Trust your foresight.

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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.