On Leaving

You could never be, never be, unloveable
- The Weather

And now what I want to know is, what do I do now?
- Julie Doiron

(something in a language I don't understand)
- Nagisa Ni Te

So I got wasted last night and wound up in Nymphalidaes bed. We just shouldn't be around each other when there is whiskey involved. I walked out onto the street from her building into the blinding sun with my undershirt on, feeling like I might vomit, and who should ride by on her blue hawaiian cruiser? Julia, oh my god Julia! She was wearing a little white cotton stringy tie up thingy, that exposed her full sleeve of tattoos on her right arm. Her long brunette hair half way down her back, and those lovely legs pushing the pedals as she rode towards me. It was THEE image of the summer. I made up some story about passing out at a friends place last night, thank goodness my sunglasses were on, or she would have been able to see that my eyes were swimming in bar scotch.

In twelve hours the lovely Julia will be picking me up and taking me to see the even lovelier Unice. Along with two other girls I have yet to meet, we will partake in the summer of 05. A two day stop in Quincy, and four days in the indie haven known as Portland. So I won't be able to entertain you for the next little while, but I am sure that I will have plenty of stories to tell you upon my arrival. My train will arrive back in the hometown precisely one hour before I take the stage with the band I play in. And it's looking good that Mr. High Fidelity himself will be there. So if you know me, come and see me then, and I will introduce you. If I am still alive of course.

But fear not gentle reader! I leave you with the suggestion in my absence to read the dear xtinaknox blog. We have a very volatile off and on again friendship, although she will deny it up and down that she even knows me. She is without doubt, the hometowns hottest blogger. Just don't get too wrapped up in her 1500 word daily entries as I do on a daily basis.

Come back, won't you?

Action!

Remington and I had a rousing time at Tony's birthday party. Even if Tony wasn't there. We kept phoning him after every round, telling him it was his birthday, and that he should come out. He didn't sound very happy, and declined our invitation. I'm just glad it wasn't mine. Birthdays are contemplative days that can have disastrous consequences. Which is exactly why I spent the afternoon making Tony a CD of 13 reflective, and quite possibly melancholic songs. Hopefully he can listen to it when he is in his roadster, staring at the horizon ahead of him with his crisp white shirt flapping in the breeze.

Cody phoned me from the other home town with some weird news. A friend of ours had been found floating face down in a hotel swimming pool in Spain. There were people after him, I guess they found him finally. It reminded me of Sunset Boulevard. How it opens with William Holden face down in a backyard lap pool. It all sounds so exotic, much more enticing than being stabbed in some dirty hotel bar over an unsettled debt. Okay, that sounds pretty good too.

I woke up in a haze about 730 in the morning. There was a woman sleeping beside me. It was Ananta. I hadn't seen her since february. She invited me out for a drink the night before, which turned into 2 movies and 2.5 bottles of wine. She awoke to me jumping up and down on the bed to Ace Freehly's, Rip It Out. I took pictures of her in my bed with her black and pink panties on. I stared at the little beads of water on her delicate shoulder in the shower. I crossed the street with my arms flailing in the rain, while raving about the power of colonial architecture. But then she let me know, over coffee, that her cancer may be out of remission, that she was scheduled for tests that afternoon, and that she would be moving away shortly. I walked home alone, and crossed an intersection where they were filming a movie. It was cloudy and grey, but the lead woman was dressed as if it was a hot summer night. She stood there smoking, staring off into the distance while the crew fiddled with the bright lights.

Frannie called from Toronto, where she had been to visit her brother. She was at the airport waiting for a flight to Montreal. I thought of the last time I had seen her, when she came to watch me sing in a seedy end of town. She was wearing the loveliest Betsey Johnson dress, and while I waited with her for a cab to take us to a party, a guy pushing a shopping cart told me that I was one lucky dude. I think he was right.

John Cusack is dating Remington's boss. Apparently she is bringing him to see our band play at a small club next month. He is making her a mixed cd, just like in High Fidelity. He really does that, makes his love interests mixed cd's. And while Remington and I tipped our glasses, and giggled at the way life imitates art. We celebrated a birthday, even though the guest of honor wasn't there.

Leaders of Men

The last photograph to be taken of Ian Curtis of Joy Division, May 13th, 1980.

Ian never hid his interest for stars who had died young. Through him, I began to learn about James Dean, Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin. Anyone who had been involved in the young, arty medium of any form of showbusiness and found an early grave was of interest to him. When he told me he had no intention of living past his early twenties, I took it with a pinch of salt, assumed it was a phase and he would grow out of it. He seemed terribly young to have already made the decision that life was not worth living. I thought that, as he matured, surely life would be so good that he would not want to leave it all behind.
- Touching from a Distance


Just for one moment I thought I'd found my way.
Destiny unfolded, I watched it slip away.
- 24 hours

It comes as no surprise to regular readers that low's likes to celebrate the life and work of the famously unhappy. Ian Curtis died 25 years ago today, and most of my day has been spent listening to a day long broadcast dedicated to Joy Division, on BBC6.

It's hard to believe that I can be in a funk of mammoth proportions after having had such a fantastic night on Saturday. But once the evening crawled back to the other side of the earth, and my downtown loft was flooded with sunlight, bringing with it the reality of my situation, I wanted to put my pillow over my head and never surface from my dark blue sheets again.

Last night I was waiting for someone at a coffee shop and decided to sit outside and smoke while I was waiting. Shortly after finding a secluded seat around the corner, an old woman came up and sat beside me. One after the other she smoked x-tra long cigarettes, and stared into the same bank of rush hour traffic that my own eyes were transfixed upon. Nothing was said, but she leaned across the table to hand me an ash tray. She was old, her hair was dry, and the age of her face made her makeup look more like paint, rather than beauty product. After awhile, she got up and walked away in a full length brown parka and hosiery as thick as wool socks. I could tell by the gait in her walk that there was no one waiting for her. Wherever she was going, she was alone in this world, and although we had only shared a brief moment together it has yet to work itself through my system. I can't tell you, gentle reader, what the impression of seeing her thick legs hobble slowly across the street left me with, but it wasn't a good one.

Private Party

My hobby is drinking. On the weekends I enjoy getting
together with my friends and boozing.
-- From Bill Owens, Suburbia


By that thoughtless act, I did map my own doom
-- Will Oldham, Barcelona

When I do business, I do it in Japan
-- Onieda, Doin Business in Japan

Standing in the alley behind the dark bar, the one with all the couches and televisions in the dirty part of town last night, I hugged Remington, Verotia, and Leroy goodbye. Earlier we had made beautiful music together, and I wanted to thank them for letting me sing the songs that I used to admire so much when I was not a part of their band. Then Elema drove me home and we sat outside my place smoking anf talking about French techno. Such a nice prologue to the weekend.

We have incidentally put together quite a group for a one night only performance in our practice space in the east tonight. Since Chic is away on a cruise in Aruba, we decided to switch things up a bit by playing cover songs of the lost romantics, wearing matching black outfits with sequined ascots, and adding a couple more musicians into the fray. We convinced one of the best drummers here in the home town to join us, and added a trumpet player who plays in another band which Rolling Stone magazine called its front man one of the best singer/songwriters in the country. If you think I am bragging, you're wrong, I am in awe. This is some pretty amazing company to keep for a guy who was terrified to play guitar for anyone but his couch, never mind singing. To think that I will be fronting this band for a third of the set seems surreal. How did this happen? I have no idea.

All week we have been practicing, stringing up lights around the stage, cleaning up the space, and buying kegs and magnums of booze. Leroy painted a large mural on the wall, the neon orange paint still covered his hands as he gripped the mic last night to rip into Buddy Holly's Not Fade Away. We hand picked 200 special guests for this extravaganza. No one else will be allowed in without the invite. It will be packed. We stand to make a small fortune.

As if that wasn't enough. Is it ever enough? The film that Frannie has been working on all spring is finished, and the wrap party just so happens to be 2 blocks behind where we are performing. I am on the guest list. The film was produced by a Hollywood producer who has 73 executive producer credits to his Imdb profile, every one of them you've surely seen. Frannie sent me a small sampling of the guest list, and essentially every a-list actor filming in town will be there. I will be at the free bar, dressed in black, with a sequined ascot.

So as I lie here and type this to you gentle reader, my head still cloudy from last nights celebratory double scotches, the hour quickly approaches towards one great summer night amongst a life in ruin. I open letters threatening disconnections of this and that on the toilet, I miss the people that I never get to see anymore even though they've forgotten about me, I surround myself with beautiful women and can't feel a thing, I get daily calls from the bank with all kinds of nightmarish threats, but this, this night they can't take away from me. They're not on the list.

Rear Window

Don't want to be shy
Can't stand it anymore
I just want to say 'Hi'
To the one I love

I've probably mentioned this before, but I live across the alley from a busy tech company. I imagine by now that the entire staff has at one time or another encountered stories of my debauchery through remarks at the water cooler, or anecdotes while waiting to use the microwave in the lunchroom. I can't imagine what it must be like to sit at a desk, suffering the 9to5 routine, and having such uncensored access to the large open windows of my existence.


This morning I was hungover, two days in a row now, and as I stood in my calvin klein boxer briefs looking out the window while drinking a carton of orange juice, I could see a woman staring at me over her computer monitor. She didn't flinch at all when I looked straight at her, instead, she smiled. I stood there and gave her a submissive wave, and decided to end the show by getting dressed in the washroom.


I was at the LCD Soundsystem show last night and was completely trashed on cheap whiskey and weed. I couldn't hear anything anyone was saying, and I felt uncomfortable for most of the evening. Although, I must say, that mixed with the paranoia were moments of wild abandon, sweaty dancing, touching arms, seductive smirks, and freshly washed hair lashing my face. But the last minutes of the night, just before I shut my eyes and filed the day into history, were thoughts of terror. I seem to be on a destructive path, dining on the hearts of others, while I remain in an unshakeable numbness.


Standing in my underwear at the window, before I noticed the woman across the alley enjoying the view from her desk. I thought about all the crazy thoughts I had while zoning out in the lights coming from the stage, and the pounding bass that is still ringing in my ears.


I feel much better now. I'm ready to make the same mistakes all over again

Is it just a waste of time?

I spent a Sunday at home for the first time in ages. There isn't much you can do with seven dollars in your pocket, so it wasn't exactly by choice. I went downstairs to the Seven Eleven to get a slurpee, but opted for a coffee from the Starbucks instead. Mostly because of the automobile sitting in the middle of the Seven Eleven. I don't know how it happened, but someone drove their mid sized sedan straight through the front door, clean across to the other side of the store. The car took out everything in its path, the counter, the newspaper rack, the coffee bar, and no doubt the clerk. What if I had been there too? Standing at the counter, buying snacks to wile the day away. Instead, I sat at the Starbucks watching the crowd gather around the mayhem. Such a thin line between idleness and tragedy. People stopped to get out of their cars for a better look. I sat there smoking, and noticed that most of the people that got out of their cars were poorly dressed, and horribly overweight.

Their isn't much to do on days like these, when everyone has a dinner to go to, or family to see. I tried to call my mother, but there was no answer. Later, when I was smoking again, sitting in my window sill this time, watching two seagulls fucking across the alley, I remembered that she was in Vegas. I guess I will call her next week.

I have been smoking non stop all day. I haven't been able to afford cigarettes all week so I have to play catch up. I was hosting a band practice in my place the other night when the intercom announced an unexpected guest downstairs. It was Katie, she brought me a pack of cigarettes. She was coming from a show. I think she just wanted me to see how good she looked, mission accomplished. Fuck. She has some new guy chasing her now, a real international fella, works for the Canadian embassy. I have seven dollars.

I lent someone my last twenty dollars to buy their mother a gift. I didn't mind so much, and took pleasure in helping to pick out just the right thing. Too bad I wasn't invited to the party. I wonder if she liked it? The mother that is. It got me thinking that I haven't been to a barbecue in 1.5 years. I was invited to one today, by Frannie. I didn't go. I think she's catching on that I am a lot of fun on a Friday night, but not ideal for long term prospects. So I decided to stay home. What's the point? I'll just fall in love with her, and she won't want me.

I have been tempted to drink the bottle of Canadian Club that I have resting on my bar. I am saving it for the James Murphy Experience on Tuesday night. I keep imagining how I will sneak swigs of a 26oz. bottle of whiskey in a bar room. I guess stay up front, in the crowd. I am going with Frannie and Elema, maybe they will shelter me from the view of the bouncers. Maybe I can use it as an excuse to get extra close to Elema.

Hopefully things will return to normal shortly. The Seven Eleven will reopen, the holiday will be over, and I will get my 25million. I was sitting outside the grocery store 2 days ago, after I bought a loaf of bread and a bag of chips. Sitting on the patio outside, I looked at the super 7 sign with balloons attached to it, waving at me in the breeze. I went in and bought a ticket, and stuck it to the empty fridge.

I will win. I'm just lucky that way.

It Feels Like

Yes we have dreams and we want them to come true
yes we will live for these moments, me and you
There's more to life than the every day routine
keep this in mind 'til life becomes your dream

-B. Fleischmann, Le Desir.

I just read the most scathing review of B. Fleischmann's Welcome Tourist, where the author raged about the inclusion of two vocal tracks at the end of the album. They are my favorite songs, and Le Desir, in particular, has provided me with plenty to think about. All week I have been up and down the trolley lines with my headphones on. I've seen the faces of the unhappy, smelled the stink of the homeless, and curled my toes at the sight of beauty. While The Fall has me tapping my foot and staring at the graffiti, Le Desir finds me looking out the window, and the avenues become a metaphor for my moment.

Last Saturday, I missed a huge party on the scummiest street in town, even with frantic calls from Nymphalidae relaying the amount of free drugs and booze to be had, I couldn't wrestle myself from Liza's, where we were singing songs and drinking Canadian Club. After I finished the bottle, I laid it on a piece of paper, traced its outline, then wrote a letter to Liza's roommate, Elema, inside the outline of the label. I placed it on her pillow so that she could read it when she got home. I won't tell you what it said, that's private, but I did have a moment of terror the morning after, lying in the bottom of the tub, when I recited it back in my head. I was quite smitten with myself though, when Elema messaged me after three days had passed to say that she got us tickets to the James Murphy show here in the home town. So it couldn't have been all that bad.

Our band has been recording again, and a lot of buzz has been circulating about just how good this album is sounding, but me, I am just happy to sit at the east side studio in the sun with Remington, Leroy, and Liza. There is the loveliest patio outside the studio and we will all hang out there, drinking espresso, and playing each other songs. It was in one of these moments that we came up with the idea of performing as a different band, one night only, in which I would sing most of the songs and play guitar. So in a weeks time I will be singing and playing guitar in front of an audience, rather than playing to the emptiness of my living room. My how times have changed.

So, this is how I see it, as it's late and I want to wrap this up. I am on fire.