uh.. The Media Club?

A/V: No it was some art space that a bunch of kids set up, they got a couple of them in the city.

HC: Oh the Emily Carr students probably. Was it called the Emergency Room or something?

A/V: Yeah that was it.

HC: How’d it go?

A/V: It was wild! There was a gallery opening first or something and they all showed up drunk on their bicycles. Some were wearing sleeping bags on their heads. They were bouncing off the walls man.

HC: Those crazy art students….

shit

Yeah so I was snappin' hard during the Halifax Pop Explosion this week. A filibuster of a show was going down at The Seahorse tonight... Moist Towelettes were staying cute for the second time this week and Windom Earle lurched the crowd through a "Livin On A Prayer" sing-a-long. Then I lost my camera on the cab ride home. I'm only half drunk but TOTALLY PISSED.

Get it?
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darn.

hot ticket this autumn

I bought two tickets at Zulu the day they went on sale. The next day I went back for one more for another friend after he expressed interest in seeing the show as well.

Three months later, Justice arrived. Everyone wanted to go, and for everyones own personal reasons, they needed to be there. I promised one ticket to Joe, and the one I went back for, to Chris. Somewhere along the way I forget about Chris' ticket, horrible I know. A travesty really. Morgan called a few days prior to the concert; I was to sell him the ticket.

Chris and I, fellow students at a higher learning place, attended a lecture. The French ambassador to the E.U. was giving the general thumbs-up regarding the state of the E.U. "The club is doing good, and everyone wants to be a member; where do we stop?" This was the pith of it.

Anxiously awaiting the dynamic French duo's performance at the commodore, I asked Chris if he was stoked. I knew the answer before I asked. He was stoked. Duh. I asked him where he got his ticket. "From you, dude."

Oh shit. This is when it all came back to me. I called Morgan, apologized profusely and let Chris know it was all back as it was before I lost my mind.

Night of the concert: Joe, savvy as he is, found his way onto the v.i.p. guest list, chosen by Xavier de Rosnay of Justice himself; a perk of working for a popular company. Alas, he no longer needed his ticket from me. I called Morgan to let him know, but he had already made new plans.
News got around fast and I wa getting calls from friends and acquaintances, and, most strangely, unknown girls. Joe had been outside the Commodore earlier in the evening and people were asking him for the golden pass. He passed them on to me. I declined them. Felipe called me and asked if I still had it; I said my price and he didn't seem to thrilled about it. Thinking he would call me back if he wanted it, and never receiving a call back, I rid myself of the ticket to a person I knew from high school. She was waiting paitiently in the front of the 'ticket buyers' line.

Felipe arrived shortly thereafter, with his friend for whom the ticket he had inquired. I told him I had sold it. I told him he hadn't called me back. He yelled, I apologized.

His friend Greg did get in, and for free, with the help of Joe and ticket swapping and naive bouncers. We were all happy. The show was amazing David.

But how much grief that one ticket caused! Hard feelings too, though I believe they have passed. Word to the wise, next time a band comes that everyone thinks is cool buy a ticket for yourself. Next time HotClique says it's dope, IT IS DOPE.

New Friends!

Frosted Tipzzzzzz

Dirty boys playing a dirty joke on dirty dudes with tribal tattoos.

i can hear them down the hall

Men must always be proving that they are men. This can be done by a precise UFC prediction. This can be done by a precise UFC reenactment. But how can the less physically astute, less creatine jacked population of young males prove their levels of testosterone?

Pixel on pixel action.

The whirr of the joystick, click-mash of the buttons, slight grunts, innocent vocal jabs and explosion of colors. The battleground of video games. I played them some, when I was younger. I collated and delivered many a North Shore News to buy that sought after n64. Sleepovers in grades 6 and 7 consisted mainly of all night Goldeneye campaigns.

Overnight scrimmages of this nature are still very prominent for young males, especially in university dorms. Crowded rooms, chairs pulled up, eyes fixated, shouts, whups and hollers – it’s Halo time. Darker confines, the eerie click of the mouse, insomnia – it’s World of Warcraft time.

The girls walk right by and straight into a soiree of Leafs jerseys and backwards Under Armor hats. Impromptu push-up competition anyone?

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'm thankful.

Rush Beta!

A week or so ago at a fraternity party, one of countless similar gatherings that litter any post-secondary institutions calender, the gamma-hydroxybutyrate flowed to the brothers content. After the fact, ten girls claimed to have had their drinks tainted with this clear, tasteless, and tactless date-rape drug. Just how many girls how actually drank it unaware, and how many, in reality, just couldn't remember why their cunt was sore and regretted the previous nights debaucheries is another story altogether. For all intents and purposes, we'll assume that these Beta frat boys were at fault for all ten cases.

A facebook group has been started in an attempt to discover the identity of the uncouth hand(s) by which the plan was concocted. The guys who've posted replies should be of interest to the cops.

Stephanie Anapppppsomethingerother, the groups founder, said she really didn't expect to get date-raped:
"The worst part about this was it was my first frat party and after talking to other people I have learned that this is a common problem at these Frat parties[".]

She sucks. If you go to a frat party, expect to get raped. I know that, so I don't go. Can't rape the willing you say? Yeah right, just try it. Easy peasy. Coincidently, in her senior yearbook, she was voted most likely to be rapped.

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While all this was fresh in my mind, my eyes befell a slogan, white on black, laying across a young mans back; "You may not remember, but you'll never forget." Let us call this man Rapist. I can only assume that the front of his shirt advertised a beer company, or a certain frat, or maybe a favoured brand among date-rape enthusiasts. Regardless of what he was advertising, the chuckles gleaned from this slogan, along with shared high-fives between bros chilling, tend to show the injustice of being a douchebag. If you support forgetfulness of the alcoholic kind, you support girls getting raped. I wanted to whip my cock out in the middle of the poli-sci lecture and slap it in the mans face, while screaming, "Forget this motherfucker". Needless to say I didn't; my cock is not nearly long enough to inflict wounds upon a face, and i would have been arrested. Instead, I wrote up a draft for this piece, skipped class half an hour before it ended and went to The Gallery and ordered a pitcher.

I did not consume Bacchanalian amounts, nor did I become festive. What kind of equation is it that equates throbbing sore headaches and streams of vomit with fun had the night before? Is that rational? I invoke artistic license now to say to that man, proud of the memory darkening effects of booze, I hope you get raped.