Do The Dada

rezzzulutions for 2012

2012-01-01T12:04:00.002-06:00

- post diss list on Do da dada, while I'm on Highbrow Low Blows on new year's day
- make our blogs integral to our show
- collect tongue twisters (like odessey and oracle)
-on do da dada challenge myself to write about more than just food (uhhhh and by "write" I should really mean "blog" which is a vocab shift I would equate closer to "living" rather than sitting down and forcing oneself to go through a process start to finish)

- only take albums for myself which I can review (albums kept to myself in 2011: shabazz places, moonface, possibly more)
- for Stylus, make heavier considerations of the album (critical, philosophical, societal, etc.), and for Weird Canada, make more superficial considerations (e.g.s: how do I spell dizz word? and Wat video should I dink?). And, resolving to make these certain considerations in these different publications knowing that they might not be able to stay apart for very long.
- have things to write/ review? make time for them
- each submission will only get one publication

- edit lightswitches whilst listening to music for review
Have and use a legit compost bin
- learn basic mixing, then start getting fancy
- play more piano
- put a 12ish minute track out tentatively called shufffordawing

- refuse to listen to oneohtrix point nevaaarrrr's 2011 disc, just cuz

CRRRKBSTRCTS 5

2011-12-20T20:51:00.003-06:00

these are all from this week.:>:...

u'd better beleev i'm getting good at this .:.

CRRRKBSTRCTS 4

2011-12-17T12:46:00.000-06:00

CRRRKBSTRCTS 3

2011-12-16T12:39:00.000-06:00

CRRRKBRSTRCTS 2

2011-12-15T12:13:00.003-06:00

CRRRKBSTRCTS

2011-11-28T17:40:00.004-06:00

Fresh off the CrackBerry, a first set of Crrrkbstrcts:

On this episode of "Taylor Gets the Mail"...

2010-08-27T18:31:00.004-05:00

"The Early Bird Gets the Worm"? What is this, who is this from?
This is like some local thing, right? Yeah I could support some West End thing, even if they were soliciting by mailboxes. But uh, no, they're talking about trees. Tree banding. Priority customer? What? This isn't a community notice?
No, it's about paying for getting trees banded. People pay for that?
That's a chunk of change to get it done--and I haven't gone out in two weeks because I gotta pay rent and I've been falling over in corners of desert greenhouses under the moon, holding my stomach, a tape worm, I'm sure, who is filling me out, filling him up, until I or he, that parasite, explodes.
But no, I can't order some tree banding. Although I'm sure if our trees were a little less diseased, it would at least not make us look like the drug dealers who lived here before us.
But what is this on the back? It's like a fucking ransom note--no wait, it's a Free Press headline.
It's an article about some insects.
"Bracing for an invasion of tree killers, traps have been set up around the city for the arrival of the deadly Asian emerald ash borer.
"The tunnelling beetle that has destroyed millions of ash trees in eastern Canada and the United States is now in Minneapolis -- a day's drive from Winnipeg. It will arrive here any day now -- on a wooden shipping pallet, in a crate, on firewood or attached to a vehicle, said city forester Martha Barwinsky."
Whoa, that's actually a little bit scary sounding.
"If the Asian beetles get past the border guards, scientists have predicted that they will eat through Winnipeg in 72 hours. The Canadian Army has deployed armed forces to the 49th parallel in cooperation with the U.S.A.
"Be warned those who try to hide their trees inside their homes--Asian beetles have been known to kick in doors and assault everyone on the premises, and then infecting the trees regardless.
"In response, the American Army has been busting into trees all over the Midwest and demanding answers. The forced entries are going too far, say some squirrels who have been caught in the middle of the Battle on Infestation. Several squirrels have reported to news stations, purportedly having broken wrists, paws, and tails."
Wow, the free press does some pretty good reporting.

Until We're at All of Each Other's Necks

2009-11-24T23:23:00.011-06:00

Punching down illuminating buttons on my SP-404, I saved another sample. It's going to take quite the effort though, because I'm only layering one effect at a time. I sit over my sampler, thinking There's got to be a way to do this, or a better sampler that's out there. And then I realize there would be, and I go straight to a Youtube search.

At 1:50, it all looks good, because he's talking about buses and so on and jumble jumble jumble - but then! (play)
Then there's that noise at 2:00. It takes a second for me to register it, because the man's talking his talk and waving his magicman hands, his Winston Smith hands, but sure enough I lean closer on my ratty old loveseat, squint. Then, because all of his waving about, all nilly-willy, I know he hadn't touched any new buttons. With his thumbs and forefingers he had already turned down that tidal wave he was curling the pipe of. What could--.

It's louder. The man speaks up, and his lessons to project his voice that he got at that one conference in Minneapolis and sat in that fuschia convention hall with the queer drama actor drop-out who corporate had hired to teach lessons, those lessons were paying off. That, he thinks, was a good investment.

But the noise persists.

"Sound on Sound? You're a bunch of recording nerds!" The MPC salesman had yelled, waving about his hands wildly. "You're no HC, doin' their voodoo, showin' guitar-wielding prodigy-of-Nirvana kids which effect pedals to sleaze.
You won't bring in the hip kids,
the rich kids,
you'll get the lame skids
waiting and waiting
'til they got the
cash for deeehhhhhhhhhhh-bit.
No,
no,
it's either the sales spiel or you go away no video,
no no,
no video,
no no."

And so our unfortunate hero stands there, at our side, off-camera. His microphone is dangling in his loosely clasped palm. He is absently-minded eyeing the couple behind the Akai salesman. Will he want me to go over there? he thinks. They're just enjoying themselves, playing the ivories, snagging new sounds, that's what they're here for, that's what this is, a music convention after all. No, look at him, he's booming his voice louder now. We can't record this over again, we're already two minutes in.

Oh god, he's stalled. He tapped twice on his little thingamajig, looked down, and now, Our nervous hero thinks, he is going to crack that demographic over my back again. Those kids, those kids, those absent minded, easy-to-please rock-'n'-rollers who just need a little more oomph. They're the ones killing Sound on Sound. Those damn lazy--

And then that polo'd man shoots his eyes and our hero herky-jerks himself into mid-step. Every second on screen is a beating from those viewers' eyes, those 2,013+ viewers in those five seconds. 10,065 seconds of eyes, pelting down on the poor man. This is just as bad when we set up the intro, our hero thinks. He nearly had my ass on a broomstick. He swatted me away and off he went with his tirade of features. The couple waddles semi-ashamedly away, staring as far into the glass lens as they can.

But despite it all, I can't help my brain from computing how many paychecks and how many weeks before I can plausibly buy a better sampler.

My Curiosity for Art of Noise

2009-08-19T17:57:00.005-05:00

Or: How I got RickRolled in real life.

Pterydactyls

2009-07-31T00:15:00.005-05:00

We sink our stainless steel claws deep into the root-skins. They mush about with the cow powder, tangy blood and bread-bones. Some root-skins, still attached to some nerve endings, feel pain and wriggle away from our penetrating claws, taking everything with them
"STAY STILL DAMMIT," I say. "STAY ON MY FORK."
Not long before we devour it all. A scent of lemon and Caesar in the wild breeze.

Chickpea can, slayed

2009-07-27T22:05:00.005-05:00

our means are limited in this primitive kitchen.
we forgot our oil, but bartered for some with an African woman in exchange for some of our cayenne pepper from the indian market on st. laurent.
she gave us grease from the bottom of her drumstick pan. beauty, the fat, beauty.
our can opener breaks and we take our knives to the cans - widening the can-opener wound on the chickpea can, and firm swift pokes to the top hide of the coconut milk.
the venom of the hot peppers has stung my fingertips, ears, and tongues.
i wipe my brow of sweat, the bubbling curry cauldron below us is a successful incarnation of volcanic energy.
i look at the chicpea can in our thin black plastic burial pit.
i feel proud for how i stuck our knife deep into its mouth, wiggled it around, and hung it upside down above our tube of no return.
its fluids came easily, but to reap the full-bodied chickpeas i had to pry its mouth open wider, using my brute force and ingenuity.
the broken dollar-store can opener was the perfect tool to push the can's jaw open further.

A la piscine!

2009-07-27T14:53:00.009-05:00

On a lazy rainy Sunday, Adrienne and I decided to do nothing but laze around in our rooms, read, and disucuss Alliance of Heroes. TamTams was too far away and Piknic Electronik closed for this weekend...
We stuff a towel under our door.
"Let's go to the pool!" said Adrienne, wayyyyyyyy to enthusiastically.
Dis-ass-ter.
We get to the building. There are staircases and doorways. No signs.
. . .
I see this gem of a kid's drawing hanging up in the middle of nowhere.
"What are you doing, Taylor?"
"Just wait, you'll be jealous that you didn't take it."
. . .
Later, quite a bit later, after following bum signs, after fumbling with temporary student cards which didn't work, and grabbing a locker, and after descending through the gender-seperated changerooms (which seemed quite like a steamy crotchedy-old-man hell thanks to 8 1/2) without each other, I took three lengths of the pool and needed to sit on the side. Adrienne kept swimming but my eyes wandered.
The entirety of the piscine was a training grounds - not a member out of step with their lane. I notice one water-dweller with a shiny waved blue head. Many others had grown large eyes that enabled them to see underwater. One had flat hands like ping pong paddles.
"What strange creatures these are," I say to myself. "And how they've all adapted so wonderfully to the water!"
Every one was swimming at speed, but some travelled on their backs, and some didn't breathe for abnormally long periods of time.
Adrienne comes out of the pool. Let's go. I'll just grab my... oh shit. Locker key?
We look around the shallow end. Nothing.
I walk up to the creature in charge, the one wearing red and observing his people.
"Excusez-moi, j'ai tombe mon cle dans la piscine."
"Frenchfrenchfrenchfrench," he motions to people in the pool and then makes a mask with his face.
"Ughhh d'accord."
He talks with his kind, these webbed water-dwellers. He finds one burly male, with dark hair and large mustache. The mustached man recruits his offspring (who have the ability to see underwater) and soon half of the lane is looking for my key, while the other half moves on, oblivious.
I jump into the river current, looking slowly for my key. I take heroic breath one after another, sweeping my palms against the bottom of the pool for a key, for movement, for anything. I look up. The next frog approaches.
Breath after breath, dive after dive. Nothing.
The red frog and I recovene. Although they tried to help, I have lost. Lost.
Adrienne return to our temporary shelters. I take this wicked picture.

Russia

2009-07-17T19:51:00.010-05:00

So Adrienne are walking back to a Vietnamese food restaurant where she forgot her notebook when this tall glass of Russian water walks his foldable bike up to us on the corner of Cote Des Nieges and Cote Sainte Catherine.
"Salut."
"Salut."
"I'm working on this art project right now, I'm from New York and I've hitchhiked all the way here. Would you guys be interested in helping me out?"
It's Adrienne's turn first and she holds that frame up to her face and puts on those glasses.
I'm forced to walk away, so I can't listen and prepare my answer.
My turn:
"What is the ultimate truth?"
"Um... I believe that the ultimate truth can only be found in contradictions. You know, it's like yin and yang."
"I don't think I understand... so if you had to sum it up in one word... balance?"
"Sure, yeah. Balance."
I wanted to use two: 'balance' and 'conflict.' I don't think one word could ever be the truth.

Thrifting in MTL

2009-07-17T19:37:00.004-05:00

Okay so there are Goodwills and Sally Anns everywhere, I know. But today I bought:
- Well-fitted suit jacket and vest combo for 18.99$
- Well-fitted Zara shirt for 4.99$
- Paisley tie for 1.99$
- One pair of shoes, one pair of boots, 5.99$ each
- Knicknacks for less than a dollar each

All in all, not as thrifty as the Sally Ann in the Exchange, but much better selection. Touche un aurtre fois, MTL.

A Day at the Tamtams

2009-07-13T16:00:00.018-05:00

So, this past Sunday, I went to Tamtams, a public, free, outdoor drum jam that has been touted by indie pop/rock hippie hipster girls as THE destination, THE to-do of Montreal. I could see why. I guess.
The crowd of people at Parc Mont-Royal counters Old Market Square any given time of the summer. However, this doesn't take place squished between heritage buildings; it takes place at the bottom of Mont Royal, at Parc Avenue. The air smells of pot, dog and horse poo, and dead fish.
Highlights below.

One black man (Jamaican, I'm sure - he had wide eyes) waved at me from 35 feet away. I look around. I point to me. He points to me. Good vibes. I walk up.
"Salut, mon ami!"
"Salut."
"Frenchfrenchfrenchfrenchfrenchfrenchfrenchfrench," looks down at his hand, barely turns it to show a couple grams of pot.
"Ohhhhh, non, merci!"
"Oh boy. Pourquoi pas? Frenchfrenchfrench, il fait beau, frenchfrenchfrench."
"Je n'ai pas de l'argent," I can manage.
"Ah okay."
"Next week," I say, even though I know the phrases 'prochaine semaine' and 'prochaine dimanche.'

"So have you ever tried dating guys?" said the warrior princess to the armoured paladin whilst lazily carrying her sword.

"De l'eau, de l'eau, de l'eau," sings a big black man from the medieval battlegrounds.

Giggles from a post-TVOTR black hipster w/ square glasses, "We are just too high for this park!"

These are better than WPG's drum circles, no doubt for a few reasons. There are more varied instruments than just fucking djembes (p.s., how was Folk Fest, everyone?): surprisingly, an old white dude with a whistle and a tambourine makes all the difference. Secondly, all the '60s hippies and several ethnic communities come to show off their stuff.

Mon frere,

2009-07-09T19:50:00.005-05:00

the architect, Bubble Chaise Longue in MTL's Musee des Beaux Artes.
Wish you were here to see it too.

Montreal Metro Mmmmmms

2009-07-08T22:51:00.009-05:00

"She said she can get us a contact for anything."
"Okay, but I can't really do well on them in crowds, so we can't go out on the streets...
It really depends on the... aura, and the lighting too."
"Well how about down here?" As we descend the escelator, I point out the lights which resemble jellyfish suctioned to the Metro Station's walls. "We could drop and then just hop from metro to metro."
"I couldn't handle that either. Way too many people."
There's a low rumble, far far away.
"Is that for us? That's for us.
Hey check this out..."
"Whoa, nice find."
"Yeah, I just hope. I can. Get my camera out. Before the metro comes."
Click

Doubles

2009-07-08T00:27:00.008-05:00

Drunk.
Diedre and I have just been challenged to a game of pool, doubles. I talk to one of our challengers, Ian.
"So, are you from Montreal?"
"Nah, I just moved to the Plateau. I'm actually from Winnipeg."
"Really?! I'm from Winnipeg, from North Kildonan."
"Did you guys just say Winnipeg?" asks a woman walking by with a pitcher of beer. "I just heard you say 'North Kildonan.' I'm from Winnipeg too."
Ian and I explain where we're from, and this woman explains to me, "Winnipeg is nice, but it's limiting unless you want to have a family in like... 5 years. In Montreal, there are none of those limitations. You should move here!"
Not the first time I've heard that sentiment, so it's still not enough to convince me.

This is Adrienne

2009-07-08T00:22:00.003-05:00

She is one of the coolest people I know. She likes to drink in graveyards, has Edgar Allen Poe tattoos, and is showing me the ropes of MTL.
We were placed in the same class. She is my wingwoman. We are attached to the hip. We joke about being an old married couple. I am positive that most people on the program think we're dating.

Pizza n Poutine on Cote-Des-Neiges

2009-07-06T14:56:00.005-05:00

"Je voudrais... doo... deux... poin... pointes... pointes des vegeterienne."
...
Kyle dumps salt on his poutine - a whole fucking package.
"Whoa, that's a lot of salt. But I. Will. Prevail."
Pizza and poutine combo. Hell-lo MTL.
...
"Do you know the basics for ordering?"
"I could get away with it," Sofia from the greater Toronto area says.
"If you were stranded on a French Island...?" said Kyle.
"Yeah but they always respond to me in English anyways, soooooooo what's the point?"

Bye WPG Hi MTL

2009-07-04T22:56:00.008-05:00

So I'm heading to Montreal early tomorrow morning, a city which most Winnipeggers either spit at the sound of, or keep their eyes aglow. I'm still on the fence.
And I realize that it's the next step for me in the great hipster migration, but I have a return flight for August 17 that I'll definitely be taking, I swear.
But all the while I'll be bringing you my newly developed brand of cyberpunk/post-consumer punk/tie-dyed Kerouac writing from Montreal. I promise to visit Vice's MTL offices and spit on or kiss any writers you desire.
Anyways, I'm off for my last bike ride on flat land.

I skipped work today (but don't tell anyone)

2009-07-03T23:17:00.008-05:00

I received a call at 10:30 this morning. "TAYLOR!" shouted my neighbour Elise. "What are you doing today?"
"Oh not much, I have to pick up and deposit my paycheck, I have a meeting at CKUW at two."
"Oh..." said Elise, very taken aback. "Well, would you want to come to the beach with me and Julian?"
"Oh!" I exclaimed, understanding why she had sighed 'Oh.'
The wheels began turning... I'm leaving for a trip on Sunday... I have nothing planned all day... It's a meeting with David Kattenburg for the Green Planet Monitor, which I'm really interested in contributing for, but I would not be able to contribute within the day and a half that I'm packing for my trip, not to mention that I can't contribute whilst I'm bumping elbows with fixed-gear riders of Montreal. So I make a couple of emails, and then BAM out to grand beach and smoking some shisha. Best. Day. Ever.
And then I return home, to my cold shower, and red red red skin.
I open up my new emails which are spiced with elipses and interrobangs.
I'm sorry for those I may have disappointed or interrupted. But come on, everyone should be due for one, once in a very slim while. And at the end of the day, with that Selkirk ice cream cone in hand, it's all about that perfect feeling; "Ahhh, it was all worth it."

adidas

2009-06-27T21:38:00.005-05:00

i'm not a drug dealer
i didn't get beat up by a bully
my best friend didn't die
i'm not moving from this neighborhood
i finished my job for the summer,
and i felt like being remembered

happy acid

2009-06-24T00:53:00.001-05:00

Even though I know that LSD25 is wrecking havoc on my brain, is turning me into a paranoid schizophrenic, will force me to yell obscenities in the dairy aisle, make me need to compromise with the flesh-eating three-headed spider living under my sink, and make me fear the lazer-particles coming from the sun, at least I know that it's worth the occasional payoff.

The Omnipotent

2009-06-18T17:41:00.000-05:00

A glow, and the steady hum of a plane taking off - but more,
light poured from behind the clouds - two holes, and a crack -
i knew it - the face of god under a paper maché mask

9987-8445

2009-06-15T02:23:00.000-05:00

(June 15, 1:29 a.m.)

Woke up at 10:39, 10:45, 10:54 p.m.
I would've liked to go to bed until 7 in the morning, but thoughts crept in my head and pried my eyes open. Once again, the late night world forced itself on me.

I went for a late-night walk and ran into Shanden within half a block. We went for a beer at the Toad and he told me about Faith Academy, the K-12 private school which his dad taught at and he went to (and strangely enough it is preferred that kids of the teachers go there), his hacking research/ abilities that he was into last year, and his recent apartment search.
But I cut it short because I have to read AHWOSG for class.

At home, I put Azeda Booth's In Flesh Tones on repeat (like I did once with Modest Mouse's The Moon & Antarctica, before going to McIvor Park and burning all of my unwanted show flyers in a bundle, with a firecracker in the middle) and I throw out that rose I found in the back alley a couple days ago.

I go on the top level of the Bay parkade - but there are three people sitting at the Osborne/Memorial/St. Mary corner of the lot. Alertness. I sit under a light, my back to the rail, knees up, book on my knees. Really comfy actually.
The three people stand up, and a glass shatters on St. Mary, though it injures no one. Mild worry. They start walking. In my direction. Mild terror.

They approach - but they are not much older than me. The white guy asks if I have smokes to sell, and I give him two that I found on the Osborne bridge whilst walking to the toad with Shanden. ("Accord?" he said. "You can have them. If someone asks me to trade one of my cigarettes for theirs, and they've got those, I normally say, 'You know what? You can just have mine.'") He gives me a dollar, out of habit, out of capitalistic karma.
The black guy, wearing a purple Lakers baseball hat and a matching purple sweater, whose face was a little scarred, said he didn't know what to make of me, thinking I was going to commit suicide. He offers me a 600 (591? either way it wasn't full) mL pepsi container of clear liquid.
"What is it?" I ask.
"I dunno, what is it?" black guy asks white guy who is holding a half-empty 40 of corona or mgd.
"Smells like gin," he says.
I swig. Drunk black guy gives me a 2L of pepsi, actual pepsi, to wash it down.

He looks at my book. "As long as it isn't Twilight," he says, passing the 2L back to the quiet hispanic (? white? both?) woman.
"Hey, says white almost-street-punk guy, pointing a finger from his hand holding the 40, "there's nothing wrong with Twilight."
"No, I say, having stood up a little while ago to feel on their level, "there is plenty wrong with Twilight."
Black guy laughs and makes me drink more smells-like-gin. I do.
They leave for food at Tim's. Black guy gives me his number in case I want to commit suicide. It sounds like 8 digits - "9987-8445".

(1:57 a.m.)
I am buzzed.
Winnipeg is silent at last. This city does sleep, and it is a calm, restless sleep although it sometimes snores and keeps me up because I slept late (very late) this morning. So all I can do is helplessly lie, spooning Winnipeg, until my overactive brain gives way to exhaustion, like the night before, and the night before that.
(I want to scream.)
(I have to pee.)
(I am still buzzed.)

(2:17 a.m.)
A motorcycle peels away from a fresh green light at a obnoxiously loud speed.
I start barking,
"Die.
"Die.
"Fall!
"Crash!
"Fall, crash, die!
"Fall, crash, die!
"Fall crash die fall crash die!
"Fallcrashdiefallcrashdie!
Fallcrashdiefallcrashdie!"
FALLCRASHDIEFALLCRASHDIE!"
He (or, (although very unlikely) she) does none of these.

Hookup to the Blog Scene

2009-06-10T02:02:00.000-05:00

So I was at work the other day when Luke Marvin put down his leather jacket on the staff table. But even before it hit the table, he said, "Oh man, a leather jacket. That's embarassing."

Thanks Luke, for proof that at least one person is reading my dumb posts. As thanks, I'd like to publicly say that I no longer refer to you as "that MuchMusic VJ search finalist." Except, of course, for that last sentence.

Compliments Attract

2009-06-09T16:43:00.000-05:00

I think that the word "attraction" has -- like too many words of our penis-centric culture -- taken on too many connotations of relationships and sex. An attraction could be something other than a sexual desire. Actually, it's probably our bodies telling us that we should get to know someone with this opposing yet complimentary viewpoint that'll further our own thinking.

Take for example, my narrative studies & writing today. My narrative studies class is all about narrative arguments and creative non-fictions, like James Frey's A Million Little Pieces, and Clifford Geertz' Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight; pieces that admit the fallibility of the narrator, but are still mostly based on fact, and, as Frey says, "being the essential truth."

We were getting into our peer editing groups to look at our narrative arguments based on research, and I sat next to Jessica, a fellow left-handed writer (of which, I might note, there are four [including myself] in that class). I must say, I'm a fan of her thinking, although I can't understand half of the university words that come out of her mouth, and she fiddles with her pen making too much noise. She mentions that her boyfriend told her about The Pirate Bay becoming a political party in the EU, and I laugh with delight. Certainly I would say that I've been attracted to her, but because I've been curious about how she would write. We swap papers and I read hers over.

Hers is about how Facebook is making people buy into the capitalist structure by representing themselves as brands, which she could certainly make a point out of. Her paper has great structure and supporting evidence, but it lacks any of her own emotions. I mark where she could include her own reactions to Facebook phenomena, or to ads. She hands my paper back, saying that I could take my one example I've written so far, and describe the relationship of people more theoretically, abstractly.

"I'm bad for telling rather than showing," she admits as we pack up.
"Which is the complete opposite from me," I say, which you'd probably be able to tell from this blog.
"Which is why we should always edit each other's papers," I say, too forwardly, as always. She smiles then bolts out of the room. Awkward good-bye aside, I think she's the most helpful person for my essays, and I for hers. So then why these gender-scripted anxieties?

Gemini's First Combat

2009-06-08T13:52:00.000-05:00

I continuously beat Elise to one edge of the level. She pushes back, her sword becoming a whip, gaining space from defeat. Then I slowly beat her between the two edges - back back back to the corner of two edges.
In the level, it's the only wall-less corner. A fact that would've gone unnoticed if Elise and I hadn't changed our health to unlimited.
We had turned our health "off" in our first match on the dock stage, for training purposes. "Okay, I want you to give me a button rundown before our first match and smoke a bowl," Elise said. And so it was, two attack buttons, a kick button and a guard button, and we were playing Soul Calibur II.
Elise chose Ivy - of course she would, with all of that violet leather, commanding alpha-female pose, and that asymmetrical haircut - and I chose Talim for her happy-go-lucky attitude and guile, and the fact that I pretty much only choose her or Ivy, and Ivy was taken.

So our rules were:

unlimited health
unlimited time
best of 3 battles
best of 5 matches

Match 1, Battle 1:
Just fooling around mostly. Started beating each other around, getting used to our moves, until I realized that we could still win by knocking each other off. Elise kicked my ass.
Match 1, Battle 2:
I fought back, hard, and won this battle quickly. I started to remember Talim's quick combination moves.
Match 1, Battle 3:
This battle was over just as quickly. Elise whooped my ass.
E - 1, T - 0

Match 2:
Takes much longer than before, but there are less sides to fall off. I make the comment that battling near the edge of the level is like playing without your queens; it's risky, normally involves self-sacrifice, and only pays off if you know what you're doing. After all of my jumping around with Talim, I get used to dancing around Elise and I beat her.
E - 1, T - 1

Match 3, Battle 1:
I turn off the radio because I swear that I hear a drum beating louder the closer we get to the edge of the level. Turns out i was just stoned. After several failed attempts to knock her off a straight edge, I kick Elise into the only corner, and off it.
Match 3, Battle 2:
I start trash talking Ivy's suit. In retaliation, (5(?) minutes later), Elise does a fancy throw. I say, "I'm kinda impressed, but I'd actually be impressed if you did that off the edge." Sure enough, I eat my words, and Elise throws me into the abyss.
Match 3, Battle 3:
Realizing that we have keys to get cut and library books to renew, I suggest that we make it the best of three matches. "That means," I said, pausing for dramatic effect, "that whoever falls off this next edge, loses for the day."
We kept it up for I-don't-know-how long, but I eventually kicked her to and off the edge of the level.
E - 1, T - 2

What will the variant be next time? Sudden death with 10% health? Matches only 30 seconds long? Best of 9 battles? I'll keep you tuned in, little dadaist.

Don't the Dada

2009-05-19T18:25:00.000-05:00

(in the wee hours of technically May 10, 2009)

So, on a pretty uneventful night at the Lo Pub, my cohorts Chris Samms and Evan Burgess and I made this exhaustive list of ins and outs, without the aid of beer. There are some random notes thrown in there too, which I'll transcribe as per what I wrote. Their context is lost on me too, and so they'll be gone probably forever.

leather jackets -> out
windbreakers -> in
shoegaze -> in
minimalism & modernism -> back
H1N1 -> IN
news: fear-mongering
lot of people are ambivilent
inspiring people, but not really doing anything (This point was definitely about Obama)
that's more than half the population
screenprinting -> in
DIY -> in
getting off computers -> in
rappers are getting signed to do what they want creatively
my haircut -> in (red-sided garter snakes -> very in, btw)
Michael Cera -> back
good sci-fi -> back (tron 2.0, logan's run, moon) (what defines good? it's saying something about humanity)
grunge style, david carson
now there are gritty photos (like grunge) but clean type
*experimental modernism
parallel development (nostalgiac keyboard sounds of two knots is lots coincided with black moth super rainbow)
live electronics -> new
double entendres -> in
sexual innuendos -> out
britney spears -> out for the 3rd time
rolling stone/ print -> out
P4K -> in
side scrolling websites -> in
outdoor planning -> in
city planning -> in
*enviromental responsibility -> very in
sumerism (minimal consumerism) -> new
selling adbusters at wal-mart (hypocritical magazines)
Vice -> a constant
writing something down and it coming into existence -> in (we'll see)
Deerhunter -> in for teens
Jack White -> slowly out
AA -> into '90s -> grunge -> teens -> AA -> SY -> experimental punk (yeah i'm not exactly sure what to make of that flow chart either)
rappers -> '80s quirkiness but with tight jeans and new beats
riding bikes -> in
oprah -> out / bullshit
'70s pop (specifically todd rundgren) -> in
psychedelics -> constants
chemical drugs -> '80s and '00s
natural drugs -> '60s, '70s, '90s, '00s
straightXedge -> way out
eating meat -> coming back
desensitization to violence -> on the way out
blaming video games for violence -> out
platform games -> in
arcades -> coming back (fistful of quarters)
end of the world -> ambivilent
global warming -> out
natural highs -> in
religion -> back in
floods connected to rock music ?!? -> both have to do with saturation
10 years for something to get big? 2000/01, 1997, 1991, 1984/5, 1977 (...well that's not a discernible pattern)
marcel dzama -> out
woodstock -> out
babyboomers -> out
"i-pod generation" -> out
punk -> infinity symbol (avril lavigne was a rebellion to punk)
these kinds of conversations -> good but can't get saturated
osborne street -> out
mistakes -> in
off-handedness -> in
post-sarcasm -> on the way out
sarcasm -> on the way out
anti-sarcasm (subcasm) -> in
super sarcasm/ supercasm/ being an asshole -> coming in as a preemptive retaliation to subcasm.

"I met a fun guy" - final part

2009-03-21T14:56:00.000-05:00

(technically the early hours of March 21, 2009)

By this time, my mind had calmed down. All that I needed to know was that I had to get my jacket, so we could all walk home, I could take off Elise's boots that had cramped my feet, and I could fall into bed (before waking up 6 hours later to have breakfast with Chris (only to see Elise, Jesse, and Rachel at Don's Deli 3 hours later than that)).
Erin stood by my windbreaker with carefully tucked away Haunter 7".
"Hey how's it going?" - salutations, etc.
"I like your beads." She was talking about my wooden ball beads, half brown half white. Damn value village.
"Oh thanks!"
"They make you look so - feminine. Nah just kidding. They kind of look like they're chocolate covered."
"How do you know they're not?"
"Ha-ha... But what about candy necklaces? Man, they should've expanded on those."
"Yeah, but the raver kids kinda took them over."
"Oh, right."
"But rave is coming back, you know!"
"What?! For who?"
"Oh... um... for me."
"Haha way to speak the truth."

I named it Sparkle

2009-03-19T20:57:00.000-05:00

(march 18, 2009)

"I had to go to - do you know the Women's Hospital? It's connected to Health Sciences Centre, but on Notre Dame."
"Yeah I pretty much know where that is."
"It was at about five thirty, six in the morning, which, you know... was okay. It wasn't so bad, but it was in the summer, so it was really cold in there because they cranked up the A/C."
A really dry summer morning - one where plants curl up and dandelions thrive. The sun so low that it hadn't even started to creep above Winnipeg's prairie buildings.
"I waited with my sister downstairs, but she couldn't come upstairs with me. That's where I stripped down and they put an IV in me. I waited in this sort of waiting room - The Daily Show was playing."
A green room with few lights. Shadows thrown from the windowsills across the room, the lone fluorescent light flickering poorly.
"Then they took me to another room. That's where they put the drugs in my IV. It didn't knock me out - it just made me feel kind of drunk. Then they told me to do things. I was crying, I said that I needed to wait another minute, but they kept telling me to do all of these things."
Flash of aparatus. Stirrups. Medical masks. She tries to push them all away with her palms, but her drunk hands are useless.
"The day before, the doctor put in this seaweed wrap that would... dilate me. It really hurt. But then, he came in, and there was this huge... suction. It was kinda cool, I can't explain it."
"'Cool?' Did you like it?"
"Well, at the time, no. If it was on its own, maybe. But because of all the other stuff that was happening, I was pretty scared. After it was all done, I went home and slept."
Dreams of an empty castle, a real nine-hour doozy.

Privatized Therapy

2009-03-18T20:51:00.000-05:00

(technically on March 14, 2009, in the wee hours of the morning)

“When they force you to make a diptych, make a triptych,” says Matt. His hands are outstretched, and he’s looking to the ceiling, making the most poignant pose he possibly can. But those were only half of his words of wisdom that we held our breath (and that I got my notepad out) for. He stretches his hands higher into the air, looking further beyond Elise’s apartment’s ceiling, a bigger grin on his face than before. “And when they force you to make a triptych, make five paintings.”

It’s one of those nights that drinking started before the bars opened and after they closed, complete with other treats that weren’t officially available at the art exhibit openings that these fine art students went to tonight. If I was with my classmates, we would’ve been talking about whether Jack Kerouac had significant journalistic influence or not, and if including yourself in the story gave it more credibility because we’d be acknowledging our own biases.

But I hadn’t, I’ve joined these U of M fine art students, after hanging out in the back of a pub during a post-hardcore show for a drink with some pals. (It really wasn’t my scene, everyone was all patches and unwashed hair; and I don’t wash my hair either, but they made a point of you knowing that they hadn’t washed their hair; and the music – ugh, the music – was only intended to be enjoyed by everyone that showed up and not to intimidate but to drive away anyone that didn’t subscribe to at least thirty vegan/enviro/anarchist zines. All in all, we did well, hiding at the back of the pub where it was quiet with our beers.) Elise came and knocked on my door when they came back to her apartment and I was at mine, and now I think we’re all up to date. Well, not exactly, you’ve missed out on about 21 and a half years of my life, but I couldn’t even recall half of that to you.

Heavy smoke, beers spilling off the edge of Elise’s little makeshift table made of four cinderblocks and a windowpane that has dried paint all over the glass. “…but what about the middleclass…?” Some people inspect Elise’s broken menthol cigarettes that lie on the table, for a chance not-so-broken one. “They don’t learn to think critically,” said I-think-it-was-Elise. “They don’t interpret literately or visually what something really means.”

I concentrate on my notepad and what I’ve written. The notes on my pad aren’t …

Big blank space.

“I’m sick of hearing from [my teacher] that it’s a crime that artists are starving, but they chose that path, you know? And also, he talks about how he takes long baths with Epsom salts, so fuck him. It’s living up to the Jones’. The artist and the people supporting the starving artist says, ‘It’s such a poor road,’ but art is fucking anything, it’s taking a piss on a canvas.”

And then everyone (minus me) shouts out something in agreement or damnation, and the conversation takes a quick turn towards the frantic. After a good rip we all nerd out, but this was different - defining art was how these seven people defined themselves, but it was much more dangerous because the concept of art is observable and concrete – which is essentially not a part of themselves at all.

Am I saying that they were arguing things that were useless? Not at all, broad terms need to be broadly defined. And besides, of what use would I be if I was documenting a useless conversation?

Matt argues that art is only a semantic difference. Like any good confused journalist, I ask a question. “So then where do you draw the line?” “The line? There is no line. Only by using the term does something become art.”

Elise says, “But it could be so many things, it could be an emotional thing… and that’s what Rachel does, she makes it into an emotional piece.”

Matt, “But the art becomes detached in the process. And that’s happened because of printing. The point is to make cheaper prints, it’s all marketing. We make a print and frame that, but how about framing a copper plate? That’s the art. When you make a linocut, that’s the art, not the print.”

The other six people groan in disbelief. I later get the scoop from Elise that Matt isn’t actually enrolled at the University of Manitoba, but he attends classes, and she says that he could philosophize about that for hours.

“You’re [we’re?] selling something someone else can’t buy…” “… it’s because they aren’t educated…” “… anything you make in art school is very self-conscious work…” “…it’s privatized therapy…”

If you’re lost right now, then I’ve succeeded, because so am I. But now I start notating who says what – that should’ve been obvious, yes, but it was mostly Matt and Elise snapping back and forth.

Matt says, “People only feel the need to pay to relate to the painting.”

Lasha says, “Being a human costs money…”

Elise says, “But is everything ultimately about someone witnessing your work?”

Matt says, “Are you making it for a buyer?”

Natasha sitting beside me, who has been relatively quiet up until this point, says, “But [our teacher (I didn’t catch her name, sorry readers)] says that the only thing that inhibits work is work that you’ve previously done.”

And with those Words of Wisdom, I’m able to breathe as deeply and clearly as I ever had, (“…well we all reference the footprints of other artists anyways...”) and the notepad in my hand takes on so many more connotations (“…this one girl put a bleeding mannequin close to an emergency phone, and people called in the EMS and cops…”) than just the recordings of a stoned conversation, or more even than recording some Words whose rays might dissipate once the sun rises in a few hours. (… but isn’t that a part of art philosophy?...”) I’m holding a new creature in my hands, inhibited by nothing now that Natasha spoke up.

“Make your life about what you want it to be,” says Elise, “but I think that life is ultimately about God. God is the artist, he was there in the beginning, but he doesn’t give a fuck, just like my absent father. He was there at the start, but he [“He”?] has nothing to do with me, I’ve realized.”

I introduced myself to Elise less than two weeks ago. I knocked on her door because my friend Shannon goes to school with her, and said that I should introduce myself considering that we live in the same building. First time I did, she came to the door clutching a cardigan to her body. She was about to get in the bath and was in the process of shaving the speedlines into the side of her hair. I asked if I could borrow a cup of rice. Less than two weeks. And now I know that she had an absent father and religion is intrinsically important to her.

“You’re trying to spark that controversy,” says Matt.

“Well I think art is ultimately about religion, it’s about death, it’s about torture,” says Elise.

“Well of course there’s a preoccupation with God and religion, because those equal immortality, and we all have to die,” says Natasha, again very carefully choosing when she speaks. “And how do you cope with that?”

Lasha says, kinda spaced out, “Humans are all conditioned, they accept all this ambivalence, all this greyness forced upon them. They all learn to accept it. And we create art to try to go beyond it. And without this hope, people have nothing.”

Silence. Lasha is still staring at the same spot on the table.

And then Rachel laughs. “Wow that was so heavy, Lasha,” she says.

Matt says the powerful abuse people.

Lasha continues, “All life is is longing for something authentic.”

Elise says, “Fuck authentic, I’m built on the shoulders of other people. I don’t think any of us are that authentic.” And Elise talks about how her art history teacher talks more about Orlando Bloom than Spartans. Matt says that history is so ingrained into us, that it’s repeating itself. Lasha says that although she’s from Tuxedo, she has made her own life, she has invented her own standards which are wacky. Matt asked if her parents were so ingrained if she was just rebelling against what was inside of her all along. Elise says that she wants to raise a kid that’s stupid as possible, because “I spoke full sentences at 9 months. It’s a curse to be as conscious as I was at my age. I used to cry every day after high school.”

And I’m sure that almost anyone who will be reading this can agree that high school was a struggle for us all, but I get this overwhelming sensation of doom from these people that I don’t know well at all.

“Uh, quick poll. How many of you are actually happy in your lives?” I ask.

Rachel puts up her hand. So does Scott who has been participating as much in this conversation as my notes have really reflected. Natasha almost puts her hand up, but then questions the concept of happiness, and whether she actually knows what it is.

Rachel and I laugh, on account of them being the most depressed seven people I’ve ever encountered. But then the conversation switches from monumental to trivial, and they talk about which teachers’ taste. The night swings back and forth, but dwindles, and I saunter back to my apartment at five in the morning.

But I’ll end where I stopped taking notes: Matt talking about his first (and thus far only) acid trip.

“I was on my knees, naked. I could see all of the problems of equality. My acid trip was wrenching on the inequalities of the world.”