Dal Segno al Fine

I have headbanged to Metallica.
I have sang along to The Spice Girls.
I have crowdsurfed to Anti-Flag.
I have quietly sat and listened to Al Di Meola.
I've played air guitar to Steve Vai.
I've played air drums to Rush.
I've clapped my hands to Janis Joplin and I've stomped my feet to Queen.
I have Radiohead posters and Megadeth backstage passes in my room.
I have mountains of autographs from Alexisonfire.
I have ticket stubs from the Vans Warped Tour as well as Summer Sanitarium.
On my iPod you will find Seal, Trisha Yearwood, and Tchaikovsky.
The first album I bought was by Pantera.
The first album I knew all the words to was by Aqua.
I own a Compton hat as well as a pair of leather pants.
I can read the story behind Coheed and Cambria, and I can read Lady Gaga's poker face.
I can hum Frank Zappa and tap my toes to Captain Beefheart.
I have performed songs by The Rolling Stones, Blink 182, and The Beastie Boys live.
I've seen the reunion of Pixies, and the last North American tour of The Darkness.
I like N.W.A., I.C.P., and The Notorious B.I.G.
I've sat in the sun while listening to The Fray, and I've danced in the rain to The Postal Service.
I have been tripped up by Elvis Costello, and I have tripped out to Tiesto.
I am equally moved by "Concrete Angel" and "Angels Don't Kill".
I can analyze Leonard Cohen and be analyzed by Marilyn Manson.
I've raised a lighter to Skid Row and I've raised my fist to Rise Against.
I wish I was Finnish when I listen to Nightwish.
I'm a proud Canadian when I hear Great Big Sea.
I wish I was black when I listen to James Brown, but when I hear Billie Holiday, I'm glad I'm not.
I have visited the middle ages with Gentle Giant, and seen the future with Captain Beyond.
I've contemplated the meaning of The Marble Index.
I know the meaning of Moneen.
I've commemorated the births of Lou Reed and Dallas Green.
I've honoured the deaths of Johnny Cash and Kurt Cobain.
I can recite "Cowboys From Hell" as well as "Bombs Over Baghdad"

I love music, and music has been very good to me, but lately our relationship has been hurt.
For the first time in my life I've found an artist who I not only dislike, but who actually degrades my opinion of the entire world. I normally pay no mind to end-of-the-world conspiracy theories, but the more albums he produces, the more clearly I see the utter darkness at the end of the tunnel.
Congratulations, Lil' Wayne; you are officially the worst fucking thing to ever happen to humanity.

-Thor's Hammer

Stoning the Stoners

Ok, so here we are, 4 days after 4/20 and I'm sober while posting this.
I just wanted to post today to clarify a few things about my drug use.
To begin, I have been smoking pot for approximately six years now, dating back to midway through highschool. Why do I get high? Because I like it, same reason that people drink or drive fast, it's fucking fun OK?
That being said, I occasionally get shit for doing drugs (and yes, hippies, marijuana is still a drug even though it groes naturally in the ground, fucking yeast fart alcohol and thats a drug too so fuck off) from people who don't do drugs. Not that I'm the biggest stoner around, as many of my aquaintances smoke much more than I do, but I consider myself to be a regular user nonetheless.
This post is essentially dedicated to the people out there who give me shit, or give other people shit for getting high.
First, health risks. People don't seem to realize that the health risks involved have been debunked time and time again by every scientific body on the planet and so I still get a lot of "You know it's bad for you, right?" I'm going to explain to you exactly what is bad for you about smoking pot: smoke entering your lungs. period. It's no worse and no better than smoking a cigarette if the joint is rolled properly (not that cigarettes are great for you or anything, don't get me wrong)and that's it. (And yes, that DOES mean that intaking the marijuana via brownies or something like that is completely harmless.) All that jazz about killing brain cells and such is simply not true and I dare you to find me any peer-reviewed science journal saying otherwise.
My doctor, as well as multiple professors at my university (the #1 university in Canada for medical science) are all extremely well qualified medical scientists and every single one of them has confirmed to me the previous facts. None of these people hold fake degrees, they are all incredibly well educated people in the field, so don't give me that shit about "he must not be a real doctor if he thinks weed isn't bad for you" FUCK OFF. On a side note, some people have asked me why I don't smoke cigarettes instead because at least they are legal. I don't like them, they make me dizzy and I don't like the smell.
Next issue: people accusing me of smoking to "escape reality"
Fuck all of you, I've said it before and here it is again: I smoke to ENHANCE reality, not to escape it. I like reality, but sometimes I want my food to taste better, my music to sound cooler, or the people around me to be more interesting. I still hear/see/taste/smell and feel all the same things when I'm high, only to a much more interesting degree. Escapism is lame. Don't lump me in that bunch of fucktards...
Lastly, that garbage about regretting descisions I make when I'm high. Fuck that. I make far worse descisions drunk. When I'm really drunk, I starting hitting on everybody in the room and needing to apologize later. When I'm high, I eat a lot and listen to music. Fuck all of you. The only thing I might agree with in this category would be not remembering things when I'm high, a perfect example being this tuesday when I awoke in a friends basement with nobody around except a snoring DJ on the next couch. It turned out that I got really sleepy on 4/20 and didn't go home...
Anyways, sorry for the delays on my posts lately, I've been high.

-Thor's Hammer

The Log Driver's Waltz

After my first experience at Montreal's Cinema Du Parc this week, a theatre that specializes in documentaries and indie flicks, I'd been feeling kind of artsy and in the mood for some high quality picture in motion. I saw the documentary ANVIL by the way, all about a Canadian metal band that never quite made it. Mix the classic underdog story with old school metal, some guy who played his guitar with a dildo, and some pretty kick ass cinematography, and you'll understand right away, if your brain works like mine, why this movie was actually really great. Anyways, so all week I had been trying to satisfy my quality film craving. I even re-watched Silence of the Lambs (hello Clarice) which, although it delivers some good quality spooks and one of the most bad-ass movie characters around (if I could do that creepy lip-sucking-inhale thing Hannibal does I'd be doing it right now), it just wasn't what I was craving. Then i remembered someone mentioning that the National Film Board of Canada put a ton of its movies and shorts online, completely free to watch. So i checked it out tonight, to see what the NFB had to offer. Praise the lord, on the home page i encountered this cherished relic of my childhood, having spent hours a day about 4 inches from the screen watching kids shows.

http://www.nfb.ca/film/log_drivers_waltz/


Yes ladies and gents, the log driver's waltz. I must have seen this on CBC or YTV a couple of times when i was a youngster but I never appreciated how balling this video/song were until now. So i got my kicks and even though i could still go for a docu, my eyes are satisfied for the moment. I'd be happy... if i only I could please the girls as completely as the log-driver... if only.

- Brows

Deflection

I have a predilection for remedying ailments of unrequited love with diatribes against the frivolous pseudo-relationships that have become apparently mundane within the circadian rhythm of my markedly adult life. Inasmuch as I am nowhere near exempt from myself having faulted within the said domain of irrational and regrettable raw sex, usually initiated by the besotted text message sourced by usurping concupiscence, I am consumed by an abhorrence for all that it represents. If it is required for one to brave themselves for periods of an extended dearth in intimacy, an increase in introspection, and a general withdrawal of the old coitus, in aspirations of obtaining a partner who ineffably inflames the soul, mind and body - where does the intrusion of immediate satisfaction, amidst such a worthwhile ideal, become acceptable?

Where I have been weak in a moment, I inevitably felt emotionally emaciated from having temporarily halted myself from the one who should be sought after regardless of the arduous journey it may at times entail. To revise and redevelop from the old feverish pace that, as an adolescent, one follows, is to mature; yet as I have been freshly initiated into adulthood I find myself enveloped by what is actually still a transitional stage. These relationships drain and depress the potentiality of truly finding partners who inspire and compliment you - who are for you.

I am barely into my rhetoric, but I already feel alleviated, and if any curiosity was induced by the unrequited love statement above – imagine that I am Ben Affleck in Kevin Smith’s ‘Chasing Amy’.

-Swank

Beefheart Beauty

Every now and again, a song comes along that evokes emotions that one might have forgotten existed. Common favorites include Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" and LeeAnn Womak's "I Hope You Dance"

Most people don't have the luxury of knowing about Captain Beefheart or his unspeakably beautiful album "Trout Mask Replica," but I do. Because of this, I have chosen to share with you the lyrics from possibly the most amazing track ever recorded; "Neon Meate Dream of a Octafish."

Lucid tenacles test 'n sleeved

'n joined 'n jointed jade pointed

Diamond back patterns

Neon meate dream of a octafish

Artifact on rose petals 'n flesh petals 'n pots

Fack 'n feast 'n tubes tubs bulbs

In jest incest injest injust in feast incest

'n specks 'n spreckled spreckled

Speckled speculation

Fedlocks waddlin' feast

Archaic faces frenzy

Ceramic fists artificial deceased

'n cists rancid buds burst

Dank drum 'n dung dust

Meate rose 'n hairs meaty

Meate rose 'n hairs meaty

Dream wet meate

Limp damp rows

Peeled 'n felt fields 'n belts

Impaled on 'n daeman

Mucus mules

Twat trot tra la tra la

Tra la tra la tra la

Whale bone fields 'n belts

Whale bone farmhouse

Cavorts girdled 'n latters uh lite

Cavorts girdled 'n latters uh lite

Uh dipped amidst

Squirmin' serum 'n semen 'n syrup 'n semen

'n serum

Stirrupped in syrup

Neon meate dream of a octafish

Now, as I wipe the tears from my cheeks, let's admire this.

I Don't know about you but I truly did picture the mucus mules twatting, trotting and tra la-ing. The repetition of "whale bones" and "cavorts girdled 'n latters uh lite" truly speaks to me.

Please, share with me the extreme sadness/anger evoked by reading these words, because, as I've come to notice, we all have a little octafish inside us.

-Thor's Hammer

Let's Call Her Brabera

Junos went down, as Brows described with such mastery, and adult alternative album of the year went to Serena Ryder. Who is Serena Ryder? I haven’t much clue, I discovered her but a month, or two, ago and have been in the infatuation stage with her ever since.

One of my ex-girlfriends – side note, you know there's this etiquette to talking about ex-partners: you say “My ex-girlfriend” when it’s a recent ex, but it’s improper to say “my ex” when you’re referring to an ex, two relationships, or more, ago. Anyways one of my ex-girlfriends, let’s call her Brabera (chuckle if you’re a Flight of the Conchords fan), had an unhealthy obsession with Sam Roberts that could rival the general OCD of Thor’s Hammer (hopefully a prelude to a future blog describing the specificities that entail commuting, studying, or talking with him). I’m on tangent central today, but what I’m getting at is that she would describe him practically as a deity, and felt something for him that seemed a little outlandish. I didn’t think less of her for it, and the closest experience I had had was with Morrissey, but that’s just because he related to the ostracized intellect within me. In sum, I thought it was a fathomable feeling but I mainly discarded it, until, that is, Serena Ryder came into my life.

I went to her show at the Cabaret downtown and only after hearing her a couple times, but figured it would mainly be a nice Sunday night oasis. She gave a mind-blowing performance that I never expected; she laughed, swayed and rocked out with the music, sipped on her red wine, and encored after encore. I was originally having a cold Boreal Rousse (influence from my ex-girlfriend’s father) in the back of the bar, trying to pull the ominous look with my leather jacket and somewhat akimbo stance leaning against the wall. I could not help but dismiss the beer, back away from the wall and walk over to the stage and find the group, dancing the strangest, to join in with. I found myself just slightly off to the left of Serena, with a bunch of wild blondes bobbing and singing along adjacent to me- I was utterly captivated by her. After I had sectioned out of the crowd and was practically euphoric in my satisfaction, I moved back to the bar for a breather, and leaned in towards the barmaid for another Boreal Rousse, to replace the one I had ignored earlier. My body still moving to her voice, I glanced back to the stage and found her looking at me, and I automatically glanced back at the bar but said to myself that there’s no way she’s looking my way and turned back again, which lead to a solid 7 second stare off. The bar was definitely packed, and it’s possible she wasn’t looking at me, especially since artists can go off into trances while remembering lyrics, but with her voice and that uncertainty my membership to her fan club has been solidified.

What is the result of this evening-

I facebook-stalk her.

-Swank

Punjabbawockeez

Ohhh how we Canadians love our wacky artists and musicians. Blah. Tonight was a mediocre version of that yearly shindig we call the Junos. Every year I watch this awards show because i love Canadian music and I'm all for recognizing local talent, but it blows my mind how generalized the categories are, and how much music goes unnoticed. But i figured I'd start off my postings with a little opinion piece a la Juno play by play.

So the stars of the show, to my deep, deep chagrin, where those redneck clone rockers, the pride of some oil-worker's garage in Alberta, yes ladies and gentleman it was Nickleback. (booooo) So this shiety band managed to pick up Group of the Year, Album of the Year and, what shocked me most, the Fan Choice Award. That means that across Canada, there are enough tone deaf, mullet loving middle aged women to beat out a generation of music obsessed teenagers. I don't get it. Can we mulligan Juno awards? No? All bashing aside though, Nickleback managed to land the opening spot, and capture the hearts of Canadians, with a song whose chorus ends in "You look so much cooler with something in your mouth!". Russel Peters, who killed it as host for the second-year running, totally called them on it too: "Hey guys, my mom is watching alright". On to the brown man we can't get enough of, Russel Peters. Walks out on to the stage with Indian dancers (who he later calls the Punjabbawockeez) and does his little punjabi dance, then busts some pretty killer b-boy moves. Highlight of the night though... "common Barenaked Ladies, you know i had to say a few LINES about your lead singer quitting." ahahaha, loved it. Canada's first coke head scandal in a while.

Other awards given out were Best Rock Album and Artists of the Year to Sam Roberts (which is cool, a Montreal native, even though he beat out the man, the myth, the legend DG for the latter); Lights won for Best New Artist (She'd be Hot if i couldn't eat her in one sitting... she weighs like 32.. max 34 pounds); Loverboy was honored with some lifetime achievement or something (man did that lead singer get fat... someone turned him loose on too many cakes and pies); and finally, Kardi, who's totally anti-Juno, won for best Rapper or something. In his little video speech he totally called out the Junos for giving out all the awards to Nickleback and having too little hip-hop, which was good for a snicker.

There were performances by Brian Adams (gives hope to every man with a gap in his teeth, amen) and Great Big Sea among others. GBS was kind of a disappointment closing the show... they covered some song and the main singer with the wicked Maritimer accent didn't even sing. Lameee. Simple Plan also performed. I don't know how these guys are famous. It bothers me. Seriously. Stop toying around with thirteen year old faux-punk girls, you are lameeee.

And now we arrive to my favorite part of the night, my shout out to Dallas Green. He took the award for Best Songwriter, which was perfect and made me respect the junos a teenie tiny bit more. He also performed Sleeping Sickness with Gordon Downie of the Tragically Hip (his vocals were totally drowned out by some backup dude which was weakk but still much better than anything else at the show). Overall, i kind of hate how underrepresented certain styles were. I know they go mainstream and family friendly for TV but still. Cancer Bats, Stars, Chromeo, Metric, Moneen... all don't even get to sit in the stands for shits and gigs? Protest the Hero was also nominated for best rock album which totally doesn't fit the band... how do you stick Sam Roberts and Protest in the same category? But oh well. I'm all for Canadian music and the mad Vancouver Olympics promos going on the whole night lol.

As for me, I'll be posting mostly on music, the arts and news. You can expect an occasional deviation from this path though but don't work yourselves into a conundrum over it (totally pointless I'm just trying to expand my vocab like Swank.) Easy peeeezzzz.
- Brows

Is it the week's end?

There are the group of friends who are down to drink any night of the week because their schedules are based on fulltime jobs and don’t conflict with exams or assignments, where then there’s the group of friends who are seldom to escape their studies yet are astoundingly stimulating in terms of conversation. I’m asking myself at this point in my education, will there be a train that I get on that departs before those out of school can reach it, and will it be going somewhere that will distance us too drastically apart?

It’s Friday night, midterms begin in a week, your day has been an arduous one if any and nothing would appease your restlessness more than having cold beers at the local brass with all the guys. Where the plan commences in a different route is when those phone calls are responded with listless souls on the other end that depict a day that has been comprised of studious hardships and is nowhere near its end. You are dismayed, of course, but you’ve a call list that has yet to be exhausted, and eventually you collect a group of guys who always know how to prevent the night from ending too early. The beers get going, and all the classic laughable stories are told as the cards are dealt, yet you recall a notable moment in your day when your professor and class got into a good debate on whether, or not, Thoreau is an archetype of self-actualization experiences, and how the discussion ended with Thoreau being considered a pseudo-hermit, since he’d have cookies over at Emerson’s on Fridays. You begin to tell the story, then stop to expound on self-actualization, which is ambiguous enough with a background, and then as you still have to elaborate on who Emerson and Thoreau are, that excited pace you originally had dims, and your once worthy story is answered with a cold lack of appreciation.

I get it, and I know there are groups of friends appropriate for different occasions and moods, but when (actually happened) someone uses “interpret” in a sentence and the group turns to them and notes the big word and their “book-learning” adeptness, you can’t help but wish there was less of a distinguishing chasm between those groups.

Is it up to someone to get others intrinsically motivated enough that they all will be savvy on similar world topics, or should they just keep a part of them at bay at appropriate times? I realized that if I’m going to have both types of friends, then there shouldn’t just be this observer that controls me, but it’s up to me to make everyone feel comfortable, have the conversation flow back and forth evenly and colloquially if necessary because at the end of the day, variety, my friend, is sexy.

-Swank

Long Life/ Painless Death

Ok so this is the first blog I’m writing that’s officially called a blog.
People talk a lot about how the ideal way to end things is a long life and a painless death, preferably while asleep. This bothers me. Why don’t people realize that being ninety-fucking-six years old isn’t a good thing?
First off, I get the whole “I’m old and still active” thing. That makes sense. Unless by “active” you mean that you can still go for walks but your dick is forever curled up in the fetal position. Fuck that, I don’t want that. Walking can bite my raging hard-on if it means that I’m dying a few years earlier.
This doesn’t seem to be the case for most people, they’d give up living a really great 50 years if they get to drag it on to the point where gumming their food is a daily highlight. Fuck, I’d much rather reduce the world’s population, not to mention their tax dollars, if it means I don’t need to become the equivalent of a forgetful, wrinkled infant. Ask people if they’d like to live a long life, and they will always answer yes. Ask them if they want to be a 105 year old man, most will say no. What people want isn’t long life, its eternal youth. And even that is bullshit unless everybody else gets it too. Fuck living forever as a 20-year-old if everybody else is dead.
This brings me to death. I am not ready to die. I do not want to die in the next 40 years if I can help it. But I definitely do want to die eventually.
Most people (the same ones who are content with eating everything in liquid form and never having sex again) want to die painlessly in their sleep. I don’t.
I think that there are 3 factors that need to be taken into account when it comes to death. 1: age, 2: pain, 3: cool factor. Only the first two are usually considered. I am 100% willing to sacrifice some of the pain points to go for more cool points.
If it were completely up to me, the following is how I’d like it to go down.
Age: 70, Pain: excruciating, Cool Factor: ten billion cool points.
Now how do I define a cool death? For me to be satisfied with the cool points, I want to make national, if not international, headlines.
I want people to log onto their homepage and read “Montreal man dies fending off school of sharks at a nuclear test facility in Iraq”
That, to me, would be the ideal. Fuck the painless death in your sleep. If there’s no fire, spies, or deadly animals involved, then why bother dying.
Anyways, it’s getting late and I’m tired as fuck. This has been the first official blog.

-Thor’s Hammer