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