Tuesday, December 8, 2009

It’s been about two months since I’ve seen the beautiful Austin, Texas skyline, eaten a taco, or jerked off in my own bed. Seeing as that I only have one day left of the spiritual journey, I figure it’s about time that I sit back and reflect on these wonderful times. During the past couple years it’s been proven to me over and over again that being punk is about the people, rather than the music. Discharge is great and everything, but what makes Discharge really great is when you’re sitting around with a bunch of tight homies, someone plays ‘em, and the only thing that makes sense to do is start throwing bottles and tackling each other regardless of what environment you may be in. It’s about singing along to the records, loud as a mutha fucker, saying the wrong lyrics half the time. It’s about just bullshitting, and telling stories. If you’re still punk only for the music, then brother, you’re missing the point. By far, the best part of my trip has been seeing some good ole’ friends, and meeting so many good new friends. Not having much money or sense didn’t stop me from having some good times, and if it wasn’t for my friends I’d have been dead from starvation long ago.

After I left the San Francisco Bay, I headed northeast to Toronto, Canada. It’s fucking cold in Canada. Everything’s fucking cold there. Plus to top it off, everybody eats ice cream all the fucking time. Are you kidding me? Now I know I’m a product of the Texas educational system, but I was sure as fuck taught to drink hot cocoa when it’s cold, and fucking ice cream when it’s hot. Zoë even had a Dairy Queen not even a block from her place. They didn’t sell chicken fingers though, total bullshit. Zoë got me a nice place to live during my time there, which was amazing. It wasn’t much, but it was the biggest closet I’ve lived in for quite sometime. My buddy’s in high school was pretty choice though (It came equipped with a black light poster of an alien wearing a Dr. Seuss hat with a message that read, “Take me to your dealer.”). My Canadian closet did have a sick poster of Dave Mustang, and a RAMMER boom box. There were two solid job leads I had cooking out there. One was to be a douche bag that hands out fliers at snowboard conventions, and the other one was to jack off on the Internet for money. Now, one of these jobs involved something I knew a great deal about, and the other was a whole new world that I was completely unaware of. I’ll give you a hint, the first time I had ever seen a snowboard in real life a month ago, but I’ve been polishing the one eyed gofer twice a day since I was 12, and sometimes more on sick days in junior high. I was prepared to lower my standards of what I was willing to do for a buck, for some reason it didn’t really seem to bother me. It’s only natural right? One of my dudes got me a DJ gig playing records the day before the Fucked Up weekend. That didn’t go so well. Apparently people in Canada aren’t ready for true art in its purist form yet. So I had to sacrifice myself and took a pint glass or two in the arm, which was lucky for me, because if you dumb Canadian bastards weren’t so goddamn drunk off “cider” or whatever the fuck you drink, you might have actually hit my beautiful face. And that sir would have been a tragedy it its own self. All and all, Toronto was great. Some great cheap food was eaten, some good weed was smoked, and some good times were had. The Jamaican patties in Kensington Market are a must: only a buck.

Next up was good ole’ Montreal. Texas and Montreal have a long history of friendship going back to the wagon days. The Quebecquah are a rare breed to say the least. They can drink more than you, party way longer than you, and dance better than the cast of Soul Train. They will piss on your couch, and not skip a beat. They are hands down the punkest people on the fucking planet, and are not afraid to show it. I stayed with my old roommates from Texas, Simon and Alanna, and their roommate, notorious couch pisser Simone. I ate poutine (french fries, gravy and cheese curds) sometimes twice a day the whole time I was there. Someday I’m gonna open a poutine place down in Austin and make a million fucking dollars. Me and Lanny played Boggle and Skip-Bo a lot because it was colder than a by god all the goddamn time. While other days I just spent walking around watching the leaves change. During my time there the Varning from Montreal fest was going on which included a ton of third rate d beat bands, and a handful of truly amazing bands. Illegal was by far the best, along with Complications and Perdition from NYC. Perdition were so CUTE. Kinda like the Jonas Brother of d beat punk: just adorable. Check them out as soon as you can. Soon as I get home I plan on lining my walls with magazine cutouts of their faces, which I’m gonna kiss every night before I go to sleep. Simone has pissed on three of my couches, in three different visits to my town. So before I left Montreal, I made sure to leave a little time to piss on his bed as my own little was of saying, “Fuck you, I love you”. I’m sure to catch a serious ass beating next time I’m there, but I wouldn’t have stayed in the kitchen if I couldn’t have taken the heat. Another amazing stay with amazing people, so far so good.

My last stop on my voyage was in Bridgewater Corners, Vermont. It was actually quite unexpected. A couple buddies in Montreal were headed to Boston, and seeing as I need a ride to Vermont eventually to catch a flight, I figured why not go a few days early and save a little bus fare. I’m not known for my financial stability, so staying with some family in bum fuck Vermont sounded like the right thing to do. Bridgewater Corners is not a town or a city; it’s a village. There is a general store, a town hall that also doubles as a movie theatre, and a pizza place, which actually isn’t that bad. My family up here teaches English at the local high school. (Yes I see the irony in the fact that I can barely speak the language yet my family’s bread and butter is made from teaching it.) I was left with a pickem up truck, and some directions to some historical sites of interest. There was one other catch; the other occupant in the house was my aunt’s 93-year-old mother, Louise. Now, I had never met her before though she claims we had when I was like 4 or some shit, but she’s 93 so what the fuck does she know anyway. Let me tell you, she’s an absolute delight. Ms. Louise is super on the ball for a 93-year-old, and funny as hell, too. It’s basically just been her and I hanging out every day, just bullshitting around town, wrecking shop, and getting into trouble. Ms. Louise somehow knew where Joe Perry’s from Aerosmiths house was, so we went over there for a bit. He’s a nice guy actually, kinda small though. Not like Danzig small, more like Dio small. Motherfucker must be older than baseball. He assured me that the rumors of Aerosmith breaking up were false, which was a relief to Ms. Louise who celebrates their entire catalogue sans the ugly Get a Grip years. JP gave me Alicia Silverstone’s digits while we were chilling. Shes aight. Not my style, but I would, naw mean? I’d have to say the hanging out with Ms. Louise was definitely a highlight of my trip. She might not do as much cocaine as the Montreal contingent, but she did have her hospice caretaker make me every meal I ate for a week, and that shit was tight. On the last day I had to take her to the doctor to get her blood levels checked, and when the receptionist asked if I was her grandson she said “No, he’s my friend.” Adorable. Let the record show that I fucking hate old people. Oh, she also tried to set me up on a date with the girl who works at the bank. That woman can fucking hustle. Which reminds me of a joke: What does it taste like to go down on a 93-year-old lady? Well, Depends? Get it?

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