Things Past

Johnny Rock'N and the rest of Rock'N, last Saturday at the Wise Hall.

I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate, a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place.
-- Marcel Proust

It was raining, nothing really, just a light late night rain. The grass was wet and I slipped on a little patch of grass that inclined towards the steps of the hall that I was reentering after a smoke outside. My knee hyperextended, rendering it useless, allowing a jarring sensation to travel up my back, finally atrophying at the base of my skull. Was that what caused it? In that little moment, looking at the woman leaning with her back up against the wall across from me, I felt about 20 years old. The past and the present colliding together in the darkness of her eyes and the ambivalence of her gaze. I shook it of, with a bit of the rain, and bounded up the steps, back into the hall, and the power of metal.

Inside Johnny Rock'N was leading his band, aptly named, Rock'N. They performed every arena rock cliche so convincingly that it was hard not to take seriously. Shaking his fist with one arm, and holding his beer with another, Johnny Rock'N never left the half crouched stance of the metal preacher the entire set, displaying his perfectly ripped in the knee jeans to the crowd which by this point had been whipped into a frenzy. There was a fog machine fumigating the hall making you think these guys had just materialized out of smoke, glory, and large stacking amps. The band moved through its brand of blistering power chords and pounding drums, chanting their mantra in every song, "We're Rock'N, and we like to Rock!," or "It's time to get a Rock'N," followed by another classic, "Never stop a Rock'N." The only cover they performed was Neil Young's, "Keep on Rock'N in the Free World." They finished their set with a guitar solo so long that it allowed Johnny Rock'N to grab a large black flag inscribed with, you guessed it, "Rock'N," and run around the hall, even outside onto the lawn. Was this a concert, or a political rally, or just one big joke? The whole thing was so ambiguous it was hard to tell, a fitting soundtrack no doubt.

Outside, after the show, the scene was one of rowdy chaos, girls were crying over lost love on the lawn, I was stumbling around in the rain again, drinking my last beer, trying to say something appropriate. Yelling for the rest of my friends to join me outside for a post party joint, I decided it was time to vacate the premises before I knocked around some little goof that was pissing me off. My cab pulled up and I threw down my bottle of Sleeman's. Getting into the minivan, I lamented the half beer that I would not be able to enjoy at home. My driver must have heard me, "would you like a beer sir?" As he handed me a cold can of Pacific Pilsner I thought I was in heaven. He promptly dimmed the lights and starting blasting the stereo and I enjoyed my ride home very much indeed.

The past week was a strange one. Memories, a fusion of past and present brought on by beer, heavy music, and tumbles in the grass. No tea though, or madeleine's, but extravagant, juvenile, ridiculous, and surreal all the same.

Keep on Rock'N!

Still Life

I lost something, quite awhile back. Didn't notice it was gone for the longest time. Must have slipped out my back pocket when I was running like the blazes of hell through that storm. Its valuable. There are reminders of it everywhere that can rip me through a memory like a bullet spinning within the rifled grooves of a hot black barrel. There is no shortage of ammo, munitions are a plenty, but not necessary. I can fire at the enemy of my desire all I want, won't change a thing, its never coming back. I lose, again.

Long Weekend Tale

Jack Nicholson, in Chinatown...

The phone is ringing, but I do not answer. Instead, tonight, a friday night, I hide. Too afraid to take that last step that will complete the execution of the way that things used to be. A former self, a former life, one that no one seems to recognize any value in whatsoever, except of course, me, but its all draining away, every last drop, I can hear it trickling into the sewers outside my window. It is raining. Been a long time since a heavy downpour lasted through the night. The city weeps for me, I know it.

Saturday. I await the cool comfort of dusk in a cyclical revolution from the worn out sheets of my bed, to the bowl of my pipe, and the basin of my tub. Such incredible pain I felt today, all washed away by fast cars, drinks in crowded bars, the flash of colored currency, and the bitterness of scotch. Its time to start the night time, on the energy of fear.

Summer is here. Smoking on the steps of the orthodox church, the early morning sunday crowd send friendly greetings in my direction as they climb with wal-mart canes to their salvation. Last night's liquor sweats through my tiny pores, I am waiting for my cab to take me home where I will rest, and I will think, until it is time to reload again and fire upon the overwhelming feeling to stop.

Monday. Extended play. The weekend seems so long, I have lost all sense of time, all sense of everything. Falling over a bowl of strange mushrooms in the congee house, their erotic shapes beckon to be taken from the white bowl and tumbled in the mouth. It is empty here, yet somehow full. Politicians are in the area and reporters are sending correspondence east in english and french from the booth next to me, they start, they stop, they repeat, over and over it goes. Walking east, or was that south, no I tell you its north! Walking west, towards my oasis in the sand, the heat of the sun dries out my wet heart. I lie on my back and watch massive air ships lumber through the sky in the company of friends, food, and luke warm beer. I stay late enough to watch the burning red sunset, a fitting end to what seems like an eternity.

Doodle Dandy

Kind of nice if you ask me....

Interest wanes. I climbed the stairs of the No.15 and stepped up to the fare machine which sucked my transfer into its cavern of circuitry to make sure I was within the allotted hour and a half travel time so the driver could concentrate on more important things, possibly what he would have for dinner with his wife tonight, or whether that show with the funny, chubby UPS driver is on TV Tuesday or Wednesday. Taking my usual seat at the back of the bus, where the tough kids sit, covered in grafitti, scribbles made in haste while the driver's eyes are averted elsewhere, I felt like crap.

arrival

come home, and eventually you will learn the answer that's been sitting there in black plastic since 6:34, but you didn't get it until 12:42

Choir Boy

Winona Ryder plays a nerd, well she didn't fool me I tell ya...

Ever see Lucas? Allow me, 1986 film, young geek triumphs over the jocks and everyone loves him by the time the credits roll. Corey Haim, Winona Ryder and Charlie Sheen, impressive 80's cast, runs about 100 minutes. I think of this film from time to time. Sad I know, jesus it really is sad. Do you remember the scene when the lead roles are all in band practice, no, its choir practice. Its a great scene, everyone hot for the person that doesn't want them. The camera pans from student to student as they eye the object of their affection. No two singers look at each other. Charlie Sheen plays the jock Cappie, he's checkin out some slut. Maggie, played by forgotten 80's star Kerry Green, is looking at Cappie. Lucas, Corey Haim's character, he's lusting after Maggie, and Winona Ryder, playing the ulgy duckling Rina, is checking out Lucas.

This is what the past week has been like for me, we are not in band class, shit, sorry, choir practice though. What is with the attraction to things we can't have? I don't understand it, but I do understand Lucas, damn fine film. First time I saw it, in 86, Winona Ryder was who I was looking at while they were all singing in that telling montage. Lucas was obviously not only a geek, but had incredibly poor taste in girls. Fucking Loser.

G and T

Lost in the bubbles...

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, lying in bed last night, waking every couple hours, adjusting my pillow this way and that, half conscious, the sound of my dollar store alarm clock mixed with the rabid squelches of seagulls outside my window. What? are they fighting, or just happy to see one another, enjoying the city at pre-dawn, empty and half lit, swooping last nights fast food bags thrown from car windows. I can't sleep, wasn't the Gin I had a few hours earlier, hardly, it was the smoothest thing I had all week, smooth indeed.

The morning was better, or so I thought. Sun was coming out, boss is out of town, might as well take my time and stop at the Robson and Thurlow Starbucks for a little smoking, watching, thinking, drinking. I got my americano, put my shades on, next came the earphones, oh, I am feeling cool now, that's right blonde in the corner, low has got it goin on. Well yeah, that was then, this is now, seems the edge of my coffee cup got caught on the button of my jean jacket cuff, pulled it all over me, and the floor, Grande! The massive, steaming, stinking wet spot that started mid torso and ended at my knee was not an attempt at accessorizing, I assure you. Whatever, I decided to wear it with pride, I promptly walked up to the barrista and ordered another, "there seems to be a slight leak in my cup," (followed by nervous and insane laughter).

Sitting out in the sun, drinking coffee number two, walking down Robson st, or flying down the isle of the bus towards the back seat when the driver hits the brakes too hard, everyone get a good look. No I didn't piss myself, just spilt some coffee. I have to meet a friend for lunch and it had best be bloody well dried out by then.

Yah, so its been a weird couple days, not sure where my head is at, things are changing, moods in flux, I can feel it, makes me nervous. The coffee spilled all over the floor relational to all that I have tried to hang on to, dropped, covered myself in, wet and uncomfortable, people notice. Then it dries, and fades away. I can still smell it though. I would like another.

Urban Tale

ashes float on soft currents
down from my fourth floor window
back and forth, a seemingly gentle ebb and flow
oh to fall so gently


all week long I found solace in dim lighting and idle chatter
nice to know ye, how are you? and tell me what was your name again?
there was romance last night however,
casting light onto the body in front of the TV
a glow from the glass, flickering images, there is desire in advertising
but our only connection on this lonely but lovely night
is a channel number and a production of laughs and guffaws
I did not finish watching it


morning comes, walking by scraped alleys,
the smell of piss wafting out the entrance
warns that things could be much worse,
concrete smeared with gum, the gutters full of cigarette butts,
and last years leaves congeal in thick piles
unknowns sleep in the corners,
covering their bodies completely from the gazers passing by
I could use a blanket myself

Let's Get Him!

Who would want to hurt such a happy go lucky guy?

Its been awhile since I last dreamt, a defense mechanism perhaps? But last night was different.

For some reason I was transported back to my last days in New Westminster, I was in some sort of classroom setting, at a desk. I began to draw. It was wonderful, I was free of inhibition, relaxed, not worried about what I was making, just making it. The paper was low grade news print, the kind kids make quick scribbles on. I was drawing a cityscape that looked like the view of downtown Vancouver from Kits beach, using the eraser at the end of the pencil I smudged in clouds. I could draw, I mean it looked really good, so I started another one. This one was darker, I don't recall the actual execution of the drawing, just the completed image. It was all black and had figures dancing, similar to Matisse's dancers. There was text, in a very stylized script, flowing across the black, underneath the dancers. I don't know what it said.

Here's where it gets really weird.
I was outside, with a group of people, girls were there, but I don't remember who they were. I was standing in front of a massive Fisher Price playhouse. All of a sudden, Raggedy Anne and Andy dolls began swarming out the doors and windows of the playhouse, they were big too, and running for their lives. As a group we started into a frantic pace after the dolls. I clearly remember sticking my foot out and tripping up an Andy with brown pants and checked shirt. It came to a crash on the ground, rolling, its legs flailing about as the momentum from its terror dash subsided into a heap on the ground. My dream comrades noticed this and a swarm ensued. I remember watching the scene unfold like a crane shot in a movie. All I could see was a large group of people pummeling this poor Andy doll.

Then I woke up, and went to work.

The Pros and Cons

Three Gut rockers The Constantines, my new east coast pals.

A little soundtrack for this post.....music please

It wasn't getting to hang out with Jim Guthrie, solo artist, and guitarist for one of my favorite bands Royal City, who is playing the lovely song you should be listening to now. Or Sarah's infectious laugh as we sat by the merchandise table making fools of ourselves as the bar was emptying out. Nor was it the nerd wearing a skates hoodie, with the hood up, bandanna, and sunglasses, who's girlfriend was far too attractive to be with him. No, it was Cal, sitting across from me at DV8 at 3:30 in the morning, rolling up the table napkins and stuffing them into the necks of the two stella's that we ordered so that he could finish them at home. That is the image that is clearest on this most foggy of mornings.

We had been at the Brickyard, to catch up with the Constantines. I had been to see them in Winnipeg last week, and convinced Cal that he just had to see these guys. We did, although, we didn't pay much attention. Cal seemed happy to sit in the back of the bar and chat, myself I had seen the show already so could just enjoy the rawk.

Odd, when you see a performance more than once, you realize that every nuance is a choreographed maneuver. The drummer, was wearing the same AC/DC shirt that he had worn in Winnipeg. The keyboard player stood up with some contraption that emitted a sirens wale, with his hands above his head, the rest of the band clapping with their arms in the air, a move most likely designed to give the band a rest. Everything was an encore of moves, developed in the studio and taken on the road.

I was no different, if it hadn't of been for the pair of Gas jeans that I bought in some shop in Yaletown, from a cross dressing freak with his/her ass hanging out of his/her jeans, I would have been wearing the same outfit I wore in Winnipeg too. Its all a show.

At DV8, Cal and I both realized we were way gone. I was barely making it through my heavily garliced perogies, and Cal hardly touched his burger, or was it a sandwich? Who knows... I saw to it that Cal made it to a cab alright, and I stumbled down the empty streets towards the warehouse. I couldn't believe that I was doing this on a Tuesday night. If you told me that I would be having nights like this a year ago, I would not believe you. No way. Fun, no doubt, but there will be payback, my resolve is thin, so very thin.

Trust The Gut

If your sad, and like beer...then i'm your lady.

Advice. So easy to give, and so hard to follow. Last night I received some advice, good advice, but the truth is hard to hear.

Instinct. It has told me many things I don't want to believe, but the gut is always right. Today my stomach hurts, sending me shots of pain every 15 minutes, making me grip my keyboard and hold on tight for the release.

I am back in Vancouver and the snakes have slithered back to their holes. Assuming my usual lonely venture through the city streets, I dined for brunch at a lovely little courtyard cafe in Gastown, alone. Determined not to spend the evening the same way, I ensured that I had somewhere and someone to dine with. But not before I celebrated my time in Winnipeg by visiting the cinema for the new Guy Maddin film The Saddest Music In The World.

Winnipeg's gift to the film world is Guy Maddin. Born and raised in Winnipeg, his films most often are made there, and involve his hometown in some way, rather than trying to disguise the city as somewhere else more cosmopolitan. The film is highly stylized, with haunting imagery that is subverted by the scripts humor. I suggest this film to you all, its unlike any I have seen before.

After the film we walked around the corner to a small cafe that served French Canadian food, sitting outside we drank bottle after bottle of Maudite, until the sun went down. We were a sad lot, but the beer and the advice being sent back and forth seemed to soothe things, temporarily anyway.

I walked all the way home, took me a half hour. From the Burrard Street bridge the city looked powerful but calm. The ideas that had been bandied about earlier circulated in my mind, providing me with some comfort, but I know all too well that my conviction is weak. I will try though, and eventually succeed. I imagine myself jogging into some kind of victory stretch, pushing my ribcage towards a finish line that does not exist. There is music, it is sad.

Nuthin's Changed

At a friend's, a relation, I noticed pictures...

Nothing's changed
I still love you, oh, I still love you
...Only slightly, only slightly less than I used to, my love