Montreal is full of contemporary pragmatism and thoughts of Leonard Cohen whose wisdom has earned him the right to charge upwards of $200 in his quest for the solace of salvation except that "even damnation is poisoned with rainbows," remember?
Thank you, Montreal, for being there when Paris can't and New York no longer wants to.
Did you know, for example, that the original Blind Mellon bee girl, the one on the cover of the album, worked at Cafe Feelings in Marigny where her large, framed portrait still adorns the wall, right above that of Marylin? Or that the Ursuline Convent on the outskirts of the French Quarter may still house vampires in the attic when they were brought over in wooden cases by young girls to help tend to the sick during a yellow fever epidemic?
Well, I learned all about it, along with Muffeletta sandwiches, regular and frozen Hand Grenades, a delectable drinks that combines ten different liquors in a giant plastic cup with a grenade-shaped bottom or the ever popular Hurricane (Rum, corn starch, high fructose corn syrup, red 40).
I also learned that even no matter how severe the destruction and destitution, a sunny disposition can be served up with a heavy cream sauce and a large, friendly smile.
When I came back home, I ordered a t-shirt off their website. It's blue with white stripes on the sleeves and a red number 8 on the back left shoulder. It says "How's Your News" on it in white bubble letters on the front, obviously.
Ok, so I admittedly had no other images to post. But whatever, this show ruled!What a strange way to select a jury of my peers. They are in no way my peers. Half barely speaks English, most are older, and I have no way of telling who received a proper liberal arts education with a sufficient knowledge of the history of civil disobedience or at least Thoreau’s essay an anarchist practice. In fact, as soon as I’m called, or however the hell this works, I plan to expound on this subject.
We were all promised that the court would ensure our jury experience would be a pleasant one. We watched a movie that outlined the history of juries, from the first jury in Ancient Greece as proposed by Aristotle, to its subsequent revocation by the Romans, to Medieval times when the trial by ordeal was implemented for accused individuals whereby their hands would be cut off or they would be tied up and thrown into a river; if they float, they are guilty; if they sink they are innocent. I found the film entertaining and informative, but then I always do.
Finally, when the sassy black man with stylish glasses asked all who do not have the February 29th, 2008 date written on their summons to step up to the podium, an extraordinary number fools obeyed because people’s capacity for stupidity is striking but not surprising. This, however, in way posed a problem because he succinctly proclaimed that knowing how to read or write in English was not mandatory. When the Russian interpreter repeated the speech in Russian, five conniving women jumped up, claiming they did not, indeed, possess even an elementary grasp of the language. Sly cunts. The Russian grandmas bonded instantly, exchanging subtle smiles and nods of Soviet recognition, a tacit principle that once formed the basis of a formidable regime but is today reduced to the clever ability to circumvent the system.
After hours of questions, inane replies, indifferent civil servants, and a lunch break after which I will finally be questioned about whether a 26 year old JAP should be allowed to claim compensation for injuries she sustained following a taxi accident in which the driver, might I add, was Russian, I decided I sympathize for these obedient system functionaries. After all, it’s a system that has assured a relatively happy life for most of its many obedient citizens.
Surprise, Surprise. I was not selected. I think I like these folks after all for their conviction in the righteousness of a flawed yet inveterate system, though it’s a shame that no one is particularly clever or entertaining at these dutiful happenings.
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There you have it. SF is very beautiful, quaint, precious. It's like if you take the prettiest street in Park Slope, sprinkle it all over the city, add a heavy and generous dose of crack heads and piss-reeking junkies, you get SF. I have yet to find the raisin of its perfectly golden, sweet brioche. It will probably take some digging through the sweet fluffy interior to reach the tiny, shriveled brown perfection.
The concept of home being an ambiguous one, regardless of its structure, I like that there's no trace of me in either of my parents' homes, for example. If you have no "home" per se, then you can't go home, which gives a sort of rugged de-rootedness. You know, like this Huck Finn orphan individuality devoid of any grounded permanence but full of some sort of tenuous freedom, whatever the hell that means, which makes taking the bus home a whole new adventure.
It's the California factor that I'm infatuated with Could it really be the brainless LA sun that did it? Is that what it seriously boils down to?
In his shitty ass NY Magazine article, David Amsden quotes Nathanael West to illustrate his point about their souls' degradation out West: “Once there, they discover the sunshine isn’t enough,” he wrote in The Day of the Locust of those who seek a specific paradise in Los Angeles. “Nothing happens. They don’t know what to do with their time … The boredom becomes more and more terrible. They realize that they’ve been tricked and burn with resentment.”
For some ridiculous reason, I find myself eating up his words and really believing them.
"I know there are people who believe that wherever you look, all you see is yourself. Episodes like this make me wonder if they aren't right." Sorry, I had to retaliate with a Dennis Johnson quote from Jesus' Son.
Jack's fine looking bottles is available in Lynchburg, TN.
Jack and Diet Coke: 4 seconds of pouring jack, glass full of hefty ice cubes, diet coke to top. Garnish with lemon, add little red straw.
Jack: Pour into glass. Add a few ice cubes.
Box from roses that my mother sent me.
Drink recipe of the day - a lesson in moderation. End result - day from hell.
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