I bought a chin-up bar and installed it in my hallway doorframe. I saw it when I was at Sport Chek, cheking out tennis rackets, and thought it would be a handy little piece of exercise equipment. There’s a gym at my office, and before I was full time I always thought it would be a good thing to make use of, but I’ve never been. I’ve decided that I don’t like gyms, they’re stinky and gross.
So I figured that a chin-up bar is a simple and private way to help cultivate a physique — along with my Ripped Berry smoothie from Booster Juice. “I’ll have a Ripped Berry,” is what I say to the completely bored girl behind the counter, “because I’m ripped.” And then I do a little flex pose for her. She pretends not to notice or hear me, but I can tell she’s pretty impressed.
And then I go home and do three chin-ups… that’s right, IN A ROW!
Well, it’s spring again. The time when the cherry blossoms bloom, the snow begins to climb back up the peaks, and a young man’s fancy turns to all the awesome shows that are coming up!
Man Man – April 1
What can I say? It’s Man Man, it’ll rule.
The Neins Circa w/ Abernethy and Fanshaw – April 6 I just discovered The Neins Circa recently, and really dig their melodic, poppy, retro sound. They’re also playing this Saturday (March 24) at the Lamplighter, but if you’re reading this blog then chances are you’re going to see This Week in History at the Pic that night!
Cocorosie w/ Busdriver – May 5
Busdriver is my favorite indie hiphop guy, but I was a little disappointed with his new album, Roadkillovercoat, when I first heard it; the opening track is killer, but as a whole I found it weaker than Fear of a Black Tangent or Temporary Forever, less varied in subject matter and styles than the latter, less consistent than former, and in general more serious and political. After a few more listens I’m coming around to it, now that the lyrics have resolved for me. I don’t know about anyone else, but when I listen to a new album, it takes about five or six times through before the words really pop out. With Busdrive, it’s always worth the time.
Cocorosie aren’t that great, but who cares.
Girl Talk w/ Circlesquare – June 9
I saw Girl Talk at the New Forms Festival a few years ago and he put on the most incredible show ever. For one dude with a laptop, that’s not bad. Running around dancing like a lunatic, stripping his clothes off, pouring drinks all over himself, and closing with a massive, unstoppable cover of Nirvana’s “Scentless Apprentice”. He’s so dreamy. Here’s what I wrote about it at the time:
This show cannot be described adequately in words. His show was like freebasing the pure white essence of the most rocking parties of the last decade. It was the audio equivalent of doing speedballs with David Lee Roth and Puff Daddy, and then trashing a hotel room while making highly inappropriate sexual advances on the staff. His cover of Scentless Apprentice was very possibly the highlight of my life. A++++++ WOULD SEE AGAIN
I always do my laundry on Sunday morning. Outside of work, it’s one of the few true regularities in my routine. It’s not that I look forward to it exactly, but I do like having my whole wardrobe clean and readily at hand. There are two laundromats within a block of my house, one of them is run by an old, deaf recovering alcoholic. He’s a nice guy, but he moves very slowly and it’s a bit difficult making yourself understood and so I always feel bad about asking for change, because he’s usually outside smoking and it really seems like a lot of effort for him to parse the request and fish through his pockets for the correct denominations. So I usually just go to the other one. It’s cleaner and brighter, and it’s serviced by two friendly asian teenagers who spend all day instant-messaging.
Today, however, when I returned from the coffee shop to put my clothes in the dryer, a homeless man was stripping down his layers and stuffing them in a washer about fifteen feet away from me. The tang of rancid body odour and stale cigarettes, comingled with an undeniably fecal effluvium, was truly overpowering. It was inescapable, and I actually literally threw up a little bit in my mouth. Tossing my clothes in the nearest dryer as quickly as I could, gagging and choking uncontrollably, eyes watering, I ran out gasping. It was so pungent and foul that I’m afraid it’s permanently tainted my olfactory sense.
Now, I’ve been to the Computer Science Club at the University of Waterloo, so I’m no stranger to offensive-smelling humans. I’ve been around gamers. (A friend of mine used to work in a game store — Warhammer, D&D, Magic:The Gathering and all that — and he told me once his least favorite part of the job was having to pull the particularly unwashed roleplayers aside and give them the talk about hygiene.) But Jesus, this was in an entirely different realm altogether. If apartheid had a smell, this would be it. That’s the only way I can decribe it: it smelt like racist oppression; its pungency was positively hegemonic, and deeply unjust.
And that, friends, the story of the worst thing I ever smelled, thanks for reading. :(
Hey are you doing anything Saturday night? You should come to the Only Magazine website launch party and benefit at the Emergency Room in Strathcona. I’ve been a big fan of Only since their first issue. Great coverage of local events, music, and art helps me pretend that I’m hip, with-it, or otherwise in-the-know; reliably funny and interesting essays by Amil Niazi, Chuck Ansbacher, Alan Hindle and others reliably keep my condescending hipster smirk firmly in place. It’s seriously the only (hurhur) free mag I’d go out of my way to find, and my only (teehee) complaint is not enough columns by Rhek.
So, who wants to be a rapper? Too many people. There’s far too many rappers today. We need more rap fans and less kids who freestyle at me. More White kids need to start playing guitar again – that’s a real skill to have. You can entertain at campfires and you can grow your hair long and your mom can say “… and no guitar for a week!” when you get grounded. Being able to go, “I’m flipping the shit and ripping the shit and dipping the shit and taking a shit – straight off the dome, yo!” while imitating a rapper you saw on a SMACKDVD is not a real practical skill. Seriously. And anyway, if you wanna be a real rapper now you gotta pay your dues as a crack dealer. Crack dealers are the new rap superstars.
Crack and rap go together like tiny old Chinese ladys who’s language you can’t understand and empty beer cans worth a nickel. And if you 13 and you live with your two Dads who still take you to soccer camp, then technically you’re not a “hustler” yet.
Oh, and they launched their new website and it’s marvelous.
Anyways, come out on Saturday and see some bands I’ve never heard of.
Not sure if there’s actually a secret band, or if it’s a band called “A Secret Band.”.