The Pound

Just got back from a Bruleurs get together, and love ‘em as I do I have to say things are slow. I know there are a lot of burners in town, but the critical mass of a bunch of them all in once place at one time doesn’t seem to happen much. Which brings me to…

The Pound

This is my place, the greatest place I’ve found so far in Montreal. The Pound is so fucking magical its hard to describe. Anything can happen. Its so open and chaotic and bubbling with potential and creativity. I’m seriously bummed that I’m not going this week due to work. It truly is the highlight of my week.

So, the plan is to try and mix the ingredients. Get Burners to the Pound. Get people from the Pound involved in Burner kind of stuff. Heck. If I can mix some UE into it all who knows what’ll happen!

Party at my place. Soon.

The Wild Wild Web

I don’t think I understood all the hullabaloo over net neutrality until I had to get an Internet connection at my new apartment. Now granted its an unusual space. Hundred year old factories turned loft apartments aren’t your everyday install, but its led me to some interesting places…

First Bell tells me I can’t get DSL here. Initially I accepted that and took their second option which turns out to be wireless transmission from their central office over on Atwater. Well the signal is crappy and inconsistent, move the receiver a millimetre and it loses the signal, not to mention I have to put it in the window upstairs which is incredibly inconvenient. Even without touching it the bandwidth wobbles around wildly and I’ve had two outtages within the first week. Great job Bell.

Enter Videotron. The installer showed up today then couldn’t find the cable box. Now in all fairness I understand that this building is kind of hodge podge, but, you’d think that after the first half dozen installs that Videotron might set things up properly, or at least have comments on file attached to the address explaining what’s going on. After wandering around with the installer for an hour he finally left without having done anything.

Then I start the research, and this is where I really start to see the shady undertones of the whole thing, that is on top of the total incompetence of the major players.

I can’t get Limewire or SoulSeek to work on my Internet connection, because Bell/Sympatico blocks them. A bit of research reveals that pretty much all the major players are “shaping” or “throttling” Internet traffic with impunity deciding what you can and can’t do and how much you can do it. Self imposed data police. Great.

Of course it gets even better. In the spirit of competition Bell and Rogers and their ilk are obligated to let independents play on their systems as well. Unfortunately they’re continuing to shape and throttle the accounts of users under their competitors - which kind of eliminates the point of competition and creates a… dare I say it… a duopoly cartel that can use its muscle to keep anyone else from getting a foot in the door.

And it gets better. People switching from say Bell to an independent ISP frequently find their speed drastically reduced, even though their Internet is coming from the exact same infrastructure. That’s right Bell “accidentally” changes your circuit to a slower setting. Oops.

The more I read the more disgusted I get.

So I’m cancelling both Bell and Videotron and going with Teksavy. Sure its coming from Bell copper, but at least they only get part of the money.

Oh, did I mention that it took Bell over two weeks to get my Internet to me in the first place? Bra-fucking-vo.

Too Strange for Waking Life

When I woke up the first time my room was dark. Twilight strode in through the window, making everything little more than muted greys, blacks and that blue that comes from Hollywood night scenes. As I blinked awake I noticed three distinct, tiny coils of smoke in the corner of the room by the dresser, and something moving. There in the darkness, no more than a foot tall was a woman in tight army fatigues and holsters wielding some sort of weapon which she had just shot at me three times.

This isn’t real.

I’m dreaming.

Sweet!

I leapt out of my dream bed in my dream body and proceeded to throw this comic book figured woman - who was by now full sized into the door and proceeded with a furious makeout session, ready and eager for my first lucid dream fuck.

In all the excitement I managed to wake myself up a second time, this time in my real body and my real bed. Frustrated but excited I willed myself back to sleep, and in moments I was experiencing another false awakening in my dream room. What woke me up but something attacking me through the sheets, rushing and scurrying around the room!

After frantic tussling amongst pillows and sheets on the bed and onto the floor I found myself face to face with some sort of rat/badger thing - oddly reminiscent of the coke badger from Its All Gone Pete Tong.

Oh fuck…

I stood up, oblivious to the little monster and tried flicking the lightswitch a couple of times. No response from the lights in the room.

I’m dreaming again.

I wake up — again — for real.

So goes my first foray into lucid dreaming. Apparently it isn’t willpower, careful intention when going to bed or dream masks that bring on the lucid state - rather it seems like a week of drinking and backwards sleeping habits does the trick.

Or maybe I just got lucky. My friend who was staying with me in Montreal for the week told me that I’d been talking in my sleep a few nights before which is something I don’t normally do, so maybe there was already something going on with my sleep state.

In any case I’m confident that it’ll be easier to revisit the lucid dream world now that I’ve finally pierced the veil for the first time. The first thing to work on will be maintaining my composure while lucid dreaming so I don’t wake myself up from a flight across an alien skyline or sex with a room full of Amazon warriors. This will just naturally become easier with time.

The journey begins…

Titles Suck

Blogging really is a cruel passtime, not entirely sure why I do it, besides the obvious inflated ego. I mean really, when its dry its dry - nothing to report on, zilch of interest, just ho hum. Then a ton of things happen and you’re too busy to write about them and feel hopelessly overwhelmed when finally you decide to put fingers to keyboard. Aye. Well, such this is being of the latter. How’s that for craptastic English?

First things first. The move is on. I have to say a big fucking merciful thanks to the ditz who manages my building for letting me move in a week early. What a fucking Godsend. With memories of stuffing my car to absolute capacity for the drive across country its a relief to only jam a managable number of boxes into its every orifice for a multitude of short trips to deck the place out. I’ve done two loads and I think I have two more, the second just because I have no Internet set up there yet so I’m going to leave this humming strumming machine on this desk until the last possible moment, otherwise I lose all of you wonderful people. Yeah fuck whatever.

Its big, its empty, it echoes like a motherfucker. I need furniture and appliances like nobody’s business. But I’m a cheapskate so aside from a bed I intend to pay little to nothing for all my new stuff. That’s what the curb is for. The dumpster diving ban is officially lifted and I can’t pretend I’m not thrilled. I already scored a corner planter thingy that sort of fits the steampunk aesthetic I think I’m going to go for. Next trip is to the wealthy Anglo neighbourhood of Westmount. Oh yeah…

Next off is last Thursday night at the Pound. Good times. Jan wasn’t there but the other German was with his Belgian friend in tow. I love how Montreal is kind of a default Europe where I get to meet all sorts of ex-pats and visiting Euros on their way through the crass joke that is America. Why travel when the people come to you? Of course Alex and Dave were there as well, along with Jacob and the usual Pound “staff.” Everyone got invites to my house warming, Maud got two because I was so baked by the end of the night I couldn’t really remember what was going on. We played soccer in the back during one of the sets. That’s what I love about the Pound, its just freewheeling. There was a dog too, no idea…

I ended up sleeping in a nest of coats at the new apartment since its a shorter walk there than it is to the place on Fullum. It may sound uncomfortable, but when you have a dozen coats for every possible ocassion from cyber-punk invasion to Siberian death marches you’re talking about a lot of padding.

So I worked though a hangover Friday afternoon dreading my later night obligations. See I’d agreed to help volunteer at an event Friday night for a woman off of Tribe, mostly out of curiosity as to what her events looked and felt like. What I really wanted though was a chance to sleep, not minding the door from 11pm until 2am. Well truth be told it was one of the best things I did because it was like wandering into a dome tent at Burning Man around Destiny and 8:30. The vibe was amazing. Definitely on the hippy end of the spectrum, but after the punk DIY sense of the Pound it was the perfect pendulum swing. I got a rhythmic massage (which finally seems to have solved that kink I’ve had ever since a wave in the Dominican took me and thrust me headfirst into the beach like a reluctantly terrified ostrich), then had some wonderfully open and honest dialogue with some truly beautiful people, danced a bit and… oh hell. Got to oogle four of the sexiest young women I’ve seen in a long, long time.

Unfortunately I got stuck there until almost three thirty, my damn volunteer gene kicking in and making me stay to help clean up even though I had to be up to work today. But it was all for the best, with no kink in my back and still wafting throught he scent of that wonderful vibe I had a great day at work, at once focussed and calm, fully able to express myself and have fun.

So now I’m packing the last of my things to load into the car tomorrow morning and bring to the loft on my way to work. Everything is proceeding beautifully. Life is good. Montreal is good. Things will only get better. Wheeeee!

WANTED: Mechanic Friend

Position to be filled immediately. Must have working knowledge of Japanese imports from the mid-1990’s. Must be thorough and take pride in their work. Must be patient and able to explain work in layman’s terms. Ideally is willing to work side by side with the vehicle owner on fixing issues, forcing said white collar schlep to get his hands dirty.

Willing to work for cost of components plus hefty helpings of beer, pizza, poutine and the occasional buddy pass.

Must be genuinely passionate about cars.

Applicants with an interest in art cars will be given special consideration.

Just spent $70 at Canadian Tire to be told they didn’t really feel like my car needed any work, despite the fact my gas mileage has gone down by 10%-20% in the past four months. Some cursory reading of information on the Internet on automotives gives me some idea of things that might need looking at. Not likely I’ll trust it to a bunch of twats who get paid by the hour and don’t have any relationship with the car owner though. Fuck that.

Burning Man is…

…an event taking place on Saturday night at Zone Tour #22.

Wire Art?

I’ve been thinking about building some kind of wireframe art for a while along the lines of this piece by artist Benedict Radcliffe though going with something a bit smaller… maybe. Anyways in my research to find out exactly what kind of wire coat hangars are made of (an ideal mix of strength and malleability) I found something, well, cool. Behold, coat hangars work just as good as high priced audio cables! Well shit. That’s fucking awesome. Instead of going out and buying expensive cable for the Living Room Cinematheque’s audio setup I think I’ll just rig up some kind of horribly complex steampunk contraption instead. A complicated wire sculpture winding around the ceiling and walls might be just what the doctor ordered, and why stop there? Why not add homemade variable resistors and other techniquities along the way?

While the rest of the world tries its best to go completely wireless I’m going to embrace the most primitive wiring I can imagine and turn it into installation art. All the better if there’s a shock hazard (sadly I can’t find the article on art designed to nearly injure spectators, but think Survival Research Laboratories and you’ll understand my muse a bit better). What better way to keep houseguests on their toes?

Nuit Blanche

Seeing as I’m a bit too lazy at the moment I’ll let someone else do the talking on this particular subject. If you close your eyes and wish the cold away you can almost imagine that its Burning Man. Something of the same vibe. Sorta.

Nuit Blanche by Midnight Poutine

Its in the dictionary

Merriam Webster to be precice. Pynchonesque. Its a word. The English police said so.

Oddly enough though there are films, sentimental personal effects, a beautiful old projector and other rare and valuable things coming to me soon in an old chest, the thing I think I’ll be most excited to break out is my copy of Gravity’s Rainbow. Pynchon you son of a bitch - its been far too long.

I’ve just read two reviews of the author’s newest book, one from the New York Times claimed it felt more like a homage to Pynchon by a wannabe than a great work of art. The other review from some obscure UK publication painted a picture in all of Pynchon’s proper colour and forms. Pynchon’s books aren’t literature as we know it. They’re something else. Forced to classify I’d almost rate them as psychotropics and anyone who’s a true conniseur of drugs knows that you need to go into the trip with the right intention and mindset.

I think digging my oculars into a Pynchonian tome is just what my mushy little mellon needs about now, after being shrink wrapped, freeze dried and custom cut for the corporate world I’ve been inhabiting for the past few months. Its causing the death of me. I feel like I’ve been eating mental cardboard. Here I’m trying to be creative and witty and this is all I can produce. Laughable. But still…

I was inspired by skimming the contents of an inferior book, if you can call things that dont’ really inhabit the same genus superior or inferior to each other. Anyhow after reading a few pages of tripe and imagining better ways to write the same thing I realised I needed some literary sniffing salts. So I looked up Pynchon on the web.

But let’s break from all that to something not altogether unrelated. Burning Man. Speaking of disconnected narratives, the human menagerie, drugs, sex and alternate scientific possibilities for the soul - Burning Man. Has Pynchon ever gone? Considered it? Bah! Useless to ask. Just go on with the story. Okay.

I’ve noticed that when I dream of Black Rock City (and this happened only last night) that nowadays there is a pervasive impending threat. Out there by the trash fence, at the edge, where there and here meet. What do I see? Condos. No word of a lie. Legoland condo developments with their legoland inhabitants - you know, the ones with the switchable hair/hats? Yeah. Fucking condos man. They steal UE and they’re threatening to steal Black Rock.

Its interesting that for me the condo is the embodiment of all things banal, conformist and evil. Mass produced huksterism with nary a thought for the actual future or quality thereof. Am I a throwback or what? And to think I almost bought one. Holy Shit! That’s a great art project!

This terror can’t be mine alone! What about a giant billboard at the trash fence advertizing the pre-sale of Black Rock codominiums! Oh motherfucker what brilliance! Eris send me horrors that I may make them into art!

Further proof that ANYTHING can be reframed.

Good night.

Irregular Operations - March 8th, 2008

“Armageddon!” came the cry through the radio amidst the roar of gale force winds. “Armageddon!”

It was the desperate voice of one of the ground crew at Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport last night as we were hit by the most intense storm I have ever seen. A wall of snow barrelled into the airport at a hundred kilometers an hour and didn’t relent in its onslaught for the entire night. Visibility was zero, the windows shook and the wind whistled through every microscopic crack and opening. It goes without saying that nothing was taking off or landing.

The storm was so intense that at least one major highway connecting the airport to downtown was shut down. Shuttle services stopped and the line for taxis downstairs was over four hours long. All hotels within ten miles of the airport were booked solid, not that it mattered since you couldn’t go anywhere anyways.

We were up problem shooting with guests until two am, hours after all the other airline staff had given up and gone into hiding. All around us the stranded were sleeping, playing cards, one young man was even meditating. There were people everywhere, on benches, the floor, on the baggage belts, behind counters, then when we finally went upstairs to escape from it all, it went on. All through the hallways of the administration building people sleeping on the floor, clutching greedily to blankets from the fire department. It was an obstacle course to get to the office trying not to hit a blonde woman in the head when you opened the door.

I’ve never seen anything like it. It felt like a war or a natural disaster.

The morning crew was having trouble getting in, many weren’t going to make it at all so having no sleep and witout much idea of what we were going to do for people we set out again at 5am to face the hordes.

By 7:30 a few other employees had made it in and we’d managed to deal with the guests who had immediate flights though hundreds were still for the time being stranded. With the help of some coworkers we dug my car out and headed out onto the eerily vacant freeway. Then in the rearview mirror I saw something terrifying. Right behind me in a deadly phalanx of steel were five snowplows bearing down. Sleep deprived and barely gripping the surface of the road I never the less punched the gas since a potential spinout on concealed ice was better than a guaranteed snow plow enema.

We ate a ridiculously large breakfast at a funky little breakfast cafe and bubbled in a strange sleep deprived haze of post-traumatic hysteria. Somehow I managed to make it the rest of the way home, carve out a little parking space out of the mountainous snow drifts on my street, crawl up to my room and into a ten hour coma.

I’d write so much more about the absurdity, the Lord of the Flies at the airport, but people deserve some respect for making it through a harrowing experience of winter’s wrath when all they were planning for was a week on some southern isle. I’m also in need of some sleep. I need to try and get my body back on track if I’m to function at all tomorrow. Lots to do, lots to get done. Okay. Let’s go.