I spat on the floor of an attempted dance club. I really had to, there was just too much moisture in my mouth and in combination with the bilious beer we were downing, it was inevitable. Right after this I guess Dave got the cue that the floor was fair terrain for bodily fluids of any kind. Up came a stream of think soup, it looked red, and down it streamed onto the floor. I moved my pristine white kicks in the nick of time. “ I barfed, lets go,” he said like whoa, nonchalant as fuck, all the while I’m in hysterics. We proceed to hightail it out of the Balmoral, turning west down East Hastings. That’s a geographical name drop. I’d elaborate on the night, the weather, but I don’t remember it all too well.
It was my turn to buy the pitcher, and with only a ten bill in wallet, I knew where to go. Funky’s is the place for 9 dollar pitchers. Bob #1 (his engraved nametag said so), the bartender at the Balmoral looked at our id and charged us 12 dollars, meaning, we were had. I feel much more comfortable at Funky’s. Oh gentrification, what a love/hate relationship you create with us, the slummers. After I had said how I felt safer, and more at home at Funky’s then other dives, Dave commented on the ridiculousness of comfort zones; how could one be relaxed at one dive, while at another, tight and vomiting? While at the second arms race, sorry, scene, I bumped into three people I know well. That, I suppose, gives credence to either the gentrification argument or the slumming argument. Or it could simply be that hoodlums like cheap beer.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Weekend sports highlights: Righteous!
I think Dr. Dre did himself a disservice by naming his last album “2001”. Last time I checked, it was the year two thousand and seven, and we don’t dig things that are 6 months old, let alone 6 years. I can listen to the hot singles every once and’a little while, but the short staccato beats of “Still D.R.E.” don’t evoke the same things as they did 6 years ago, through tinny speakers blasting at full volume, as part of the high school house party soundtrack.
Staying with the highs chool theme for a second, this weekend in parties was a text book neighbourhood high school example. There was the aforementioned music, representing a similar phenomenon to a fifty yearold’s obsession with Classic Rock 101. There was an abundance of females, many of which I either didn’t know, and a fair few I didn’t want to know. There was a chapped party host who was pushed aside by the patrons, proverbially and physically, and then as is to be expected, a tussle formed. It came together as naturally and lightly as clouds, the hot and cold fronts pushing their way out the house from the kitchen, pushy pushes down the hall and out the door, expelled from the house like unwanted matter, like too much food in the stomach of a bulimic preteen. A few more people jumped into tussles of their own, for some great reason I’m sure, and every fighter was nicely dipped in mud by the end. I was inside dancing the whole time.
The night was fun, but in the morning I decided it was neither here nor there, and to stay away from future house parties. I’m sure that resolution won’t stick; I’ll be partying by Thursday. As sure as I’ve already lost that bet, the sun came up on Saturday. At the early after noon breakfast, a cheap joint off Broadway, the young lesbians were in full force. I was enthralled and tried hard not to stare and imagine. Wild hair, ripped clothes, I think I smelled their sweet musky sweat as well. Dave can give his opinion of the girls too. One looked like a boy monkey. Breakfast was colourful. I’ll skip over Saturday night, as it was Friday sequel, with the same plot, and only a few different characters and locations.
What are your final impressions of this past weekend Ali?
-Avoid at all costs
Staying with the highs chool theme for a second, this weekend in parties was a text book neighbourhood high school example. There was the aforementioned music, representing a similar phenomenon to a fifty yearold’s obsession with Classic Rock 101. There was an abundance of females, many of which I either didn’t know, and a fair few I didn’t want to know. There was a chapped party host who was pushed aside by the patrons, proverbially and physically, and then as is to be expected, a tussle formed. It came together as naturally and lightly as clouds, the hot and cold fronts pushing their way out the house from the kitchen, pushy pushes down the hall and out the door, expelled from the house like unwanted matter, like too much food in the stomach of a bulimic preteen. A few more people jumped into tussles of their own, for some great reason I’m sure, and every fighter was nicely dipped in mud by the end. I was inside dancing the whole time.
The night was fun, but in the morning I decided it was neither here nor there, and to stay away from future house parties. I’m sure that resolution won’t stick; I’ll be partying by Thursday. As sure as I’ve already lost that bet, the sun came up on Saturday. At the early after noon breakfast, a cheap joint off Broadway, the young lesbians were in full force. I was enthralled and tried hard not to stare and imagine. Wild hair, ripped clothes, I think I smelled their sweet musky sweat as well. Dave can give his opinion of the girls too. One looked like a boy monkey. Breakfast was colourful. I’ll skip over Saturday night, as it was Friday sequel, with the same plot, and only a few different characters and locations.
What are your final impressions of this past weekend Ali?
-Avoid at all costs
Friday, March 23, 2007
smooth. ugh.
During my formative early teen years I saw a commercial for a gay chat line. The ad had a studly man, presumably gay, in his boxer briefs preening himself. Nearing the end of the thirty second spot, he realized he had a pimple in the middle of his back, beyond reach of his gay arms. He struggles, fails. The voiceover then said, can’t go through it all by yourself? or something similar to that. Now, as a child, I thought, gee, isn’t that gross? Having someone other then yourself exert pressure on an oil filled pore isn’t exactly arousing I thought. This stuck with me for years, though rest assured, it wasn’t at the front of my mind, in fact, it disappeared from consciousness as thoughts often do.
Seven odd years later it resurfaced when, and not surprisingly, a woman was popping pimples and black heads on my back. Don’t get grossed out; don’t even try to make an image of it, as I’m not trying to gross you out. The popper began without asking me, and with the first push, or pop I guess, my mind raced back to the commercial I had seen years before. Was I now gay because I had someone doing it to me? Turmoil in my mind, so I asked her, “What are you doing!?” I was put-off. She said she enjoyed the process, and she derived pleasure from it. Being easy and hedonistic, I lay back down, prone again and let her go at it.
My question now, months after this incident: has this happened to you? Sure, you might have plopped a finger up a loved ones butt hole once or twice, or more, in the heat of passion, receiving protest and questioning at first, then later asked to do it again, but in our carefree superficial sex age the butt hole is just another hole. Are pores just another hole? Now I’m not saying women should find a man with a penis small enough to fuck the oil out from their pores, but rather, that pores are fair game. Anything’s fair game I suppose, and if pleasure is derived from it, all the better. Wow, I sound like one hell of a deviant prevert, or pervert. Are those synonyms? By the way, don't go google image searching for "pimple". I didn't add a photo to this post for a reason.
Seven odd years later it resurfaced when, and not surprisingly, a woman was popping pimples and black heads on my back. Don’t get grossed out; don’t even try to make an image of it, as I’m not trying to gross you out. The popper began without asking me, and with the first push, or pop I guess, my mind raced back to the commercial I had seen years before. Was I now gay because I had someone doing it to me? Turmoil in my mind, so I asked her, “What are you doing!?” I was put-off. She said she enjoyed the process, and she derived pleasure from it. Being easy and hedonistic, I lay back down, prone again and let her go at it.
My question now, months after this incident: has this happened to you? Sure, you might have plopped a finger up a loved ones butt hole once or twice, or more, in the heat of passion, receiving protest and questioning at first, then later asked to do it again, but in our carefree superficial sex age the butt hole is just another hole. Are pores just another hole? Now I’m not saying women should find a man with a penis small enough to fuck the oil out from their pores, but rather, that pores are fair game. Anything’s fair game I suppose, and if pleasure is derived from it, all the better. Wow, I sound like one hell of a deviant prevert, or pervert. Are those synonyms? By the way, don't go google image searching for "pimple". I didn't add a photo to this post for a reason.
respect and ruckus
1.
I usually dislike people who:
-volunteer
-work with children
-work with old people
-consider themselves an “activist”
I harbor these negative feelings because all of the above activities seem to have a hidden, built in guilt clause. For some reason when somebody tells you they’re a camp counselor or organizing a Darfur rally something clicks in your head and you feel like you have to tell them what a great person they are. Over time this obligatory respect reflex has mutated into more of a bitterness and angry stare reflex.
As a regular bus rider I hate spring break. All those fucking kids and their hemp wearing “group leaders” really piss me off. However during my regular commute this week I made a strange decision. Instead of ignoring the little odor and noise factories by escaping into an iPod oasis, I watched them. This kid with glasses was having a thumb war with his counselor. They looked as if they were having some genuine fun and the Asian kid seated next to the glasses kid kept outstretching his thumb, yearning to participate. The counselor was this big Persian guy with carefully trimmed facial hair, the type I would usually dismiss to bumping into me on Granville street and beating me up for un-popping his Lacoste polo. But he was wearing a grin, looking like he actually enjoyed his job.
Boggled as I was, I found that odd feeling creeping around in my stomach. I respected this camp counselor. He was doing a great job with these kids, making a real connection. It would be very hard for me to cope with those kids and this is probably why I respected him.
2.
When we were younger and bored-er we used to fuck around. Every adolescent goes through fucking around stages, the degrees of which vary. Some kids throw water-balloons and other kids drag bags of leaves onto the road and proceed throw eggs at the cars when they stop. The clique I ran with back then were on the latter end of that spectrum.
We used to call it ruckusing or ravaging. We egged houses, went sticking, bagging, nicky nicky nine dooring and whatever demonic schemes our 15 year old minds would hatch. Whole nights were made out of doing this shit. “Hey lets ruckus tonight man, nothing better to do”. It was fun and thrilling,
The other night I was drunk and surly, upset over a superficial but valid reason. I decided to unleash my anger upon anything in sight; mailboxes, cones, a construction site, cars. The extent of my wrath wasn’t too severe but I would still classify it as ruckus. The damage total was probably less than $50, if that. Thing was, I felt foolish and immature after, not giddy and excited. This is how I know I am now an adult.
I usually dislike people who:
-volunteer
-work with children
-work with old people
-consider themselves an “activist”
I harbor these negative feelings because all of the above activities seem to have a hidden, built in guilt clause. For some reason when somebody tells you they’re a camp counselor or organizing a Darfur rally something clicks in your head and you feel like you have to tell them what a great person they are. Over time this obligatory respect reflex has mutated into more of a bitterness and angry stare reflex.
As a regular bus rider I hate spring break. All those fucking kids and their hemp wearing “group leaders” really piss me off. However during my regular commute this week I made a strange decision. Instead of ignoring the little odor and noise factories by escaping into an iPod oasis, I watched them. This kid with glasses was having a thumb war with his counselor. They looked as if they were having some genuine fun and the Asian kid seated next to the glasses kid kept outstretching his thumb, yearning to participate. The counselor was this big Persian guy with carefully trimmed facial hair, the type I would usually dismiss to bumping into me on Granville street and beating me up for un-popping his Lacoste polo. But he was wearing a grin, looking like he actually enjoyed his job.
Boggled as I was, I found that odd feeling creeping around in my stomach. I respected this camp counselor. He was doing a great job with these kids, making a real connection. It would be very hard for me to cope with those kids and this is probably why I respected him.
2.
When we were younger and bored-er we used to fuck around. Every adolescent goes through fucking around stages, the degrees of which vary. Some kids throw water-balloons and other kids drag bags of leaves onto the road and proceed throw eggs at the cars when they stop. The clique I ran with back then were on the latter end of that spectrum.
We used to call it ruckusing or ravaging. We egged houses, went sticking, bagging, nicky nicky nine dooring and whatever demonic schemes our 15 year old minds would hatch. Whole nights were made out of doing this shit. “Hey lets ruckus tonight man, nothing better to do”. It was fun and thrilling,
The other night I was drunk and surly, upset over a superficial but valid reason. I decided to unleash my anger upon anything in sight; mailboxes, cones, a construction site, cars. The extent of my wrath wasn’t too severe but I would still classify it as ruckus. The damage total was probably less than $50, if that. Thing was, I felt foolish and immature after, not giddy and excited. This is how I know I am now an adult.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
the party down the street: still got teen love
As opposed to most Friday nights spent lurking in the city center, crawling from spot to spot, posing and hosing, this Friday was spent at a suburban house party. The make up of the house party is always something to consider, something to be mulled over. My preferred method is to follow fate and booze and see what happens, not making any judgment ‘till the either me or the party is done. The only appropriate time to rehash the night is the following day, when the only influence your left with is a hang over. Dave calls it the Post Game Analysis, which is perfectly apt. This morning, over coffee and grapefruit, we recapped the highlights, went over the lowlights as well. Both these terms are used interchangeably to describe the same events.
Attired in matching hotClique shirts (limited edition, hand printed, 23$ Can.), Dave and I hit the scene in a big way. A great to make an impression on a semi unconscious girl, dancing and flailing, is to have her ask about your jiffy-marker’d shirt , “wuzz that says?”, to which you smartly reply, “it’s mine and a friends shared survival guide to living in deep cove and the ventures we take upon ourselves.” That is always a deal clincher line.
After a few failed attempts on my part, some spills onto the shirts, and some amazing dancing maneuvers, I found the girl of my dreams, who just happen to be one I had an altercation with a few months back. Not a clash of opinions-type altercation, or car accident, but a lusty drunk make out session on a friends Halloween party dance floor. Now, I didn't recognize her right away, and I doubt I would have, but she noticed and remembered me. Her friend giggled. I inquired as to why they were laughing. They proceeded to remind me of meeting her, and then went on to tell me of the nickname they had given me. Violater. I started giving her lap dances, which by the way were amazingly sexy. I should have taken myself home and fucked me, myself. I didn’t make her pay for the dances; instead, I took her downstairs. We made out! Then I stole her leather boot and hid it. I feel like a 7 year old again, which incidentally is the age I’m trying to get back to.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Kele's Doing It For The Kids
Fuck. I know a month has passed since Valentines day but the wound is still fresh. I don’t know what happened; usually my impenetrable shield of outright cynicism keeps me safe from any feelings of aloneness on February 14th. This year I woke up and actually felt the longing for a girlfriend. A few candy hearts and a couple text messages would’ve kept me content in past times but no, this year they just didn’t cut it.
Fuck. Last nights Bloc Party show just dumped a whole bunch of salt onto that wound. When you think about it, all of Bloc Party’s bangers – even “Banquet”- are basically ballads. “Like Eating Glass”, “Blue Light”, “I Still Remember”, “This Modern Love” and “So Here We Are” all could’ve been boring new wave retreads. Yet looking around at the amount of couples inside the sold out Orpheum, it seems both hipsters and high schoolers get down to these tracks.
So how do they pull it off? The credit here has got to go to front man Kele Okerere. He sings lines like “I could feel your heart beating across the grass” with the sheerest of conviction. That line is really no less cheesy than any found in “Mr. Brightside” or “Fix You” but Kele doesn’t come off like a whiny little wimp; he forcefully immerses the audience into their very own John Hughes movie. Except without dancing, cause the security guards were Nazis.
Near the end of the show I guess I wasn’t feeling so bad. All the kids looked happy when they got to jump on stage during rousing closer “Helicopter”. I even smiled when some dude grabbed the mic and shouted “good night Vancouver, you’ve been great” in his squeaky puberty-less voice. I guess that wasn’t the only reason I smiled. After all, I had just watched a taut, professional performance by a band on top of their game. Also, a few rows in front of me a Kristin Cavallari wannabe was shaking her ass like we were in some sort of JLo perfume commercial. That made me feel a little better too.
Fuck. Last nights Bloc Party show just dumped a whole bunch of salt onto that wound. When you think about it, all of Bloc Party’s bangers – even “Banquet”- are basically ballads. “Like Eating Glass”, “Blue Light”, “I Still Remember”, “This Modern Love” and “So Here We Are” all could’ve been boring new wave retreads. Yet looking around at the amount of couples inside the sold out Orpheum, it seems both hipsters and high schoolers get down to these tracks.
So how do they pull it off? The credit here has got to go to front man Kele Okerere. He sings lines like “I could feel your heart beating across the grass” with the sheerest of conviction. That line is really no less cheesy than any found in “Mr. Brightside” or “Fix You” but Kele doesn’t come off like a whiny little wimp; he forcefully immerses the audience into their very own John Hughes movie. Except without dancing, cause the security guards were Nazis.
Near the end of the show I guess I wasn’t feeling so bad. All the kids looked happy when they got to jump on stage during rousing closer “Helicopter”. I even smiled when some dude grabbed the mic and shouted “good night Vancouver, you’ve been great” in his squeaky puberty-less voice. I guess that wasn’t the only reason I smiled. After all, I had just watched a taut, professional performance by a band on top of their game. Also, a few rows in front of me a Kristin Cavallari wannabe was shaking her ass like we were in some sort of JLo perfume commercial. That made me feel a little better too.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
modern freight. 1/2 alive, mostly mark'd out.
On the north side of East Hastings, between Main and Carral, Dave and I were chased by a syringe wilding, drugged addled manic street preacher. At first, we quickened our pace to put some distance between the needler, and us, the possible needled. Then we ran. He fucked off after a second, leaving us safer, seemingly, and with adrenaline coursing through our veins. This sprint took us to an intersection, where we had to stop for cars, though we both wanted to keep on running. Kitty corner from us stood a glassed wall, with light streaming out from the interior, illuminating the street, attracting us.
A curious scene inside. Were all in attendance there for moral support of the artists? What portion simply walked in from the street, like us, out of curiosity, or out of the cold? Being the child of an artist, I’ve been to a fair number of openings, so I’m used to the art gallery routine; look, mingle/talk, look quick again, and then drink (when your over 17 and it’s your dads show), but this one was different. In a space that was maybe 3000 square feet, with the majority of the space taken up not by art, I was, and still am interested in the numbers. This is no art review, as I haven’t taken the prerequisite art history class 100 level, so I don’t actually know what’s good. I do know what I like, though what does that count for anymore, and this wasn’t really it. Neat colour use though. That’s the extent of my review. We left, back from the illusory safety that the art and crowds gave us for the sharp glass comfort of Hastings again.
Just a half block to Funkys, where I got the door for Dave, and hopped in and down to another world of scuzz. The piss stench was stronger at the bars main doors then in the bathroom itself; it found its way up our nostrils and stuck there, only to leave with drink. Much drink.
The dive has two mics. Grab tha’ mic and sing to your choice, limited choice, or hits from the 70’s to 90’s, as well as a few two year old top 40 hits. Sweet. The magic happens when you grab the cold steel casing of the microphone, look out into your crowd, and making eye contact with the degenerates. Sing to guiltless products of the environment. Dave, Tracy and I sang a soul swabbing rendition of “Hungry Heart”, a life-lusting song that made me reach to the bottom of my innards and bring it back up to give the words the right inflection. The notes that came up from the bottom were just as wet, doomed to fall with gravity, as the vomit that comes up in the same drunken state. Eww. The two explorers, Dave, Me, stayed up as a promise to Tracy, to dance while she sang “Locomotion”. Sometime during, our gang arrived, bombing the seminar.
These cats were rolling all over the place, to, fro, high fives, mics in hands. The singing got worse, and the pitchers emptied.
Skip ahead an hour, skip the part of the night spent walking to the Van art gallery to find Morgans sexy cousin and her sexy friend, both in town from the interior to see a country music man perform; skip the walk with these prissy women, old by the age of twenty, the rain that fell and the alleys that scared them; skip the directions that we didn’t have. Skip to arriving at The Columbia, hopping in and taking my coat off. First cover, then coat, beer, and dance floor. The first thing I noticed in the bar was the smell. Unlike the overwhelming stench of urine that floated all through Funky Winkerbeans, a clean and domestic smell found my nasal cavity. Was it the smell of women? Sex? I pinned it to Shampoo. The odor was quite lovely, and I found myself comfortable, as I had shampooed earlier in the day. The feeling one gets when one knows that, all is clean, safe and oil free. I felt like an actor in a new target-market seeking advertisement, aimed at hip twenty-somethings. Then someone farted. That happened three times, and each time, I had to leave the dance floor.
fuck my facebook
Beer and mic and Dave. IGODDAWIFEANKIDSINBALTIMOREJACKIWENTFORARIDEANDINEVACAMEBACK
Dave and I like to sing along to a synth beat thats pumping out "Hungry Heart" or even "Locomotion". This is the second time we've performed at Funkys, and this time, much more sober. Relatively. We sounded horrible last night. Tracy on the other hand, wooed us with her melodious earthy voice.
We Dug the style, but at that moment, we both were still thinking about needles, aids, and our proximity to both.
I just sucked back a sweet black dude.
The Time We Got Chased By A Syringe Wielding Junkie
I’ve never really been overly phased by the homeless in Vancouver. Growing up here has actually prepared me quite well for future encounters with panhandlers and the like - dismissing them with a slight arrogance in cities such as Rome and New York was a breeze. To me the crackheads, skids, methheads, bums, buskers, hookers, and dealers in this city are the same as some discarded McDonalds trash on the side of the street. Except for the fact that they can talk and as the case was last night, chase you with a syringe.
The route we had selected to our dive bar du jour had taken us to Main and Hastings, the epicenter of vacant stares and shuffles. Though every Vancouver resident has driven through this part of town few actually put their feet to concrete. Sure we had stumbled about it a few times although we were in a far more intoxicated (read: obvlivious) state.
With the Balmoral sign looming overhead I think both Ali and I realized that yes, this is the shit. Not the shit as in the shit or the shit as in the Full Metal Jacket sense but simply, the shit. Pure shit. A festering melting pot of disease, addiction and lost souls. Fuck the grade nine girl with no one to sit with in the cafeteria, listening to Evanescence doesn’t make you a lost soul. Living in the middle of this does.
Anywho just as we realize this out from the shadows pops a junkie with a freshly loaded syringe in his hand. He drools out something along the lines of “drugssss”, Ali tells me to watch out and I jump a little. Needless to say, we quicken our pace. We turn around and the junkie is stumbling after us, syringe held out in front of him like the Olympic torch. Needless to say, we jog a bit. We cross the street and duck in to the Vancouver International Center For Contemporary Asian Art. It looks like an opening, people are drinking Granville Island honey lagers and mingling. They’re sort of looking at the art, but I can tell they’re not looking outside.
The route we had selected to our dive bar du jour had taken us to Main and Hastings, the epicenter of vacant stares and shuffles. Though every Vancouver resident has driven through this part of town few actually put their feet to concrete. Sure we had stumbled about it a few times although we were in a far more intoxicated (read: obvlivious) state.
With the Balmoral sign looming overhead I think both Ali and I realized that yes, this is the shit. Not the shit as in the shit or the shit as in the Full Metal Jacket sense but simply, the shit. Pure shit. A festering melting pot of disease, addiction and lost souls. Fuck the grade nine girl with no one to sit with in the cafeteria, listening to Evanescence doesn’t make you a lost soul. Living in the middle of this does.
Anywho just as we realize this out from the shadows pops a junkie with a freshly loaded syringe in his hand. He drools out something along the lines of “drugssss”, Ali tells me to watch out and I jump a little. Needless to say, we quicken our pace. We turn around and the junkie is stumbling after us, syringe held out in front of him like the Olympic torch. Needless to say, we jog a bit. We cross the street and duck in to the Vancouver International Center For Contemporary Asian Art. It looks like an opening, people are drinking Granville Island honey lagers and mingling. They’re sort of looking at the art, but I can tell they’re not looking outside.
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