And All You Can Do Is Laugh

Whenever I'm at dinner parties, the question always seems to go around the table "Who is your favourite Anticon superhero?" Without blinking I usually say Why? I think his first album Oaklandazulasylum is an underrated masterpiece. His music is wonderful and his perspective fascinating. Yet it is always his best friend and former cLOUDDEAD bandmate Doseone who gets all the kudos. As Why? sung on Women Eye "No" - "I just found out for sure, the girl I have a crush on is a lesbian. And all the other women I know like Dose"

Last night I went and saw Doseone perform with his band Subtle. Now I like Subtle. I guess you could maybe describe them as "prog-hop" (if you were one of those wankers who likes to speak in such terms). However, on stage they just seemed cluttered to me. I don't know whether or not they were actually trying to replicate their records, but it just didn't seem to gel (or Jel, ha ha). Dose is a fascinating performer though. I was a little taken back by how buffed and tanned he was, as well as his confidence. I expected a weedy Jew slightly unsure of himself. That said, while the music wasn't doing it for me, Dose's surreal between song banter was. Here are some selected highlights:

Who do you think would win a fight between Black Santa and White Santa? Who do you think would win a fight between me and CocoRosie?


Hey Montreal! You know you guys are some of the coolest white people in the world.

We were crossing the border today, now that don't often do this, but while we were there they gave us a baby cop to kill.

Hey, shut the fuck up. I don't crash your birthday party and start talking about my dead parrots.



Doseone's presence is immense, and you can see why he does get the props he does. You have to give credit to a guy who has the whiniest voice in the world and thinks he can rap at the speed of light.

With some supreme timing, tonight I will be going to see Why? support Yo La Tengo.

Things You Say & The Size Of My Love

I finally got myself a copy of the latest issue of Venus Zine (getting magazines in the post is my new favourite thing). I'd be hanging out for it seeming it contained a feature on the break-up of Sleater-Kinney. I was going to attempt to write my own little ode to Sleater-Kinney. However, something much more interesting has come up.
Upon waking every morning, when life is getting me down and I'm at a loss with what to do with myself, I take solace in the fact that I'm a pretty well liked person. Besides the tough boys at school and maybe God I didn't think that there was anyone else who hated me. However, upon getting half-way through this Sleater-Kinney article I was reminded that there is at least one other person who hates me. The feature contains opinions from various writers and music industry types on the legacy of Sleater-Kinney. One of those people happens to be a former friend of mine. I'm not going to go into the details of the situation, however I am going to offer some advice. And that advice is this: When you do wrong by someone, do not attempt to reconcile by 6 years later writing an email to that person accusing a friend of theirs of sexual perversion. It doesn't work.



Although this is rather late I must give a quick note on Sleater-Kinney. I'm not shy to admit that I shed a bit of a tear when I heard about the band breaking up (that said, I did also cry at the supermarket this morning when I couldn't find any dark soy sauce). But I believe it was a very sensible decision. There is nothing worse than a band that continues on well past their used by date. Not saying that S-K were past it, but I have had arguments with two of my friends about the quality of the band's recent albums, and it's obvious that some of their fans have lost faith. I don't think their recent albums are sub-standard at all and as far as I'm concerned Sleater-Kinney are above criticism, however if the band felt that they were no longer able to make quality albums then it is a very wise decision of theirs to not continue on and dismantle the reputation that they have earned.
Carrie, Corin, Janet, I was going to thank you for the music, but, oh, you were so much more. I once claimed you were tattooed on my soul; that is a comment I will stand by forever!

Spike The Senses

This is quite possibly the single most disturbing thing I've seen in a long time. Now I've actually long stopped cringing long ago at Australian themed anything, whether it be pubs, steakhouses or interior decorating. No, the ghastly thing about this clip is the fact that they've taken the Of Montreal song "Wraith Pinned To The Mist And Other Games" and changed the lyrics to suit the "Outback Steakhouse". It is just plain creepy.

Watch it!

Distraction, Action, Reaction

The internet knows most things, but not all. I'm currently sitting in the basement of my building doing my washing. In front of me is a bin. Written on the bin is "Les Investissements Georges Chartier". Obviously a joke. However, one I do not get. And there is nothing I hate more than having things go over my head. So I decided to google Georges Chartier. The internet would inform me whom he is/was and I will then be able to appreciate the wit of whoever wrote that on the bin. However, much to my absolute astonishment Georges Chartier does not google! I kid you not. And so I am left wanting. Here I am trying to concentrate; yet this bin sits in the corner of the room mocking my ignorance. And not even the wonders of the internet can protect me from its contempt. To be fair to myself, and in a counter strike of great wisdom, if Georges Chartier was a significant figure he would no doubt have a certain prominence on the internet. Maybe I'm just giving my neighbours a bit too much credit, instead of the writing on the bin being a clever political or historical insight, maybe Georges Chartier is just the neighbourhood bum (which actually does make it quite amusing), or the guy who owns the building. Either way, the bin has now been turned around and I will do my best to put it at the back of my mind.

This distraction has come while I'm actually attempting to do something constructive. However I'm not sure whether in posting this someone will steal my idea before I get around to implementing it, or whether it'll actually give me the impetus to carry it through. I'm going to go with the latter in the confidence of knowing that even if someone does steal my idea I will be able to a better job of it. What I have been doing today is beginning to research and devise a plan for a book about the world's Chinatowns. The basic premise of the book is me bumbling through the world's Chinatowns whilst providing some historical analysis and musings on their cultural impact. Obviously, the idea needs to be fleshed out a bit, but it is just in the foetal stages at the moment. One aspect I am keen on exploring is not just the major Chinatowns of North America and South-East Asia, I wish to discover the more obscure Chinatowns of India and South America, whose histories may not be as grand, but are surely just as intriguing.

Apparently my final analogy in my previous post was a bit crude for some people's taste. I have a bit of a problem of accusing people who take issue with things I say of not having a sense of humour (I think I may have even accused someone of not having a "proper sense of humour" once). However, I will restrain myself this time (obviously, with the preceding sentence, I can't restrain myself, but at least I'm aware of my foibles). Let me just state for the record: I do not hate disabled children. I do not think that parents of disabled children should shun the child and get a replacement. The analogy was used for its absurdity. Its comedic value stemmed from that absurdity.

Papa's Got A Brand New Mac

In my last post I stated that was going to start posting on a daily basis, as almost a week has past since I made that claim some people could be forgiven for thinking that either a) I am a liar, or b) my concept to "daily" is a bit out of whack. The truth, however, is that last Wednesday my laptop froze and then failed to restart.
My laptop is the fourth most essential component of my life; only my lungs, heart and brain come before it. I don't say that for effect either. In the past few days I've actually spent a reasonable amount of time pondering this. I've been playing off certain parts of my body against the laptop, for example: Legs vs. Laptop - technology is always improving, running is not. Laptop wins! I had a bit of a dilemma when it came to Arms vs. Laptop as I initially thought the laptop wouldn't be much use without the arms to operate it. However, I realised that could always get one of those Stephen Hawking set-ups, so the laptop won that battle as well. For those of you with your mind in the gutter the Penis vs. Laptop battle was a no contest. One is in almost constant use; the other could easily be retired. My appendix put up more of a fight.
With this information in mind, you can imagine how upset I was that such an important part of my life was no longer functioning. Thursday was spent backing up all my important information (music, photos, Word documents), and attempting to figure out what exactly the problem was. With the latter being unsuccessful, it was time to visit the Mac store. Much to my surprise there is only one Mac store in Québec, and it is in Laval. Leaving the island of Montreal carries the same stigma as going south of the river in London, or straying outside Zone 1 in Melbourne. Actually, I don't know this for a fact, but I assume the same sort of snobbery exists in Montreal. Urbanites have the same predictable prejudices the world over. Anyway, this would be one of three trips I would have to make to Laval over the next few days. After consulting the "Mac Genius" (his actual job title) I was informed that my poor little laptop would require a new hard-drive. So with a certain amount of bravado and a large amount of stupidity I decided I would replace the hard-drive myself. Actually, replacing the hard-drive wasn't particularly difficult; it was just time consuming seeming I needed to take the machine apart almost completely. The most difficult part was keeping track of the numerous amount of tiny screws that are used to keep the machine together. I think the majority of the time it took to install the hard-drive was spent crawling around on hands and knees looking for screws that I had dropped (and looking like I had a few loose myself). The operation was a success though. However, my paranoia about the machine had me treating it very much like a cheating lover. I no longer trusted the machine; I no longer felt the affection towards it I once did. It had hurt me, and I wasn't confident that it wouldn't happen again. My distrust was confirmed when on Saturday night the machine, once again, froze up and refused to restart. The majority of Sunday was spent with another trip up to Laval. This time however, the "Mac Genius" wasn't very interested in my problems (possibly trying to hide his embarrassment for his poor diagnosis), and basically dismissed my problems. So I was back on the bus home with a very heavy heart. It was at this stage that the cheating lover analogies subsided, to be replaced by the retarded child analogies. I was now the parent of a brain-dead child. And had developed a large internal conflict between my former relationship with its ability, my responsibility towards it and the strain of a very difficult situation. And so I did what any parent would do..... I went and got myself another child. A bigger, faster, better looking, able child. The original now sits in the corner of my room like the leper that it is. I occasionally look down upon it in scorn, resisting the urge to spit at it.

Say No To Smog

In order to be at least somewhat constructive while I procrastinate about actually living this life I've been blessed with, I've decided to attempt to post to this blog daily. So if my previous posts weren't self-indulgent and of narrow interest enough, they are about to become even more so!

It's 15 days until I go see Joanna Newsom. You may think that by mentioning this I'm already clutching at straws for things to write about, but hear me out. I mention this for two reasons. Firstly, as an excuse to be able to post this amazing picture of her:

And secondly, because there is a serious matter to discuss concerning her. As some of you may know, sweet young Joanna has unfortunately got herself involved with Smog, aka Bill "dirty old man" Callahan. A man twice her age, and a man with some serious form for seducing young indie starlets (Cynthia Dall, Cat Power's Chan Marshall). I was thinking of attempting to organise an intervention, to try and ween Joanna off Callahan's dry wit and soothing baritone. But the problem is bigger than Miss Newsom, even if the intervention was successful; the problem would still exist. Callahan is a serial offender, a man whose sexual appetite for our favourite female musicians knows no bounds. Who knows where he'll strike next after he's done with Joanna - Isobel Campbell? The Aislers Set's Amy Linton? Camera Obscura's Traceyanne Campbell? Nedelle? - He must be stopped! So I propose the "Say No To Smog" campaign. Find the email address or Myspace page of your favourite female artists or female fronted bands and leave a simple note - Say No To Smog. With any luck the message will ring out across the indiesphere like a mother's mantra, and Callahan's days of breaking our hearts will be numbered.

Everyone Needs An Editor

Possibly not the best way to impress new people is to recount a rather disgusting story that also reveals a little bit too much information about oneself. However, I have never been one to shy away from a social faux-pas.
Last night I was around at friends of my flatmate’s place (who I could possibly claim as my own friends now). Talia and I were going to go see indiepop's premier husband and wife duo Mates Of State (sorry Kanda). General Friday night conversation was being made when the topic turned to someone they referred to as "Manchedder". This sparked a story in me from my youth, which, as I have already related it to people I barely know, I don't see why I shouldn't go one step further and post it on the internet.

Up until I was about 16 (or possibly even 17) I had no idea what circumcision was. I had been circumcised at birth, but was completely unaware that this wasn't the natural state of the penis. One day at school I overheard a conversation between two boys about their "dick cheese". Apparently, urine would get caught in something called a "foreskin", dry up and form "dick cheese". Being rather repulsed, but also immensely fascinated I went to the school library to investigate what a foreskin was. Luckily for me in the explanation circumcision was mentioned, so I looked up that as well. Rather than be astonished that I had been mutilated* at birth, my first reaction to this newly obtained information was one of relief that I would never have to experience the repulsive phenomenon of "dick cheese".

Although the story wasn't received as the charming and witty anecdote that I thought it would, it didn't result in my immediate expulsion from the house and the friendship circle.

*For the record I actually don't consider it to be mutilation and am extremely pro (male) circumcision

Mates Of State played in Melbourne a few days before I left. However, due to me having to solve the slight problem of a stolen passport, I was unable to attend. So I was quite pleased when I saw that the band would be playing in Montreal. I was also quite pleased that it was going to cost me a third of what it would have in Melbourne.



With an enjoyable support set from The Starlight Mints, and Mates of State drawing heavily from their latest album, Bring It Back (one of my favourites of the year so far), it was turning into one indietastic evening! However, there is always a spoiler and it came in the form of an oblivious moron whose aggressive movements (we won't call it dancing) and beer-spilling antics I found highly inappropriate. It always amazes me when such buffoons are attending the same show that I am. Firstly, there should be a screening process and anyone who even looks remotely like they could be a Limp Bizkit fan should not be allowed to enter the venue, but also, what possible interest could such a unfortunate human being have with a cute indiepop band? The icing was when he lent over to his pony-tailed friend (who looked like Michael Bolton with down syndrome) standing next to him and yelled, "Man, she's got a great body", about Mates Of State’s Kori Gardner.
The absurd presence of this Neanderthal was highlighted by the most adorably cute indie girl dancing to our right, the kind of girl whom I'm perpetually day-dreaming about. She was the type of person you'd expect to see at a Mates Of State show. The contrast between the two couldn’t have been starker. I don’t mean to come across in any way elitist, it’s just that I spend so long working on my illusions of certain bands’ fanbases, I find it hard to come to terms with that imagery being challenged.

After the show we went and got bagels and Talia told me about the conflict between those who prefer St-Viateur Bagels and those who prefer Fairmount Bagels (two bagel shops on the same street). Apparently it says a lot about what type of person you are by which bagels you prefer. We went to St-Viateur. I bought three bagels and ate them on the walk home.

A Yellowbrick River

I must admit to feeling disorientated in this city. I haven't been here long and haven't had much of an opportunity to fully get my bearings, but it's more than that. It's the lack of a river as a reference point. Ok, obviously there is a river. A big fuck-off river at that. But Montreal's an island in that river. What I mean is that there is no river dividing the city. Having previously lived in two cities (Melbourne and London) that have distinct north/south divides created by a river it was always very easy to use said rivers as a reference to orientate myself. When walking around Montreal I am completely unaware of what direction I am walking. It's very disconcerting. This could be deemed rather pathetic of me, but I never went to Scouts (I was in Cubs, but I left after Barloo made me cry), and thus never learnt any orienteering skills. This is actually an attempt at metaphor, but it's rather clumsy, and also is lacking cohesion due to my lack of (personal) direction in both Melbourne and London as well. But one needs to start somewhere, and so my current mission is to find reference points in the city to use to (hopefully) gain my bearings. Hopefully it will lead to something of interest and substance.

Always one for killing two birds with one stone (and not killing one bird with two stones, as a former work colleague of mine preferred) whilst executing this mission I will also be looking for winter clothes. The cold is fast approaching and I am ridiculously under-prepared. Aside from two pairs of jeans, I have about 7 t-shirts and a rather flimsy jumper. Not really suitable clothing with the average temperature in January being –10.4. I must admit to looking forward to the coming winter. Although I was disappointed when informed that, unless one is at school, there isn’t really such a thing as a “Snow Day”. All the same, I doubt the novelty of snow will wear off too quickly. Unless, of course, I'm caught in a blizzard or something. I don’t think that would be particularly pleasant.

A Little Bit Country

At the moment I'm not drinking. It would seem strange for me not to use alcohol as a way of integrating into my new surroundings, but I've decided to go with good old-fashioned charm instead. There are actually three legitimate reasons to me currently being a teetotaller. Firstly, as I have aged the after-effects of drinking have become a little too painful for my fragile body to handle. I'm fully aware that I shall be deemed weak for this and I am prepared to take your mockery.
Secondly, not being employed at present I feel it necessary to protect my savings. Again, with age comes sensibility. And thirdly, and probably the more important reason is that I have no idea which beer to drink. Coming from a country where beer consumption is completely divided upon both regional and sub-cultural lines, being concerned about choosing the correct beer is an instinct. I'm unsure whether a similar cultural practise occurs in Canada, but at present I don't want to take this risk. I think it is fair to say that most Quebecois would prefer a beer brewed locally, however I am still left in doubt about which is the beer of my sub-cultural peers. I guess this requires further investigation.
At the present though I seem to be functioning quite well without alcohol. This evening I went to see Alt.Country poster-boy M Ward. I must stress that my attendance of the gig was purely for social reasons. My friend Ed from Melbourne was going to be there, as were friends of my flatmate who live a few streets over from us. I have little time for this sort of music. Whenever I see Uncut magazine I let out an audible groan of disdain. There are certain rules I have for my musical consumption - I don't like old music. I don't like music made by bands who listen to old music. I don't like music made by people who wear shorts. I don't like music made by people who come from regions of the world that don't have 4 seasons. But most of all I don't like Country music (Alt. or otherwise). I hate the sound of harmonicas. I hate the sound of lap-steel guitars. There is no aspect of my life, or context I would find myself in, where this music could be deemed appropriate. It says nothing to me about my life (and yes I realise the irony of quoting The Smiths when I said I didn't like old music. There are exceptions). This could seem like urban snobbery on my part, and well, it is. If we don't look down on our less sophisticated brethren how will they ever know how to vote properly, what fleeting trends to follow and where to find a good Oriental/Peruvian restaurant? Despite recognising the flaws in my ideology I have no desire to change. I think my musical taste is broad enough to escape any accusations of narrow-mindedness.
That said, I didn't hate the M Ward gig as much as I thought I would. I didn't change my thinking, but didn't reinforce it either. I did have a good time chatting to my friends though, and as that was the point of the exercise I think the evening could be deemed a success.

Exploding just as much as you like

Tonight I went and saw a rather odd musical pairing. Usually you expect bands sharing a bill to have some sort of relationship with each other. However, this evening I went along to see the wonderfully cute and wonky pop of Envelopes support the in-your-face-party-town-begging-for-some-indie-cred that is Ratatat.
Aside from whenever I see their name I think of Ratcat and want to hear "Don't Go Now" and "That's Ain't Bad", Ratatat, to me, are one of those bands that want to have a good time all the time. They're Andrew WK with a drum machine, Spring Break in skinny jeans, beer-bongs at Ding-Dong. And frankly I don't like them. I feel like they are trying to force me to enjoy myself (to the MAX!!!), something which I am usually loath to do.
Envelopes, however, are a subtle pleasure. Their skewed and crooked melodies are much more my form of enjoyment. They're the sound of cut and paste montages, sincere but not overly earnest emails and, of course, "cows and bees and nice trees". Envelopes don't need bombast; they understand that fun is more rewarding when it is less conspicuous.

If I don't smell do I even exist?

This morning I ran out of deodorant, and so I took a trip to the supermarket in order to purchase more (along with some other essential items). After searching carefully through the appropriate aisles several times, it appeared that this supermarket didn't have any female spray-on deodorant in stock (yes, I use female deodorant. Who wants to smell like a man?). I would have to go elsewhere. So after spending an extraordinary amount of time trying to decide between Chips Ahoy! and Chunks Ahoy! (I finally went with the chunks), I headed to a nearby Pharmaprix. I took me about 15 minutes of walking up and down every aisle in the store for me to ponder "What if they don't sell female spray-on deodorant in Quebec?" If they did, surely a Pharmaprix (much like a Boots in the UK or Priceline in Australia) would stock it? They had roll-on deodorant and spray-on male deodorant. Far from being a quaint cultural peculiarity, this is actually very serious. I don't like roll-on, and Christopher Reeve will leap a tall building in a single bound before I wear male deodorant. So currently I am without deodorant. Now, although it is serious that I no longer smell nice and flowery, it isn't so much of a problem as I have a very minimal body odour and therefore nothing to mask. This could be down to my exceptional personal hygiene, however, I have a different theory. It is my hypothesis that I do not actually have any pheromones. Let's consider the evidence: There's the lack of body odour, but also the fact that, although I'm a fairly good-looking young man who is nice, slightly amusing and reasonably intelligent, girls do not find me attractive. I am of no interest to the opposite sex at all. There are men who do not possess a quarter of the agreeable qualities that I do who have no problem attracting girls. There is only one (highly scientific) explanation for this: a distinct lack of pheromones. Nature can hand out some cruel afflictions; incurable diseases, blindness, deafness, mental illness and limited the use of limbs to name a few. But to deprive someone of love is to deny them the recognition of being human, and therefore the cruellest of them all.

This Gentle Heart's Like Shot Birds Fallen

"..hungover it's awful, the sound of trains collapsing back behind here; outside there are distant birds circling in front of 7 miles of heavy cloud falling down, &from where you're lying one of those clouds looks like a hanged man leading a blind, indifferent horse...THIS IS MILE END MY FRIEND, the hollowed out ruins here &a train runs straight thru them..."

Well, I live just up the road and it's not that bad. The train tracks actually divide Mile End into a rather nice area of cool cafés, bars and bagel shops and an area of old warehouses and crumbling overpasses more akin to the vision of our shadowy friends from Godspeed You Black Emperor! (or Godspeed You! Black Emperor as I believe they changed their name to). At the start of the century my proximity to Mile End would have been extremely exciting. You may have found me in an over-enthusiastic fan-boy state camped outside the Hotel2Tango reciting The Dead Flag Blues and stroking the skin right off my chin. Although my interest in.... I was going to use the cliché "epic post-apocalyptic gloom" here, but I actually think GY!BE's music is rather hopeful and I also think that their sense of humour is something that is often overlooked.... So my interest may have waned in recent years, however I still do have a certain fondness for the band, as well as their spin-off, A Silver Mount Zion (or Thee Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-La-La Band).

This was going to be my introduction to seeing A Silver Mount Zion this evening. It was going to be my best blog entry yet, with pictures and everything! Unfortunately, due to an all too common lack of foresight on my behalf, I didn't purchase a ticket and there were no tickets left on the door by the time I got to the venue.

So after being informed that the gig was sold out I stumbled forlorn across the road to the local Couche-Tard (which sounds like a French insult, but is actually a chain of 24 hour convenience stores) and did something I completely regret. While most people exhibit their sorrow and self-destructive tendencies with drugs, alcohol and/or gambling, I...bought a bottle of Coke. I have no recollection of consuming Coke since entering adulthood. My drink of choice is water; I rarely drink anything else (my alcohol consumption is minimal). Now to the many many people on this Earth who make Coke the popular beverage it is this may seem ridiculous, but.... Coke is impossible to drink! It hurts!! My chest clenched with such pain that I thought I was having a heart-attack! The pain was so extreme that, although I was feeling rather downcast, not even my disappointment at myself for not pre-purchasing a ticket to the gig could encourage me to have more than 3 gulps before disposing of the bottle. Which, eventually, makes this somewhat of a feel good story, as it proves that even in my darkest hour I know when to say no.
Now this may not seem like the most exciting topic to write about, but quiet frankly it's the most dramatic thing that has happened to me recently. I've been spending a lot of time indoors wrestling with my insecurities and wondering what it is I'm actually trying to do.

Doona Brouhaha

Simple tasks are often the hardest. I was never one for this sort of trite wisdom until I tried to purchase a duvet* cover in Montreal. Duvet covers are impossible to find here. It is absurd. Initially I thought I'd be able to find something with a bit of personality to replace my Strawberry Shortcake duvet cover from Melbourne, but after a couple of hours of searching I realised this would be impossible. As well as duvet covers being extremely scarce in this city, if you do happen to be lucky enough to find one it will be decidedly stern and adult. The most perplexing thing about this is that you can find sheets no problem. You can find colourful sheets, you can find stripy sheets, and you can even find sheets with butterflies on them. Now this would be wonderful, if it weren't for the fact that sheets are ridiculous! Seriously, who can sleep with those things? They always end up half off you, or pushed down to the bottom of the bed. Sheets do not have a significant enough weight to maintain their position throughout the night. They are useless. Duvet covers, however, are not useless. They are useful. As well as providing comfort and warmth, duvets are quite often the centrepiece of the room decoration and therefore should be a reflection of some of the personality of the person who sleeps underneath it. A dull and adult duvet cover is not for me. I eventually managed to find a red one, however it is a rather dark and glossy red and not ideal. Unfortunately it seems it is the best I can do in this city. It did come with its own matching pillow cases, but I think I will attempt to find some different coloured pillow cases in order to give the bed a bit of a spark.

*I'm writing "duvet" because this is for an international audience, however I must make the point that every time I type "duvet" I am thinking "doona" in my head. I may have moved countries, but I haven't abandoned my roots. I'm still Granty from the block.

After purchasing the above mentioned duvet cover I discovered something about this country that took absurdity to new levels of extreme ridiculousness. I had thought it was about time I got myself a phone number. I had my phone from Melbourne so I decided to just go and buy a Canadian SIM card. Whilst talking to the shop assistant she informed me that in Canada one has to pay for incoming calls. Now let me just rephrase that in a couple of different ways in order to get the full impact - You have to pay to receive a phone call. It costs you money when someone calls you! Is this just not the most Bizarro World insane thing you've ever heard? Now some of you may think I'm just making this up in order to mess with your heads about Canada - "Yeah, in Canada they wear their underwear on the outside" - but this is an actual fact. Do Canadians not feel they're being taken advantage of here? Are they that placid that they would not challenge such an absurd malpractise? Revolutions have been started over less. Am I the man to lead them into the utopian world where receiving a telephone call costs you nothing? Maybe I am. Someone needs to take a stand.

Aside from this, I'm listening to the new Joanna Newsom album and becoming obsessed with Lonelygirl15 on YouTube.

A Roller-Skating Jam Called Tuesday

For visa purposes it was required of me to leave Canada and re-enter. Rather than just take a day trip down to some yokel town in Vermont, I decided that it would be far more exciting to go to New York City for a couple of days. And so I was back on my beloved Greyhound bus, this time armed with a pile of podcasts from the ABC's Radio National and the BBC's Radio 4 - Lingua Franca (the ABC’s linguistics program), The Ark (religious history program) The Media Report, BBC Radio Newspod, From Our Correspondent and Late Night Live. Although I find Phillip Adams' columns in The Australian ridiculously clumsy and detrimental to all the good causes he stands for, I must admit to finding Late Night Live quite enjoyable. His guests are endlessly interesting and informative, if only he'd stop talking over the top of them!
Anyway, after crossing the border the bus made its way down through upstate New York. As the bus past through the scenic countryside I began to notice that many of the trees had quite thick web nests weaved onto their branches. The frequency of them and their size was more than a little frightening. Passing them I thought they that these webs bore a distinct resemblance to the hives of the Iratus bug, the parasite from Stargate Atlantis that would eventually evolve into the dreaded and rather deadly Wraith. This was tremendously fascinating. However, upon arrive in New York City I was informed (much to my disappointment) that they were actually moths.
The first feeling I got upon entering New York was "Holy shit, this is a real city!” For someone who prides himself on his urbane nature this was most upsetting. Melbourne (the 54th largest city in the world) seemed tiny in comparison, and even London (17th) felt small. After checking-in to my hotel I met up with my friend Hilary and her housemate Julia and we went and got some Mexican food in the East Village. Now I'd had Mexican once before on Johnston St in Fitzroy, and although that place did claim to be authentic, I still felt it was a bit like that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Cousin Andy claims that you can't get good Chinese food in LA (compared to New York). Mexican in Melbourne is not really going to compare to Mexican in New York. After dinner we made our way back to Hilary and Julia's place where they had a karaoke machine in the basement. Now on the way there I had, as is mandatory whilst travelling on the New York subway, began singing Le Tigre's "My My Metrocard", and I had related the story to the girls about how I had initially thought the line "Next stop Christopher Street" was "Next stop Chris de Burgh Street". And so after I had performed an exuberant version of Belinda Carlisle’s "Heaven Is A Place On Earth", Chris de Burgh's "Lady In Red" was cued up and I was able to fully demonstrate my singing range (a "vocal chameleon" is how Hilary described me, although this was in a completely different context).
If this wasn’t enough fun we then headed to the local Brooklyn roller rink for Tuesday night Roller-Disco (or, “A Roller-Skating Jam Called Tuesday” as anyone with the slightest amount of nous should have called it). Now for unknown reasons, these things aren’t so popular with the honkies, and so I it was no surprise that I was both literally and figuratively the whitest guy in the place. This was made official by my initial inability to remain upright after putting on a pair of roller-skates. However, much to the amazement of the girls I soon became very good. This was no surprise to me though. To all the people who have met me since leaving school it is always a rather large joke to them that I insist on claiming competency in any sport that is presented to me. These people seem to equate my rather camp mannerisms and slender physique with being uncoordinated. However, it is true. Give me any sport and I may not be up to a professional standard, but I will be able to play it rather well. I must qualify this by saying that I refuse to recognise Rugby as a sport so don’t bother trying to get me to play it. I could probably play it quite well, but I fear that actually trying to avoid getting tackled could prove a bit too high-concept for my opponents and would probably result in them incurring some sort of brain damage (although one could say that most rugby players are already brain-damaged).

Anyway, so after some practise I became quite good at roller-skating and was having the time of my life weaving in and out of people whilst bopping along to the smooth R ‘n’ B sounds so enjoyed by the local African-American community. The only downside was that my lack of exercise of the last 8 or 9 years has made even the slightest movement above a brisk walk extremely painful, and as result I’m currently walking around like I’ve been riding a mechanical bull for about a week.

The following day I went to the Museum of Modern Art in order to actually gain some idea of what I’m talking about in preparation for my next discussion/argument with everyone’s favourite perfect-legged art critic, Kerrie-Dee Johns. Luckily for me, my Last.fm neighbour and Myspace friend, the delightful Joanna, works at MoMA, and was kind enough to let me in for free (who says social networking sites are useless?). Now I won’t embarrass myself with my ignorance by going into an analysis of what I viewed at the gallery, although I will make one point. The gallery did have one room dedicated to Jackson Pollock. Now most Australians would will aware of the controversy surrounding the Whitlam government’s purchase of Blue Polls back in 1973. Now I’m one of these people who rolls their eyes at those who say the painting is ridiculous, should never have been bought and was indicative of Whitlam’s spend-happy ways (even though it’s worth over $20 million now from its initial purchase of $1.3 million). So I claim to be one of the enlightened who truly understands the artwork. However this is a façade I perpetuate solely to separate myself from the uninformed masses. I actually don’t get it. I don’t understand abstract expressionism. Is it meant to be catharsis? That's the best explanation I can come up with. Someone please write to me and explain. I’d love to know.

The rest of the day was spent getting lost around Manhattan. I’d wanted to go to the Lower East Side so I could walk around singing The Magnetic Fields “Luckiest Guy On The Lower East Side”, but unfortunately I wasn’t lucky enough to locate it.
I was able to eventually find myself enough to meet back up with Hilary and go to dinner with her in Williamsburg, aka Hipsterville. We ate at a rather oddly menu’d Oriental/Peruvian place. But the food was great! I had a fried rice that contained mint! I’d never thought about putting mint in a fried rice before, but it was truly a wonderful ingredient to utilise. I will no doubt be trying it (hopefully successfully) some day soon.

Unfortunately, this was the end of my brief trip to New York. I spent the next day on the bus back to Montreal having to endure the kid behind me singing “You Are My Buttcheek” to the tune of “You Are My Sunshine”. I must admit to being somewhat amused by this for the first two hours, but after seven it became quite tiresome. I was a very upset that as the bus came back into Montreal it didn’t cross the St. Lawrence on the Pont Champlain. I had wanted to be able to sing “We drove in silence across Pont Champlain” from Stars “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead” as the bus went across. However the driver (absurdly) decided to take Pont Jacques-Cartier instead.
It seems all my attempts to experience my obscure cultural references are being thwarted! There’ll be time though. And that goes for New York as well. The city has definitely not seen the last of me.