this thursday the 23rd, at sala rosa, DJ Amita and Lynne T (of Lesbians on Ecstasy - try the 1st and 3rd track. they say: sit on my bass) throw down I-don't-know-what, but I'm intrigued. and i'm there.
thinking about change in montreal -without holding it quiet in your pocket as you walk past a panhandler (how i wish i could truly provide it)- is usually an exercise in futility. thanks for the midwifery on the post below, tighties and all. i belaboured the question not to be contentious, but to better understand it. ok, so there was a bit of affected contention there, but that was part of the question... talking about change as change?
i had the day of the renegade shoelace today. my right scarpa boot. after a few fingernumbing attentions, i let it trail. like a potato shot root or rain-worried worm, it writhed behind me. and reminded me of the one time i've writhed behind my shoelace in the wilds of the UK countryside...
my friend Mark and i were malt-mangled, and i believe somewhere in the netherregions of shropshire. his parents had been kindly chaperoning me for the odd weekend, and this had been one of those... so, pretty much legless, we hailed a cab. the traditional pulled up, and the door, unlatched from the inside, swung open for us. following the example of our alcohol and embassy laced breath, we tumbled over each other into one of quentin tarantino's math class doodles. the taxi driver was wearing a black leather cat-suit, her auburn hair held back sheerly by the hot air rising from her countenance. she faced us once, and Mark and i were struck dumb. astonishment couldn't even turn our heads to register the other's reaction. our cabbie was of mythologically gorgeous and self-possessed graces. the corner of her mouth swallow-winged up to see our previous loutish confidences sodden in front of her: we were taxidermed. Mark eventually mumbled his address, and we were swifting propelled homeward. it was a few moments before we regained our drunken humour. and even then, it was under spell and respect. we spoke with her, and, i believe, engaged her elegant amusement (though doubtlessly for very different reasons than we presented). and the cab ride seemingly ended much quicker than the average. we paid. bowed out (one steps down from a uk cab). and closed the door teenage hearts engladdened that we'd not made too much of a fool of ourselves. it was only when she was driving away that i noticed i'd just locked my meter-long bootstring in the door. having still enough slack in the string to hobble along, i knocked on the side of the cab while hollering with the desperate anticipation that only a countless hours of surgically administered gravel-extraction from my favourite turnip could exhort. because she was all-wise, she stopped for me immediately, smiling with more than a little bit of mischief as she unlatched the door. Mark was howling. i was sober. and facing the ground, disjointedly expressed my immediate desire to go inside the house.
my message here? i am so glad i have yet to get dragged behind a car like a dozen cans announcing 'just marred'.