Dirty Old Dive Bar

One step in the poorly-lit bar and it already reeks of their sex. The walls are icky, slimy as snot but a translucent grey, like dying fish had been glued to it and never quite died but the stench intensified.

And I wouldn't mind it at all if it weren't for the vein in my left hand begging for the chance to rip my skin open and explode - I couldn't bear contracting the infection of dead cum without having at least fucked a 6 or a 7. Or a trashy 19-year old.

I keep wondering about the shit that goes on in there when I'm not around, seeing as they usually devolve pretty quickly even in my presence. And the shitty music never helps, either, fucking cock-rock classics of the 80s, country-rock classics of the 70s, nothing modern, nothing new - a fit representation of its patrons, who never would have seen the past 20 years if it weren't for the invention of penicillin.

Drunk fucking zombies on their automated poker machines, barely pausing for cigarette breaks, drinking 3% beer 'cause it's a dollar cheaper than the regular-strength stuff that, oddly enough, also tastes like stale piss.

This is the minor leagues of daytime drinking, populated with a few youngsters, sure, but mostly should-be-retired-by-suicide dreamers holding on to the last parcel of their youth, with memories of that one day in their life where it didn't rain shit on their heads, where maybe the right whore was a decent enough actress to make them believe in Love for even a second, their first used car, the first time seeing a plane in the sky, playing with a dog, or that first welfare check that seemed like so much money.

These dreams aren't broken, they're rusted, mouldy, holding on for their fucking life with fucking duct tape - but they're still there, alive. Working. Well enough to get from point A to point D in a haze, barely flipping over a few tables, perhaps with a black eye or two, but fucking standing.

And that's why the dried-up beer, the vomit, the blood - some of it clearly menstrual - and the cum add layer upon layer of goo on the tables, floors and walls, and why we all keep coming back. Hope.

More Weird Dreams

Man, another weird dream. This time, it was the sequel to another dream I had maybe a couple of months ago; I think it's the fourth 'dream' in the series...


I was some sort of outlaw, chased all over town by cops, the army, the feds, rogues, bounty hunters and vigilantes; my headquarters was the house I grew up in, except it's abandoned at this point, and barely standing - from the beating it took in the last few installments of the dream. The neighbours' houses are razed and their yards are a desolate land. Whenever it's free, I'd hide in that house; other times, I'd just lay low wherever I could.

I had people helping me, but since I've been up for 12 hours now, I don't remember who they were. I'm also not sure why they want me so bad, but this time, shit had really hit the fan and I was forced to shoot my way out and kill a few people.

I bet next time, they'll be even more on my case.

Weird Dream

You know you watch too many off-beat movies with weird moods when even your nightmares become passive-aggressive .

My big dream last night was that I was in one of those Irish-folk three-piece bands, the type where each member sings and plays the guitar, and it was a quiet Sunday night, until my manager, Pierre Gauthier (actual General Manager of the Montréal Canadiens, whom I have never met in real life) called me up to tell me we had 3 important not-to-be-missed appointments the next day: an early-morning zoo-crew radio appearance on a soft rock station located in butt-fuck nowhere, a video shoot after that, followed by an actual gig in the evening, for the next day was both Mother's Day and Valentine's Day, and the gig was dedicated to my Mom whom I love, so it made sense.

What didn't make sense is that the band meet-up the following morning for our ride took place at a mall that no longer exists, downtown - the Eaton Center. Except this Eaton Center wasn't where it was supposed to be, it was at the Complexe Desjardins, a place that still exists today. And we lost so much time there that there was no way we could manage to everything we had to do well.

Most of the rest of the dream consisted of trying to find reasons not to do shit in the right order to ensure we'd be late at everything that was prepared for us. We finally got to the radio show at 11AM, but it had been over since 9. Then we went to the video shoot, but by the time everything was set up, it was 3PM and the crew went on break. And filming was taking place in what seemed both like a parking lot and a municipal dump, except it didn't stink.

And because I was dedicating that night's show to my mother, I kept trying to contact her to go see her instead of doing the gig.

I dunno.

None of these situations are actually scary, all are annoying as fuck. So my nightmares now consist of me boring myself to death. Awesome.

Another Dream... I Killed Jean Béliveau!

Last Friday, I think it was... I woke up in cold sweat, teary-eyed... I had just killed Jean Béliveau.

First things first... it was a dream.

It was winter, cold as fuck, but for some reason, it didn't bother me (it sure does in real life). My grandmother (who is 70, four feet tall, can barely walk because both of knees are fucked up) and I went to play outdoors hockey at the rink across from the house where we lived in and, lo and behold, she could hold her own. She made a few nice passes, kept up with the kids and adults, and when she needed a rest, manned the nets.

For some reason, the rink was also situated across another street from my elementary school, and at some point, I dropped playing, took my skates off, put sneakers on, and met up with Jean Béliveau. We then proceeded to run up the hill leading to the school when he just fell in a hole that was in the ground... a hole that looked dug by a human, six feet deep, six feet wide, maybe ten feet long... and keep in mind Mr. Béliveau is 78 years old and starting to feel the traces of time take hold... so he broke both legs and died before an ambulance could come.

Then I woke up crying.

Fucked thing is Mr. Béliveau suffered a CVA recently. I wish him all the best. The Man is a Legend, a Gentleman a Class Act - yes, all capitalized.

I Had A Dream... A Fucked Up Dream...

I woke up with a weird feeling this morning, my dream was messed up.

I was living in a huge second-storey apartment in a four-storey building, lots of people were coming-and-going, regulars from my life, my mom, the Lady Of The House, a few friends...

For some reason, I don't think my particular apartment had an entry door.

Walking down the stairs to the sidewalk, I came across my upstairs neighbours (folks that don't exist in my actual life), barely dressed, wearing only skimpy black leather outfits, but too small to be S&M, maybe borderline fetishistic if anything - and they were going to my downstairs neighbours'. They asked if I was going too, and I replied something along the lines of ''not this time''. In fact, I wasn't aware that anything was going on there, and my curiosity was awoken. Now I wanted to know exactly what was going on there...

So I tried peeking in from their living room window, which had a view on the huge lawn. It also showed me an outside view of my building, a luxurious modern castle-like construction made from dark brown bricks. And every time I was close to seeing something, I was either caught by someone inside, or interrupted by a passer-by who thought I was a thief - not to mention by my 'people', who wanted me to come back home and 'fulfill my obligations', even though in my dream it was never clear just what those obligations were.

So it turns out to be an orgy downstairs, and I'm not the biggest fan of that type of congregation, so I decide against asking in and head on home, only to find that my ''baby girl'' needs me - that's right, I have a daughter. The longer the dream lasts, the less clear it is how it is that I became a father (I'm nowhere close to this in real life) - but I am, and I have to make do.

Unfortunately, I have an appointment with some sort of lawyer/notary/suit-and-tie dude downtown, and am already late for it (now that, I can relate to!), so I have to find a way to carry the baby and head there... I can't find anything better than an empty 12-pack of imported beer (the type that once open has plenty of holes of the sides), so that's her ride.

We get to the building, and it's this massive all-glass structure in the middle of a highway, on top of another highway, and the main lobby door also serves as the elevator going upwards, and it's barely one-person deep and three-people wide - again, all glass, all see-through. In my dream, I was scared shitless looking down, if this were to happen in real life, I'd probably refuse to go up at all - which, incidentally, is what the kid was thinking. She was crying and screaming loudly, trying to escape her box... when I was awoken by my cat meowing at me for breakfast.

I wonder what would have happened had I gone in the elevator, and what the meeting was about.

Freaky thing...

Dreams

Dreams are good to have, but are they good to strive to attain?

There are two schools of thought on the matter, one that tells you you can do or become anything you want to, if you put your mind, effort and energy to it. Many philosophers and politicians came up with terrific quotes on the matter, like the one below (click ont he pic for the full thing):




Others, who tend to call themselves realists but are often more like negativists, or just plain bummers, will tell you to live your life setting realistic goals to achieve, such as getting through the day alive, and be satisfied with that.




But what of the greater picture?

Many people mistake 'dreams' with 'aspirations'. For those idiots, it's usually a 'lifelong dream' to appear on a TV show that has been in existence for less than five years, which, obviously, makes no sense at all.

Then there are those who are so focused on their goals that they do, in fact, dream about them at times. Those people are obsessed, and other people make pills to remedy the situation (those poeple are called scientists, pharmacists, thieves and general assholes - which doesn't make them entirely wrong, by the way).

Where do I stand?

Well, I have aspirations in my everyday life, and I have dreams when I sleep. And throughout my life, it has happened that I have dreamed about my aspirations once in a while, but never so that it would rule my life.

The problem with me is that I'm a tad too cerebral: I control my dreams - 100% of the time. I direct the action, create the dialogues, and when what I come up with doesn't make sense or is just downright stupid, I tell myself, in my dream, that it's stupid and that I had better come up with something better soon or risk having wasted my time all night.

That's not the best way to recuperate, but it's how I deal with sleep. I screenwrite and direct the whole damn thing, which, while it is my aspiration, isn't about it, which doesn't make me clinically insane, according to Dr. Myself.

However, of late, I've been going to bed forcing myself to dream about a situation I would rather never happen but nonetheless think about every day. And many times, not only does it make it seem more real, but it leads me to act towards that goal in real life - and many times Life answers back that it would, indeed, be possible for it to happen.

And every time it almost does, it creates a warm, fuzzy feeling inside me, quickly followed by shame and resentment. I guess that's how it feels to be religious, to some extent.

And that's when I know I'm fucked.