Panegyric

Why ask my lineage? The generations of men are like those of leaves. The wind casts the leaves to the ground, but the fertile forest brings forth others, and spring comes round again. So it is that the human race is born and passes away.

--Iliad, Canto VI



As for his plan, we profess to be able to demonstrate that there is no such
thing, that he writes almost at random, mixing up facts, reporting
them incoherently and out of order; confounding, when he treats of
one era, that which pertains to another; disdaining to justify either
his accusations or his eulogies; adopting without examination and the
critical spirit so necessary to a historian the false judgements of
prejudice, rivalry or enmity, and the exaggerations of ill humour or
malevolence; attributing to some people actions and to others
speeches that are incompatible with their characters; never citing
any witness but himself or any other authority but his own
assertions

--General Gourgaud



It's just a culture
Without an effort or any luggage
You're pillaging and out-tapped

-- James Murphy, LCD Soundsytem

My dear readers, all 88 of you that pass by this place every day. I am going away for awhile. Somewhere hot, with a swimming pool, and patio furniture. Recent events have encouraged me to seek refuge, to recuperate my frame of mind, and to heal my body from the excesses that I subject it to on a regular basis.

Fear not gentle reader, I will return, and I hope that you will do the same.

See you soon...

Your friend,
Low

These Days

These days I may not be so happy
After all, after all the chances you have given me
I just let you go let you go

-- These Days, The Rentals

Velda leaned towards me, out of earshot from the 15 others seated in orange vinyl chairs around the fire place, and said, "I think you are at a very interesting stage in your life." It was exactly what I was thinking. That Velda, she knows.

Interesting may be a slight stretch though, now that I think of it. I would say that it's very much a time of extremes.

Most evenings are spent alone in the darkness. There is nothing to do but nap. I endlessly curl around my down filled blanket, holding it close to my face as I stare at the red numbers on my alarm clock, waiting for something to happen. The phone may go three days without ringing, I will often check to make sure it's working. "Hello? Operator? Yeah I am just making sure my phone is working. So, where is your office? Do you like your life?" These are dangerous times.

Then I will be flooded with liquor and things to suck into my lungs. There are drunken trysts in the stairwell of my apartment building. Lips locked and wrists pushed up against the cheaply applied drywall on the 2nd flloor. I try to explain that the neighbors can hear everything. She has her black and pink panties around her ankles, and I can sense her disapointment at my refusal to continue. Why can't they convert warehouses to living spaces properly? I wake up on the bathroom floor. I say, "hello fellas," to scenesters with nice hats. I purchase 300$ blazers, and then hang them in my closet with the tag still intact. I fall in love with every woman I see. These are vaunerable times.

I found this place. It's a slice pizza joint. It is controlled by drug dealers that stand outside in track suits and endlessly talk on their cell phones. I enjoy this place becuase it's usually empty, and they serve imported beer for $3.52. Tonight I sat in the back, and listened to classic rock on their FM stereo system. Rush 2112, the entire album, and endless Heinekins. I could have spent a week there, tapping my foot, eating cheap pizza. This is thursday night. These are lonely times.

I arrive at a club, and the sign says that I must be a member. I walk in expecting to see no one, but everyone is there. Velda, Remington, Saturnino, Blanche, and Nymphalidae are sitting with several people I have never seen before. One of which is this lovely woman that I can't take my eyes off of. She is wearing a pink coat and a black flower in her hair. I try to get her attention, but before I even have the chance to truly enjoy her presence, she is leaning forward to hug her friends goodbye, exposing her white belt with amethyst rhinestones. I imagine myself placing ads in the local weeklies professing my love to her, describing her outfit, and the way I looked at her from across the table. I could ask her friends who she is, they are still at our table, but that would be too real. I return my attention to my friends assembled around me, and I am thankful that I am not home alone. These are special times.

Nymphalidae told me that she saw Ananta walking along Main Street, and that she looked very beautiful. It stings a little when she tells me this, but quickly gets tucked away, under the demand of fleeting conversation. But later, as I walked home over the bridge, towards the glowing city that still holds all the secrets of the past within its architecture, I began to feel a growing stitch in my side. I climbed the four flights of stairs to my apartment, and played the songs on my guitar that I usually play on nights like these. But the lyrics change every time I play them.

These are ...

*Black Mountain video courtesy of Black Mountain

Un-Happy Valentine

Henri Cartier-Bresson, France 1926

This post has a soundtrack....Song One, and Song Two, - (real player req.)

I always had crushes on the weirdest women. Well, I guess back then they were called girls. It was some time ago, back when I was in high school, maybe grade 11. She sat ahead of me, at the front of the class, I sat at the back. I don't even remember her name, but I never missed a class, and was always early so I could watch her walk in the door to take her seat. Her hair was scraggly, greasy even. She wore an oversized team jacket of some sort with the thread bare cuffs pulled over the palms of her hands. She always wore jeans, tight acid wash jeans. Maybe that was it? Despite her unkept look, and obvious disregard for fashion, she seemed unattainable to me.

So it was Valentines day, and for a dollar or two you could buy a candy cane with a message attached to it and have it delivered to the object of your affection. Of course I didn't dare send one to her. I knew she was disinterested in me, and that it would be pointless to send a message admitting my desire to hold hands with her down the hallways of that evil place. So I am sure you can imagine my astonishment when I was delivered a candy cane from the girl that sat a few desks ahead of me. It said something along the lines of "I've been thinking about you more than I should... - Laura." Laura, that was her name, I remember it now.

You know that feeling right? That flood of emotion, adrenaline mixed with fear, and the euphoric pleasure that it can bring to your senses. Well that's how I felt, that day, when I thought Laura and I, in her acid wash jeans, and me in my khaki green army jacket, would be together by the setting of the evening sun. I skipped my next class and ran all the way home with wild ideas in my head of dinner together, a late night drive through the city, and a kiss good-bye on the front steps of her suburban bungalow.

I had to get a car, and my brother had a real nice one. A white Mazda RX-7 that he had just bought. I knew I would have a hard time getting him to lend it to me, but this was love! I ran down the steps to the basement where he was still sleeping off a hangover from the night before. My brother rarely went to class in those days, he was a favorite on the high school party circuit because he looked very similar to John Taylor from Duran Duran, and he had a nice car. I told him about the candy cane from Laura, and my plans to take her out that evening with his car. He of course said no at first, and then proceeded to make fun of me for liking a "banger" like laura, as he put it. I explained to him how much I liked her, and how I would do anything if he would just lend me the car for a little while so that I could go get her in time for school to let out. He must have been tired, and just wanted to get rid of me, because after much begging he threw me the keys from his water bed, telling me to be back by seven. Everything was falling into place.

I picked out the best cassette tape that I could find in my room, changed into my most engaging outfit, got into the car, opened the sunroof, put the car into first, revved the rpm's to 4000, and dropped the clutch. Which sent me burning rubber up the avenue towards the girl with scraggly hair. Man, that was some machine.

Of course I parked the RX-7 right out in front of the school, and walked up the steps with a swagger that only an expensive two seater could provide. Class would be letting out shortly, and as I waited I rehearsed what I would say to Laura. "Hey, yeah, I got your candy cane, that was nice." "I have a car, just outside there, yeah, the white one." "No, heheh, it's my brothers but he lends it to me all the time, let's get out of here, go for a drive." My palms were sweaty, and I was shaking ever so slightly as the hallways began to fill up with the other kids I went to school with. Most of whom I hated with a passion.

Except for Rod, and Ray. They were like a comedy team those two. Their ridiculous humor of dressing up in odd outfits and going to the mall, or dining and dashing at burger joints, or getting Jehovah Witnesses to convert them to the ways of the lord at recess, seemed very juvenile and uncool by the time we started high school. So I began to separate myself from them somewhat, and I think they were always a little resentful of that. As I was waiting for the lovely Laura to come to the front doors where her chariot awaited, I could see Rod and Ray approach me. I could tell by the looks on their faces that they were up to something. I told them all about the candy cane from Laura. Pointing to the white sports car outside I expressed my excitement about my plans for the evening, and how, even though Laura wore acid wash jeans, she obviously liked me. That's when Rod and Ray started to repeat the message in the candy cane, word for word, in a high pitched girly voice, then they erupted into laughter.

I tried to smile, I tried to make it look like I barely cared, after all, she wore acid wash jeans, and that hair?! But the truth was, I was crushed. I gave Rod and Ray a playful shove, told them they were both losers, and left the school with an appreciation for the fact that I didn't run into Laura with my candy cane from Rod and Ray.

I got into the car, and drove home, alone...

UPdate

Swallows contents. Experiences a glorious reaction -instead of Death, Life!
-- Harpers, February, 1859.

Man, I am sooo glad I didn't kill myself a couple weeks ago. I feel so much better. I am paying for some of the things I did while I was recovering from the most viscous flu I have had in some time, but people should cut me some slack. Really, they have no idea just how close to the brink I came.

I have been really busy the past few days, and I have energy! So much better than having to have a two hour nap after walking to the store. There hasn't been much time for introspection. Which is a good thing. So let's just have a matter of fact rundown of the events that have transpired over the past few days. Shall we?

The band I am in had an eight hour recording session at a beautiful studio overlooking the mountains of the home town. I thought I was in that Rush video where they are in that studio set in the snow covered woods, I think it's Tom Sawyer. Geddy Lee's hair is super long.

I have an opportunity to go to New York this summer for a month, as a friend of a friend that lives close to Park Avenue wants to do a suite swap. But I have been thinking about going to LA for a couple days to see Unice. She's been calling me from her Aunts surprisingly enough, and said I should come visit. We'll see, I've always wanted to go to Hollywood. Although I had dinner last week with a bunch of friends, and a film producer from Hollywood wound up at our table, he had nothing nice to say about the place.

Apparently a photo of me will be appearing in a local entertainment weekly here. Doing what I do best, drinking. See if you can find it gentle reader! It's not quite the same as my pal Greg getting his picture on Gawker, but hey, it's a start. To what? I have no idea.

On a sad note, and speaking of Greg. He decided to call it quits, and throw in the towel on his Greg the Boyfriend blog after all his readers made fun of his date at The Arcade Fire Show in Manhattan. No worries there's always, Craig the Boyfriend, or Greg the Gay Friend, or even Meg the Girlfriend, to ween us off the good stuff.

I have to deliver the painting that I sold later on in the week, and will make my way down to the supply store this weekend to buy all new canvases to start the project that I have been trying to get going for ages now. I have all the support drawings. Images traced from the TV. My new artist statement is:

Highly emotional responses to consumerism and pop culture.

Do I sound up? I am, I just hope there's a mattress behind me when I fall down again. Now I am off to the rock n' roll show.

Until then...

numb numb

Peter Sellers is an unimportant actor who is invited by mistake to a great party. He is a little stupid and very careless and, as you probably understand, he destroys everything...

I seem to be getting quite chummy with my bathroom floor as of late. Thursday night I went out with Leroy, it was kids stuff compared to the insanity of the summer when we would be out drinking 6 nights a week, but it kicked my ass like a 2 day bender anyway. We were restless, and wound up at a bunch of places, one of which included a club our band will be playing at later in the week. We stole posters that advertised the show from the stairwell on our way out the door. Finally we settled on the quiet bar though. Which I had not been to since I poured tears onto the almond colored phone by the entrance to the washroom about a year ago. We had a few pints, a few smokes, and some invigorating conversation. None of which I remember. Upon my arrival home I wound up on the bathroom floor after trying to take my contact lenses out. The sensation of sticking my finger in my eye sent me stomach lurching, and the coolness of the floor soothed me to sleep.

Things were not looking better by Friday morning either when I awoke fully clothed, and barely made it to work. By mid-afternoon I thought I was in the clear, but developed a pounding headache while contemplating my bleak future instead of working. I thought a coffee and cigarette would help. It did not. Fifteen minutes later I was on my knees in the bathroom at work. I decided to call it a day.

I got home, had a hot bath, a short nap, then put on my best pair of shoes, a tight black t-shirt, and some jeans. After I could tolerate a jam packed #3 bus no longer, I decided to get out and walk the last two blocks to the Ukrainian church where I was to meet Remington, Marija, Maeve, and Saturnino, to start the evening with a traditional fund raising dinner of perogies and sausage. It was a huge banquet hall with fluorescent lighting, and round tables with numbers displayed on tall metal rods. Our table was #11. There were two other ladies already at the table, they were about 80, and dressed lovely for an evening on the town. The two ladies were with a younger woman slouched over a plate of perogies. I could tell something was wrong when she looked up at me with a blank stare, and sauerkraut all over her face. We made Remington sit beside her.

I had an invite to the biggest gallery in the city. It was put in my mailbox, but was addressed to the former occupant of my suite. It was a bit of a hot ticket, so I decided to invite Unice, and I had her meet me downtown after dinner. I was nervous. I knew that Ananta, and even worse, her friends would be there. I was comforted by the massive line up that stretched around the block, and I secretly hoped we wouldn't get in. I wasn't sure if I was up for it. I had tried to contact Ananta earlier in the week, but she wouldn't even speak to me, so I didn't think things would be too pleasant if I ran into her. The fact that I was with a date, didn't exactly put the odds of a warm greeting in my favour either.

It was packed, three floors, a spiral central staircase lined with people watchers drinking wine with nice outfits on, and huge rooms devoted to massive singular projections on the wall. We piled our way through the crowd, from room to room, all was going well. Until of course we ran right into Ananta and her friends.

I tried to make the best of a bad situation by bumbling around, bouncing on the end of my toes while making nervous chatter to fill the silent stares. We were in the entrance to the main gallery, the music was very loud, and the floor was concrete. Something was said, I didn't hear what, but before I knew it Unice is screaming at the three girls. Unice is a wild one, I think I've said that before. So she may have even started it, I don't know. All I know is that a scene was unfolding, and it was about as inviting as the scene that we had been plodding through for the past hour. I tried to get between the girls, some jostling ensued, and the bottle of wine that I had tucked under my arm so that we could have a drink at the Ukrainian church dinner fell to the ground. It smashed on the hard concrete floor, a huge pool of red wine began to form amongst the broken glass. You could have heard a pin drop, if it wasn't for the insanely loud techno music. Thank god for the insanely loud techno music.

So then we were approached by men in cheap maroon jackets, and after the situation was diffused, we were eventually encouraged towards the exits with some gentle conversation.

Unice had to leave for L.A. early in the morning, so I took her to the train station. Things were awkward and uncomfortable after the whole art gallery experience, so there wasn't much said. She will be gone for a month, to stay with her Aunt, and to see if she wants to move there. I will miss her, she was always exciting to be with, but I don't suspect we will be seeing each other much, if ever again.

The evening continued to unfold, more openings, more galleries, and more 3$ cans of beer, I went to two more parties with Marija, who I met up with after seeing Unice off. One of the parties was at a gallery where the room was so packed the art was being trashed by trashy girls. One of the trashy girls had nice shoes though. Marija tried to get me to make fun of a girls teeth I tried, but my heart just wasn't in it, I was too busy replaying in my mind the viscous stares from Ananta and her friends back at the opening. I thought of running home, but there was nothing at home that could comfort me. I miss Ananta.

Marija and I left the trashed art show shortly after they ran out of beer, and met everyone at a late night restaurant. Our table was crowded, and slowly my hangover was being replaced with euphoric excitement. It was late, and I was sitting at the head of the table rambling on about Tom Cruise movies, L.A, the city at night, and the spectacular nature of pop culture.

I walked the two blocks back to my apartment, kicked off my shoes, and crashed into my bed with the acknowledgement that I would be cringing about this night in the morning, and that my bed is much softer than the bathroom floor.

You Belong to the City

Tonight I had cocktails. High above the city, into the late evening. It's the best way to look at a city. Alcohol, distance, darkness, and guitar solos coming from hidden speakers at a light volume. The city becomes invisible in the emptiness of a black night, leaving the lights to form constellations made up of man made comforts. Roads, buildings, bus shelters, newspaper boxes, and all night convenience stores. Along with the lights these are the things that make us forget we are still living in the wild. There is dirt, refrigerators, and soiled underwear in the city, but atop my perch earlier this evening, it seemed empty, the way I like it. Just the lights, marking the uniform grid of the streets below.

Then there is the cab. When you are riding in a cab, and you are drunk, like I was tonight, you are seeing the city at a pace for which it was intended. Unable to look at anything too long, the city streaks, slips, and slides along the waxed finish of the yellow cab. There is movement, there are sounds, and there is advertising in well planned locations.

Then I was walking.

A vulnerable pace. I walked in front of cars lined up at red lights. Twelve beams of light projecting onto my body as I tried to look confident walking across the street. It is pointless to look towards the light, you will see nothing but blackness.

You will be approached at this level. The man with the beard and backpack that feigns weakness for a dollar here or there. I give him nothing.

But it is here on the street that I can see her, in the little shop, with light beaming from the large floor to ceiling window. She is wearing classic heels with a thick band around her delicate ankle. Her retro influenced mid length pin-stripe skirt, paired with an olive sweater, offsets her shaved head and dyed blonde mohawk. The whole scene makes me think of this.

I love this.

Then I left for home, with a fantasy tucked under my arm. And that, gentle reader, is where we begin.