Puck’s Prattle

I wish I could be this carefree again. I also wish there were little karaoke kiosks on the way home from school so I could karaoke in my winter coat too, and post it on YouTube.

On the way home from school this afternoon I saw a bunch of blocks closed off, fire trucks and police cars everywhere, and the odd ambulance. It was the exact area where there was a huge fire two weeks ago, and I wondered if there was some connection. (Or if maybe there was an arsonist who had it in for Asian noodle places, which are ubiquitous in my neighbourhood.) But I didn’t see any fire; rather, I smelled a gas leak.

Not ten minutes after I got home—just getting into my computer time, looking forward to doing some blogging or whatever—the power went out. I went down to the grocery store and did a shop, figuring the power might be back on when I got in, or shortly thereafter. No dice. I called Hydro-Québec who told me the power would be back on around 4:30.

I went down for a nap, and woke up around 6:30, still in the dark. I went to light some candles but realized I no longer had lighters in the house since I quit smoking, and I had no idea where the matches were, and didn’t feel like feeling around for them. I went out go get matches, also to see what was going on. The blackout was quite extensive.

The power came back on around 8:30. I can’t find any news on the gas leak on the local news websites, which is weird, but there will be a report on the 11:30 news. I wonder if the power was deliberately turned off as a safety measure. I did hear something about a big area being evacuated.

What boy hasn’t done this in front of the mirror?

WonderRobbie’s YouTube profile page.

“Everyday With You”

It’s going to take me some time to figure this out. The absurdist coming together of sweet girls lip-synching an even sweeter song—while snowboarding in sumo wrestler suits—is more than my mind can take at the moment. This is definitely something I’ll be coming back to, so stay tuned.

Here’s their more upbeat first video, “I Wanna Wrestle You.”

The Sumo Sisters’ official website.

Jesus Christ. The Oscars^® are already over time, and we haven’t even gotten to the dead people montage yet. I wonder if they’ll include Anna Nicole. She was in a couple of movies, after all.

Speaking of Anna Nicole, here’s the full version of that really fucked-up clown video her freeloading, coattail-riding, hanger-on “husband”/lawyer made of her.

This is the kind of thing they put at the end of tragic biopics.

I found a couple of short clips of Montreal in 1974 and 1975 on YouTube, posted by user sandyfoote. I like that these are amateur, street-level films; you get more of an impression of what the city was really like.

Of note in the first clip is the scene in the metro. You can see the ads and metro map up on the lights above the doors and walls, instead of on the walls where they are now. Check the “X-Map” of the original metro network near the top left of this capture:

1974

1975

We’ll have to go through this carefully to pinpoint locations. Calling jason67!

Mommie Dearest is without a doubt the best film ever made. In a tour de force performance, Faye Dunaway channels the essence of lesbian movie star Joan Crawford more eerily than J.Z. Knight channels Ramtha. It was the role she was born to play. (Who cares if it ruined her career?) This masterpiece elevated camp to a new, unheard-of level, adorned it in classic Hollywood glamour, and gave raucous participatory audiences everywhere a use for those flimsy wire hangers you get from the dry cleaner.

Let’s mix up this truly scrumtrelescent gem of high cinematic art.

Tina! Bring me the axe!

Why can’t you give me the respect that I’m entitled to? Why can’t you treat me the way I would be treated by any stranger on the street?

Brilliant movie making to remember this Oscar Night^®.

ACADEMY AWARD(S)^®, OSCAR(S)^®, OSCAR NIGHT^® and OSCAR^® statuette design mark are the registered trademarks and service marks, and the OSCAR^® statuette the copyrighted property, of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. You proprietary-obsessed sons of bitches. Don’t fuck with me, fellas.

I’m still trying to figure this one out. Are there no traffic lights, or are they broken? Or do the drivers just not care?

Here’s Edd Kalehoff, composer of music for such television game show classics as The Price Is Right and Card Sharks, playing a jaunty little tune on his Modular Moog in a commercial for… wait for it… Schaefer Beer. (Dig the oscilloscope in the background!)

The brilliance here is the succinct, economical lyric:

Schaefer is the beer to have
When you’re having more than one!

A few weeks ago I celebrated six months without a cigarette. Since then, I’ve been trying to formulate something insightful to post here on Prattle. It would be easier for me to verbalize what it’s been like and what it means to me if I were always thinking about having quit smoking. But that’s just the thing: I’m not always thinking about having quit, and that’s why I was able to in the first place.

You see, I firmly believe in the obsession model of addiction; it at least holds true for me. The more I think about something I want, or something I shouldn’t have, the more I’ll need it. Then the compulsion to get it at any cost kicks in. It was that way with smoking. I was incredibly addicted, yes, but I was also obsessed with it. Before settling in for the night, I had to have enough cigarettes for the next morning. When heading out, I’d compulsively (as in, over and over) check my pockets to make sure I had my pack and my lighter. I kept a stash of matches in the house in case my lighter ran out.

And when money was tight, priority number one was to budget for cigarettes. Cigarettes first, food second. Now, what’s wrong with that picture?

It all came to a head last summer. When we talk about bottoming out, we’re usually referring to hard drugs and alcohol. I bottomed out from smoking. And then, in one of those miraculous moments of infinite clarity, I understood. I understood how smoking was not only destroying my present life, but my future life. I understood the insanity of directing the bulk of my meagre income towards an addiction that was only perpetuating a cycle of financial strain. I understood that if I didn’t do something about it, I would die. I saw myself twenty, thirty years from now, hooked up to oxygen and yet still being unable to breathe. I saw myself bald and retching from chemo and radiation for a cancer with a pathetic survival rate anyway. And, still in that moment, I knew that now was the time, and I knew that the obsession would be lifted.

This was the third time I’d been graced in this way, and this was the third time I was freed, against all odds.

As such, it was surprisingly easy to quit. I just didn’t think about smoking anymore. It wasn’t about willpower, for all willpower does is compell you to keep thinking about what it is you’re trying to resist, therefore perpetuating—even worsening—the obsession. For me, with the obsession effectively gone, it was as if a switch was flipped: from smoker to non-smoker, and that was that. I unlearned my habits quickly. What do you know, it’s easy to wait for the bus without smoking! It’s easy to not smoke before and after class! It’s easy to get up in the morning and have my usual couple hours’ coffee and computer time without chain smoking.

And the money. People always say things like, Think of all the money you’ll save! I don’t think of having saved money, because that implies I’ve got an empty pickle jar filled with cash somewhere. Rather, it’s money better spent on things like food, tuition and books, bills paid on time, and at least one congratulatory (yet necessary) purchase: the new computer. By a conservative estimate, I’ve “better spent” around $1700 by now.

But I’m not perfect, and neither is my “quitness.” A good 95% of the time, I forget that I ever smoked. However, there’s that 5% of the time when I forget I ever quit, and I’ll suddenly expect a cigarette, as if nothing had changed. At first those moments would bother me greatly, and I’d feel a sense of loss on top of the craving. Now I’ve learned to ignore them, and the feeling passes within seconds.

It’s been a very fulfilling experience. When I smoked, I used to daydream about how wonderful it would be once I had quit, once I had been freed, but I would hate thinking about just how I would get there. I’m so happy to finally be there.

I don’t know what I did to my shoulders at the gym last weekend, but they’ve been hurting like a motherfuck all week. The pain went down yesterday, so I made it back to the gym, as well as today, taking care to recruit my shoulders as little as possible when doing weights. As I was doing that warm-up thing where you make circles with your arms, I felt the joints popping. This is beyond muscle pain.

Of course, I’ll no doubt be back at the gym tomorrow, because it keeps me looking hot.

I’m not talking about the gay baths. I’m talking about places for weary, straight adulterous pervs executives, “working late” in Manhattan—luxurious palaces tucked away among the hustle and bustle of the city, where nubile young attendants would attend to their every whim and desire. “Will that be Chargex, MasterCharge, or Diner’s Club?”

These are real commercials. They aired on late-night public access, mind you, but still.

Our first stop is the Taj Mahal on West 46th.

Begin your timeless trip in the Maharaja lounge, which swings 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, where your eyes will be stunned by the most beautiful hostesses to be found anywhere East or West, ready with your complimentary refreshment. Then it’s on to be bathed in the swirling lotus whirlpool. And finally, led to a world where time isn’t allowed to enter: one of our sumptuous relaxation chambers. There, special oils and lotions are applied by the hands of a goddess.

Gah. Just look at these two boorish sleazebags. Here’s Merv:

…and here’s Maury:

A short cab ride east on 46th Street brings our middle-aged horndog to The Retreat. Let’s see who’s in the waiting lounge…

Holy crap, it’s Jim Jones! Compare:

Jim is fed grapes by two Roman beauties, one of whom is African-Roman. “Hmm, grapes are tasty. I think I’ll give my followers poisoned grape Flavor Ade instead of orange.” And whaddya know, he did!

In the days of Caesar, men lived life to its fullest, with sensual women pampering their gladiators with secret delights. Now you too can leave your hectic, mundane life and escape to a fantasy of pleasure at The Retreat. Come visit our palace of Roman pleasure where beautiful toga-clad goddesses will lead you into the Roman ritual of sensous delights. Relax and refresh yourself in our Gladiator’s lounge, large authentic sauna, lemon cream facials and exotic hot oil rubs anointing your body. Choose your slave girls for a champagne-milk bubble bath in our golden whirlpool tubs. Let the games begin! [my emphasis]

The slave girls bathe and rinse Jim, because he’s been a dirty, dirty cult leader.

Still, for the boned-up gent on a budget, nothing can beat (har, har) the classic Times Square porn theater. This one is the Costco of the sticky-floored odeons of yore.

What can you get in the sex entertainment field for $2.49? Well, you might be able to get a hooker for two and a half minutes. Or, you might be able to get to see eighteen minutes in a peep show. $2.49 couldn’t even begin to buy a glossy hardcore magazine. You might be able to see a topless dancer—that is, until your drink ran out. Or, for $2.49, you could see three top-quality hardcore porno features at the Orleans Theater. The Orleans Theater—$2.49 at all times. On 44th street, west of Broadway. The Orleans Theater: your best hardcore film bargain!

I wonder if that $2.49 included a moist towelette. Then it would have been a really incredible bargain.

Yes, getting a nut was profoundly more interesting in the 70s.

Props to Sean Flannagan of Deeplinking for uploading the video.

Just wondering. I’ve always liked the picture you see at the right, but I have a feeling others might think I look like some sullen little malcontent. Here are two others I sometimes use. Help me bring sexy back.

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When I was a teenager, I came across a book in the school library titled Remember Expo by journalist Robert Fulford. It was a mainly pictorial record of Montreal’s Expo 67, arguably the most successful World’s Fair ever held. Though I wasn’t alive during Expo, the pictures in the book seemed somehow familiar to me. (Maybe a past life thing?) As much as I wanted to find out more about Expo, this was long before the Web, so all I had was that one book, a few sparse encyclopedia articles, and my imagination. Sometimes I’d catch glimpses of the Expo site on TV—almost always in passing, such as during the Formula One race that takes place on Île Notre-Dame. The cars would pass the former France and Quebec pavilions (now the Montreal Casino), and at one point, you could see the U.S. pavilion (now the Biosphere) in the background.

When I moved to Montreal in 1992, the site was no longer remotely the way it was during Expo and Man and His World, the subsequent exhibition that lumbered on for at least a decade or so. Still, I’d enjoy taking the metro to Île Sainte-Hélène just to walk around what is now mainly a park, and think, This is where it all happened! And you can still ride one of the original Minirail lines at the La Ronde amusement park.

Well, it turns out there’s a fellow named Jason who’s really into Expo. What strikes me about him is that unlike others who have put up Expo nostalgia sites—mainly people who actually went to Expo—Jason, like me, is far too young to have attended, and yet has a delightful fascination with the fair and the exciting era in Montreal that surrounded it all. He’s also way into retro stuff. His blog is called Expo Lounge, and I highly recommend checking it out.

When the hippies of the late 60s rejoined society, many went back to university to finish their degrees, and a select few came out the other end with PhDs in fields such as education and child psychology. They were soon snapped up by the budding Children’s Television Workshop as consultants on its flagship show, “Sesame Street.”

The thing is, they never quite gave up the weed or the windowpane. Their drug-induced ruminations on such everyday things as pinball machines, fruit baskets, and getting lost soon found their way into bizarre animated shorts played as bumpers between Bert and Ernie’s domestic squabbles, Big Bird and Snuffy’s misadventures, and the Count’s obsessive-compulsive number fixation.

Take what is probably the most famous of these shorts: the pinball machine. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twe-e-e-e-e-elve! What kept it fresh was that each edition, which featured a different number, had the pinball going on a unique adventure. Let’s see what’s in store for the number six:

Kind of a barnyard thing. I recall seeing better, but you get the idea. Apparently the Pointer Sisters did the vocals here.

Watch an orange come to life and sing Carmen, accompanied by phat Moog synthesizer music.

She almost loses it on “l’amour” but quickly regains her composure.

Finally, in one of the most fucked-up segments ever seen on Sesame Street, a kid unwittingly drops acid, gets lost, and seeks the advice of a shape-shifting pimp with a yo-yo who tells him how to come down from his trip.

Is there any wonder why we grew up to be Generation X?

Holy crap, I just came across this:

Merlin™, the Electronic Wizard! I totally loved this thing! There’s a Java version here.

A totally cheesy—yet compelling and addictive as crack—promo for the Montreal metro, circa 1976. Watch this once and tell me you don’t want to watch it again.

Here’s a rough translation of the lyrics. When they say “il fait beau dans l’métro” they more or less mean the weather’s nice in the metro. There’s no good English analogue, so I’ll go with “it’s beautiful in the metro.”

It’s beautiful in the metro
Everyone’s gay, everyone’s heart is sunny
It’s beautiful in the metro
The faster it goes, the more beautiful it sounds

It’s beautiful in the metro
There’s blue sky in the happy eyes of everyone
It’s beautiful in the metro
Because today, our metro is the most beautiful in the world

It’s beautiful in the metro
And on its little brother, the bus
It’s beautiful in the metro and on the bus
Can you say as much of your car?

Ha ha ha ha ha!

It’s beautiful in the metro
Our metro is the happiest
And even more: it sings!

Long live the metro and the bus!
Yes, it’s beautiful in the metro!

It works much better in French. In English, it comes across as really bad propaganda. The part about the metro singing no doubt refers to the three musical notes the power choppers on the MR-73 cars make as the train accelerates; you can hear these notes at the beginning and end of the song.

I have to say, though, these two images are disturbing:

Join us…

Okay, I’m done now… Let me out please. Hello?

Still, it’s catchy as hell. The point they’re trying to make is, no matter how bad the weather and/or traffic above ground, it’s always pleasant underground. I suppose the metro would be this much fun if I were really stoned and, like, lived in the 70s and hung out with bell-bottomed escapees from a touring production of Godspell.

It never ceases to amaze me how simply subtracting my classes from my routine somewhat paradoxically disrupts my life. I’ve come to dread the intervals between the end of classes and the start of a new semester; even worse is the summer. Reading Week is another example of my having so much free time on my hands I’m unable to do anything with said free time.

I’d go to the gym but a) it’s motherhumping cold out, b) I’ve been three days in a row, and related to b), c) I hurt my left shoulder.

I suppose I could get going on that reading I mentioned, especially Augie March. I mean, it’s 20th-century AmLit, and for some reason, I love 20th-century AmLit above everything else.

I could work on that deep blog post about the Sunscreen song and my life in 1999. I don’t want everyone who comes here (mostly looking for the bride wigout video—still) to think all I’m able to write is pop-culture snark.

What else is there to do? Have I really settled into such a boring existence?

This sort of uneasy boredom is what I remind myself of when I’m in an uninteresting class. And it could me much, much worse. I could be back at that soul-destroying job I miraculously hung on to for five years. What a horrible place that was. Talk about treating employees like shit and an endless salary freeze despite the company’s still turning a profit. I’d mention the place by name, but they’re notorious for online spying on employees past and present and then threatening to sue for libel.

See, idle time, and I start thinking about that cesspit. I consider going to their website to see what crappy-ass products they’re hocking now. What a fucking dump. I can’t believe I used to haul my ass to Dorval an hour each way every day. No wonder I drank.

Idle time, and I start this lame-ass stream-of-consciousness crap. Stream-of-consciousness is such an unbelievably hackneyed form/style, and I hate hackneyed crap and clichés.

Idle time. Man, I’d love to have a class to go to this evening. Nothing’s stopping me from going to the gym, and I suppose I could do something other than weights, or at least take care to not further hurt my left shoulder. But the place was dead yesterday, and I’m strange in that I don’t like the gym when it’s too busy, but I get creeped out when it’s empty.

I could stalk on Facebook, but the stalking I’ve done to date has turned up no one interesting. Besides, all Facebook does is mock me through the active social lives of early-twentysomethings, making me feel old and boring.

Maybe I’ll have a snack.

My friend Matthew tried to make me feel jealous that I wasn’t going away for reading week. “I’ll be golfing in the hot Texan sun in the Gulf of Mexico within 48 hours,” he said in an email. “Enjoy the snow.” What he doesn’t know about me is that I’m not the fly-down-South type. I enjoy the seasons for what they are, and when the weather isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, I get upset. Depressed, even. This past Christmas, as far as I’m concerned, was fucking ruined by the lack of snow and balmy temperatures. My mother’s always like, “It’s still Christmas in our hearts.” NO. Sorry. It isn’t the same.

In any case, I have a ton of reading to get done. Even worse, a lot of it is catch-up reading. In the non-catch-up department, there’s The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow for my AmLit course. It’s quite the hefty tome. In the catch-up department, I have to barrel through a bunch of rambling lit-crit for my Modern Drama course, since we have a test on it in a couple of weeks. And a couple of renaissance plays in there, I suppose. At least I have no assignments to work on, for now.

In other news, I went poking around the old hard drive, and found a bunch of old pics of me tucked away in a folder in a folder in a folder. Here’s a couple of good ones taken before a night clubbing. Ignore the cigarette; I quit a while back.

Britney Spears has shaved her head.

Well, at least now the drapes match the carpet. (Or lack thereof.)