hot clique~

don't be

2009-07-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

2009-07-07T14:48:00.000-07:00

wake up wake up

2009-06-01T07:47:00.000-07:00

We''ve been busy. Stuck, barnacled and manacled. We're not sorry. Happy Summer.

It's June First.

steve in black

2009-04-01T14:22:00.001-07:00

how many?

2009-04-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

How many papers? So many papers.
How many months? Five many months of summer to work.
Five months to play and be normal and not miss school.

We will take your photo and write about our times with you.
We will be too busy working to lie in the sun.
Also too busy lying in the sun to work that day.
This is a poem,
about anticipation for summer,
couldn't you tell?

Of course it's obvious and that is the way it should be.
Why hide what we want/got,
when it's staring us all in the face every second of the day,
save when you're too busy being forgetful.

How many more months 'til we do it again (oh god no not again please not again)!

-Ali

2009-03-19T00:36:00.000-07:00

throw it in tha gutta/go buy another (disposable camera)

2009-03-09T23:05:00.000-07:00

I was going to bring this table back to Steve's house. I thought he needed it. He smashed it to stop me from bringing it back to his house. He didn't think he would find a use for it.
Mix Master Trash n' Toil on the ones and twos.
Eye contact between Grandfather and Granddaughter.
Rub a dub!

TWO DAYS IN AMERICA (in four photographs)

2009-03-08T19:29:00.000-07:00

new month same shit

2009-03-01T20:46:00.000-08:00

the new look

2009-02-21T09:48:00.000-08:00

bristol palin: NO FUTURE

2009-02-18T11:38:00.000-08:00

Uh oh.
“Get out a piece of paper and a writing implement.”

After “Get out a” I knew what was coming. My professor was a breath away from declaring a quiz on a book that I had not read. Expected groans arose from the class and I felt minutely better, when stifled utterances preface a quiz or test the students bond together, the ship is going down. We’re all sinking.

“I used reading break to study culture and iconography in America. I didn’t read the book. Sorry Ryan.”

I thought that writing this would garner me some respect, or not, but maybe I would stand out a bit. I might tell him about all the eagles in the sky and on bumper stickers. A few days in America is hardly sufficient time to produce worthy insights. But eating Hungry Man and super burritos amused me. Maybe it would amuse him too.

The class marked each other. Our professor had us read our scores aloud as he took attendance. They were unavoidably dismal.

Last night my roommate threw my discarded Burger King milkshake cup onto my bed. I had forgotten that I placed it in mailbox upon coming home. My hands (and belly) were full. She said she had just cleaned the mailbox and that I deserved it.

lowered expectations

2009-02-09T15:38:00.000-08:00

its alright/at the end of the line

2009-02-08T23:50:00.000-08:00

I swear it will be okay!

Christy Turlington

2009-02-05T22:55:00.001-08:00

Christy Turlington, WE SALUTE YOU!!

On masturbation

2009-01-23T18:36:00.000-08:00

Some time ago the subject of masturbation, not as taboo as it once was, came up in conversation. A friend of mine mentioned that he would run the shower during the act. That was his thing. When he was going to jerk off, he would go to the bathroom and run the shower throughout the act, then jump in the shower. He said it was a courtesy thing.

At the time I laughed a little and we passed along to the next topic. Yanking it came to mind earlier today and I thought about my friend's routine. I've never noticed that the act of cranking one out to be especially loud. Coitus, on the other hand, can be very loud and impassioned. I have yet to find myself scream out in ecstasy while self-climaxing. I doubt I am "doing it wrong", as I achieve the end product without fail.

Either my friend, the shower hand, and I have different ideas of what proper familial courtesy is, or I am lacking something.

I figure I am lacking something, as spanking it, or self-love as it is referred to in some circles, doesn't seem to be an engaging activity. I went skateboarding today. I have never gone masturbatin' . That would make a funny sign for a door, as opposed to gone fishin'.

(It is possible though. There are places where one can go to ejaculate: ie. while viewing a peep show. For that matter, there are accounts of people being arrested for choking the chicken in public places, or in their cars. I think I once read of a judge who was dismissed from duty for doing it while on the job.)

I suppose it is more along the lines of washing the dishes for me: if my boner is in the way, I will attend to it. I suppose I think of it as separate from me, my schlong that is: I can see it turning its head to me afterwards, saying, "Much appreciated Alexander. Same time next week?"

body break

2009-01-18T17:16:00.000-08:00

When I spent my time around drunk people last night, it was annoying. The same feeling got to me when we went to a bar. I was annoyed, and the people didn't look as good as usual. It was darker in the bar too, seemed like it at least. It was louder.

With no booze in my system, not a drop, I got to stand around for a change. That is, I got to stand around instead of bouncing around swinging my arms, being a bother to be-toqued dudes with gruff facial hair patterning.

Leopard-print wearing sluts are still leopard-print wearing, but their thighs are thicker to my eyes. It is a noticeable difference. She asked if I could "help her" with her clear plastic mickey of, what was it again? Black velvet? Some cheap rum, the one with the yellow label. I declined and she thought I was ugly, I suppose, in her head. She was still fat.

A band was playing inside and they were hypnotic. Seemed to me like they didn't need the audience there, and that our presence was kind of inconsequential. The band was there, doing there thing.

A concerned fellow to my left turned around, somewhere between 11:30 and midnight and told the two larger fellows to "go to a canucks game". They were booing the band on stage, in anticipation of, I guess, the Glory Days DJs. I appreciated this comment by the smaller gent. He was also there for the electronic music, I could tell by his toque and fitted jeans, but he was tolerant of this band, all the way from Colorado here entertaining a crowd that barely existed to them.

my thick spit is hell of brown

2009-01-14T16:52:00.000-08:00

Bataille on my mind due to all types of shit going on around. Taking it, spitting it up, getting up before the sun and taking a shit and going to school and shitting it all up again for teachers to take it.

Damn it all to hell sometimes.

I think I am over fucking. It's too much to bother with and I am no good at lying anyways. If you need to reach me, I will be in the back yard doing some work and not having any. I would make love but I haven't got any to spare.

This will be hell of fun.

new media!

2009-01-06T17:34:00.000-08:00

David is tumblrin', I'm twitterin', but this ain't the Web 2.0.

As my brother says, "It's all a gradual, and slow, process, man. Not like the tubes just turned over a new leaf one day".

http://twitter.com/alexandermunro

reruns on chalkedup

http://www.chalkedup.com/daily/hppy-nw-yr-srsly

NEW CLASSES NEW BOOKS NEW TEACHERS SAME RAIN
go spring semester

savant garde

2009-01-05T17:28:00.001-08:00

Hello,

I have been lazy. HotClique still lives. My commitment to posting on a regular basis as waned in recent times. I still surf the internet though:

http://birdpack.tumblr.com

as they say,

"BRB"

all-over-the-world-print

2008-12-15T10:34:00.000-08:00

The inscription says something along the lines of "everyone one has a homeland, except us... our homeland lives in us." Its a designers comment on the situation of Palestinians in Lebanon.

They are babes (and may possibly hate our decadent Western lifestyle... I see a possible love story - boy meets fundamental girl, arbitrary borders separate them, American freedom fighters put girl in danger, Canadian peacekeepers provide boy a chance to save girl and redeem their patrio-nationalistic values, love.)

I wonder what the people, closer to us, homelandless, homeless, would create given a chance to stroll the runway. Derelict? Ive seen some amazing things on people walking the streets. I doubt the combination were by choice.

decemburrrrr

2008-12-14T20:58:00.000-08:00

Snow is falling, wind is howling. Ray Liotta is yelling in the movie, duh.
I am all done classes and not working between now and then so here comes the fun.

Mt Baker thursday friday saturday. DutyFree on the way back.
Whistler sometime.
Christmas day in the Cove.
Get some salt stains on my kicks and some miles on the truck too.

See you all around this holiday season huh? Call me, or don't.

FUCK CRYSTY CASTLES

2008-11-29T13:25:00.000-08:00

Duchess Sezzzzz

Caravanserai, lets go.

2008-11-25T21:37:00.000-08:00

Man, talk about heavy winter setting in. I want so badly to go. That is really about all. If the caravan took me to Portugal or Spain or Hawaii or the Gulf of Mexico, that would be alright with me.

Classes are done come friday. After a few exams it will be work time for a month. I think that is fucked. Why arn't there bandits running down the streets, swastikas emblazoned on arm bands? Things feel about that weird out. Looks like rain.

We will be in 2009 soon; that is somewhere else. I bet it will still be raining in 2009. I bet I will look the same. I will have the same shoes then, for a while at least.

creepy crawlers

2008-11-18T21:22:00.000-08:00

Get a light warm coat ready, also an umbrella as it is likely to rain, and head to the east side. It is this year's Eastside Culture Crawl. Always fun, often hot and packed in 1000 Parker St. and The Mergatroid buildings, this is a fun place to go and be at.

"PLEASE NOT THE CRAWL IS AN ALCOHOL FREE EVENT" -posted on the main page of their site. Now, I wouldn't bring a back pack of Rainer along for the walk, but there ain't not harm in some warming red wine. As long as I can recall, artists have been serving wines and beers and the like. Don't let the man get you down. Hell, if there is a noticeable authoritative body at the various venues, plainclothes or not, just notify fellows with screams of "NARC!". Repeat as necessary.

only assholes forget

2008-11-10T08:33:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, November 11th, be at Victory Square at 10:30am.

If you go out tonight, singing and reveling, be sure to be at Victory Square at 10:30am.

The worse you feel in the morning, the better it is for your morality, tomorrow at Victory Square at 10:30 am.

with that in mind...

2008-11-08T13:20:00.000-08:00

With what David mentioned in mind, check out the transcript of The Boss' speech to hard working Cleveland.

LINK LINK LINK LINK LINK
h ttp://www.brucespringsteen.net/news/index.html

Springsteen/Clemons 2016???!

yes HOTCLIQUE can

2008-11-06T13:08:00.000-08:00

Obama won. Thank god. His speech was flawless. And then after all the fanfare with Biden and the families they played THE BOSS. Come on up for "The Rising" America. WOOOO! CNN was scanning the crowd in Chicago - people had tears in their eyes and were singing to Springsteen. Fuck, Obama should appoint Bruce as his Chief of Staff.

To confirm Alex's query a few posts below, yes, both of our work will be displayed at the Plastic Photographer show tonight. It's the first time I've been lucky enough to have a picture of mine displayed at a gallery. Actually in high school I was part of a group exhibition in Capilano Mall, but the picture was of Megan Dawes and she is really cute so that's probably why it chosen.

So come. I think they had beer last year. Maybe they will again? I hope so. If you can't make it tonight then try and swing by 221A E Georgia sometime before the 23rd.

But if you don’t like photos you probably like getting wasted. Everyone likes getting wasted. Mike Cerka will drop tunes that get le femmes wet and you ready to GO POUNCE playa. Before he was a famous DJ, Alex talked to Mike as what I think was the first in our short-lived “get -to-know” feature. TIME WARP HERE

Happy Thursdays.

bOOOO

2008-11-03T16:44:00.000-08:00

There are a few events that standout on a twenty something’s social calendar: birthday, new years, end of exams (if you’re lucky enough to be in school), valentines day (if you’re lucky enough to be in a nice relationship), and Halloween. These events demand extra attention, extra shitfacery, extra planning, and generally just extra bullshit to augment the usual bullshit associated with a big evening out.

By nine thirty I was in a self imposed sphere of chemtrails and perma grins, staggering south Granville looking for the right bottle of nine dollar chardonnay. Then I bought a mask worth three dollars from Shoppers Drug Mart, it resembled a zombie Mike Tyson with more tattoos and metal facial studs. It was the only mask left in the store besides a werewolf one that looked like it would be sweaty and claustrophobic. The Halloween section looked like it had been ransacked by last minute ghouls. Pieces of candy and plastic skeletons were strewn about the floor.

Later on, approximately halfway through a clichéd viewing of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, I took a knife to the long sleeved thermal shirt I was wearing. My costume was now complete.

A big party was happening and I made it. The bus was hellacious. The party was too, but in technical aspects it was probably the best house party ever. I didn’t notice any fights despite the high population of jocks and there were multiple bars and multiple djs on multiple floors. Yet the dynamic nature of the party only lead to my stagnancy; I could be found in a chair on the fringes clutching a perspiring plastic cup.

I left with friends and we tried to go to another party but it was full. We called roadside booze delivery after exhausting all other options. In a fitting close we smashed our pumpkins and I passed out fully clothed on my bed. Halloween was over.

HOTCLIQUE THIS WEEK - Its November, not "Movember"

2008-11-03T15:16:00.000-08:00

Get hell of funky and get your shoes dirty this Thursday, November 6th at the Century House. CerkyCakezzzzzz is doing his show. My guess? House bangers & booty clangerz. Ring the alarm!

Before that, come to 221A Artist Run Center, at 221A East Georgia street, just east of Main. It is the Plastic Photographer Low Tech Photo Show. I have three prints up there, along with some other Vancouver photogs. I believe David has some too, right David?

Think: pre-digital, out of context, no words. I'm inviting women.

inner beauty, outer whore.

2008-11-02T15:46:00.000-08:00

Inner beauty is often talked of, but how often is it seen? How often do you look for it? This Halloween, I found reassurance among strangers and friends that inner beauty is alive and well, and is seen by Vancouverites.

I, in female attire, lips and eyes smeared with make-up, paraded around the streets "hitting on" anything with a pulse. Maybe the victims of my humps and my lumps and my chest hair saw humor, I won't deny it. But maybe I looked beautiful. Maybe my high nasal slut drawl, a tone that one person in everyone's vicinity has exuded, set their passion aflame. The later it got, the more beautiful I thought I looked.

At 6:30 pm, I thought that I simply looked whorish and silly; Steve concurred.

At 7:15 pm, I had received numerous compliments from women and a few cat calls from men.

Two hours later I had gained the self-confidence that can take months of therapy and thousands in plastic surgery. With every reflective surface I passed, I would reapply my make up and think, "I AM a sexy bitch."

As time passed into the night, the dark enveloped my sense of sequencing. There were lights from burning fireworks, crackling ephemerally, like the hot pink lipstick that would soon be kissed off.

Someone saw my beauty on that moonless night. Many people saw my blue eye shadow the next morning on the bus ride of shame.

The Stranger

2008-10-30T11:42:00.000-07:00

Things all did change much after that morning.

Even the evening after the stranger rode in, the town was different. He was mystifying and, my, when he swung his heavy self off that black-as-night mustang, the toughs running this outpost must'a, I swear, felt something skitter up their spine.

As black as his horse was his hat. People who doubt the story have said to me that this impenetrable colour could not have been: felt fades and clothes wear out, the dust of the trail sinks deep and just because you get off the range a while, don't mean that fine dust is staying on the range. I would be lying in the face of God if I said the material he wore was anything but the darkest night.

He came in the same doors that most patrons of my saloon use, but them two rickety things flew on open before he laid a foot on the walk under the arcade. I looked out towards the noise of the bustle outside, horses and mud sticking and a drunk just out of sight, moaning. When I seen him first, the stranger that is, he was ten feet off the doors, yet they swung open. I got the jug out before he had the chance to ask, needless to say. This man would either be a big tipper or a big problem, and those two sometimes go hand in hand, all the way to the bank or all the way to the grave.

Sitting down right in front of a tumbler filled with gutrot, he slugged it back and put that tumbler down. I asked him if another would do him just fine and he answered that another would do him just fine.

After that one, he caught my gaze dead on in his eye and said, without the slightest hint of just how preposterous his question was, said he was looking for Laughtry Dean. After a second, I hesitated for good reason, he added that he was here to send him down. Dead.

Now, let me clarify. If anyone else had wandered into the El Pico and said what this man did say, I would have laughed and charged them double for their drinks. I ain't afraid to laugh at no comedian, and I keep a twelve-twentytwo handloader under the bar. But this fellow, well, something just wuddn't funny 'bout this man. He was like a shadow creeping along the desert close when the evening comes. It moves towards the foothills, making your forget the pain of the sun and reminding you 'bout how damned cold its going to get.

That said, I couldn't see myself making it through a night like that. This shadow might just pass me by if I answered it. I told him Dean ran this town, ran the next town, and two towns after that; Dean ran this very establishment this very stranger was sitting in, enjoying this fine gutrot. His very office is upstairs even. And with that, he was gone.

All that was left was two bits of Sonora gold and the tumbler, sitting alone on the brass, much like they had been placed as flowers and trinkets ought be on a gravestone. A body rolled down the stairs straight off the bar's left.

It was Skin McIllroy, one of Dean's muscles in town and on the range. Again, the sound of dead weight hitting worn wood, but this time at the top of the stairs, beside Dean's office door. Another sideman dead, done extortin' what little any rancher had, done killing too.

I recall one lone gunshot let off, seemed like some minutes had gone by since Dean's two boys had dropped their bodies. No man walked down those stairs and there was no stranger up stairs to be found. Dean was dead in his chair, head slumped back in what looked much uncomfortable were he alive. His six-shooter was in his hand, five full and one empty casing. The bullet shot made a hole in the far wall and gone out t'other side, and no blood was on the ground or the wall.

The stranger was gone. He left three bodies and a town full of slack-jawed speculation. People said they thought Dean had messed around, owed someone something big; surely that was truth, but I don't believe this shadow of a man was collecting debts. Not stacked-up money debts at least. Some say they saw his mustang at full hollering pace and a man jump out Dean's window, land on the horse and keep high-tailing it out. Didn't leave no trail, though these people, reputable folk mind you, swear they saw him ride off into the horizon.

Things all did change much after that morning.

syringes/cringes

2008-10-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

There is a bunch of money flowing through this city. Cranes peak higher, sweaty laborers carry material and traffic gets jammed. Nice buildings appear: cookie cutter designer interiors, packaged lifestyles. There are a lot of fancy cars driving around this city too. Vancouver is a highly desirable city with stupidly obvious natural beauty – of course it will attract wealth. Oh, the Olympics are coming and with glowing hearts, a ton of cash is being spent on that. Anyone who has spent five minutes in this town could’ve come to these revelations. Some other things they probably noticed: a mild breeze of urine stink, an abundance of pan-handlers and inexorably, the post apocalyptic desolation of the Downtown Eastside. Capilano film professor Charles Wilkinson’s documentary Down Here opens with a few frank shots of atypical DTES sights. For the next forty odd minutes the film attempts to voice the stories of those who are dismissed daily as Vancouver’s lost souls.

One of the first things Mr. Wilkinson allows the audience to learn about his subjects is simply what they wanted to be when they grew up. Is this question a humanizing equalizer that takes us all back to the innocence of childhood? Or, are the responses (eg – “I wanted to be a figure skater”), being exploited as a direct route to our emotional heartstrings, which seem yanked not plucked?

Following this opening, Down Here covers a standard list of issues including prostitution, violence, crime, disease, housing and ineludibly, drug addiction. Mr. Wilkinson tries to take these problems out of the context of the DTES by prohibiting his subjects from mentioning the area by name. He also refrains from showing us any iconic Vancouver imagery and chooses a black backdrop for the interviews. This earnest de-contextualization is valid but ultimately undermined; if removing the particular connotations of the DTES was the goal then why ask a subject to smoke crack? Hearing stories of the horror drug addiction brings is already effective enough, and arguably more tasteful. Once again yanking at those heartstrings, Mr. Wilkinson zooms into the cross worn around her neck and forces the obviously apparent contrast right down our throats. Could there be redemption?

Down Here finishes by asking its subjects to look forward, and their outlook on the future is expectedly grim. We’ve heard their past, present and thoughts on the future yet nothing about Down Here really moves us- the problem is so evident that awareness is not a solution. It is certainly commendable for Mr. Wilkinson to try and give the people down there a voice. What they really needed was a shout.

get get get get it

2008-10-23T17:27:00.001-07:00

In the opening seconds of Paper Trail’s first track T.I. calls to producer du jour DJ Toomp: “hey man they been waiting on this shit since “What You Know” huh?”. This utterance may be a subtle reference to Toomp’s absence from last year's T.I. vs T.I.P. and the accepted consensus that the album was a flop both critically and artistically in comparison to 2006’s triumphant King. It is doubtful though, that the man born Clifford Harris spent any time dwelling on this. Soon faced with the possibility of decades in the slammer for buying a militias worth of guns off the feds, T.I. undoubtedly had bigger problems to think about. Now, almost a year after getting busted, the Atlanta hustler has emerged with some community service under his belt, only a year of jail time ahead of him, and a sixth studio effort.

The first tracks of Paper Trail convey a pent up urgency obviously cultivated by the personal and professional turmoil T.I. experienced since King. On the directly vindictive “Ready For Whatever” he pleads, “yes officially I broke the law but not maliciously” and provides what we can imagine is an abridged version of his actual defense. As the final soliloquy of that song fades Paper Trail quickly shifts; Ludacris pops up seconds later and the celebrations begin. “On Top Of The World” sees T.I. and Luda basking in their success, on “Live Your Life” producer Just Blaze throws internet memes and Rihanna together along with some didactic moralizing from T.I.P while #1 single/ringtone “Whatever You Like” is mostly about providing his bitches with, um, whatever they like.

A scan of the track list evidences a departure from the gangsterisms that previously defined T.I. (and landed him in legal hot water). Notwithstanding the all-star team on “Swagga Like Us”, most of Paper Trail’s guests are pop stars. This ultimately divides the album between self-helmed declarations of perseverance and songs aimed straight towards the charts. At times he sounds like a motivational speaker and at others he approaches tracks with Snoop Dogg like apathy (two choruses with Patron shoutouts?!?), but predictably where T.I. shines is when his arrogant boasts are allowed to strut uninhibited alongside bangers from the likes Toomp and Swizz Beatz.

After mentally preparing for his looming year in the pen, T.I. solicits “My Love” co-conspirator Justin Timberlake to help lament his past on closer “Dead and Gone”. Mediocrities aside, Paper Trail sees Clifford Harris finish his grandest hustle: maturing from rap superstar to superstar and developing a self-awareness that makes a king worthy of his crown. However, if his trap star days are truly “Dead and Gone” one can only hope he does more with his future than complain about the paparazzi with Usher.

fail

2008-10-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

POOP.

INTERRRRRROBANG!

2008-09-24T20:34:00.000-07:00

Though it may sound like a newly implemented CIA information gathering technique involving old school methods, updated for a sexually liberal modern era by throwing a little penetration-based banging into the mix, sadly it is not. The Interrobang is a punctuation mark, product of a 'colabo' between the necessary Question Mark and the sadly overlooked Exclamation Mark (unless we are talking about Elaine Bennes, of Seinfeld fame, known for her exhaustive use of the latter). When these two Marks get together, you can expect some wild symbols!

Here are some examples of the interrobang in everyday use:

"She did WHAT with you daughter's Ken doll?!"

Note: It seems I can't fashion an interrobang on my keyboard, no matter how I try to mash the two keys at a simultaneous moment. Alas. Use your imagination; when I put an exclamation and a question mark together, that will be, from now on, the sign of the interrobang.

"You expect me to put my lips on that rusty trumpet?!"

And so on. . .

'good for the tuna'

2008-09-22T15:45:00.000-07:00

"Logic is a complication."

Tristan Tzara laid this down in his Dadaist Manifesto in 1918.

"Logic is always wrong. It draws threads of notions, words, in their formal exterior, towards illusory ends and centers."

It seems that George, through all his failings and flaccidity, had a Eureka moment, seen here in episode twenty two of season five of Seinfeld, entitled "The Opposite". The clarity and decisive action, seeming to follow logic that because "nothing's ever worked out for [him] with tuna on toast," that the opposite must, and will, make life better for George.

But where is the logic behind George's choice for the "opposite" lunch? As pointed out by Jerry, much to George's chagrin, chicken salad would not be the opposite; salmon would, on account of their spawning particularities. George's logic is wrong, but it still works.

?are bills going to get smaller?

2008-09-15T22:12:00.000-07:00

Money failed! LOUD NOISES! Something is happening on Wall St. but I don't know what! I have no equity (I think, unless "equity" means an email address and a bicycle, in which case, I have equity), nor do I have monetary investments; I do have loans, which, if this downward spiral continues, the government, or 'Man' if you will, will have bigger fish to fry, in which case they may forget about my loan. CANCEL 3RD WORLD AND ALI'S DEBT! That would be pretty swell.
If not, I may end up selling apples (bum apples?!), en plein aire, all monochrome and sad about things.

More wi-nfo (contraction of 'wikipedia' & 'info'; let's try it out for a bit, see if it gets used) here.

VIFF/Jason Statham Collabo

2008-09-11T10:32:00.000-07:00

The Vancouver International Film Festival is coming up real soon; get your tickets now, that way you can get a seat to the the hottest review with a hot date you are trying to impress. I would, fo sho' take a girl there I was trying to impress, 'specially if she was into art and things like art and stuff.

I heard the new Colin Farrel and Jason Statham film is premiering there too; it's written and directed by Atom Egoyan.

ashlee simpson is modeling Zeller's fall line up

2008-09-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

You see it coming on television, in newspaper flyers and department store window displays and you don't actually think it could possibly happen but sure enough school starts. Summer ends and school starts. It was sunny today and it was hot and I even broke a sweat numerous times throughout the day walking around campus, but it is not summer hot, nor is it summer sun.

Summer was over when I got off the plane from Montreal to Vancouver; 5:30 in the morning, and the sun was appearing, only one wispy cloud in the sky, this was Montreal. 9:45, the same morning, but on Vancouver time, under Vancouver clouds with last night's Vancouver rain in the gutters. The streets were drying, but they never fully dry here until May comes back around.

At first glance, first day of classes, the line up seems great. Topics are of interest and teachers seem enthused. I'm already enthralled with the Greek epics. Really though, I am; Homer, together with the translators of the current editions, put together a mean manly tale. Though Zack Snyder's 300 was not exactly truthful (a relative term as it is), the gore and machismo in Argonautika is dope; Hell of different ways for ones head to be severed.

three weeks in August

2008-08-28T09:05:00.000-07:00

I packed three cameras for this excursion, and as many pairs of socks; three pairs of socks do not last that long, even if one manages to keep them less than odoriferous. Instead of washing my socks or venturing to buy new ones, and they were available, I took spent my time taking photos. Being impatient, wanting visual stimuli, I had rolls developed while on the road, at any lab I could find; the results were costly, though the prints are of fair quality.

Documenting the people I saw, family and friends and strangers, and the places, another set of stories can be related. There are, of course, the easily told stories, the first ones that come up when someone asks about the trip; common high school friends long lost; frat boy stereotypes actualizing, disgusted; sunsets countryside, etc.

Here are a few that might not have made a story had I not clicked the shutter. The rest can be seen here (there, on Facebook).

dust, drugs, thugs

2008-08-12T13:39:00.000-07:00

This sprawl comes a few weeks after the event itself. The whole ordeal was unbelievably exhausting as was trying to regurgitate my feelings about it. You can tell the result is sloppy, flawed and erratic. However, I think those words authentically convey the Pemberton experience, a weekend of highs and lows.

A member of my camping party just referred to his haircut as a “brohawk” and I have no clue where I am. Our camping field is open but filling up fast; sweaty people are streaming in looking both rushed and flushed. One of my group took a stand and negotiated a large expanse of land to accommodate the horde of Deep Cove affiliates who, in a short while, will contribute to the deplorable conditions of our three day home.

We paid sixty bucks for this. It was easy for me to sensationalize the festival camping experience – the parties, the drunken babes, maybe even a slight wind of camaraderie and brotherhood. Maybe I thought I would get laid (WRONG!). In reality there’s a bunch of garbage and fucked up idiots (myself included).

Everyone had reasons for being here. It could be the bands or the party, or maybe even just to say they were there. After all it’s the first one, and everyone knows you never forget the first one.

It’s Thursday and the campsite is taking shape, hints of the eventual evolution into a cesspool are already visible. Anticipation, for the beer tent at least, is building. Once those floodgates open the gouging of the wallets will begin, and won’t stop, for another three days.

It’s Friday and bands are playing today. The sun is hot. A quick scan of the campsite reveals that it has indeed developed into the inevitable favela. I eat a shitty breakfast and feel ready to take on “Pemby”.

Minus The Bear ends with “Pachuca Sunrise” and the outro is disrupted by the unfortunately close proximity of the Guitar Hero truck/stage thing.

Some people were under the impressions that being here is, in some hyperbolic way, comparable to being at Woodstock. This is heinous. Our generation is too fractal, too divided in it’s agendas and interests, to a point where a music festival is barely an instrument of unity.

Wolfmother takes the mainstage and the high five bros show themselves. There is good music somewhere amongst the nostalgic solos, but it has been diluted, packaged, for the Guitar Hero slaves, devil horns included.

I mentioned high five bros. A lot of other bros are present: hackey sack bros, cowboy hat bros, and “Tapout” shirt bros. Most of them wear board shorts. A few hipsters can be spotted slinking about. Some fleeting pixies, braided belts adorning their soft heads, run by.

Stumbling through this melting pot of social sects is intimidating.

I rendezvous with the other half of the clique and his companion, mutual friend (and all around great guy) Connor Knickerbocker. Interpol is so gripping our jaws hurt. Immaculately dressed and sounding totally on point they tear through their time slot, with almost equal portions of Turn On the Bright Lights, Antics, and Our Love to Admire.

Fuck NIN. We’re rolling hard. Beer tent.

Blackout.

The next day follows a now solidified pace; up early, waiting/drinking, some bands. This evening brings my sole reason for attending Pemberton.

Tom Petty’s music has been seared into my memory since early adolescence. His tunes always found an opportune place to nestle into your life. “Even the Losers” assured my 14-year-old self that one day I would get a blowjob, while “Don’t Do Me Like That” helped console a heart stretched across continents. Tom Petty conducted himself with the grace and eloquence you would expect, the Heartbreakers corroborated their status, and I went home happy. We were all grins and glow.

The next night I drank enough to forget Jay Z ending with “Numb/Encore” and to blank two songs into Coldplay.

mount currie madness, or, high five bro

2008-08-02T13:02:00.000-07:00

There is a lacking that flits around my wrist as though an appendage, once there, is missing. I've heard of phantom limbs before, but what is gone is nothing close to as serious as a lost leg or amputated arm; whats missing are the wristband festival passes to the Pemberton Music Festival.

Most of my acuantinces there religiously chanted their mantras of 'get'r done', 'party don't stop at Pemby', or 'give'r'. All the aforementioned shouts could seem to suggest, from their syntax, continual progress and charity, asceticism and altruism. In reality, it was consumption that ruled the crowd's minds for three days: musical intake, excessive alcohol and drug intake, excessive spending and ogling and fawning. I gave a few beers away, a few cigarettes and a ride to a hitchhiker, and that is about it.

The late afternoon sun sparked the dust that rose underfoot, rising up and engulfing everything. The crowds and commotion, while walking through the dust storms, conjurered images of the Middle East and roaming post-apocalyptic gangs a la Mad Max. Faces were covered; sunglasses and high-hitched bandannas, an attempt to keep the dust and sun out, adorned large numbers of nomads. We had paid to live in conditions which required visits to water stations to fill up bottles and carry them away, to line up for food, to pack like sardines to listen, to sleep in dust, mud, grass, and sun. Anyone how spent some time on the campsite sides of the fences would tell you that it bore some stunning similarities to how they would make a refugee camp out to be. This analogy is a bit much I'll admit, but it does bear some consideration as the condition of the place were such that one could consider it uncomfortable, and in many cases sickening.

Close to squalor, close to freedom, it was quite appropriate that Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers should perform the chart topping act they did. I held hands and touched a beauty during Free Falling, and part way through, as though synchronously timed, lost touch with her; 'Even The Losers' always gets a crowd to simultaneously look back at a time when they were lucky enough to be with someone out of their league. This was the set of the weekend. His stage presence was uncanny, his patience with the performance moved the crowd to the point that all knew when to sing those beautifully familiar lyrics. Those are lyrics we've sang during car rides from your driveway to your friend's down the way, sang as we drove down a deserted stretch of desert highway in Nevada, and on rooftops while smoking cigarettes and staring at the moon.

I don't know what else to tell you, save that I sure hope no one caught any photos of me throwing up the horns.

summer builds

2008-06-04T16:04:00.000-07:00

Oh hello. We're on summer hiatus. One half is busy building things, the other, busy folding clothes. We will throw up here (and there) sporadically, but don't expect the world.

I will be back east during August, doing a check up on the east coast pulse. More soon.

Best,
Clique.

last summer, revisited

2008-04-25T13:07:00.000-07:00

In the cast iron pan the grease jumped up and down while the steak burgers popped and sizzled. Months of a regimented cafeteria diet had dulled the enjoyment I usually detract from eating a meal, which is unfortunate because every meal has the potential to be stimulating in both taste and social regards. At a residence dining hall eating is mutated into a daily function of routine, fulfilling no other purpose than filling the stomach. Being back has let me soak in the comfort one receives from homes small amenities, and on this evening the ability to cook my own food was such an amenity.

My mom was adjacent to me in the kitchen, cutting vegetables on the cutting-board in preparation for a Greek salad. We had spent the afternoon completing the requisite banalities one must tend to after being away for a while. ICBC, in predictable form, found a new way to empty both my wallet and hope for humanity.

The smoke being expelled from the cast iron pan spiraled up into the stoves fan, bearing a resemblance to the human made, education-based tornado Steve and I examined at Science World. Conversation had lulled and mother and son were going about their specific culinary tasks in content silence. Suddenly a thought perks up, there’s something she has forgotten to give me. Oh, mail, nothing exciting. T4 slips to remind me of how much money I once had and bank statements to remind me of how little money I now have. My mom is considerate and respectful of privacy - she left each envelope untouched, the security licking a transparent strip of glue provides remained intact.

But terseness could be sensed in her words and I have the feeling I am about to be prompted with the unexpected.

“I received a bill for an ambulance”

The events of late last summer taint and dilute the assured relaxation cooking food brings. I’m not sure why my mother chose to open that particular letter. It could’ve been the suspect sender coupled with my name. That would be enough to incite a combination of both worry and curiosity in her. She asks me if it had to do with drugs and I say no, which is the truth, but it feels like a lie.

I give her the Coles notes version and tell her that I have no long-term nuances as a result of getting hit by a car. For me the anecdote has become tiresome and I don’t think of it too often. She mentions that she neglected to inform my father and after I thank her we return to making dinner. The subject is dropped, probably for good.

back in the d.n.v.

2008-04-25T11:59:00.000-07:00

You call a friend; he’s busy but “this weekend for sure dude”. Instead you end up at dinner with his sister, some of your friends (who are also his friends, and one of whom is dating his sister), and some of her friends.

Tomorrow is a professional day, no school! A ripe time to covertly consume a few sips of our sixteen dollar a pitcher honey lager. Could you order me a strawberry margarita please?

The dining establishment we are at serves Greek food/cuisine. I’m broke and the girls hand feed me a bit of souvlaki for two reasons: one, I cannot afford my own sustenance and two, the plate is not located within my realm of reach. They don’t hand feed me in the way that the Greek bourgeois may have eaten grapes, but still they hand me the food and this is enough to let my mind sensationalize things.

There’s a band covering Bob Marley, though they still raise their glass and shout “OPA!”.

hotClique at Hot Chip/underneath the bhodi tree

2008-04-22T14:30:00.000-07:00

With what resonated like meaningful, genuine feeling, Alexis Taylor told the crowd that they were their most responsive one yet on this tour. We were all flustered by this, and happy about it; at this point in the show, the music was freeing enough to remind one they ought to have left all extant notions of Vancouver shows outside the doors, back on Monday night Granville street.

The movement in the crowd, filial and well timed to me at least, was much more appropriate, mature even, then the crowd at Justice's sold out performances, at the same venue, one and eight months prior. There weren't even that many tall people in my field of vision, though the four fairly short women that were with us might have had a little tougher time seeing. Regardless of the possible sight-line problems, they did not refrain from dancing at any moment.
As the show progressed, I kept hoping the Slow Songs would be played; I wished for the lamentations on poets of 'Whistle for Will', but once they began more down-tempo songs, the need for a slow dance hooked me, and, well, women and me are a story for another day. Where Hot Chip surpassed my expectations (which were quite high, I won't lie) were the allowances they worked with and the malleability with which they performed each song: as a good variation on a classical work ought, the hammering out, or exposition, of differences and maintenance of the original themes and pleasures kept the keen album-listener on his or her toes.

The continuity of Made In The Dark might not be obvious at first, chiaroscuro position of fun and bouncy pop-styled hits against all variety of love song possible (each song could easily be construed as a love song in one way or another), but after seeing the Chip live, I think I'm getting at it: Great honesty is something I admire in anyone, especially a public entity with as large a reach as a rock band. It's easy to feel with these cats.

Do it do it do it do it do it now

homecoming

2008-04-22T11:54:00.000-07:00

The last days, weeks even, were a slog. Months of slacking and fucking around only manage to cultivate a desperate final campaign: academically, socially and mentally. Friendships are distilled when you’re all about to leave each other. Do you really give a fuck about them? That’s when you find out.

Are you concerned about grades? It all comes crashing down when you decide to glance at the syllabus and realize that assignment you “forgot” to hand in was worth 40%. Is this autobiographical? I’m trying to be general; the ailments outlined could plague any university student at this time of year. But I’ll concede and admit, yes, this is about me.

I had the hearts again too. I moped around some, smiled some, got some. The pursuit, the engagement of a romantic affair is distracting and taxing.

Let’s stop this.

It’s all behind me now, geographically speaking. I flew home yesterday and my parents picked me up, hugged me and promptly dropped me off at 4th and Commercial. Alex then collected me, hugged me and handed me a Hot Chip ticket. They opened with “Shake A Fist” into “Boy From School”. It was a great show.

HIATUS

2008-04-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

WE DON'T GIVE A FUCK
We're offline till mondayish, as if waiting for us is a new thing.

Trust your foresight.

2008-03-26T19:38:00.000-07:00

I think we knew it was going to blow chunks. We really ought to have listened to our intuition. Instead, I wake up fucked up Tuesday morning for class at 9, shoes stepped on and dirty, as close to being broke as I have been in a year, and I smell horrible.

Great.

Fuck Justice, fuck MyspaceMusic tours, fuck bad judgment. I really ought to just have stayed home.

thank you morgan

2008-03-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

My father and I buried our dog this morning. Easter Monday, overcast, birds whistling for him as we shoveled dirt back onto of his body. Last night he got to say goodbye to the family; he was full of energy and cheerful, a good final night. Ten days ago he had a very rough night, seizing up, pained, crying. He couldn't walk for a day. He got better and soon was walking, bounding even, and we thought that was that. This morning I woke up to my father telling me the news.

We dug a hole out in the back forest, between two wet cedars, near a white and brown birch that my father said reminded him of Morgan's colouration. We buried him on Easter Monday and told him he was a good boy, put a large stick on top of the dirt and told him to "stay".

House Hunting

2008-03-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

A bad mood, grumpy with a side of strained belly muscles is no way to make a good impression on a prospective landlord. When the house is filled with people, all vying for tenancy, the feeling I get is one of slight resentment; why can't I just have the place? When all my references words of me are so glowing, how could anyone not want me residing in their house. Sure, the aforementioned references include my parents, childhood friends parents, and my happy go lucky thirty year old friend whom I state as my "employer"; in reality, his instructions are often vague, but upon completion, I am rewarded monetarily.

I'd hire me (and I always do), and I'd let me sleep at my house. I'd even let me sleep in bed, with me. They're right, I AM special.

Looking at these houses, we are in contention with quiet Asian families, couples, older people with "guaranteed income", females, and, the one with the most negative potential, close friends. Is this housing market in such a drastic way to force such competition? Maybe I ought just stay at home with mum and dad.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

2008-03-03T18:42:00.001-08:00

A year ago today something happened. Nothing significant, nothing earth shattering, nothing that would change your whole perspective on shit, but something that may or may not have changed your weekly blog checking habits. Yes! You know what's coming.

A year ago today I thought that an anecdote about getting chased by a junkie in the DTES merited a spot on the internet stage. I read that first post again today and was semi underwhelmed. But we felt we had something to say; the things we were doing, the situations we were in, the girls, the boys, the houses, all of them observations as filtered through the eyes of two young men. Hotclique was a place to tell the story, to twist the nights events into a worthy narrative. 100 or so posts and a year later we're still here. To anyone who has ever given us a compliment, high five, or an insult, thank you. At least you took the time to read what we have to say. That's good enough for me.

I know why the caged bird DOESN'T sing (cause she missed her flight)

2008-02-25T19:28:00.000-08:00

I turned twenty-two last week. It seems a pretty harmless age: drinking in Canada is old news: voting is, well, who votes anymore anyways; drinking in the States is one year done, etc.

For my birthday I received nice clothes, money, books; all very nice things and I appreciate them very much. The shirts are beautiful. The money works well in the consumer market. The books are readable. My mother even offered a carton of cigarettes (a brand of my choosing) as a present, to hasten my demise. I declined that offer.

One gift that I did not expect in the least was a ticket to listen to Maya Angelou speak at the Orpheum, with Dee Daniels, Vancouver jazz vocalist, as the opening act. For the first few seconds, looking at the ticket, cuing up my mind's encyclopedic entry for "Angelou, Maya" and coming up with a reference to The Simpsons and the vague notion that she wrote Hallmark greeting cards, I wasn't quite sure that I knew what to say. So I said "Thanks... This will be good for me."

As the week progressed towards the day of the show, I felt a sense of contentment burgeoning. I was gravid with an expected life change: a relic of twentieth century literature was going to speak to ME. The wisdom that would imbued upon me would be vast and in turn I was destined to show others, my friends, the light that Dr. Angelou had found.

Twenty-odd miles and four dollars for parking later, Monday evening, I arrive at the Orpheum to find this note tape to the doors: "Dr. Maya Angelou's event is canceled due to inclement weather. . . "

So now I am back home, same as ever just with less money, remembering that it's not others who are to change us; her deep booming voice (I assume it is similar to James Earle Jones' stentorian howl), her racial background, her flowing dresses and cylindrical headdresses, all these things would have impressed me to some degree.

lack of purity of essence

2008-02-19T16:43:00.000-08:00

Something is up.

It isn't the skateboarding; spaghetti legs can be explained by the lack of exercise and the odd muscle combinations required while skating.

It isn't the food either, as I've ameliorated my diet considerably: adding a daily salad, lessening my sugar intake (coffee: cream no sugar), constant vigilance regarding vitamins, and so on.

It isn't Seasonal Affective Disorder. I can enjoy rain, and lately the sun abounds.

Something is up and it feels like I'm about to drop a bomb. At least let it be the big one.

MASH UPZ

2008-02-15T10:23:00.001-08:00

I have three hours of class time a week that are devoted solely to things Bob Dylan. I love university. Between the hours of listening and analyzing Bob Dylan songs, my mind often wanders. This is what it produces:

"Subterranean Ghetto Blues"

Johnny’s in the basement
Cooking up a new batch
I’m on the street
Thinking about the beat
The pig posted up
Steel flashed, no cash
Wants to get a new stash
Look out son
It’s something you done
Lord knows when
But you’re playing me again
You better rush back to the stuy
Looking for a new buy
Fiend in the dirty chucks
Wants two hits
But doesn’t have enough bucks

My bitch hustles back, mad fear
Face full of tears, something’s wrong
Saying that the heats on
Packed up the crack but
The phones tapped anyway
World’s coming down in early may
Snitch hooked up to the D.A.
Look out son
Don’t matter what you done
Walk on your tip toes
Better stay away from those
That claim they got a lot of dough
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don’t need an accountant
To know how my cash flows

Get rich, get paid
Stay in the crib and get laid
The page beeps, hard to tell
If this birds gonna sell
Blast hits, your pissed
Fuck the ER and try to run far
Get grabbed, put upstate
Trust was your first mistake
Look out son
You might be the one
Boys on the block
Been rats since day one
Hoe at the spot in the tub
Looking for a back rub
Don’t trip
Shoulda watched your shit

Ah back up, furs warm
ROCA pants, romance, homies don’t dance
Stay fly, stay blessed
Keep your game a success
Fuck her, fuck him, cap them
No further education
And they put you in the burger pen
Look out son
They keep it all wrapped
Better push past and
Flip them flaps
Stay outta scandals
On the beach with Gucci sandals
Now you thought you won
But the cake ain’t coming
‘Cause the spics trying to pull shit

Original lyrics to "Subterranean Homesick Blues" HERE.

twin goofs

2008-02-12T15:54:00.001-08:00

new reel

2008-02-07T17:09:00.001-08:00

I paid for the new Hot Chip album. It's pretty good so far. It is good. Live in concert at The Commodore April 21st. SOLD OUT BITCH.

If you want a real review, this will suffice.

bomb again

2008-02-06T17:51:00.000-08:00

With another threat received at my school, the increased police presence is felt on campus. Also, it has snowed again today. Terror AND frozen water, and yet the school remains open. While the bio-science students get a free pass due to their "traumatic" experience, the rest of the student body has to walk around a police-state campus.

If an arts student were to explode in a million fragments, the bio-sciences students would be told to... "stay home for a while. You know, take those vacation days you been saving up; take Ginny and the kids to the water-slides down past Del Rio."

What are those bio-science students doing in there anyways? Being stuck inside for hours on end, as was the case last week, I'm sure they were up to all sorts of shenanigans. Shenanigans! Spinning the beaker and getting first kisses, seven minutes under the chemical vent-heaven, huffing who-knows-what. Sounds pretty good to me.

the week it snowed

2008-01-31T20:29:00.000-08:00

Light snow on Sunday, followed by a weak showing Monday, leading to a pale cold covering overall left throughout the night. Tuesday, no way I had school in mind, called in sick at six and hit the hay again, until just a few before noon.

The snow left a place for footprints; the foot trails told of walks in the snow. Kids were out, sledding down any hill. Every slope in Deep Cove had, if not kids slipping on sleds downwards, the tell-tale tracks of that activity. We walked further then the lazy young sledders did, up hill, and under frosted trees, to a quarry stone left sentinel to watch over our bay. This Tuesday it wasn't watching; it was hidden from view, clouded like I have never seen it before. On top were four men waiting for us, waiting for the sun, as all of their race do.

2008-01-28T17:43:00.000-08:00

Fuck the NY times; all won't let just anybody read news for free. Fuck the news in general; so what if a commie said something smelled off about the Russian elections.

In other news, Ali is going to be an Uncle. YEAH EVAN! You did it. Hotclique ON!

takes one to know one

2008-01-28T17:40:00.000-08:00

This just in:
Pot calls kettle WACK!

words to go with the pictures

2008-01-28T10:58:00.000-08:00

Here is my piece on Steve Aoki from last weeks Gazette. My degree of wastedness is well evidence by the composition; some slight rejigging on the part of my editor was apparently needed to make it formidable for the student masses. Rather lukewarm stuff. But I didn't have to pay cover. Which is exactly why I got so loaded and ended up writing a shitty piece.

ouch

2008-01-21T14:27:00.001-08:00

oh you didn't know: whalecock

2008-01-17T16:10:00.000-08:00

I wrote an email to Dave Carnie, famed for helping the Jackass boys get out there, and more importantly, writing for the now out of print skateboard magazine "Big Brother". My letter and his response follow:

Hey Dave.

When I was a young lad at Slam City Jam, oh say 2000, or 2001, Mic-e Reyes, in all his tough guy, West-Side Story cum East LA style, got my friends and I to hold up cardboard signs spelling out "spitfire". We of course though this was great. You sat in front of us, displaying perfect skateboard observer sprezzatura, and proceeded to write funny and dirty things of our cardboard. I think you drew cocks too.

I've been a fan ever since.

Anyways, I'm reading John Gardner's "Grendel", a somewhat contemporary response to Beowulf. The term "whalecock" comes up on the second page: "I swim up through the firesnakes, hot dark whalecocks prowling the luminous green of the mere, and I surface with a gulp among churning waves and smoke."

Might this be where you saw the word? I wouldn't doubt that you have the intelligence to come up with the name on your own, without ever having to see it written by someone else, beforehand. Regardless, I am curious.

Well, thanks for you time, I'm sure you're busy trying out a new scent of Nair to rid your ass crack of hair with (I remember the raspberry scent hurt you), but if you could, let me know how it came about.

Fuck yeah, its good to write to you old man,
Alexander Munro

-----------------------------------------------------

the phrase whalecock literally leapt out of my mouth. i was being interviewed by a japanese fashion mag and the chick, in her broken english, wanted to know what was hot. i had been fucking with her the whole interview. so when she asked that, i said, “WHALECOCK. WHALECOCK CLOTHES ARE HELLA PUKE YO.” i told her that hella puke was how we said “cool.”

that’s where it came from.

the only thing close at the time was our friend O, guitar player for fluff, would say BIRDCOCK all the time. that may have had something to do with it.

i would immediately close a book that read “green of the mere.” -dave

----------------------------------------------------

Yeah. He's a bit pretentious, but I think that is why I admired him during my teenhood; while other skateboard-magazine contributors tried to bring a semblance of insight to the sport (or art, whatever you like), Dave Carnie would rarely comment on that aspect. Rather, he would detail incidents with his cat, or his yearning to acquire Morissey to ride for Whalecock Skateboards. He's comfortable now I guess.

water bombin'

2008-01-16T17:18:00.001-08:00

I thought I saw a seagull today, flying past the corner of my eye. Seeing how I was just outside the North Vancouver transfer station, this would well have been a normal occurrence, as seagulls love the intoxicating aroma (stench) of dripping detritus, piled high. I took a second look at it though; it was not a bird. When I got a glimps of the bottom half of the wings, I noticed they were red. Gulls don't have red wings, and funny, what's that sound?

The sound was 10,000 horsepower divvied betwixt four engines, attached to two wings with a combined wingspan of 200 feet. The world's largest flying boat was, from my perspective, not more than 200 feet above my head! I was all smiles while i banked a giant turn two kilometers in diameter, soaring over the Lower Seymour area, and Maplewood, to head back due West into the central harbour. When it passed within a hundred feet of the Second Narrows Bridge deck, I thought I was about to witness a terrorist action unfurl.

Shit is bonkers!

back back to hali

2008-01-11T15:12:00.001-08:00

Headaches, airport hangovers and a slight time change. Then an inevitably procrastinated assignment due. The epiphany? This time I did it.

Jogging is like communism: it’s a good idea but it never works out well. The track is elevated and encircles a multitude of activities; boxer-cise, basketball, badminton and then the beefcakes. Yeah they’re there, sequestered to a pen of free weights and shameless chest puffing. I like being the underdog though, limping around and watching the robotic act of fitness scored to the random selection of my iPod.

I’ve got nothing to lose and kudos to gain! Not to mention countless justifications for my now toned down drinking and smoking habits. Fuck resolutions, I’m broke. But the leaf of 2007 has been flipped over and on the back 2008 reads SUCCESS. GO FOR THE GOLD AND REACH FOR THE STARS!

i aint to busy to be here

2008-01-11T14:55:00.001-08:00

Ain't nothing like being soft drunk at a school pub early friday, thinking about how great your favorites are. You all best be having fun too.

some summer, somewhere, soon

2008-01-07T22:17:00.001-08:00

I miss some people right now, though not horribly, but it is just nice to have them around. A couple hopped on an airplane headed for Asia; one went to Pacific American islands; one's cold back east. Where they are is not here.

Walking out of the car park, from underground on up the the main drag, I came into the light of the "spring semester at school". Although it did snow and hail and rain hard later in the afternoon, as I ascended the stairs the sun came upon me, standing on the cement plane. Quite apt for the first day back to a new year; new teachers saying things in courses with higher numbered suffixes than last time around.

This sun, out of the blue, ought'a come back often. It keeps every one a little brighter, and it makes the city a little nicer for our friends to come back to.

$2008

2008-01-04T17:33:00.000-08:00

It’s the start of another year; these things sure go passed us fast. We clocked many thousands of kilometers, about half as many miles, make tones of dough, and spent 110% of it already; jobs were found, held, and then dropped. Most obviously of all, bridges were built, crossed, and burnt. Among the sayings I heard in 2007, the one that sticks with me the most is “We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

I suppose after its burnt, we could swim across, or lash a raft together of the remnants and paddle up shit creek with out a toilet paper paddle. I digress.

My hopes for the past year, your all you’s, is that you figured something out about life, not just about how to play a certain video game, or how you like your Starbucks made. If this has yet to hit you over the head, and it will, I wish it will for 2008; there is nothing more annoying then you when you don’t know shit about the biggest thing in your life (that’d be you I’m referring to.)

I know I figured some things out, I wrapped my mind around a few concepts: always dress warm if it is cold out; the golden rule too, (you know, treat others the way you’d like to be treated, unless they are shitty in the first place [that last bit is my amendment]); I like my eggs over easy, coffee strong, and women damn fine.

YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

2007-12-30T17:08:00.001-08:00

Some mp3 blog I was reading the other day made the interesting observation that you can rate an acts magnitude by their stock in the remix economy. Justice, Klaxons, and Chromeo all prove the point. By that logic I think we all know who owned 2007.

The unapologetically infectious "crank that" spawned rug rat, lion king, spiderman, spongebob and aquaman spinoffs among others. That's just the kitschy shit too. Panda Toes has a big list of legit remixes right HERE.

Oh, happy holidays.

prime chip

2007-12-26T20:31:00.000-08:00

This group is great news.

hotclique home for the holidays

2007-12-17T02:32:00.000-08:00

They don’t have smoking lounges here in the Toronto airport. Actually, I don’t think they have them in any Canadian airport, but I guess that’s beside the point because right now I am in Toronto and right now I want a smoke.

I was supposed to be in Vancouver hours ago. I was supposed to be in Montreal hours ago but that didn’t turn out. And now I’m waiting in Toronto.

At airports they don’t seem to give a shit about you. They do seem to give a shit about being bitched at and you can’t really blame them. I’ll smile as genuinely as I can and tell them I appreciate how hard they’re working considering the hectic situation. But really, as I’m breaking a sweat doing wind sprints back and forth between check in and baggage check and security check, I don’t feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for me.

I – AM TRYING – TO GET HOME – TO MY SON

Not my son. But cold beer, missed friends, and tacos are just as comforting. I guess I have to wax nostalgic about my cherished holiday movies. It’s a coping mechanism. Too bad I’m not fortunate to be rescued by John Candy and a bunch of “polka guys”.

The bank account suffered a drought approximately a day and a half ago. I just ate five ketchup packets mixed with a couple hot sauce packets. A throwback to the summer I spent as a pseudo climbing bum in Squamish.

LIVE UPDATE! aka not live update because wireless internet costs $9.95 at this airport. No facebook and no smoking. This is suffering. Oh, the update is that my flight into Vancouver just got delayed another two hours.

LIVE UPDATE 2! I’m here now. Unfortunately, I missed Steve and Gabe (and the savory tacos they concoct) but I hope that we’ll be able to connect on the other side of the break. The good news is that my mother managed to transfer some cash to me and I was able to lick my wounds with 20oz glasses of beer while waiting, moping.

No school now, fun now, CHRISTMAS NOW!

winter hang-out

2007-12-16T11:35:00.000-08:00

With school on pause for a few short weeks, HotClique is reunited to smash and grab. Can you say SHENANIGANS? I know I can. DING DING DING! Watch out for some wild stories and busy nights.

hell'of punch in the guts with a metal exam slamming your guts

2007-12-13T17:13:00.000-08:00

There is a hell of winter going on out there. The boys I work with got called to another site to pour some 'crete in sloppy snow; I showed up on our site after the last exam of my first semester at university, to find it devoid of my spitting, coughing and cussing co-workers.

Moving a stack of ply from one area to another gave me time for reflection. I didn't use it; instead, I thought first about how tedious this process was. At the halfway mark, after moving twenty boards or so, I sorta got over that. Them boards gotta get over to the other side of the house son, and you might as well be the one doing it. So when I finished I ate some soup while sitting in the lunch room. It's warm in there, with two microwaves, a mini-fridge and many nails to hang your gear on.

The two rental pneumatic jack hammers are still there, there is more concrete to be banged and jacked up. It is a trying process: the tool weighs sixty pounds and is awkward; the vibration, a personal earthquake. Your teeth chatter and your brain leaks out your ear. It's much harder to do for an extended period of time than a decent term paper.

I want to hand in a jack hammer to a professor and tell him that this is what killed my scholastic abilities.

Bangalter's bangin'

2007-12-04T17:15:00.000-08:00

lurked by Chris at Tipz

at-lantic

2007-12-02T13:14:00.001-08:00

in unfortunate relation to bad music

2007-12-02T12:55:00.001-08:00

This has been around for awhile but if you didn't know you might find it interesting.

PostSecret

still D.A.V.E

2007-12-02T12:39:00.000-08:00

It has been over a month since I have written anything for HotClique. What have I been doing during this time?

I’ve slowly dripped back to resting on my slacker laurels. I shout “crunch-time baby” at the television, football playing, though I know nothing about the sport. Still I’ll arrange diatribes on Brett Favre and march about the room making grand proclamations. What the fuck is a passing average?

I’ll meticulously apply Franks Red Hot sauce to every morsel I manage to scrounge. Alas I am broke, but that’s not really a worry - my freeloading skills are well honed. Down to my last two toonies I managed to consume half a colt45, half a liter of white wine, three and half beers, one glass of gin and juice, five cigarettes, a couple bong hits, a grilled cheese and a piece of pizza in a single evening. Now that’s crunch-time.

My whining is mostly unfulfilled. I know I’m responsible for my woes and am not looking for anyone to hold my chin up.

As of this writing I have three late papers to complete. They’ve been put off and put off again as has publishing anything for this website. But I know the semesters almost over and I don’t want to regret anything and I’ll want to start fresh next semester and follow through with all the “I’m going to do this differently” promises I’ve inevitably started making already.

all this can be yours, for the low price of...

2007-11-29T19:53:00.000-08:00

On the home shopping network tonight, a product so vile, so silly, so gay (well, i guess they aren't that insipid and evil, but wait till the first kid slips backwards, careening down onto his or her soft melon-skull and SMASH! brains all over the new, imitation 13th century Persian lamb wool rug), was being hawked, that i could scarcely believe my eyes. The hosts were highlighting the selling points of little flat plastic bits that attach over gleeful feet. They are meant to be used as skates; carpet skates. "Fun for the whole family", they said; "your children will love them!" they mused.

They sell for $29.95, down from $39.95, tonight only. They make for "great fun at a church picnic, and the Sunday school students will slide with joy." Are they insinuating that their target market will introduce flat plastic sliding feet-bits and stop focusing on the Bible? What kind of people watch the HSN anyways?

still D.R.E.

2007-11-28T20:23:00.003-08:00

THIS IS FUNNY

What a great comic.

2007-11-18T15:52:00.000-08:00

These guys really like Calvin and Hobbes. Okay that's fine. I like the comic too. No, these guys really like it, so much so that you will never be able to like it as much. They have gone and added up their favorite selection of Bill Watterson's creation, and go into fine detail, giving reasons why they love it, so fucking much.

Me, I just enjoy reading them, and thought someone else might too.

Take a pic click click!

2007-11-13T18:51:00.001-08:00

Zac, creeping around Parkgate.

Fake Shark Real Zombie, creeping at the BackStage Lounge.

Creeps on Commercial Drive creeping about in creepy costumes.

Maria creeping out Morgan Brown in a creepy punkin' head.

Ameliore votre capacite de vocabulaire.

2007-11-13T17:34:00.001-08:00

feed starving people! get smart!

http://www.freerice.com/

Ameliore votre capacite de vocabulaire.

2007-11-13T17:34:00.000-08:00

feed starving people! get smart!

hit me back

2007-11-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

can't get enough of your love babe.
come'on dave.

Small Fame: driving hard loud and steady

2007-11-02T14:27:00.000-07:00

Opening for, and one-upping, The Clips last night at the ANZA club, was Small Fame. With hard raining steam-engine vicious bass lines (the kind you would hear in your head while driving all night, getting kicks from coffee and taurine enhanced drinks), I couldn't help but feel as though I was witnessing the rebirth of Deep Purple. This band rocked, in the purest sense of the word.

Unfortunatley, I'm not sure if they always rock: the lead singer/keyboard slammer, Dan Moxon was, if I'm not misinformed, a guest, a standin. He fronts the band Bend Sinister, their namesake from a Nabokov book that I haven't read, nor have plans of opening. If Moxon et al. think they are being clever, with this allusion to a "formative" author, well, I have nothing to say about it.

The Clips were weak in the main. Their inclusion of a trumpet player, and then the subsequent loss of rhythm, an attempt at free form fun, only lessened their indie-points. If my pants are tight, my Vans rough, and my "vertically intergrated" underwear colourful, I want it how others want it: ie. not fake jazz. That should, and can, be found on Wednesdays at The Cobalt.

Space trucking, yeah'er.

fuckaweeen

2007-10-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

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

----------

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.

----------

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

----------

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.

---------

Photo smash up soon. Holler out.

dorm days

2007-10-22T16:22:00.000-07:00

mini get to know - A/V

2007-10-21T09:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

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?
----
darn.

hot ticket this autumn

2007-10-15T23:23:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-12T18:58:00.001-07:00

Frosted Tipzzzzzz

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

i can hear them down the hall

2007-10-10T12:28:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-07T21:32:00.001-07:00

I'm thankful.

Rush Beta!

2007-10-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

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.

------

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.

of accents and ivy

2007-09-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

I navigate the throngs of khaki shorts and long boards slightly jaded, really faded. The quad is tremendous and green and open, footballs are tossed, books are glanced at. My new girlfriend is somewhere around but I won’t talk to her, not in my sobriety at least. These aren’t sordid hipsters brimming with breakthrough like I had fantasized; trust fund princesses from a few provinces over turn the quaint city into a new playground, the kids kicked out of the sandbox filled with visible resentment.

Back to Howe Hall, back to the squalor six flights of stairs up. Lungs soothed from a recent Belmont, one of twenty-five reprieves I pay eleven ninety-five for. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday two cops are placed outside the home I share with nine hundred others. The princesses slur and pose for pictures while the officer soon to be tagged as “cute cop” grins.

There are days where I can’t let go of the city and what they’re doing back on that coast. This makes grasping what I’m doing here even harder.

God and Steve

2007-09-26T01:02:00.000-07:00

Do i dare indulge in forbidden fruit, even after it's been offered? And forget about the snake coercing me, it's the delicious, fragrant, and juicy fruit itself that has convinced me.

I will.

The devil doesn't seem like such an opposite to the deity after watching his projectors; Blakes reading of Milton.

Wait, I'll follow her down.

-------------

Steve says "Lets fuckkkk. I wanna fuckk," after being interupted by an uncalled for call. "...I was really into what I was reading."

------------

So yeah, biblical allusions... They are pervasive in school, while often wearing simulacrums of nature in a romantic sense, or maybe rhetoric of heavenly design (Alexander Pope for shizzle). I was under the impression that scholastic places, nowadays at least, tried to skirt ecclesiastical subjects. Avoiding major themes in world literature is not what I'm about, so I dive in head on.

I'm down with many gods: many armed gods are handy, dope deities are definitly dope, and I'm buddies with Buddha. All humor aside, fuck it, I'm going to bed. My english class is canceled tomorrow. The God of small things must be displeased with the way my teacher praises the key names of the Enlightenment; their ability to preceive God in the perfect design of sea shells. Maybe the Romantics had it right with pastoral idylls. I'll find out when my teacher gets better, or when I become a conduit for Dios on earth.

stove top

2007-09-19T18:29:00.000-07:00

What I don't pay in rent, i make up for by cooking. Big pots and pans bubbling and boiling to delicious readiness. In a small kitchen, turning around manoevering the right pot to the right element, chopping peppers and adding a dash of salt, all become steps in a dance. On the patio breaking for a cigarette I keep quiet and listen to the sounds floating to me, making sure none are out of the ordinary.

When i get back in, the smells come together with tomato colours and compliment each other, to my pleasure. The clangs of lids coming on and off add another aural element to the busy scene.

What capricious effects these culinary elements have! Instead of a full appartment lingering with odors of feet, dead cigarette butts, stale beer in empty cans, we have nostrils filled with scents of joyous pastas, sauces, Mexican foods, vegetarian foods.

Mommas on the porch ringing the dinner bell, calling the boys in from the field. Time to lash the horses up to the post; time to eat.

mirror finish

2007-09-15T15:29:00.000-07:00

everday is a new chance

2007-09-14T09:50:00.000-07:00

I came out here with nothing. Sitting in the throat drying, eye-stinging confines of the Edmonton airports smokers lounge this thought hit me. I was already in a sufficient amount of emotional entanglement from tearing through Douglas Couplands Hey Nostradamus! and now I had this on the brain. My parents offered to buy me a book so I could occupy myself during the obvious airport waiting periods. I chose a Coupland book; hold on to Vancouver as long as the journey permits. I could’ve selected City of Glass and shown the people here some pretty pictures but I didn’t. I wanted street names.

You can start over. It’s going to be so good for you. I’m really jealous man. All the standard good luck salutations were thrown at me left, right, and, center from relative and friends alike. Now that I’m here I cannot help but wonder if I am living up to these bon voyage banalities. Sure the girls on my floor love me for my O.C. recitation skills and the guys from New Brunswick down the hall are eager to educate me on the merits of Chris Farely. Sure I’ve gotten laid. But am I really doing as well as I should be?

This brand of paralyzing self-doubt is covered territory. Should I have stayed in Vancouver? I had enough friends to accommodate any penchant, be it dive bars or mountain ranges. I had a solid foundation both socially and scholastically. And now I have nothing, clean slate and all.

This is not to say being foundation-less is without benefits. There are fewer commitments to other people, giving me the freedom to wander from Black Sheep viewing to volunteering at the Halifax Pop Explosion as I wish. Still, this type of freedom is a little unsettling. The onus, more than ever, is on me and I am a little frightened by it.