fake tickets to robotic rock

We saw Daft Punk.

Holy jeeze, what a spectacle. The light show was non-stop and bonkers and completely in sync with the music. The crowd bounced and swayed a little slower then the massive speaker cones pumped. Each persons movement was amplified by the constricting crowd.

I'm not going to lie, I was stoked to be there, and I couldn't say a bad thing about the show, 'cept I really had to urinate badly for the last thirty minutes of the performance. I couldn't care less if Daft Punk was doing anything up there in their pyramid of lights and screens; I couldn't even care less if it was actually the dudes from Daft Punk in the robot suits. I read somewhere that there was some suspicion that the genuine Frenchmen might have hired people to masquerade as them. Fuck it. It doesn't matter anyways, and I'm now convinced that Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel did become robots in some freak accident eight years ago.

During the latter part of the show, the pyramid screens began blasting short, somewhat subliminal shots of flora, fauna, nebulas and planets, moons, and then human anatomy. I saw the college crowd rage and raise up in rapture and sweat; I worried they were being hypnotized by Daft Punk. I would enjoy having that power over the next generation of American power makers and World Leaders.

Did I mention where the performance took place? Stumbling into some dumb and beautiful luck, David and I scored a dorm room in a Berkeley Co-op. Whew. I'd like to go to that school. Dave knew that Daft Punk was playing that night, somewhere in San Francisco, some place called The Greek Theater.

"Ali, The Greek Theater is like, 4 blocks from the pad, or something."

We had to go. Scalpers were selling single tickets for one hundred fifty a pop. A bit steep, but we agreed that we'd pay one hundred. We couldn't pass by this opportunity. After driving around on the prowl for extra tickets, for less then $150, then walking around and asking, all to no avail, we happened upon a big and stout Aboriginal Australian; tickets for $100. Stoked.

He gathers us close, along with some other males our age, as if to tell us the secret of seven league boots. Instead of instruction for magic boots, he tells us how to get in with pilfered tickets...

"Right, follow me, to the tee. Follow me and go to the same ticket checker as I do. Make sure it's the same guy, got it? Alright, lets go."

Following, past the turnstyle, past the ticket checker. He feigns a scan, avoids eye contact and I pass. Success.

Seven dollar drinks.

The next day we look at the tickets: "LCD Soundsystem with Guests, May 14 2007, Fillmore."

don't go south for safety

We've been home for over one week now. Where is the ambition to write; let fingers fly over the keyboard to help elaborate our tale to you. We kept it gutter; we'll write about it.

From Vancouver all the way back to Vancouver in seven thousand kilometers.

It seems a roundabout way to get back to life, but the voyage itself, measuring distance and days, gas tanks and tacos, was one of the pivotal reasons to take on the road trip. There are plenty of hidden away spots at which one can stay hidden for days, within a few hours of our city. Setting a distant goal (Mexico) and then choosing a fairly slow method of transport to reach that goal (ie: not an airplane) affords one the extasies of a joy well earned.

Crossing borders, leaving the interstate system for rural Mexican highways, the change is visible instantly. These were the fruits of our labour; a hazy, less refined infrastructure, corrupt police turning blind eyes, the visible displays of monetary power. These vices are easily generalized about, but do seem pervasive enough to lead to the classification of the Mexican way to be a double edged sword.

It's so much fucking fun to go there and rip up the gnarly highways, but the speed limits are slower then in America. Imperial to Metric; a better method of measurement assigned to a primitive and dangerous system of roads.

Anyways, what I'm saying is that it is very easy to drive too fast to reach a destination a little faster then is actually safe, or to lay your eyes on three dimensional pornography while getting there. If you happen to fall into this trap, thinking that the Mexican Highway Patrol will let a Caucasian fly by for free, just remember the bit i mentioned about vice. They will close their eyes. They will blink at the right time if they know to. To get them to miss something fictional, of their own creation, you have to give them cash.

The only road to Puerto Penasco, a tourist town on the north eastern end of the Sea of Cortez , one crosses from Arizona to Sonoyta. The first impression one gets is of lawlessness. Though there is a police presence in the streets, the feeling of greed and suspicion is pervasive. It is that very force of supposed law and order that makes it scary to be there. The majority of the people one is bound to meet down there are friendly; a fact many people forget. You've just seen the northern side of the border. There are large reflective yellow road signs showing a stickman mother and children running, hurrying across the freeway; keep alert for straggling illegal immigrants suffering from heat stroke, sun parched. Back on the other side of the frontier there are millions upon millions being spent on and by the Boarder Patrol. The investment in the form of territorial and even racial protectionism is so vast. I won't go into the official reasons for it. It's trafficking in any form. Just across that protected border you get to see what the white and green government trucks protect their citizens from.

welcome

fuck that

hey rich girls!

Just like the silver screen...

We cleansed ourselves of mexican grime; the first step into socal salty spray. Minds working now- alliteration on, insight on, tacos off.

Ali met a girl named Melissa when he was in Madrid last summer. We're at her house. Her Father is an ex restauranteur who cooks a mean spaghetti. Hospitalitiy is nice. Not sleeping in the car is nice.

This is a world we know not of. Soccer scholarships, UC Berkley soroity girls, backyard pool lounge outs, summer homes in Michigan. This is HotClique and we wish they all could be...

BLOWIN UP/THROWIN UP TOUR 2007 CONTINUES

Money is gonna be dry, we'll probably be home soon.

hotclique on assignment: guns in arizona

It's hot in Arizona; we have guns, hard liquor and cheap smokes and even cheaper tacos.

Prickly pears and suaro cacti. It's sweat hot. Enter a Wal-Mart and instantly you're greeted with chills up the spine. This is what we're dealing with here. Some photos now and more heat later.

Get To Know: Erik Giezen

This installment of Get To Know profiles yet another suburban warrior who plays a semi large role amongst the revolving cast of characters that inhabit our inebriated conquests.

HotClique is proud to present:

Sauced as Fuck: The Life of The Toothless One

The name on his drivers’ license is Erik Giezen. You might know him as egiezen, tooth, toothless, saucy, no teeth, no tooth, or etooth. Or you might know him from his trademark squinty eyes, zombie like dance moves and malt liquor breath. Either way, if you’ve ever partied in Deep Cove you most likely have heard of him or his brothers. The Giezen boys are a dynasty. Let’s meet the middle one.

Erik got kicked out of our high school in grade ten for throwing an orange out of a school bus and hitting another car. He did some hard time at Windsor and then a military school back east. Today is Sunday and we’ve both woken up. Erik mentions he was supposed to work two hours ago, cracks a Black Label Supreme and grabs a two day old slice of pizza. We depart.

Twenty minutes later I rendezvous with him at Joes house. Since it’s Sunday we’re drinking coffee, smoking and discussing the weekends exploits. Nothing too eventful. MTV and kimchi bow noodle are turned to.

Dave: Erik. For the record, what is your current address?
Erik: Yo Joe what’s the address of this place? Yeah, I don’t know. Next question.
D: MTV? Fucking trash. What is your preference?
E: Laguna Beach and Maui Fever probably.
D: Why?
E: Why? What? Have you ever seen it? Cuties and shit man…. Next question.
D: If you could be an animal...?
E: Squirrel. Next question.
D: Last night?
E: Remember nothing. I was trying to wheel [name omitted] with card tricks. Then I woke up at a redheads.
D: Current employment?
E: College Pro. Next, lets go.
D: Longest time at a job?
E: Uhh. Three months I think? Next.
D: Why can’t you hold it down?
E: Gotta switch it up? Usually I quit, just leave to go get wasted with buddies.
D: Where do you see yourself in a year?
E: With an address.
D: Grossest slay?
E: [name omitted] fucked her titties, which was kinda cool. When I was fucking her titties she kept doing this (sticks out tongue and makes weird motion complete with bizarre sound effects)
D: You think you’re ever going to escape the cove?
E: Yeah I’ll get on Maui Fever. They’ll make a reality show out of me called life of the toothless one. It would be a hit.
D: How did you lose that tooth anyways?
E: Peeg, back in the day. Danny Campz was there and Joe was there. I was biking around near the three set and all of a sudden I see this naked chick – no shit, ask Joe. Next thing I know my face was in the cement.
D: Why was she naked?
E: Fuck I dunno I just woke up in the hospital missing a tooth.
D: Shit. Girls seem to be drawn to you Erik. Can you explain this? What do you think your attractive qualities are?
E: Great guy. Nice to hang out with. I’d do ass to mouth no questions asked.

I’m boiling things up for the final questions here. Trying to compare Erik’s psyche to that of Tellys, the main character of the film Kids and I’m dropping all sorts of shit about legacies, burning yourself into the dark recesses of a chicks memory and stuff. Maybe that’s what fuels Eriks sexual tirades. Okay, what do you want your legacy to be?

E: Fuck bitches? I don’t know what to say. This question is wack. Write that down.

Get to know: Mada

You might recognize him by his slurred speech indicating his constant intoxicated state: you might recognize his railroad track teeth, braces catching spit; it could also be the perfectly tasteless tattoo which graces his upper arm. Like the angel performing felatio on the Grim Reaper that his tattoo depicts, it is not so much the act that is disgustingly funny, but the display. Just like his inked arm, this male is vile. Snake Bullet go-to-guy/bitchboy, Mada will make you cringe, and then laugh.

Ali: Snake Bullet, what the fuck?
Mada: I was hanging with Pat too much. He made me get money to get shirts printed.

(We're all drinking at this point. Lounging at Sailor Haggar's off lonsdale, the Snake Bullet pack is there, minus their posterboy Sean O'Brien.)

A: Gay. Dope. What's all the fuss about O'Breezy's wang?
M: Horsedink, red head.
A: How young is too young?
M: What? No age limit.
Pat: So rude.
A: What was your first time like?
Pat: He's a virgin.
M: I don't even remember. I was probably high as fuck and then blanked out.
A: Sweet. I bet she'll remember is forever. What did you do last night?
M: It's called forgetable friday for a reason. Vodka.
A: Ah.
M: $120 last night to forget.
A: Any last words zipper mouth?
M: SNAKEBULLET - It's inevitable.

At this point I realize nothing is going to come of this interview. I fold up the napkin I'm writing on and put the keno pencil back. We drink more, then head down to the sea bus terminal to cross over to drink at another bar.

Later on at Funkys...

A: Are you not singing tonight?
M: I'm getting drunk. I need more money tonight. Your a fucking loser Pat.

Yeah, that's it. What a guy.