Wednesday, June 16, 2004

How soon is now?

I haven't been a real responsible 'blogger' lately. It's not my fault though, I haven't been keeping track of the date and have been losing the time, caught in a myraid of nameless dread. I was reading an article the other day here, and it talks about temporary psychotic episodes, and it made me wonder if that's what I've been suffering.

Speaking of that, it was two or so years ago when Nirvana's re-released hits CD came out. Actually, it was a Sunday morning, cold and snowy, when I was waiting for the bus when the voice came to me. It was Kurt Cobain, telling me that he's with me and not to give up (I was playing guitar for with a couple untalented mates, thinking of giving up and spending my time elsewhere), and that he wanted to come back. I know what you're thinking, bear with me. Anyway, he basically said that he is stuck on earth and is looking out for his daughter, and is going to help me write songs and shite. I was baffled; my heart seemed to stop, I felt like I was in Euphoria. My throat was dry, my hands were shaking, it was the ultimate feeling. Anyway, I walked down to the music store and waited out in the cold for nearly two hours before buying the new Nirvana CD.

I went home and rocked the cd all day, just listening over and over. Even though I knew all the songs, it seemed like the first time. That night, I was driving in my car when he came again, this time he was just kicking lyrics. I pulled over and started writing whatever Kurt said. It was amazing, we wrote 3 songs together that night. He started coming to me at random times, sometimes while at work, other times eating breakfast, some days would go by without hearing anything. After two weeks, I had a solid 5-6 songs that I brought with me to band practice. I showed everyone and they were amazed at what I'd (we'd) written, especially after all the shite I'd previously wrote.

Now I'm going to be honest, my band sucks and none of them could play their instruments properly so it wasn't going to work out with these guys, but they were my friends and I didn't want to leave them to join another bunch of wankers. I started playing myself and coming up with my own music with Kurts help and started to get some nice work done. I'm the first to admit I'm completely tone deaf and sing worth shite, but still I tried. One night I was inspired to go down to a local open mic night and performed Polly, won first prize and a pitcher of beer. I had Kurt on my side, how could I lose?

Eventually, I canned the bandmates and tried to get something going by myself. Time went by without much luck of finding compatible artists, so I stopped playing as much and Kurt stopped coming to me, or maybe he just gave up because I was a lost cause. I still hear from him time to time, but it's not the same. I still remain deeply inspired by Kurt, but have lost the confidence and desire to really do anything serious.
I heard a radio show a little while ago where they were interviewing Dave Grohl, and he said he sees Kurt sometimes, just standing there, and explained there is not necessarily just a heaven and hell, but a place in between: that is where Kurt remains. It is ironic because shortly after that, I won tickets to see the Foo Fighters, and thought this would be my opportunity. I called up the old mates and got together for 2 hours to record a demo. I basically tape recorded 2 hours of pure rubbish and noise, as everyone just turned up the volume and played whatever they felt, no rythym or reason. When I got home, I felt brave and had a listen to the tape, and it was just one big screeching sound, like when your guitar is too close to the amp and it makes that high pitch squeal. Fuck it I thought, Dave will understand. I put the tape in the case and hand written a little note explaining the story and placed my business card inside.

The night of the concert, me and my friend went to every security guard at the show to try and pawn off our demo tape. "Dude, this is so important, Dave is expecting this" I pleaded. They all said they were not allowed to accept any tapes. The night went on and still not luck. After the show and still no luck, I noticed the sound men packing away their shite. I went up to the guy giving orders and explained myself. "Sure, Ill make sure he gets it" I was told. YES! I went home a happy man and waited months and months, still no call from Dave. Did I give him the right number? Maybe he doesn't have a tape player? Should I have put a Foo Fighters cover? Or did the screeching just give him a headache? These questions will never be answered, as I never heard back from Mr. Grohl. Im sure he's busy and all, but he could of at least emailed me... speaking of which, Im gonna hunt down his email and try him again!

- DJ

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

suicidal dreams

The weekend involved lots of whisky and little sleep. I don't recall too much from it though, in fact I'm not even sure what day it is today, but I do know it's morning. I wake up and everything's a blur; the only time I see things clearly anymore are in my dreams. I just get this feeling of nameless dred sometimes, where you can't see things in another way. Time for a change, but what? That is the question for the day.

Ever wonder where you're going? Is anyone happy doing what they are doing? People now attend university for career enhancement rather than personal growth. When you look at the big picture, what does it do for you other than line the governments pockets? If no one went to post-secondary school, there'd still be jobs to do, there'd still be roles that need to be filled. You see, it's all a big game of smoke and mirrors. Life is a journey, and the destination is not a cubicle.

- DJ

Friday, May 28, 2004

missing tgif

It's friday at last, I couldn't be more relieved. Speaking of Fridays, I really miss TFIF Friday cocktails, I love that restaurant! That was the sole reason I used to travel across the border. Damn the USA! I gotta go down to the customs office tomorrow and apply for an entry visa, since they do not allow 'criminals' into the USA. I'm jonesing for an ultimate mudslide.

My wrist is still killing me. You see, last week I had this brilliant idea: instead of driving around the city, I was gonna get a pair of rollerblades and let my pit bull pull me whereever I needed to go. You know, save on gas/environment all that shite. Anyway, I bought a pair of blades, and up until that point I'd never worn rollerblades before, so I laced them up, grabbed Ziggy (my dog) and went outside. She's quite a strong dog, and she started running immediately, only I don't know how to stop, so we're flying down the side walk and I try that footbrake thing and end up in a ditch. That's cool, grass is soft, so I get up, yell at Ziggy to slow the fuck down, and trust that she'll listen. Dumb move. She's off to the races again, this time crossing busy queen street at mach 3 (she doesnt know any better to look both ways) and I'm mercilessly holding onto the leash. Anyway, we get to the sidewalk and the sidewalk is on a big slant. So she starts running down this hill and I'm going extremely fast, trying to stop but to no avail. I'm yelling for her to stop, but she's happily sprinting along. The bottom of the hill is a bunch of people waiting for the bus and a red light traffic signal. I contemplate just letting her go and risk letting a pit bull loose on the streets of Toronto, but decide I'll try to run into a wall to stop ourselves. So I try to turn so I can smash into the brick building, but I lose my balance and fall on my face. The dog is still running, dragging me across the cement sidewalk as I smell my skin burning from the friction. She eventually stops and my fucking wrists are killing me to this day from it. Know I see the importance of helmets.

Im really thinking about the mtv thing... I think it would be hilarious, in Amsterdam high and spaced out as fcuk, sleepless in 4 days and surrounded by hookers with them filming me. But while we're on the topic of TV, I really wanted to try out for the new boxing reality show 'the contender', but it was only open for amerikan citizens. Now they've decided to let international applicants apply, I sent them an email letting them know if they're willing to come down here (since I can't go there) I'd be willing to beat up on anyone they bring over, I guaranteed them I won't disappoint. They actually replied asking for my name/address, so maybe I'll have a chance.

Anyway have a good weekend

- DJ

Thursday, May 27, 2004

another day in the life of a commie

There's a few things I will not discuss this blog: politics and religion. Not because they're 'risque' but because its boring. Its an endless unwinnable debate, Im interested in opinions, not beliefs. But in that regard, I am almost finished decorating my communist haven loft, the '310'. I have a vision where someone walks into my place and feel like they've plunged back into 1950 Moscow or something... I got it all painted red, with Stalin portraits and communist slogans posted all over, the dim lighting and the requisite fully stocked bar. I bought this cool retro red & orange striped rug the other day that would look right cool in my pad, but the girlfriend veto'd that in a hurry. It's bad enough she comes over to look stare at Castro she says, but she draws the line on tacky carpet. So Im gonna settle on a nice sheepskin rug. The only thing left to do is paint a yellow hammer & sickle on the wall, so if any of you are painters, give me a hollar.

This week I've been feeling sore, I think it may be attributed to last weekends road trip to Montreal. I don't remember exactly what we did there, the last thing I remember about that trip was arriving on a friday evening, walking down the street and my brother buying cheap coke & weed of some pusher named Yoshi...

So I've been spending this week indoors playing my guitar, and Ive been recently turned on to Hendrix. Trying to play his licks, man I can truly appreciate his greatness. Speaking of music, would you believe how hard it is to find some jam mates? I mean for a little while I had a decent sounding unit, playing with my sister on bass (she is no cliff burton), Kip on drums, Ax on rythm guitar, me on lead and the guru playing... I dont know what he was doing the whole time. But those jams were wicked, kip would be sniffing blow in or doing ice between songs, and Ax couldnt go 3 minutes without a bong hit, but those cats could play... I don't know what happened to them, its like they disappeared in thin air.
Then there was this strange bloke who managed this chick named Lulu. This bird looked like a more-strung out version of Courtney Love (if you can managed that) and sounded like a banshee on speed. They made their living being human guinee pigs for experimental drug companies. Anyway, this cat was like "Yeah, we gave away like 150 free cds and we're huge in North Wisconsin, they can't get enough of us down there."
I'm like Northern Wisconsin? What the fuck is that? Talk to me when you're big in Northern Mexico, or Northern Nunavit, shite I ain't even allowed in Northern Wisconsin.

Most recently, I was contacted by two Armenians who seemed like they were down to make something work, so I met with the first Armenian in a cafe and we discussed procedural base factors for a few hours, and seemed to hit it off. We had the same interests and he said he was thisclose to quitting his job going for broke. He mentioned the other Armenian and asked if I knew anyone else who could play, I said the guru would be down for this, so we agreed on the four of us meeting the next week.
The next week comes and I met the two Armenians at a seedy bar downtown, but no sign of the guru. We started talking ackwardly for a few minutes when they asked where the ever-mysterious guru was, so I give him a call.
"Hello?"
"Dude, where the fuck are you? You're supposed to be meeting with the Armenians this morning!" I hollar.
"Man I just woke up! Hehe, that sounds kind of dangerous... meeting with the 'Armenians' haha. Kinda like 007!"
With both Armenians staring intently at me, I had to choose my words carefully. "Are you coming or not?"
"Ah yeah, maybe."
I hung up the phone and told them he may show up. An hour of mostly silence passed and they ask again where he is. I apologize on his behalf and try to explain the guru is normally a reliable cat. So I call him again.
"I don't think I'll be able to meet, but give the Armenians my regards." He tells me.
When I tell them the news, its as if their hearts have been broken, and they all of a sudden have to go. I haven't heard from them since.

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

the hooker in madrid

Well, to quench the thirst of my two blog fans, here is a paraphrased tale that happened to me last summer... this story is in fact legendary here, im a modern day Ed Wood.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
It was my second day in Amsterdam and I was already bored. So bored, in fact, that I found myself at the airport at six in the morning bolloxed out of my mind and ready for something new. I hadn’t really gone to bed the previous night; rather, I stayed up drinking with some new friends I’d made at some seedy coffeeshop and loading up on all the drugs my money could buy. I didn’t really have a reason for being here, I just spontaneously decided I was going to Europe and bought a ticket to Amsterdam one day; but there was a catch. The flight home departed in Glasgow, which was 400 miles away. I think initially, I wanted to go to Poland or Czech Republic or Latvia, but it was cheaper to go to Amsterdam.

How can one possibly get bored on an endless supply of hookers and drugs you say? Well, maybe bored is not the correct word… If I would of continued at the same pace, I was going to be broke by noon. I still had ten more days before returning home.

Back to my story, I was at the airport wandering around with my jaw open, in awe and all the brightly lit booths. The airport seems like such a cool place when your high, almost like a giant, indoor amusement park. I didn’t really know why I was at the airport; I’d called up my cousin in Brussels and told him I was coming to visit, so I should be at the train station. I went from booth to booth asking about prices to flying to random cities. “I need to fly to Riga this morning. It is imperitive I’m there by noon.” I say in my best Russian accent to the lady behind the Easy Jet booth.

“Ah, sorry sir, we don’t fly there. Why don’t you try Lot airline?”

“Nonsense.” I dismiss her, walking over to the next booth. “Bangkok. I have to go to Bangkok, and today.”

“Sure, just one moment sir… Okay, I have a flight that leaves at seven this evening, arriving at…”

“No.” I harshly reply. “I need to go now.”

“Oh, ah, wait… There is one leaving this morning at eleven.”

“Yes, put me on that one.”

She frantically types away on her computer, sweat starting to come down her face. “Okay sir, that will be $3,245 Euros.”

“Ah, one moment. I go to bank machine.” I say as I speed away.

I did this for about an hour; I’d found a certain amusement in it for which I cannot understand when I’m sober. I must have bought one of those tickets, because I remember awakening on a plane beside some dude in a suit with a dish of noodles and rice sitting in front of me. I look around. Surely I can’t actually be on an airplane, I’m thinking. I must be dreaming. I take a bit out of the noodles, and they taste very real. “Hey buddy, where is this plane going?” I ask the guy beside me.

He looks at me strangely, like I’m from Mars. “Madrid.” He replies, not saying another word to me.
Madrid, huh? Well, I’ve always wanted to see a bull fight, I figured, starting to get excited. I didn’t know a thing about Madrid, other than the fact that the nightlife is supposed to be the greatest in the world. I also knew about twenty Spanish words, so I was all set.

***

While walking down Plaza de Sols, the main street downtown Madrid, I noticed a girl leaning against a lamp post smiling at me. I look around, but I’m the only one she could be staring at. I ignore her and continue walking. A little further, leaning against a wall, is another girl, waving at me and smiling. Jesus, I feel like a rock star, I was thinking. They are digging my style here in Madrid. The odd thing was, every ten or fifteen feet, there was a girl standing against a building or against a pole, and they all were smiling at me. It was around 4:00pm and I had a little to drink that day, but not enough to make me hallucinate. The first few I seen were dressed nicely, slacks and blouses, but the further up the street I walked, the less these chicks seemed to wear. The area also became less and less welcoming the further I walked.

I stopped by a souvenier store in what ended up being one of the worst mistakes of my life. I went inside to look around, and I seen a hat I liked. I picked it up and looked at the price, $25 Euros, and I put it down. I then pulled out my wallet, which is a card holder with a money clip attached, to see how much money I had. Now I didn’t plan this trip, henceforth, I didn’t have much money. I had $400 Euros in my wallet, which was all I had left. After debating with myself whether I should get the had, I chose not to as I wanted to get all my shopping done the last day.

I left the store and I immediately feel a hand around my waist. I look to my left to see this petit Spanish chick rambling on in Spanish. I push her arm away and tell her I speak English.

“Fucky fucky?” She asks.

“No thanks I reply,” and I immediately reach into my back pocket. My wallet is still there, but I didn’t feel my money. So I pulled it out and sure enough, my money was gone, money clip still open. I march over towards the girl, who had walked over to a group of hookers who were standing near some building.

“Where the fuck is my money?” I demand, grabbing her arm.

“Me no understand,” she coyly replies.

I flash my wallet in front of her face and point to the emptied money clip.

She carries on in Spanish.

“WHERE IS MY MONEY?” I yell, looking at her friends.

“Come, have sex with me.” One of the black hookers replied back to me.

“Look, help me here. This bitch took my money and it’s all I have!” I plead with the group of hookers.

The one who stole the money started walking away and I once again plead with them to help me out.
“She has your money.” One of them reply in perfect English.

I run after the first hooker and walk beside her, yelling to give me my money.

She shrugs her shoulder and lights up a cigarette, still walking.

“Please, I need that money!” I pleaded, “I have no money! That is all I have, I need to get to Glasgow this weekend, and have no money!”

She shrugs her shoulders once again and puffs her cigarette. At this time, she turns down some side street, which seems to lead to a slumier residential area. I also notice some keeping about a half a block behind us.

“Come on, please. I just want my money, then I’ll leave you alone. I’m from Canada for Christ sake!”
“Me no understand.” She coyly replies.

I grab her arm, still walking, and start to get pissed. “Look bitch, I will fucking hurt you. Give me my money.”

She smiles at me, so I grab the cigarette from her hand and put it out on her cheek. She doesn’t even flinch, continuing to walk and turning down another side street. The guy is still following us, but he’s almost a block away now.

I sqeeze tight around her arm and force her to stop. “I will fucking kill you. You’re life is shit to me.” I threaten.

She forces herself free and walks faster away. I look behind me and see the same guy walking towards us. I catch up to the hooker again and grab her by the throat with my left hand. “Give my my fucking money!” I yell. She starts to scream and I sqeeze tighter, lifting her off the ground. I look behing me and the guy is now running towards me. I have maybe ten seconds… I sqeeze even tighter, and then tighter still, until I feel something crunch, and her screams are now ghastly whispers. I keep squeezing until I don’t hear another sound, then snatch her purse with my right hand and throw her down to the pavement. When her head hit the ground, it sounded like two pieces of wood slamming against each other; it was obvious she wasn’t getting up. Without even looking I sprint away, purse in hand, and find my way to the main street Plaza de Sols.

When I hit Plaza de Sols, I turn left and continue sprinting down the street. It wasn’t long before someone grabbed on to my arm and tried to stop me. I gave him a quick jab to the face without even slowing down, but it seemed the further down the street I went, the more people tried to stop me. It was broad daylight on Madrids’ busiest street and I had a mob of people chasing after me, and the ones in front were trying jumping in my way trying to stop me. I eventually started running on the street and dodging cars coming at me; it was easier than escaping the clutches of passerbys.

As I’m running down the street, I’m thinking ‘why are all these people chasing me’, and just then I realized that I still had a purse in my hand running at full speed. I open the bag up and rifle through the contents: a pair of dirty panties, wallet, zippered case, crack pipe, but no money visible. I take out the wallet and the zippered case, then throw the purse on the ground. As I run back on the sidewalk, I have to elbow some Spaniard in the face because he tried to tackle me.

With the crowd in tow, I keep up my break-neck pace and run down the next side street I see. I then start zig-zagging through the suburban streets of Madrid, not a fucking clue where I’m going. I keep looking behind me to see if people are chasing me, and after my third mile of running I decide to duck into a park to take a break. Paranoid, I look around feverishly to see if anyone is watching me. I see a couple with their baby stroller walking on the sidewalk beside the park.

As I was about to open the wallet, I notice them looking in my direction. That was enough to set me off. Without warning, I start sprinting again in no general direction. I see an Internet Café and run inside, sit at a terminal and put my last bit of euro-change inside to get a measely six minutes. I log onto my email and start typing as fast as I could: ‘Something terrible just happened. I am okay, but maybe not for long. If I don’t come back next week, I am inside a Spanish prison. So far, I don’t like Madrid.’ My seconds were counting down quickly, and the computer was very slow. I press send and hope that my family understands.

A few hours later, just as it was starting to get dark, I finally find my way back to the hostal. Before entering the big building, I look around to make sure no one is following me. I even walk inside the building next to it to throw ‘em off.

Upstairs, I excitedly open her wallet to find nothing except her id, a crack pipe and a little jack knife that I was now going to stab her with. I was so mad my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I mean I had no money whatsoever! How was I to stay another night, let alone survive all week and get to Scotland with no cash. Frantic, I rip open the zippered case in desperate hopes to recoup some of the cash. Inside was two needles and a small bottle of methedone (or heroin, I’m hardly an expert). The smell was unbearable, I immediately felt sick. I zip up the case and thrown it, along with the walllet, in the hallway garbage can. I just robbed a hooker and all I had to show for it was her lousy id.

* * *

To make a long story short, after robbing a homeless bloke of his change and smashed a business man for his wallet, I made it back to glasgow safe & sound.

so close, no matter how far

I just stumbled on this page to make some blog... I never got those things, I mean aren't they for self centered, pretentious prima donnas who love nothing more than to talk about themselves all day, and since no one will listen they resort to typing up there rants on a web page? Why has it taken me so long then ...

MTV has been hounding me about some backpacking reality tv show. The premise of the show is following 'real' backpackers around Europe for their life experiences, I think it's called True Life. They want me to send them an itinary with exact details of the trip and shite, don't the know how I roll? I mean all my European adventures begin the same way: fly into Amsterdam on a Friday evening, spend two days drinking and smoking premium weed inside a seedy coffee shop, then when I'm nearly out of money, drunkenly stumble to the airport and purchase a ticket to some third world country and wake up wondering where the fcuk I am.

When you think about it, my travelling options are pretty limited. I'm banned from the province of Quebec, not allowed into USA, and after last year's fiasco, most likely will be arrested upon entry into Spain as well. I'm thinking about just packing it in and moving somewhere cheap, like Latvia or Poland, buy a flat and just live. There's some minor details that still need to be worked out.

Im not sure what else to say right now, or if there's a purpose writing this cuz no one is gonna read this shite, but peace out.

- DJ