2003-08-04

First of all, I’d like to be sincere for a moment. No, really. No, REALLY. Yeah, take a picture: this isn’t likely to happen again before the sun burns itself out.

I’d like to extend a very big chunk of gratitude to whoever nominated me for a Diarist award. That was very cool of you, and I’m genuinely flattered. Here’s something I never thought I’d have any reason to say in my lifetime: it’s an honour just to be nominated. Hee! Of course, now I feel all sorts of pressure to be extra-über-specially witty and eloquent and the rest of it, and I’m sure to overcompensate and produce reams of unreadable tripe; so well done THERE, Anonymous Nominator.

Hokay, back to business, before all this schmoopy stuff makes my readership roll their collective eyes and frantically back-button the fuck outta here.

This weekend was a big steaming helping of insanity pie. Friday night I was introduced to the seamy underbelly of pro wrestling. I saw a video of a hardcore indie wrestling match, wherein the contestants hacked each other up with razor blades, and the loser was thrown into a tray of “used” syringes (well, used or not, fucking GOD!). One of the big-haired wrestling-bitch girlfriends actually pissed on the opposing wrestler. The best part of this shit-fuck crazy debacle was that a) it looked to be taking place in a community hall (I had visions of some hapless organizer poking his head in the door to ask the be-mulleted crew to clear out in time for the moose club meeting); and b) there were like FIFTEEN PEOPLE in the audience (there were far more chairs than audience members, of course, but the extra chairs were put to good use – I’m sure you can all figure out how). Jesus fuck – if you’re going to deliberately set out to get pissed on, have your face sliced up with razor blades, and be dumped in a tub of syringes, wouldn’t you prefer to do so in front of a significant audience? The “crowd”, such as it was, appeared to consist mostly of the wrestlers’ buddies. “Go, Jim! Give ‘im the razor! Woo!” I guess the contestants were purists enough to engage in their art just for the sake of it. I admire that kind of integrity.

Anyway, I think this is the part where I’m supposed to get all indignant and “decline of Western civilization” about such a horrific display, but hey – if two inbred hicks want to gouge at each other with used syringes to enhance my Friday night beer-drinking experience, I say go to! Bless the market economy!

Saturday night, I caught the Prids at Zaphod’s, and they were truly fucking cool; however, they were absolutely eclipsed by the coolness of the opening act – Ottawa’s own Wax Mannequin. Dude. Wax Mannequin is a one-man cyclone of rock and roll fury. He and his synthesizer (and his suede jacket WITH FRINGE) produced raging metal anthems, all with the inexplicably surreal refrain of “Meow, meow, meow, meow!” He stalked bandy-legged about the stage, veins bulging in his neck, rocking out with guitar solos that would make Sammy Hagar weep and rend his spandex. Once, between songs, a member of the audience called out “Rock harder!”

“YOU DO NOT KNOW! WHAT YOU ARE ASKING!” he shrieked.

Brilliant. Here he is bestowing his rock ministry upon the crowd:

I spent the weekend at Monster’s place, once again “dog”-sitting for her miniature Schnauzers (I maintain that they ain’t “dogs” if the “sitting” is something that can happen accidentally and cause the flattening of said creatures). Sunday night, on my way back to the apartment from a weekend-capping beer at the pub, I espied a festive conglomeration of emergency lights at an indeterminate distance. My sarcasm revved into hyperdrive. “Oh, GREAT,” I remarked to my friend. “Some fuckbag has gone and gotten themselves exploded, and now we’ll have to take a goddamn detour. Inconsiderate assholes. Can’t they set themselves on fire somewhere else? I’m fucking WALKING HERE.”

Ha ha. Thank you, poetic justice. Upon reaching the scene of the emergency, it turned out to be Monster’s fucking building. There was a fire – thankfully small and localized on the first floor – which led, ironically, to my standing outside for an hour in the pouring rain (“It’s God’s fire extinguisher!” I moaned. “Can’t they all just fuck off and let it do its work?”) while highly-trained emergency personnel did a lot of very effective milling about. Anyway, despite my irritation at having to huddle in a doorway across the street while indolent herds of firemen discussed their golf scores, I am grateful that Monster didn’t return home to a pair of charcoal briquettes with matching collars. I’m a bit worse for wear, of course, not having been able to get back to my home until well past midnight; my work today will be performed with a particular dearth of zest, I suspect.