About a week ago, my oldest brother checked in on the all-ages situation. My neice, 15, had asked if she could go to an all ages gig in Calgary. Hell, I said, at 15, mom let me go to see The Clash in the summer between grades nine and ten. With mason jars full of shitmix and fake cigarettes of skunk, we bussed over the Second Narrows bridge to the PNE grounds. Angela passed out as we entered the doors -- she spent the whole concert in the medics' area while the rest of us (Andrea, Erin, and I) found our seats high in the blues. This was fine for the opening act, but when The Clash hit the stage, Andrea and I had to be on the floor. Remember, we were barely 15, barely scraping the 5 foot mark on any measuring tape. The crowd on the floor ungulfed us, swept us forward until we reached the boards, where they pressed their collective weight into our rib cages. I thought I was going to shatter there, until a security guard grabbed the two of us and hauled us over. It was the last song. White Riot. In the stillness of that space between crowd and stage, Andrea and I knew what we had to do next. And as we climbed on stage, twenty others made it up too. We held hands so we wouldn't lose each other in the mellee, so one wouldn't be tossed back into the crowd without the other. And I remember finding myself directly behind Joe Strummer, and reaching out and touching his back before the song ended. What a strange, strange emptiness it is when heroes die.
I’ve never made a best of list before. I will make one now. It won’t take you too long to figure out the subject.
1. Interpol – September 14th. I’d heard little before Chris and I made our way to the Royal Hotel, but somehow I knew this was a show not to be missed. Local openers The Organ were outstanding, local middle-group Radio Berlin were, um, adequate and posey, but when Interpol took the stage despite having just had their guitars stolen from the back room, they were like cult leaders driving us all to the banks for rebaptism to our misspent youths. The crowd was sweaty, the room sweltering, and as we each looked at one another, we knew this was not to be matched again.
2. Flaming Lips – December 1st. If you’ve seen this show, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, well, you really have to see it to believe it.
3. The International Noise Conspiracy/The Hives – December 8th, 2001. Yeah, I’m sneaking in a show from last year, but then it doesn’t say anywhere that I can’t start the year from this night. Because this was the night Howlin’ Pele did just that: "Get up and dance to our next song because it will be a huge hit and you will feel like an idiot if you don’t dance now." Or something to that effect. My Swedish pride soared.
4. Do Make Say Think – October 24th. Wholesome Canadian goodness.
5. South – March 4th. The first show I went to by myself while on a business trip to Toronto. Elbow played too; they were less great, come to think of it.
6. Low. – November 7th. Highlighted by the fact that Paul and I ate next to the band at a tiny sushi place beforehand.
7. American Analog Set – July 21st. Their last tour before they split up. Not enough AAS, too much Her Space Holiday.
8. 80 Proof Yob – June 7th-ish. Not so much for the show itself as for the after-affects. Spending a little time in a relationship never hurt nobody. No, wait, that’s completely wrong sometimes.
9. Beck – December 1st. Oh, Beck. You break my heart now that you’re single and singing these sad, sad songs. You know they say so much. But a little audience interaction wouldn’t kill you.
10. Ashes – August 21st. This was a trial showcase before the real showcase in LA for a local wunder-group that was set to hit it big, only the band imploded on this night in a fiery mess of accusation and world-class pouting. Now that’s Rock’n’roll!!
The reverse:
1. Sonic Youth – August 31st. I wasn’t doing the three-day novel that weekend, but I was working on a Yakkity Yak script. Damn my Protestant work ethic, because I missed Sonic Youth!! With Jim O’Rourke in the band!!
2. Wilco – September 1st. See above stupidity.
3. Bright Eyes – October 19th. This is the one that really kills me, because I even had a ticket and a friend to go with and it was a Saturday night. Why o why did I jam out? I can’t even remember. I must have blocked that terrible memory to protect my fragile psyche.
4. Spiritualized/BMRC- April 1st. I don’t know. I just don’t know.
5. Both David Cross (May 30th) and Mr. Show (October 12th). Okay, I had a family thing on the night of October 12th, so I’m off the hook for lameness there. But May 30th? I had to wash my hair?
6. Trail of Dead. I missed this show not once (New York), not twice (Montreal), but three (Vancouver) times. However, on the night of the show in Montreal, I was in a bar across the street, and 3/4 of the band stumbled over and were obnoxious and boorish, so maybe it wasn’t such a significant miss after all.
7. Sigur Ros – November 27th. I did catch them last time around. And it was amazing. So, actually, I’m not really that regretful that I didn’t see them last month.
8. The Liars/YeahYeahYeahs – September 25th. I got all cheap and didn’t want to pay $35 to see these two bands just because they were opening for JSBX, whom I’ve seen enough already.
9. DJ Shadow – June 9th. It was in Seattle, alright. I had no way to get there and get back for work in time, alright. Yeah, I’m disappointed in me too.
10. Queens of the Stone Age – June 12th. Grohl would make a fine last name. It could happen.
Rules for Human Companionship
1. Compliment sincerely.
2. Always speak positively about the other, especially in front of common friends.
3. Keep big future plans -- accomplish some of them.
4. Always call with something to say and a reason to get off the phone.
5. Learn to care about what they are interested in.
6. Keep small secrets, but nothing of any consequence; otherwise, total honesty.
7. Make sure you look into their eyes when you speak to them.
8. Accept them for their humanity.
9. Give them anything they want.
10. Accept their friends and family like your own.
1. I’ve never dated an armchair quarterback. The men of my past have been decidedly non-sporto – they couldn’t name players, statistics, hell, most of them would have thought a puck was a paperweight (except those who recognized it as the shape from their childhood days of collecting popsicle sticks for Peter Puck stuff.). I’ve never had to sigh and take my books to the bedroom on Saturday afternoons when the TV hit all-sports-weekend-jocko-extravaganzas (that’s what they’re called, right?), or lose their attention to overhead televisions in airport bars, or include team jerseys in the colours wash.
In Canada, it isn’t so much sports as "sport", and it’s such a cliché. We make commercials about it, we make jokes about it – come on, other countries make jokes about it. But still, swing a stinking gear duffelbag in this country and you’ll hit some guy who can rattle off Guy Lafleur’s career highlights.
Sure, there are women who are into sports (huh?), and sure, there are chicks like me who could care less which team won last night or who got traded where. Then there are those women who end up dating sportos, the ones who tolerate the weekend barrage, who learn a few names, memorize a few stats, try to understand how the hockey pool works, and decide this sports thing is a trade-off for the fact that she gets moody sometimes. My long-standing long stance against finding myself in this situation is coming under self-sanctioned scrutiny.
2. I, at the adult age of 33, took a roll of toilet paper from work. I didn’t "borrow" it -- I mean, I have no plans to replenish the supply or anything. I knew I was running out at home (a mismanagement of squares due to the on slaught of sniffly sicknesses) and I knew I was too lazy to get to the drugstore before Saturday, so I had two choices: take the roll, or construct some sort of Moroccan sink-to-toilet hose to stopgap the paper shortage (while an interesting system, I think it would still require some sort of blotter material to absorb the water, no?) Thanks to Todd for reminding me of this under-rated workplace perk.
Him: So what part of the city are you living in?
Me: City Hall.
Him: Would you live outside the city?
Me: Sure. It’d have to be somewhere worthwhile on the weekends.
Him: How about Indian Arm?
Me: Indian Arm would work.
Him: Kids?
Me: Adopt. One. Maybe have one. Definitely adopt one.
Him: You wouldn’t want to have one first?
Me: Not unless I met the right guy.
Him: Do you want to come to my staff Christmas party tomorrow night?
Me: Wait a second, we haven’t even covered the important stuff. Like music.
*an excerpt from an work in progress. Slow progress.
Ten minutes before the experimental Finnish film began, I scanned the crowd -- the boys I knew, the ones I didn't, and the ones I'd just had the pleasure of meeting -- and thought to myself "I should date a guy who'd go to experimental Finnish films with me." And also schlock. I suppose it's like in those personals ads when men declare they're looking for a woman who can go from hiking gear in the afternoon to a formal gown at night. I'm waiting for the same thing on the level of intellect.
Ten minutes after the experimental Finnish film began, his unmistakable silhouette crossed through the beam of light as he searched for an available seat. Him? The last guy I dated, the one I lost interest in because I felt like we had too little cross-over in the realm of abstract fascinations. Heh. Oops.
I thought I had it pretty good because I get to include the following in an episode for one of our shows:
Next, still believing Tommy is a witch, the townsfolk weigh several gases against Tommy’s – Tommy’s is lighter – and because witches are lighter than air, he’s most likely a witch! Tommy claims it was the garden salad he had for lunch.
That is, until I was reading a first draft of another episode, and realized another writer has it better because he gets to include the action direction: "Yvon lets out the biggest fart ever in the history of the series". Damn, you can't beat that!
The bad: I've just spent 45 minutes in the Bank of Hong Kong queue to deposit a cheque for my mother. Egads man, that was one surly line of people. Well, I guess they were surly -- I was going by gestures and gesticulations as I never learned "What the fuck is the hold-up?" in my Cantonese classes.
The good: Confirmed. Vegasbabyvegas for New Year's. Granted, it's with my mom and my aunt, but those two will probably drink me under the table and out-gamble me at every turn. My Bavarian cousin, whose personal style is a Haufbrau version of Elizabeth Taylor, is friends with either Sigfried or Roy. She tried to get us tickets to no avail. I'm sure we'll have no difficulty finding our own fun, but then again, I've never been to Vegas so I have no idea what to expect other than where CSI cases are involved. So if you've been, and you have some wealth of knowledge, pass it on. The casinos, the buffets, the debauchery, the outlet malls. I'm game for anything.
It’s a sad, sad fact that Pollstar lists nothing for the next few months. After last night, though, I can’t really complain. There are few things better than sitting in the aisle, dead centre, while Beck croons Lonesome Tears. One of those better things is the live spectacle that is Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots Pt. I. The singing nun! The fake blood! The dancing folks in fuzzy animal costumes waving flashlights. I literally gave thanks on this weekend of US thanksgiving for the existence of Wayne Coyne.
In other news, I broke the spell of The Ring by dying of fear at 3:30 pm on Sunday afternoon. That, and watching Ringu II on Friday night. I can’t quite pinpoint why The Ring freaked my pants so heavily (a term coined by my nephew at four years of age), perhaps it was the use of sound, the flipping mirror, or maybe the close proximity of the shooting location to my own backyard. Or perhaps it’s the fact that The Changeling still ranks in as one of my more favoured horror films and how The Ring taps into the same storyline, but without the ease of redemption. So, in an act of complete masochism, I rented Ringu II, hoping to find some resolution. Between moments of rewinding whole sections because the subtitles were lost as white-against-white, I slowly fought off the grip of The Ring. That is, until I realized, when unable to skip from scene to scene on the DVD, that I was watching a copied disc. So if anyone is interested in seeing Ringu II, let me know before Friday.
