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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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I am my own cyber hero

The city itself was too chic, hypercool, demode. A pigtailed blonde skateboards by wearing translucent polygonal pink shades, adjusting her MP3 player and checking him out via the reflection in the store window opposite. Everyone here is checking everyone else out. He is domino today, white trousers, black dress shirt, white tie, mirrorshades, and a heavy laptop bag. The weight provides a counterbalance, against the strangeness of this place, cyberpop-culture grown and evolved from the spliced metagenetic material of an 80's French music video.

9/26/03 Dunn's, off St. Catherine and something, 10:30 ish

I have a sense that there is absinthe in this city, and an intent to track it down. The information card stored in my pack of Gauloises Blondes has informed me that I am supporting the deaths of more than 9,000 Canadians via the perils of tobacco-caused non lung cancer related lung diseases. I can only offer my apologies to this largely peceful people for my regrettable slip, and remind them that one should never trust an addict.
To be fair, Montreal encourages my more fatal habits. I have just finished a cheeseburger topped with ham in a manner which I believe to be fully intentional. There is a card in my pocket from a woman who claims to be seeking Spanish students, though the manner in which she kisses strangers on the street leads me to wonder about the exact nature of her curriculum. Not to mention the fishnet.

[Transcript of conversation]
WAITRESS: That table still need beer?
WAITER: You handle that order. I, uh, need to go put my tongue in my girlfriend here.

Club Saphir, 2 AM:

Miraculously, a club exists that both Claire AND Jessica could go to. They're playing gothic and darkwave stuff upstairs to suit the ennui-ridden leather children and badass transvestites, and downstairs it's all 70's and Stones, for all the kids that are trying to live in the Rock Club Scene They Never Had. I can't get a martini at the bar. I tell him to mix something good and he reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels and I nearly punch him in the face (my hand stops and opens a few inches away, to ask him to please grab something else). And then they start to play ThrillKillKult, followed by New Order, and I can forget things for a while.


Everyone is fashion. Everything is a commercial. Everywhere is somewhere less cool than the place you want to be. Everyone is beautiful, if you want them to be. Everything is alright as long as you have money. These and more devil's kisses the neon whispers, over and over, over and over.


I have now ordered food four or five times in French. My linguamorphic brain is now prone to confusing itself by making me pronounce English words as though they were their French equivalents. No becomes non, from time to time du temps en temps, oi slides closer to oui. Yves mentioned that the French here, to a Parisien french speaker, is archaic, quaint and countrified, and it amuses me to imagine what an English equivalent would be, a land where they say thee, and thou, and sho'nuff, and everyone's name starts with The.


All I've seen is metropolitan, downtown, and yet it's strange because this place is so crimeless, and I've seen doors unlocked and cars left running unattended. There's so nothing to fear, it's nice, but disarming... I am uneasy without the sense of danger that comes from Brooklyn, South Central, Oakland. Much of this place is surface, and lacking in sophistication in a way that strives for sophistication, like so many cosmopolitan places in the world, like London. I work a lot, and so all I see is nightlife, when I'm not living by the coffee machine or sleeping.

The weather goes from warm to cold like that, snap, and when I return from the market carrying a couple bottles of wine and some bread and cheese, and there is a nighttime cloudburst that sends everyone scurrying to hide under awnings and alcoves, and I wait in an alleyway, soaked shirt under leather, smoking a cigarette and listening to the city's surprised laughter.

Where are you?

2:30 AM notes from Quebec

PS - Rancid was on Conan last night, and Nada Surf on the Carson Daly show. We have now reached that time where late night talk shows are playing bands you like. Time to start looking at those rest home catalogs...

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my god i love absinthe. if you can't find it out on the town, i know some good ways to get some thru the 'net. ;)

::Showing her unclutured palatte no doubt:: Erm, what the Heck IS absinthe? it's always been portrayed to me as a drink no human can drink without near fatal (or full fatal) consequences...?

And WHY is Canada starting to sound like Batman 2000 Meets Southern Atlanta Amish Farmers???::snickers::

You need to read La Fee Verte because you are misinformed.

ah, absinthe. the green fairy.

absinthe is a strong anise-tasting liquor with a psychoactive substance known at thujone (sp?) in it. the thujone comes from the fact that absinthe is made from wormwood, which contains said psychoactive substance. absinthe is known for driving you crazy for three reasons:

the high alcohol content
thujone is not so good for you
people in the 19th century drank it all the time, along with smoking opium and drinking ladnium (sp?).

however, if you just have it occasionally, it's a fun ride. and just having it occasionally will do you no harm. as with all things, moderation is the key.

the other nice thing about absinthe is that the thujone is simply clasified as something not fit for human consumption, and not as a Scheduled Substance. which means it falls under the FDA, not the DEA. so posession of absinthe is legal in the US; it is simply illegal to sell it. so you have to get it from other countries.

i suggest trying some. eez yummy. :D

If you ever happen to rent or purchase the From Hell dvd, a must for Depp or Jack the Ripper fans, the second CD contains an informative 15 minute documentary on the history of absinthe as well. It is not fatal in any way other than the ways that alcohol is typically fatal; however it IS like, 100 - 150 proof, and best treated with caution. A couple of glasses will do you just fine.

Knowing how I feel about the taste of alcohol in wine coolers....I think I'll continue to pass on this and other mind-numbing adventures.;) As ya'll may or may not recall, I have vivid enough dreams as it stands. Check the journal for today's update.

I may actually hit you up for that info, at some point in time.

But currently, I am actually blessed through a friend, to know a lad from Treasure Island who makes the stuff himself, and does a damn good job of it. We try to do it up properly, melting the carmelized sugar into it and all. I couldn't in good conscience call it actually yummy, it's quite a bitter drink even with sugar, but I have* developed a pronounced taste for the Green Fairy and all the strange dreams she brings.

Très bien! I miss your musings, how long will you be gone?

They told me I wasn't allowed back in the country. So I'm on the run. Wish Karen a happy b-day for me, and may your weekend be as lovely as the both of you put together.

(This has been a shameless moment, from the Boy Raised by Wolves)

Morse Code or Singing Telegram (minus the cute girl in a short skirt, sorry; use your imagination)

To the Boy Raised By Wolves: Over.

Please note, certain parties (not raised by said lupine) are in need of updates and have lost the means to make contact. Over. Please resupply. Over. A certain celphone is sure to be plum-full of messages. Over. Have a nice day. Over.

Re: Morse Code or Singing Telegram (minus the cute girl in a short skirt, sorry; use your imaginatio

LOL sorry, you have the number now. It's just, I have to call my cel from here to get the voicemail on it. That's what I love about cel communication, it makes things SO convenient. (GRR-in)

from oaktown

you are missed, kid. house is a rush of madness. party on saturday good. i employed my cybernetic spare brain to spin for me at times so i could sit back and enjoy a drink. lauren showed up and spun, as well as denise, of course. shawna popped in too. spent friday at the dmv, which is fascinating once you realize it's a temple and court all in one. it's all of modern life's anxieties stuffed into one place: inscrutable numbers, impossibly long lines, petty squabbles, linguistic chaos. it causes so much stress in people because you have to deal with them, or else you aren't real, and you can't move. they control the mystic documents that make you human, that make you legal. they are the priests and judges, and the supplicants must stand in line for salvation. or else you could be arrested. you can't get a drink. you can't go in certain places, can't get hotel rooms, your credit (ie money ie ashe -- the power to make things happen) can be refused. anyway. sometimes, like tonight, all you can do is sit in a bar next to a drunken English wagon driver and listen, and have a Guinness. peace dog. Check out www.jennyeverywhere.com -- open source comic book character.

king snake

p.s. i'm tryina keep the house together, but it ain't easy....

You know, I'm so damn swamped here, I utterly forgot that the party happened until I got on Friendster randomly and saw your announcement. I'm sorry I missed it, are there stories?

Wish I could share this place with you cats. I barely have any real experience of it, I work double-digit hours every day and only know Avenue Sainte Catherine, but it's a truly fasincating place, and we must get more people to check it out, so I can get your perspectives on it.

More of how I'm doing in my latest update, but know that you personally and each and every one at the Compound is missed. Keep me posted!

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