the boy cried blue

It's fading by now, but for about an entire week my hair was dyed blue.

I was once asked what my favorite feeling was, after being about four pints of beer deep. I replied honestly: "spite". Although I may have jumped the gun on it being my favorite feeling, it is certainly high on my list. This leads to...

Several months ago I asked my mom if she would be upset if I showed up to Christmas with blue hair. She nearly shit at the very thought of it. I told my band I would dye my hair blue for our upcoming show, yet they didn't believe me. Granted, I didn't that night, but their doubt remained pretty steadfast.

For weeks I would casually remind others that is was coming. Disbelief seemed to be the name of the game, almost as if I was the boy who cried blue.

Almost another week passed by when I made an actual effort to purchase the dye. This was it. Go time. Believe it or not, this wasn't the first time I ever dyed my hair. In fact, I was dying my hair for almost all of 2007, after trying to match my hair to a fake beard I had bought for a halloween party, which was dark brown. I later found out that you can just as easily buy women's hair dye to use because, in reality, it's the same hair, and they have about 400x the options.

So one night, after partying late, I asked two friends to assist me in dying my hair. They agreed and before I knew it I was rinsing my head off into a shower, looking down to what looked like a shot from a Psycho Smurf shower scene parody. It was blue.

And it was the right time: I didn't have a job and I had an entire week off school. Life is very different when your hair is blue. I found myself balancing on the edge of embarrassment and entitlement, as if having that color of hair is reserved for a very specific class of society. Although I really did enjoy walking up to a counter to address the clerk with my hat on, order a coffee, and just before paying I would take off my hat to catch that look from the person serving me. I feel that they either took one of two things away from my appearance: that this guy is a total nut, or knows exactly what he's doing because nobody in their right mind would ever have that hair color.

I suppose it was just one of those things I had to do in my life. When I look back on the photographs of my life, I want to see some fucking blue hair.

I guess what you can take away from this piece is don't be afraid to dye your hair and that disproving people's disbelief in you is one of the most satisfying and dignifying experiences in life. Keep your promises and try not to be full of shit, more or less.

me and pretty

Almost 2 years ago, I briefly met a gentleman named Bernard Purdie. He was playing a show with Cut Chemist here in Toronto. I shook his hand. To most that doesn't mean much, yet what many don't know, is that "Pretty" Purdie is the most recorded drummer of all time. I really don't need to sit here and list his credentials, because if you have the time you should do that yourself. The list is staggering (he's recorded on over 4,000 albums).

I came across this video earlier today and it simply reminded me of "the passion" (direct Lizard King quote). It reminded me that it's not the task to learn or love something; it's the love. As I sat and watched Purdie simply tap the drum skins, I remember that this is what passion looks like. A love for doing what you do. It's that kind of passion that makes me believe in everything I love doing. I believe true passion is not giving a shit about the outcome, but more just looking at your objective and jumping into bed with it, with only time on your side.

Go have fun doing what you love everyone, and maybe watch a little "Pretty" while you're at it.

Percussion Gun

I was fully prepared to write an entire piece about the trials and tribulations of 2009, but decided against it seeing as I'd much rather finish cooking my meatballs and fried spring rolls. End of the decade, blah blah blah. Lotta shit went down, and you don't need to read about it here.

I was actually surprised to hear that 2009 was an awful year for most of my friends. I personally thought it was fucking awesome, but only through the powers of circumstance.

Throughout the year I visited Poland, Germany, Austria, Czech Republic, Hungary, England, New York City, New Baltimore, Detroit, Quebec, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. I managed to dodge one of the worst Toronto summers (including the garbage strike) and hung around for the warmest November in over 100 years. I even broke a bone.

As in any year, most of you may know that, although I believe resolutions are bullshit and meaningless to a degree, a new resolution is to be made for myself.

After a discussion with a professor on the topic of promotion in the art world, he stated in clear black and white that nobody can begin representing your work but yourself. This is in fact true. I don't know what I was waiting for, but I have a studio absolutely full of work that could be hung at any moment. This is where the resolution comes into play.

Man of Action

This year is going to be all about progress. The word itself has always intimidated me. I get comfortable in some situations and find it hard to detach myself from it. However, I slowly realized that progress really isn't hard at all. It's just a matter of movement, motivation, and passion working harmoniously towards an attainable goal.

The other day I clearly, in my mind, mapped out what I want out of my life. Then I realized I'm 23 years old, and that there is still plenty of time. Yet why wait? Why not jump start things and showcase work at all times? - although I've been technically showcasing and selling work at Orange Alert for over two years.

Man of Action is all about, well, action. Making calls, finishing my website (the lack of it is fully my fault - digging up and documenting past work kills my soul), sending emails, getting work, and making connections. I'm ready, and I'll do it. Upswing, baby.

Happy New Day.

things I've learned at 1806

I'll preface this next bit with some notes. I've lived here, in the same room, for three years, and I know every in and out of this neighborhood within a four-block radius. I've lived with some serious characters and have experienced some pretty amazing times. There's been some quiet times, and some really loud times. If these walls could talk, there would probably be a lot of bleeping-out.

The Sound

My room at 1806 is partly separated by glass from another bedroom. Apparently, everything can be heard coming from my room in the other bedroom, and I mean everything. Yet the strange thing is, I've never heard much of anything come from the other side. It's almost like a one-way-mirror, except for sound. Strange, indeed.

The Lifts.

The elevators are incredibly smart here. I've never seen elevators like it. When idled, one sits at ground level, another in the middle, and the other at the penthouse. They juggle perfectly as if actually controlled by one very considerate man.

The Delta Chelsea.

This hotel sits across the street from my room. It ruins what would be an incredible view of south downtown Toronto. The shortcut through the lobby is the only real redeeming quality about the place, which I've probably passed through over 500 times. It's also extremely ugly. On top of that, I never saw any full-on sex coming from any of the rooms. How lame is that? Every night I'd look out my window to see if anything was going down, and nothing. I've seen some weird stuff however. I've seen a blowjob in progress, an old guy masturbating naked, two naked people laying on the bed with the lights on, and a whole lot of people changing. So, for all my real friends, do me a favor and go have sex at the Delta. Not so that I can sit and watch, but so that I can finally say after three years "Oh look, people are having sex at the Delta. Neat". On a final note - Blair and I are still trying to figure a way to blow up the entire building, just so he'll have a nice view.

The Alarms.

My condo is allergic to smoke. Even if you burn toast, the smoke alarm goes off. There's been some perticularly hilarious stories surrounding that device. The interesting thing is though, howcome the alarm never went off after we Jamaican Sauna'd the bathroom? I've seen steam come out of that bathroom that would honestly rival Niagara Falls.

The Changes.

Something is always wrong with this place. They're always shutting off the water, closing the gym, renovating the pool, fixing soggy ceilings, tearing up floors, bleaching something, and removing something else. I'm going to guess that there were only a total of 21 days where nothing was wrong with this building. I'm sure the site coordinator loses sleep at night.

The Halls.

The hallways smell like Toys R' Us. I noticed that the day I moved in. Do you know the smell I'm talking about? It's dominantly a fresh plastic smell, mixed with the odd stroller that passes by.

The Water.

It's god-damn delicious. Toronto water in general is the tastiest water ever. I have no idea why either. If the water here could be embody an inanimate object, it would probably be a milk shake, because that's how good it feels to drink. Going from another other towns water to Toronto's is like going from Marble Cheese to Double-Creme Brie. Get the picture?

The Tank.

I was never busted for practically living in my studio. My studio space is a large storage unit located one floor below street level. Two security cameras point directly at the door, and yet I was never hassled for being down there for hours at a time. Sometimes, a few people will accompany me, back in the good old Think Tank days. We'd stay there for hours. I'd have girls down there (intentionally or not). I play albums on full blast. I empty piss jugs and used oils/chemicals into the small drain outside the door. I clean by brushes at the Car Wash bay (and I usually do a pretty good job of spraying all the colors into the drain). Strange things come and go from that room as well, such as: a gigantic mirror, a five-foot wagon wheel, bee bee guns, an oven door, countless canvases, and lots of busted furniture.

24/7

It's too convenient here. It's literally impossible to go hungry in this area. There are four 24-hour establishments within five minutes of each other, and I couldn't even tell you how many times I've visited them at 5 a.m. There's a Panago next to my front door, a Subway, and a Falafel house around the corner. The convenience is also one of the major factors in leaving this place: I just don't want it that easy anymore.

Blair.

I love living with Blair, because he thinks I'm a pretty cool guy and really hams me up when I'm in the kitchen. He laughs at all my bad jokes and catches all my movie references. He is easily persuaded by his vices, and I've practiced that persuasion many, many times. His hobby is cleaning, which is good, because my hobbies create a lot of mess. He thinks I look like Sinatra, and once said I'm like the Dos Equis guy. No wonder I love Blair.

sunday advice

A piece of advice:

Never give somebody credit for being good looking, because nobody deserves it.

Certain things such as style, clothes, hair, and makeup are commendable, but never straight looks.

Because really, their parents happened to rub together just enough, and at that precise moment, said person was created. And by rub, I meant they were fucking. What's creditable about that? 

Some people are fun to look at, and a lot of people aren't. Never in my life have I placed somebody on a higher pedestal than another for the purpose of looks. That's senseless. 

That's also life. 

the secret machine

Sunday's, believe it or not, are usually the most eventfull day in my week. I'll try to put myself into harms way as much as possible.

After clearing my head from last nights mosh-fest with a good old sleep in, I decided it was time for a proper meal. I settled on a breakfast of homemade hash browns, bacon, carmelized onions, creamed spinach, and fried eggs. This took forever because I haven't fully figured out how to make perfect hash browns yet (recipes are my enemy). I cook by trial and error.
Once I was done eating I called my mum and lovingly wished her a happy Mother's Day. She deserves every bit of it, because I have the best mum on the planet, no matter how much you argue with me.

Now, something I usually do with my Sunday's is to go for a nice long walk. This walk usually starts somewhere around St. Clair station, as I will take the subway up there on the Yonge line, just to walk home. However, I decided this was too short for my liking and headed west on Bloor St. I had a savage headache at the time. Listening to Stockholm Syndrome on full blast didn't help too much either, but who cares?

Upon walking into the Annex, I decided visit the local BMV. Here, I do as I usually do in any book store: walk to the travel and maps section. To be totally honest, I have no idea why this happens. It is simply the most attractive section of any book store to me. I think books on travel and maps are romantic and mysterious, full of honesty and curiosity. I have a serious love for old world exploration maps. I'll go into further detail about this love at another time.

Around this time, I got a call from John Bean. Oh John, my friend. We decided to meet up for a pint a half an hour from the time of his call, so it was time to get some food first.

I stopped by the local Ginger to grab a quick bite. It was here that I also experienced my latest panic attack. I should first mention that panic attacks are nothing new to me. I used to get them quite predictibly when I was young. I couldn't watch an IMAX movie without having a freak-out session. The sheer size of the screen would cause panic. Yet they have become less frequent, thankfully, over the past several years. But by god are they horrible. It feels like a bad drug trip without the excuse. With drugs you can at least convince yourself that there are powers at work that are beyond your control. When it's a straight-up panic attack it's scarier because it's just you and your mind working against each other.


These are your usual symptoms:

• Rapid heart beat, pounding heart or palpitations
• Sweating
• Shaking visibly or inside
• Choking sensations or lump in throat
  
• Smothering or shortness of breath sensations
• Nausea, bloating, indigestion or abdominal discomfort
• Dizziness or unsteadiness
• Feeling light-headed
• Derealization (feeling unreal or dreamy)
• Depersonalization (feeling outside yourself or like you don't exist)
• Fear of losing control or going crazy
• Paresthesias (numbness or tingling sensations) in face, extremities or body
• Chills or hot flushes
• Skin losing color
• Blushing or skin blotches

However some symptoms are more present than others, the major symptoms I experience are Derealization, Depersonalization, and Paresthesias (and not because they are all big words). There may be others but I am almost always alone when they occur.

Basically, try to imagine that your head is floating, severed from your body, and that you aren't even present existentially. The only way to remind yourself that you have arms and legs is to either attempt moving them or to pinch them, just to remind you that they are still there. Anti-gravitational pull seems to take effect and you'll feel like you're about to be sucked into the ceiling at top speed. You can't read, you can't hear a thing, and the person you thought you were is reduced to a pile of functionless matter. Everything shakes, and everything is scary; even the comics section of the paper you so dearly love.

Luckily, the thought of seeing John kept me grounded enough to stomach my meal and meet him at Bathurst station.

Long story short: we went to the Green Room, downed a few jugs of Tankhouse, and chatted each other up. John is a great listener. He lets me chew his ears off. We talk a lot about film, hip hop, girl problems, old friends, modern day technological problems, and things that make us laugh - amongst other things. Our usual policy is: meet for a beer when the sun is up, leave our beer when the sun is down. Tonight was no different. John is one of those friends that I know I'll be checking out girls with when we're 60. I can just see it coming.



Regardless, that was my Sunday. How was yours?

click, click, boom

I'm tired. 

Do you ever get that sensation where you know your body needs food but you're just not hungry, or when you know you need to sleep but you just can't? That's good stuff. 

It's been, and will continue to be, a very busy few weeks. Working towards completing works for three separate shows, all within two months of each other, and I've been having trouble connecting works together. I've painted over the same canvas three times already and plan to do so again tomorrow morning. There's a certain click that happens when I begin a new painting and I can usually sense what the finished product will look like by the time of completion. I'll toss and turn every night and wake up early just to work on it, and to see what the final product looks like. Lately this hasn't been happening. My mind has been in other places and I become really unmotivated when I enter the studio to see that my oil brushes have dried over. I really detest cleaning brushes sometimes. This is mostly due to the fact that I don't enjoy the smell of Taltine, and linseed oil can really muck-up your kitchen sink. Needless to say, I'll get it all done.

It is now nearing 3am and all I can seem to focus on is watching GG Allin interviews, which is not necessarily the stuff anyone should be watching before bed. 

Last nights show at The Supermarket went really well. I smacked my hand right near the beginning of the set and it didn't stop bleeding for about twenty minutes. The really sad thing is that I was playing another bands drum kit and I had to wipe the blood off in between tracks.

Tonight we recorded in London with the gentlemen from the Ontario Institute of Audio Recording Technology. That went very well, but I felt that my own bed would be a nice way to cap off the day. We got some Timmies and I drove the boys home to Toronto in our new van. The portable radio scratched and fuzzed between stations the entire way and we heard the same Kings of Leon song three times going in one direction. 

I've been really craving a good, concise, blogathon lately. One where I can rant passionately about something that's been on my mind, except I just haven't really allowed myself the time to do that. Hopefully this weekend. 

Oh, and St. Paddy's was good. I was in bed by twelve and still have splinters embedded in my left hand from climbing a ten foot wooden fence into somebody's backyard. 

hue and lights at cto

Last night was an outstanding show.
After a grueling amount of rehearsals over the past weeks, we pulled together a well-received set that was over 3/4's new material. There were a lot of highlights to the show as well: I got to play the drums sideways, Darcy and I both had solo's during a jazz intermission (except he got to play the kazoo), we had a song that was just drums and whistling, and most importantly, nothing broke or disconnected. It was just one of those shows where everything went smooth from start to finish, except when our sound guy Eric had us set up onstage in front of everybody, only to make us wait while he took a piss. But once we hit the stage, it was all set to go.

Seeing as we were playing with the pop-wonder LIGHTS (myspace.com/lights) we knew that people would show up, but we weren't ready for how many.
I got a text from my sister early on in the night asking when to show up for the show, I replied "come now, there's 150 people waiting to get in", and that was before the doors even opened. Once they did, the place just flooded and we were to hit the stage in about an hour. By the time we'd finished our set, the Sold Out sign was placed on the front door. It got really, really tight. Once we hit that last note (or punch), it was time to tear down everything at record pace. Yet the only problem was, we couldn't get off the stage. People had surrounded every corner of Call the Office and we had no way of getting our gear off the stage. So we (meaning Hue and Everlea) formed a gear-train that involved lifting huge amps above our heads in an effort to get everything off the stage so that the next set of gents could get playing.
Another thing I wasn't expecting from this show was the general demographic. I forgot who we were playing with and what her fan base really is: screaming young girls. I am not, in any way, saying this is a bad thing. In fact, it was one of the most hilarious and enjoyable crowds we've ever played to. Playing to a hoard of girls kicked ass. After every song they'd cheer, and after everything you'd say they'd scream. I joked later about screaming "Does your mother like it dirty?"..."YAAAHBLLAAHHAAA!" I even threw away broken sticks at the end of the show, and they ate that shit up. I guess if you're too young to drink, you have to have your vices, which leads me to my next point: these kids spend!
Not only did they like the music, but they wanted to have it. Apparently we sold over twenty albums last night and filled up over two sheets of paper for a mailing list. We also signed a lot of CD's, which made me feel like a rockstar dickhole, but it was all in fun and it was nice to meet a lot of cool people.
Needless to say, the night was a huge success and I only want to tour with popular female musicians, forever.

Recipe to make the perfect Andy

Andy

Recipe serves many.

Dish will last several years. Ideal conditions very from cold, dark studio spaces with little air circulation to fresh blue-skies.

First, you need a roasting pan. This dish is cooked slow, so no rush. You will need a long, lean cut of meat to begin. Something nice and fresh, well-marbled, with a backbone and drumsticks. Cook with the heart in, as well as the eyes for vision. Throw in some potatoes if necessary.

The seasoning to this dish is where the importance lies. You should gather:

equal parts control/spontaneity
1 heaping tablespoon of Gent (usually in season)
1 teaspoon of respect for elders and mailmen
a pinch of punctuality (not always in season)
1 tablespoon of flaw
equal parts street smarts and book smarts
1/4 tablespoon of responsibility (use sparingly)
2 teaspoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of style (mostly wasted on the Moonwalk)
1/4 cup self confidence
1 cup of reason (make sure it's not Reisen)
1/2 tablespoon ignorance
no added cheapness, it will only sour the dish
mix with 2 cups Olde English and 1 teaspoon diced Ginger (again, use sparingly)

Mid-way through cooking, paint on Friends and Family Sauce. An essential element to the success of Andy.

This meal stands alone on the table. Artistic in presentation, Andy will keep you full for days, and there's plenty of leftovers for everyone. Quick, easy, and reliable. Garnish with parsley.


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