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-�ber-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.