I like listening to the classics (''have your shovels ready, have your snow plows ready, don't get into car accidents'' and ''keep your iPhones charged, stay away from golf fields, and get back inside your homes'' are particularly great), but Frankie MacDonald from Nova Scotia has a new hit he'd like us to listen to:
So have your winter boots ready, your hats, gloves and scarves, order your pizzas and order your Chinese food, buy cases of Pepsi and buy cases of Coke, don't wait for your grocery shopping DO IT RIGHT NOW and charge all your electronics (I won't name them all, listen to it for yourselves), 'cause there'll be lots of snow in Montréal tomorrow.
''Best of luck to ya!''
Showing posts with label Winter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Winter. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Storms Of The Century
While cyclones, tornadoes and so-called ''hot'' storms are becoming more and more dangerous in the U.S., in Canada, it's snow storms that are breaking records.
Earlier this winter, on December 27th more specifically, as I was just days removed from coming out of the hospital and still weak, we got 4 feet (46 centimeters) in one day, 10 feet in a week and a half total:
It got so bad you could even adapt Yakov Smirnoff jokes: ''In socialist Canada, bus travels by people!''
Well, today we got 3 more feet (40 cm), and you'd think we'd be used to it by now, what with 400-plus years of colonization in our land (and Canada being roughly 150 years old), but it still seems to freak the shit out of people, and destabilize motorists. One person wanted to warn us in a particularly dramatic manner:
Good looking out, kid. Much appreciated.
Earlier this winter, on December 27th more specifically, as I was just days removed from coming out of the hospital and still weak, we got 4 feet (46 centimeters) in one day, 10 feet in a week and a half total:
It got so bad you could even adapt Yakov Smirnoff jokes: ''In socialist Canada, bus travels by people!''
Well, today we got 3 more feet (40 cm), and you'd think we'd be used to it by now, what with 400-plus years of colonization in our land (and Canada being roughly 150 years old), but it still seems to freak the shit out of people, and destabilize motorists. One person wanted to warn us in a particularly dramatic manner:
Good looking out, kid. Much appreciated.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Snowy Monday In Montréal
It looks amazing but it feels like Hell, I tell ya! It's a video my friend Jamie Klinger shared - I'm just sharing it back.
A Monday Morning in Montréal from CloudRaker on Vimeo.
And it shows you the beginning of the storm, how it's funny/difficult to walk in it, and they hint at the fact that the City doesn't fucking pick it up, but imagine all that fucking snow, falling all day long, and the 4 feet of it that's accumulated after your long day of work, and you having to go back home through waist-high unwalkable freezing fluff - or moist, dirty slush if it's melted a bit.
There is nothing human about living in these conditions 6 months a year. There's a reason settlers went all the way to California. Heck, even British Columbia.
A Monday Morning in Montréal from CloudRaker on Vimeo.
And it shows you the beginning of the storm, how it's funny/difficult to walk in it, and they hint at the fact that the City doesn't fucking pick it up, but imagine all that fucking snow, falling all day long, and the 4 feet of it that's accumulated after your long day of work, and you having to go back home through waist-high unwalkable freezing fluff - or moist, dirty slush if it's melted a bit.
There is nothing human about living in these conditions 6 months a year. There's a reason settlers went all the way to California. Heck, even British Columbia.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Goodbye Movember
It was good while it lasted.
Especially for this guy:
December/winter/depression starts in 5 minutes...
Especially for this guy:
December/winter/depression starts in 5 minutes...
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Occupying Montréal
My friend, professional poker player and photographer Jamie Klinger is quoted in this short report about the Occupy Movement's Montréal demonstration.
These people seem like they're in it for the long haul. Winter's fast approaching, I don't think I have their courage.
These people seem like they're in it for the long haul. Winter's fast approaching, I don't think I have their courage.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Slush City
She is Slush City. My City in winter is a cold, slippery bitch.
She is moody. When she's in a foul mood, she freezes so cold nothing is allowed to live on her; when she merely feels like pissing us off, she turns into a bitter, cold, mushy place to walk on, slip on, fall on, and gets us soaking wet in sub-zero temperatures, inducing colds, flues and disease that we spread amongst ourselves on shared public transit seats, on supermarket produce, in line at the doctor's office.
She is an unfit mother caring for 3 million lost souls, a broken-hearted widow set on bitter revenge.
Every time I feel I've tamed her, she claws and bites back, making sure I feel her wrath, the greyness of her essence. She disinfects my wounds with dust and puss like she disaffects our youths with blood and cum. She makes sure it gets infected to remind us she exists.
But it'll pass if we survive it, it almost always does.
I tell myself that during the summer months she is sublime, unique, distinguished - that we just have to make it through this and head there, that the scurvy and hepatitis will subside and we can move to the sunny side of the street.
Until then she is slushy, and our steps take twice as long to get us half the distance. She is covered in a frosty quicksand that keeps you stuck to the ground; you couldn't leave if you wanted to, and by the time your struggles have set you free, it's Spring and you could spend the rest of your life just staring at her in all her beauty, feeding only from the sparkle of her bosom.
She is Slush City and she's got me by the balls.
She is moody. When she's in a foul mood, she freezes so cold nothing is allowed to live on her; when she merely feels like pissing us off, she turns into a bitter, cold, mushy place to walk on, slip on, fall on, and gets us soaking wet in sub-zero temperatures, inducing colds, flues and disease that we spread amongst ourselves on shared public transit seats, on supermarket produce, in line at the doctor's office.
She is an unfit mother caring for 3 million lost souls, a broken-hearted widow set on bitter revenge.
Every time I feel I've tamed her, she claws and bites back, making sure I feel her wrath, the greyness of her essence. She disinfects my wounds with dust and puss like she disaffects our youths with blood and cum. She makes sure it gets infected to remind us she exists.
But it'll pass if we survive it, it almost always does.
I tell myself that during the summer months she is sublime, unique, distinguished - that we just have to make it through this and head there, that the scurvy and hepatitis will subside and we can move to the sunny side of the street.
Until then she is slushy, and our steps take twice as long to get us half the distance. She is covered in a frosty quicksand that keeps you stuck to the ground; you couldn't leave if you wanted to, and by the time your struggles have set you free, it's Spring and you could spend the rest of your life just staring at her in all her beauty, feeding only from the sparkle of her bosom.
She is Slush City and she's got me by the balls.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Video Of The Week: Plajia
Well, that was easy.
As I was looking for a Video Of The Week, friends of UnPop Montréal Plajia released their brand-spanking new video, basically a 'live jam' performance of their new song, Kyaan Done.
Fittingly, the room is postered with Beatles memorabilia, as this song is the most Beatle-esque they've ever recorded - they're usually more 'modern' in their sound. A decent departure, though, much welcome - especially with the ton (plethora?) of Montréal bands that sound like Radiohead these days.
While the band's singer, Patrick Pleau, is currently preparing solo shows, including one at the prestigious Place-Des-Arts, that I'll be writing about the next day - I'll be in attendace - the band is, in fact, in the midst of recording new songs, for a new record we can hope to see released this year.
In the meantime, a strong single to help us through the harshest month of winter (kudos for airplay on MusiMax!):
As I was looking for a Video Of The Week, friends of UnPop Montréal Plajia released their brand-spanking new video, basically a 'live jam' performance of their new song, Kyaan Done.
Fittingly, the room is postered with Beatles memorabilia, as this song is the most Beatle-esque they've ever recorded - they're usually more 'modern' in their sound. A decent departure, though, much welcome - especially with the ton (plethora?) of Montréal bands that sound like Radiohead these days.
While the band's singer, Patrick Pleau, is currently preparing solo shows, including one at the prestigious Place-Des-Arts, that I'll be writing about the next day - I'll be in attendace - the band is, in fact, in the midst of recording new songs, for a new record we can hope to see released this year.
In the meantime, a strong single to help us through the harshest month of winter (kudos for airplay on MusiMax!):
Monday, December 28, 2009
Video of the Week: Arcade Fire
It was January 1998. Too cold to be comfortable, too hot not to sweat in your winter jacket, slippery as fuck outside.
At first, the ground was covered in snow in time for Christmas, but when New Year's came along, it started raining. The ground became a cold, muddy gray, slushy and wet enough to go through your winter boots and drench them, yet too cold to wear rubber boots. Then it got colder and colder, so all streets and sidewalks turned into uneven ice patches almost fit to skate on.
A lot worse than the first picture below may lead you to believe:
A lot less romantic than the picture right below:
More along the lines of this one here:
To move anywhere, even in the City, you had to figure things would take at least three times longer than usual. On ground level, things were surely not looking up.
The thing is, neither were things up above: the weight of the ice was straggling trees, who aren't used to carrying such a burden in winter.
Many branches snapped; you can imagine that the bigger trees wrecked cars, but they also killed unlucky pedestrians who were just trying to find their way.
Many cars were... unavailable, to say the least...
The power pylons and lines also fell victim to that, thus cutting the power to roughly 90% of the population at once.
It fucked those of us who'd been here our whole lives, but you can imagine that for those who'd just moved here, it was a bit of a culture shock. Especially those who came from the USA, like Win Butler.
And thus, you have the basis to start writing a song; it's just weird that Power Out would be so anthemic, so positive, rather than depressing, like that winter was. Although, in retrospect, even I can find things to reminisce about from those days: families sticking together, friends helping each other out, sharing human warmth - and going back to our roots, as humans, as the human animal, devoid of the electricity we had grown too accustomed to.
The car's locked in ice? Who cares - we have legs. The freezer doesn't work? But... it's minus-20 out there. It's cold... nothing fire, a blanket, hot cocoa and a bit of the human touch won't fix.
This is by no means Arcade Fire's brightest moment, but it's one of many really good songs off their first international record, Funeral (after the locally-produced EP Arcade Fire).
At first, the ground was covered in snow in time for Christmas, but when New Year's came along, it started raining. The ground became a cold, muddy gray, slushy and wet enough to go through your winter boots and drench them, yet too cold to wear rubber boots. Then it got colder and colder, so all streets and sidewalks turned into uneven ice patches almost fit to skate on.
A lot worse than the first picture below may lead you to believe:
A lot less romantic than the picture right below:
More along the lines of this one here:
To move anywhere, even in the City, you had to figure things would take at least three times longer than usual. On ground level, things were surely not looking up.
The thing is, neither were things up above: the weight of the ice was straggling trees, who aren't used to carrying such a burden in winter.
Many branches snapped; you can imagine that the bigger trees wrecked cars, but they also killed unlucky pedestrians who were just trying to find their way.
Many cars were... unavailable, to say the least...
The power pylons and lines also fell victim to that, thus cutting the power to roughly 90% of the population at once.
It fucked those of us who'd been here our whole lives, but you can imagine that for those who'd just moved here, it was a bit of a culture shock. Especially those who came from the USA, like Win Butler.
And thus, you have the basis to start writing a song; it's just weird that Power Out would be so anthemic, so positive, rather than depressing, like that winter was. Although, in retrospect, even I can find things to reminisce about from those days: families sticking together, friends helping each other out, sharing human warmth - and going back to our roots, as humans, as the human animal, devoid of the electricity we had grown too accustomed to.
The car's locked in ice? Who cares - we have legs. The freezer doesn't work? But... it's minus-20 out there. It's cold... nothing fire, a blanket, hot cocoa and a bit of the human touch won't fix.
This is by no means Arcade Fire's brightest moment, but it's one of many really good songs off their first international record, Funeral (after the locally-produced EP Arcade Fire).
Monday, December 14, 2009
Chasing The Dragon
This one is a weird one; even today, bits of that evening come to me in bizarre flashbacks that barely make any sense until I tack them on to whatever hazy memory I have and somehow the events are reconstructed a little bit more.
There was a particular night this summer, I must have played a show and then we'd gone to party at the bar near my house afterwards, it's pretty much the only way I can account for my friend, The Big E, to have been there.
The details of what went on before things started fucking up are still hazy today; it could have been a night where the Lady Of The House and My Dad had been there where an old woman came on to me a bit hard, grinding against my leg while I was just sitting calmly and talking with the folks at my table, then proceeding to give me a full-on ''I Touch Myself''-style show on a chair she'd pulled next to me and acting like a stripper (but keeping her clothes on, at least). Eventually, though, she was tossed out of the place, and chances are she ended up fucking some panhandler in an alleyway somewhere.
Then again, it may have been a totally different night. Oddly enough, I mostly remember the details of what happened after we'd all had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. There was this drunk nerdy girl, the type you see in movies - kind of cute but that you're pretty sure that is she took her glasses off she'd perhaps be hot, or maybe she'd be the type to get gang-banged by a boatload of sailors, you never know - anyhow, she was playing pool, for all we knew, but at some point when that ended, she came to sit at our table. By then, The Big E and I were the only ones left.
Beers followed glasses of Jack Daniel's, then beer made a comeback. The girl was visibly way too fucking drunk - and so was E. E doesn't require much - usually a single shot of vodka will help derail his whole night - and, even though he stayed on beer all evening (he dislikes JD), he was way past his point of tolerance. Myself, I was in my comfort zone. Closing time - 3 AM - was rearing its ugly head, and I was just getting started.
Last call came and I ordered us a massive round - two beers each, and a quad-JD (four ounces) more for me. They let us finish our drinks before closing the place down, but apparently my partying mood was contagious. Many of the other customers decided it'd be wise to continue ingesting booze in the alley behind the bar; I went home (not even a block away) to grab a 40-ouncer of JD, that I planned to share with Big E.
When I got back, E and the girl were standing outside the bar's locked door, in full view of any and every passer-by, facing each other, forehead-against-forehead. I wouldn't have a problem with it, despite the girl saying she had a boyfriend for most of the time we were inside - he's no concern of mine - except E's Lady is possibly the closest friend I've had this past year, and I won't let him fuck their relationship up for a drunken tart in a shit-hole local bar - at least have it be something meaningful, for fuck's sake. So, when I'm near enough for them to hear me, I say ''am I interrupting anything?''
- No, E answers, you got here just in time.
- Good, I reply, now let's move out back.
They both get out from in front of the door and start walking ahead of me when I notice she's got the worst Plumber's Crack in the history of mankind - pretty much her whole ass is showing. All I could think was to use my best Denis Leary impression and say ''Pull up your fucking pants!'' while pulling them up; I didn't expect her to be so light, so I lifted her two feet in the air in the process. I can still make 'em fly, I guess.
When we got to the alley, sitting relatively comfortably, the girl doing her best to stick to E like glue, everybody there kept telling him to throw her away. We were all drinking, having a good time, when weed started making the rounds; that killed E and pretty much got him to fall asleep right then and there. I had to convince two girls to escort him home - one who had fake teeth, and her friend. I'll get back to the fake-toothed girl in a later post, she's so worth her own chapter, but we got E the hell out of there while his magnetized date-for-the-evening went to throw up. We got her in a cab before she realized what was happening.
Eventually, as more people left, the more obscure - or at least less public - habits and consumptions came to arrive. A girl we've come to nickname Duncan, coming off giving birth to her first child, and her boyfriend, Scary Bald Punk Dude, started doing lines of coke; that's not my scene at all, though, so I politely refused and kept drinking my Jack.
It wasn't long before more weed made the rounds, and for Duncan to offer me a ''special blend'' she'd just bought, in a pipe (I hate fucking pipes). I didn't take much, because it didn't seem right: no smell, no taste, no real buzz. It didn't feel like anything at all, yet I recognized the feeling - I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Suddenly I felt warm inside, like a fever taking over, but putting my hand to my forehead, I didn't feel a change in temperature; I just went back to my bottle, and to the conversation. By then the sun was coming up, and we all went our separate ways. I got home and was relaxed - but I couldn't sleep. And as my brain was trying to figure out why, my heart was pumping because I couldn't come up with an answer; I can usually control my main body functions to an extent that scares people, and when I lose that control, everything fucks up and a feeling of unease, of extreme nausea takes over. It took me a half-hour to get back to normal, and enough energy to do so that I was extenuated and went to sleep. Finally.
The next day was even more bizarre. I wasn't really hung over - that, in itself, wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, because I can take alcohol, but I had ingested copious amounts and was at least expecting a migraine - but I couldn't find the energy to move, either. Lying on my couch, watching TV, when a position had become uncomfortable, I had trouble mustering the strength to just shift over a little. And - another rare occurrence in my case - there were blanks in my recollections.
I remembered E wanting to keep our whereabouts secret, but I recalled having even better arguments in demonstrating that it'd just be easier to ready to disclose most of the night and, perhaps, just leave certain elements out of the retrospection - say, a certain lady whose forehead was glued to his and whose ass was taking in the Montréal air when I got there.
It took me hours to remember I'd smoked up, and a while longer to remember the ''special blend''. I was pissed off at myself for having forgotten, and at having agreed to it in the first place. Then I started wondering just what the hell it was; it couldn't have been pot, that's a given. Pot and coke - or pot and crack? It seemed unlikely, there was no ''uplifting'' effect to it, no heightened senses, no added strength, if anything, it was the opposite. And knowing how I have an ''addictive'' personality (weak self-control when it comes to consuming, whether it be simple stuff like goods or food, or others), I do my best to steer clear of hard drugs because I know I'm the type who wouldn't keep it recreational.
It took a few months during which I'd have occasional flashbacks of second-long moments from that night (yet another unusual occurrence) before I'd remember what that familiar feeling had been; it came to me in the most awkward way, too, reading Slash's autobiography... I'll have a complete post about it later, but when I was a teen, I was prescribed Oxycontin to re-balance my system after having been sick all Winter (something like 6 or 7 tonsillitis's in a row combined with a lack of sleep when Spring came)... and Oxycontin is nothing other than a semi-synthetic form of heroin.
Suddenly, it all made sense: the ''lack'' of effect, of smell, of taste... they weren't what I expected, so I didn't see it coming. The feeling from the next day was explained too: I couldn't get myself to do anything, but my brain was feeling fine, it's just my body that couldn't follow.
I still get flashbacks at times that help make the general picture of that evening clearer, pieces of the puzzle that help piece it back together. And, each time, I'm reminded to not take just anything from people I barely know, and, considering the way I am, to stay the fuck away from that substance because the next time could be the last time I enter a situation with my mind intact.
There was a particular night this summer, I must have played a show and then we'd gone to party at the bar near my house afterwards, it's pretty much the only way I can account for my friend, The Big E, to have been there.
The details of what went on before things started fucking up are still hazy today; it could have been a night where the Lady Of The House and My Dad had been there where an old woman came on to me a bit hard, grinding against my leg while I was just sitting calmly and talking with the folks at my table, then proceeding to give me a full-on ''I Touch Myself''-style show on a chair she'd pulled next to me and acting like a stripper (but keeping her clothes on, at least). Eventually, though, she was tossed out of the place, and chances are she ended up fucking some panhandler in an alleyway somewhere.
Then again, it may have been a totally different night. Oddly enough, I mostly remember the details of what happened after we'd all had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. There was this drunk nerdy girl, the type you see in movies - kind of cute but that you're pretty sure that is she took her glasses off she'd perhaps be hot, or maybe she'd be the type to get gang-banged by a boatload of sailors, you never know - anyhow, she was playing pool, for all we knew, but at some point when that ended, she came to sit at our table. By then, The Big E and I were the only ones left.
Beers followed glasses of Jack Daniel's, then beer made a comeback. The girl was visibly way too fucking drunk - and so was E. E doesn't require much - usually a single shot of vodka will help derail his whole night - and, even though he stayed on beer all evening (he dislikes JD), he was way past his point of tolerance. Myself, I was in my comfort zone. Closing time - 3 AM - was rearing its ugly head, and I was just getting started.
Last call came and I ordered us a massive round - two beers each, and a quad-JD (four ounces) more for me. They let us finish our drinks before closing the place down, but apparently my partying mood was contagious. Many of the other customers decided it'd be wise to continue ingesting booze in the alley behind the bar; I went home (not even a block away) to grab a 40-ouncer of JD, that I planned to share with Big E.
When I got back, E and the girl were standing outside the bar's locked door, in full view of any and every passer-by, facing each other, forehead-against-forehead. I wouldn't have a problem with it, despite the girl saying she had a boyfriend for most of the time we were inside - he's no concern of mine - except E's Lady is possibly the closest friend I've had this past year, and I won't let him fuck their relationship up for a drunken tart in a shit-hole local bar - at least have it be something meaningful, for fuck's sake. So, when I'm near enough for them to hear me, I say ''am I interrupting anything?''
- No, E answers, you got here just in time.
- Good, I reply, now let's move out back.
They both get out from in front of the door and start walking ahead of me when I notice she's got the worst Plumber's Crack in the history of mankind - pretty much her whole ass is showing. All I could think was to use my best Denis Leary impression and say ''Pull up your fucking pants!'' while pulling them up; I didn't expect her to be so light, so I lifted her two feet in the air in the process. I can still make 'em fly, I guess.
When we got to the alley, sitting relatively comfortably, the girl doing her best to stick to E like glue, everybody there kept telling him to throw her away. We were all drinking, having a good time, when weed started making the rounds; that killed E and pretty much got him to fall asleep right then and there. I had to convince two girls to escort him home - one who had fake teeth, and her friend. I'll get back to the fake-toothed girl in a later post, she's so worth her own chapter, but we got E the hell out of there while his magnetized date-for-the-evening went to throw up. We got her in a cab before she realized what was happening.
Eventually, as more people left, the more obscure - or at least less public - habits and consumptions came to arrive. A girl we've come to nickname Duncan, coming off giving birth to her first child, and her boyfriend, Scary Bald Punk Dude, started doing lines of coke; that's not my scene at all, though, so I politely refused and kept drinking my Jack.
It wasn't long before more weed made the rounds, and for Duncan to offer me a ''special blend'' she'd just bought, in a pipe (I hate fucking pipes). I didn't take much, because it didn't seem right: no smell, no taste, no real buzz. It didn't feel like anything at all, yet I recognized the feeling - I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Suddenly I felt warm inside, like a fever taking over, but putting my hand to my forehead, I didn't feel a change in temperature; I just went back to my bottle, and to the conversation. By then the sun was coming up, and we all went our separate ways. I got home and was relaxed - but I couldn't sleep. And as my brain was trying to figure out why, my heart was pumping because I couldn't come up with an answer; I can usually control my main body functions to an extent that scares people, and when I lose that control, everything fucks up and a feeling of unease, of extreme nausea takes over. It took me a half-hour to get back to normal, and enough energy to do so that I was extenuated and went to sleep. Finally.
The next day was even more bizarre. I wasn't really hung over - that, in itself, wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, because I can take alcohol, but I had ingested copious amounts and was at least expecting a migraine - but I couldn't find the energy to move, either. Lying on my couch, watching TV, when a position had become uncomfortable, I had trouble mustering the strength to just shift over a little. And - another rare occurrence in my case - there were blanks in my recollections.
I remembered E wanting to keep our whereabouts secret, but I recalled having even better arguments in demonstrating that it'd just be easier to ready to disclose most of the night and, perhaps, just leave certain elements out of the retrospection - say, a certain lady whose forehead was glued to his and whose ass was taking in the Montréal air when I got there.
It took me hours to remember I'd smoked up, and a while longer to remember the ''special blend''. I was pissed off at myself for having forgotten, and at having agreed to it in the first place. Then I started wondering just what the hell it was; it couldn't have been pot, that's a given. Pot and coke - or pot and crack? It seemed unlikely, there was no ''uplifting'' effect to it, no heightened senses, no added strength, if anything, it was the opposite. And knowing how I have an ''addictive'' personality (weak self-control when it comes to consuming, whether it be simple stuff like goods or food, or others), I do my best to steer clear of hard drugs because I know I'm the type who wouldn't keep it recreational.
It took a few months during which I'd have occasional flashbacks of second-long moments from that night (yet another unusual occurrence) before I'd remember what that familiar feeling had been; it came to me in the most awkward way, too, reading Slash's autobiography... I'll have a complete post about it later, but when I was a teen, I was prescribed Oxycontin to re-balance my system after having been sick all Winter (something like 6 or 7 tonsillitis's in a row combined with a lack of sleep when Spring came)... and Oxycontin is nothing other than a semi-synthetic form of heroin.
Suddenly, it all made sense: the ''lack'' of effect, of smell, of taste... they weren't what I expected, so I didn't see it coming. The feeling from the next day was explained too: I couldn't get myself to do anything, but my brain was feeling fine, it's just my body that couldn't follow.
I still get flashbacks at times that help make the general picture of that evening clearer, pieces of the puzzle that help piece it back together. And, each time, I'm reminded to not take just anything from people I barely know, and, considering the way I am, to stay the fuck away from that substance because the next time could be the last time I enter a situation with my mind intact.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Oh Yes: December Sucks
You know what? Maybe it's the Montréal bipolarity taking hold, but after a day of dirty fucking snow and sub-zero weather before December even got here, I have to say: scratch the previous post, this coming month will suck.
I always forget just how much I hate winter until it actually arrives.
I'm not your typical Montrealer who complains that it's too cold in winter and does a complete 180 and says it's too hot in the summer; I bask (and bake) in the 40-degree (115 for our American friends) humidity my island provides me with from June to August because I know how much I hate minus-40 degrees in February... but I forget the extent.
You know how sometimes something pisses you off so much you could hurt someone, or even yourself? Winter turns me into Stalin - that rage, times a million.
It's so cold you could kill AIDS, it's so slippery even hiking boots won't stop you from falling, it gets so messy that your wool socks get a brownish hue; add that to the metal of cars breaking, the asphalt in the streets decomposing by the chunks, snow so heavy it makes rooftops collapse and bridges break, and a hockey team that hasn't won a championship since 1993.
I'm 12 hours away from Day One and I'm already angry and depressed.
Fuck winter.
I always forget just how much I hate winter until it actually arrives.
I'm not your typical Montrealer who complains that it's too cold in winter and does a complete 180 and says it's too hot in the summer; I bask (and bake) in the 40-degree (115 for our American friends) humidity my island provides me with from June to August because I know how much I hate minus-40 degrees in February... but I forget the extent.
You know how sometimes something pisses you off so much you could hurt someone, or even yourself? Winter turns me into Stalin - that rage, times a million.
It's so cold you could kill AIDS, it's so slippery even hiking boots won't stop you from falling, it gets so messy that your wool socks get a brownish hue; add that to the metal of cars breaking, the asphalt in the streets decomposing by the chunks, snow so heavy it makes rooftops collapse and bridges break, and a hockey team that hasn't won a championship since 1993.
I'm 12 hours away from Day One and I'm already angry and depressed.
Fuck winter.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Instant Karma
It sure feels like Scandinavia at this time of year: you can smell the snow begging to drop from the sky, it's dark in mid-afternoon, all sports talk is about winter sports and all arts talk is about dark, depressing art, be it music (heavy stuff like black metal), scary paintings, or black and white pictures.
For a night owl, though, it's an early Christmas.
Kind of makes you wish life were like an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean, where you could drink all day, relax all the time, work if you feel like it, and not feel an ounce of remorse in the process.
My life will be undergoing some massive changes in the near future, mostly filled with people disappearing from it - it won't be a first, but this time I may not have close friends to fall back on like I did all the other times. Not that I don't have friends I love and that I think love me back, just that for the past few years, our ways of life have gone in totally different directions and I wouldn't want to impose my presence more than the twice-a-year habit the last half-decade brought us to.
I used to have three big bunches of friends I'd jump from every season or so, so it never got boring and was always new and fresh - plus I could alternate between English- and French-speaking gangs and not lose one in the process. But now...
With the Lady Of The House moving out, and Alternate Lady Of the House having purchased a faraway house with her long-time boyfriend, my immediate circle of friends went from 3 to 0. Add a best friend in Mexico, one with a one-year old - and a serious day job taking care of invalids and night school to better his financial situation - plus one who is perennially busy and has hundreds of other friends to see, and a music scene of hipsters I disagree with more and more on a daily basis - I'm starting to see my future path open up before me: to see other humans, I'll have no choice but to become a regular barfly at the corner Bar Fullum, like the old guys that seem to have their chairs molded after their asses for having been there too often and for too long.
Or maybe I need a car. Or maybe I need to move. And if I need to move... NYC, or the ocean side? A city filled with strong nightlife, or a quiet beach-side place where I can relax and die? Every time I keep pulling out, they keep pulling me in...
For a night owl, though, it's an early Christmas.
Kind of makes you wish life were like an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean, where you could drink all day, relax all the time, work if you feel like it, and not feel an ounce of remorse in the process.
My life will be undergoing some massive changes in the near future, mostly filled with people disappearing from it - it won't be a first, but this time I may not have close friends to fall back on like I did all the other times. Not that I don't have friends I love and that I think love me back, just that for the past few years, our ways of life have gone in totally different directions and I wouldn't want to impose my presence more than the twice-a-year habit the last half-decade brought us to.
I used to have three big bunches of friends I'd jump from every season or so, so it never got boring and was always new and fresh - plus I could alternate between English- and French-speaking gangs and not lose one in the process. But now...
With the Lady Of The House moving out, and Alternate Lady Of the House having purchased a faraway house with her long-time boyfriend, my immediate circle of friends went from 3 to 0. Add a best friend in Mexico, one with a one-year old - and a serious day job taking care of invalids and night school to better his financial situation - plus one who is perennially busy and has hundreds of other friends to see, and a music scene of hipsters I disagree with more and more on a daily basis - I'm starting to see my future path open up before me: to see other humans, I'll have no choice but to become a regular barfly at the corner Bar Fullum, like the old guys that seem to have their chairs molded after their asses for having been there too often and for too long.
Or maybe I need a car. Or maybe I need to move. And if I need to move... NYC, or the ocean side? A city filled with strong nightlife, or a quiet beach-side place where I can relax and die? Every time I keep pulling out, they keep pulling me in...
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Guess I'm Doing Fine
It's not the first snow storm of the year, it might not even be the second one, but it's the most annoying, for sure. The first one to make me forgo sleep because it'll be more of a bitch to get home and come back to work than just stay here and write.
I'll need caffeine and uppers: Pepsi, Rockstar (pomegranate flavour, with vodka, because it doesn't specify a daily limit I can intake), Wake Ups. To start. Then, in a couple of hours, I'll decide if I need more - or stronger - material. Hopefully not, because I'm more than due for a full night's sleep tonight... seven nights in the making. Wouldn't want my day's consumption to ruin the night I so rightfully deserve.
I'm seeing birds flying in the top-right corner of my right eye, my left eye feels like it's covered in Vaseline, my balance is off a bit; I probably look like a drunk when I walk the hallways going to washroom.
My headphones are on, and ironically '80s-style goth-rock fills my ears, adding to the sense that I'm out of synch with the world; Joy Division's Transmission, And One's Military Fashion Show, The Cure's The Blood... never has the 'random' feature been so focused.
My stomach grawls, as wretched gases fight to leave my body's premises. I'm freezing one minute, boiling the next. Outside, the world is not only covered in white Artic Leftovers but actually drowning in it, not inch by inch but foot by foot. Sitting inside, ten feet from the windowsill, I wonder if death will feel this weird, if I'm nearing it somehow with my decadent lifestyle. I wouldn't be ready, that's for sure.
To think two months ago I was in Cuba, the one place on earth that makes you truly wonder about divinity, but also the one place where you wouldn't need it.
My body is doing all it can to shut down. My eyes close, my brain blinks, my mouth won't open. Nine more hours and it'll be smooth sailing. Cold sweat covers me, shivers take over, a wonderful piece of machinery that needs to rest.
Beck comes on, with Guess I'm Doing Fine. Figures.
I'll need caffeine and uppers: Pepsi, Rockstar (pomegranate flavour, with vodka, because it doesn't specify a daily limit I can intake), Wake Ups. To start. Then, in a couple of hours, I'll decide if I need more - or stronger - material. Hopefully not, because I'm more than due for a full night's sleep tonight... seven nights in the making. Wouldn't want my day's consumption to ruin the night I so rightfully deserve.
I'm seeing birds flying in the top-right corner of my right eye, my left eye feels like it's covered in Vaseline, my balance is off a bit; I probably look like a drunk when I walk the hallways going to washroom.
My headphones are on, and ironically '80s-style goth-rock fills my ears, adding to the sense that I'm out of synch with the world; Joy Division's Transmission, And One's Military Fashion Show, The Cure's The Blood... never has the 'random' feature been so focused.
My stomach grawls, as wretched gases fight to leave my body's premises. I'm freezing one minute, boiling the next. Outside, the world is not only covered in white Artic Leftovers but actually drowning in it, not inch by inch but foot by foot. Sitting inside, ten feet from the windowsill, I wonder if death will feel this weird, if I'm nearing it somehow with my decadent lifestyle. I wouldn't be ready, that's for sure.
To think two months ago I was in Cuba, the one place on earth that makes you truly wonder about divinity, but also the one place where you wouldn't need it.
My body is doing all it can to shut down. My eyes close, my brain blinks, my mouth won't open. Nine more hours and it'll be smooth sailing. Cold sweat covers me, shivers take over, a wonderful piece of machinery that needs to rest.
Beck comes on, with Guess I'm Doing Fine. Figures.
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