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).

Stéphanie: Girl Of My Dreams

Because you never know how or when a chapter of your life might end, it's always tricky to get started writing about it. But it never pays to wait too long, because you might forget crucial details or its termination might bring a sour taste in your mouth that will melt the good times from your brain forever.

This one though, was a big piece: my quest and obsession of the late 90s, my luck and love of the 2000s.

It's hard to pinpoint an exact date at which it started, because it seems we were often in the same area at the same time - even in the same building often enough - from the late 80s onwards, when I played a handful of shows at local dive La Brique despite being well underage. But that one's unlikely, if only because I was so young and she wasn't even legal yet either, and girls on the verge of adulthood in bars tend to hang around with older men, not younger ones.

So that brings me to the late 90s when I moved to the Plateau. The closest and best supermarket was only a few blocks away, a mid-sized Provigo where we'd both shop. I was single and enjoying life, at school during the day, rocking out in bars and hanging with a large group of friends at night, and working at my first dream job (L'Échange) the rest of the time; she was dating Fernando, a body-building jobless ape who apparently cheated on her all the time.

I don't remember when - but I sure remember how and why it was that she caught my eye; she had everything I ever wanted in a girl, the best of them all; top-notch quality everything. Long, flowing curly brown locks, a piercing stare from blue-green eyes, curves that would make a TV car commercial highway jealous - and breasts bigger than my hands can handle.

Problem is, the Ice Storm happened (bet you can't wait until that one's explained - as with my stint at L'Échange, it'll be in later posts) and created a shit storm in my life that led me to move to NYC and, later, move in with my mom at l'Île Perrot, then with my new-found dad and grandma in Pointe-Aux-Trembles for a summer - all while straddling one College and two universities in two languages.

Time passed and I ended up living in the Centre-Sud district in time for New Year's 2000, attending Université De Montréal. It turns out that a few fellow Cinema students also lived in my neighbourhood - and they all worked at Vidéo 20/20, two blocks from my place, open 24/7. I'd rent stuff there all the time, mostly at night as per my lifestyle (and because I was at school during the day) and eventually made friends with the night worker. He wouldn't give me free movies, but we'd drink beer and order pizza and eat it there during his shift, using the ice cream fridge as a table.

And because karma has a way of making things go full circle before spinning a complete 180, I started a habit of returning the films during the day, on my way to school and, lo and behold, who was the assistant manager? The afore-mentioned Girl Of My Dreams. She was going through changes in her life and they were reflected in her physical appearance: weight loss, sudden blondness (meh) and an eventual short-haired blondness (doh!)...

There was also one instance where a movie I had returned ('It', the TV miniseries based on the Stephen King book, in double-VHS format) hadn't registered in the computer (something you have to expect when the worker is a drinking buddy - during his shifts!), and she didn't believe that I had returned it, so she actually went downstairs to verify that it was, indeed, there. She thought I was ripping her off!

In any event, time passes, and one of the friends I'd made there, Norm, becomes my flatmate. It's early July 2000, and since many of the store's staff are celebrating moving into new apartments, they decided to celebrate at a local dive - L'Astral 2000 (no, they haven't updated their name to keep up with the times). Being one's roommate, I'm also invited. As luck would have it, the seating arrangements have me positioned between Norm and Stéphanie, as he would introduce her to me - the Girl Of My... you get the idea.

I think I recall there was a ''singer'' performing, the type of fucker who sings cover songs and is backed by a terrible Casio keyboard, but thankfully not loud enough to drown out our conversations or make us want to drink elsewhere. There was, however, this one dude, much older (think late 50s, early 60s), looking like a much older Jimmy from South Park, who wouldn't stop hitting on her - he was also a video store customer; she pretended I was her boyfriend (classic) to make him go away, and from then on, to help the story stick, she made sure to pay more attention to me than anyone else at our table.

When 3AM came around, two girls invited themselves to my place so we could continue the party - Stéphanie and her roommate and employee Mélanie; additionally, Norm brought a chick over, our friend (also in film school with us) Louis' ex-girlfriend, nicknamed ''The Star'' for her knack for lying on her back and not moving an inch during sex. Norm and The Star promptly went to his room, while me and the prettier ladies moved into mine, a luxurious double-length room with adjoined living room that made for a nice suite all to myself.

As we drank more and talked, time flew by, and Mélanie decided to go home to sleep. Eventually, Stéphanie and I made our way into my bed, and at least one of us was in it for the next 96 hours - that's 4 days, genius.

The rest of the summer was more of the same: if we weren't at work (and, most of the time, I wasn't), out drinking, or eating, we were fucking. My birthday - and September, i.e. Fall - came along, and we realized we were, pretty much, dating.

I had bagged my Dream Girl, and she had stayed; she was mine.

And, of course, all dreams end.

Another Day, Another Armed Conflict

It's Rememberance Day here, Veterans' Day in the U.S. of A. As per every year, my thoughts are scattered; since 2003, of course, it's between Iraq - and a hard place.

Like Edwin Starr, I think war is fucked up, rarely benefits average humans, always profits those who are in no danger of getting into the line of fire.



On the other hand, though, I do feel having an army is necessary, and I do feel the need to think of our soldiers, help them any way we can, take care of them as a country, as people, as some of the bravest citizens we have.

But their duty is to defend the homeland. Against potential assaults (for now), against the eventual assaults of our enemies, and our now-allies, should they become enemies.

They have to defend us against invasion, but also protect our lives, our infrastructures, our resources, our water, our melting Northern territories that will soon unveil water passages and be rich in minerals.

And in times when none of that is happening, they can also help out in other respects - clearing the snow off Toronto's streets (ha!), or when they helped out the whole province during the Ice Storm of '98.

It's as important to have them here as it is to support them; having them elsewhere should always only be for a limited time, never more than 6 or 9 months at a time (per mission, for the whole country, not per person) - because their main duty is to the homeland.

While half of my uncles are cops, my grandfather was in the military; he didn't lose any limbs, and only came back from a war with alcoholism, which wasn't all that new in his case, just more severe. But as he came here, October 1970 came along and he followed orders: he was forced to confront people he shared opinions with and arrest them, then lock them up.

And he did it because it was his job; he didn't agree with his boss (the Prime Minister), and he almost fully agreed with the protesters (maybe not with the most extreme of them planting bombs in mailboxes, though), but he felt that if he did his job to the letter like a stand-up man, that if those he supported politically ever came to power, it would serve as proof that he would do everything he could to stand by them as well. It was a show of civil duty and civic pride.

It's people like him we have to celebrate our military for, not the wars they were in, the politicians who forced them to be there, the targets they destroyed, or the fuckers who act liek animals and ruin the rest's reputations.

Proud, stand-up people respectful of the authority figures on our home soil; strong, dedicated people who will stand in the line of fire to protect the rest of us even if one order they're following makes them tick; professionals trained to defend us with whatever they have on hand.

I Hate Moving

I hate fucking moving. Everything about it. Yet I can't escape it, it's been with me all my life. By the time I was a year old, ONE, I had already moved, probably more than once. By the time I was three, I'd moved again. Five? Moved. Six was fine, but seven? Moved. Twice.

That was the beginning of a sequence where we'd move either six times in five years or five in six, I'm not sure, but always in the same neighbourhood - all within a few blocks.

And then... all through high school... just one house. The house of my dreams, as it were, with a basement, a main floor that housed a living room (with a fireplace), a dining room, a kitchen, a toilet and a large vestibule (in addition to front and back porches), and a second floor that had three rooms, a front porch and a back veranda. Old, natural wood - everywhere.

But as soon as high school was over, more moving. A year across from NDG park where, younger, I'd spent most of my days playing hockey in the winter and baseball in the summer - and hanging with my dope-dealing friends. Then a year back on Melrose - across the street from my dream house - a tease, as it were.

Then my apartment in the Plateau - the one that good flooded when the Ice Storm hit, in January of '98.

Then came, more or less, a series of more-or-less crashing at people's places and couch-surfing that led me everywhere from Île Perrot to NYC to Pointe-Aux-Trembles to the Plateau again (with many a night in Ste-Julie), before settling in in the neighbourhood I am in now, just in time for New Year's 2000...

But, of course, staying in the same 'hood doesn't mean I didn't change apartments... De Rouen, Logan, Fullum, Joliette, Ontario...5 places in a little over 9 years. And unless something drastic and dramatic happens in the relatively near future, it looks like I'll have to move again in the next 6 months or so.

And moving's such a bitch on some many levels. Packing and unpacking (for a while, I just left most of my stuff in boxes 'cause I knew I'd be out of there before long), either getting people to help out or finding movers, who always happen to cost close to the same as the first month's rent.

And now, after years of alternating living on my own, with roommates, with girlfriends - I have more furniture than my cats and I need, and a whole floor of things I care more about than furniture packed in boxes because I have no room for them on the main floor. And, ironically, that's the stuff I'm trying to get rid of, to sell - everything I have that has some value and that doesn't fit as decoration on my walls and desks. And they're in boxes already, yeah, but I'm no longer sure if all the good stuff's in its own box or if it's mixed with the more common useless stuff, and the only way to find out is to open and empty the boxes...

A few years back, I tried to clear my head and be able to get rid of most of my material possessions. I had over 3000 CDs and 4 guitars, and was so proud of them; I couldn't imagine myself leaving them behind. Now, with the advent of 1TB hard drives, who needs CDs when a backsack of hard drives can house even more music than that? But then, what do I do with the CDs themselves, with the thousands of dollars I put in them?

But I can slip a few hard drives in a bag, and carry an electric and an acoustic guitar and be on my merry way, with little attachments, should the need arise. All I need to do, if I can, is get rid of my other electric and my bass - and my keyboard. That used to bother me, but no longer.

If I could sell my superfluous stuff, maybe I'd buy a laptop and move back to NYC, or couch-surf for a few months. Or head to Gaspésie and shack up for winter. But with a protable computer, portable music, and a couple of guitars, I think I could be happy and make do with anything that would arise.

I think.

I hope.