There are monsters

Growing up, when I wasn't at chess club (Wednesday lunch hour!), I was reading about monsters. When the other kids were doing reports on lions and gazelles, I was holding up pictures of plaster castes of what might be bigfoot's foot for the whole class to see. (If you are looking for a good young adult novel (fiction) about the Loch Ness monster let me recommend my favorite.
I don't want to ruin anything for you, but it turns out that the Loch Ness monster is actually good and it's the people who are bad. What a twist! I have read this book over a dozen times.)

Much like the plucky tween protagonist in 'Loch', I have continued to search for the unknown even though my parents tell me I'm a day dreamer and an extravagently rich man has repeatedly told me not to go 'snooping my nose' into his business, which happens to be the transportation of large exotic sea creatures.

That's why I am hardly shocked, (but very shocked) by the new species I discovered in my cupboard.
Despite specifically asking to be pointed towards the onions at the grocery store, I was apparently directed towards monster eggs. My saving grace was that they came pre-captured-in-a-net. Otherwise these would probably be digging around in my brain via my nose right now. I've done a bit of digging around myself, and I think I've located the babydaddy. You ARE the father!

Instead of destroying the things for the good of humanity, I've decided to try and nurture the little onions and become imprinted as their mother figure. I consider the eventual control for a trio of tentacle-faced demon spawn to be one of the soundest investments into my future I could hope to make, save of course for mutual funds.

At best second place

When I walked to school and saw a car cruising downtown Montreal's main drag with it's muffler hanging so low it scraped the street and left a trail of sparks, I thought I had a pretty solid story. It had everything: sparks (which is almost fire), a loud consistent noise and people unaware at the massive amounts of attention they are drawing to themselves.

Then I told Brittney.

Brittney grew up on a farm in Alberta: hours north of everything you hold dear and filled with the kind of stereotypes that would make a drunk rowdy Irishman sue me for defamation of character.

When I was done explaining what an awe inspiring sight I had beheld that day, Brittney nonchalantly riposted with a little gem about a semi truck. The anger you hear in the audio is a man whose believed himself to be at a great height, only to have the clouds part and realize that his own peak is no where near the top.

(I apologize for the scratchiness at some points. I suggest you turn your sound down a bit. Also for my terrible radio voice. Let's pretend I have a speach impediment.)

Thirteenth Annual Montreal Riots Day

I don’t know how I forgot what day it was. Sitting alone in my apartment trying to work, I didn’t even hear the sirens and the helicopter. This is why I need a calendar.

Montreal Riots Day is when, in order to protest police brutality, hordes of grunge kids take to the streets armed with sticks, stones, bats and a few placards in order to display their distaste for heavy handed police actions. They are a sea of long hair and shaved heads (not a people for the middle ground), emblematic denim and multitudes of patches. I am tempted to go down the street and begin writing them up for egregious stereotype perpetration. However I remind myself that they’ll likely be too busy being arrested for vandalism, assault and, you know, rioting, to really get the serious social critiquing that I am laying down on their asses with my novelty tickets. As well, it turns out that neither the police nor the rioters themselves believe that riots are a spectator sport. In a final disappointment, despite what you may have seen on T.V., law enforcement is actually quite reluctant to temporarily deputize citizens, even if they do have their own home-made tazer.




My girlfriend though is currently trapped in a studio where she’s meant to dance tonight (and I’m meant to pay ten dollars to watch her). She phoned and said that outside is riot central and that they might have to lock themselves in and cancel the show. I’m more than a little jealous of her vantage point. Rest assured that if the mob turns angry(er) or into zombies or into angry zombies, I will style myself after the appropriate action hero for my rescue attempt.



Shotgun or stirred?

The Future: Lord it Escapes me

I don't know what web 2.0 is.

I admit that I am often guilty of being unable to remember what a person looks like after they cut and/or dye their hair. It's as though this new picture of the person supplants all other previous pictures I'd stored in my head. I suspect if my very close friends wore Nixon masks constantly I'd forget what they looked like utterly within a week.

This flaw identified, I am left completely at the mercy of the more knowledgable. People say things like "that's totally Web 2.0" and I struggle, gurgle and nod in subjugation. Was the internet only in black and white six months ago and I've forgotten? Did all the browsers used to have bangs and I didn't notice as they grew them out? The internet is a hipster now, isn't it? Or a lesbian?

Frankly I'm surprised that I can even access the internet now that it's had a boob job or whatever. I'm assuming it'll realize that it's outgrown me as soon as its vision recovers completely from the lazer surgery. Until then I'm just going to hope it doesn't ask me if I notice anything different about it. Also I'm going to punch anyone I hear say "that's so Web 2.0" because hair cut or not that sounds pretentious as fuck.