I got to work early today, and was surprised to find the lights off and the gate to the front door closed. I mumbled something, and lit a cigarette happy to be the first to arrive.

A few moments later I heard shrieks. At first I was alarmed, but I soon distinguished the variety of shriek as one of jubilation… it sounded strange in the cloudy climate of 8:05 AM.

Suddenly, three of my coworkers rounded the corner giggling maniacally. I mistakenly thought they were happy to see me after my time off, until Victoria’s most recent millionaire revealed her newfound fortune to me.

“I just won three million dollars.”. She said plainly.

As she herself has said several times since this morning, three million dollars is a big number to wrap one’s head around. We, her fellow office mates have been trying to do so since this morning with no success.

The phones have been ringing off the hook, betraying the fact that good news can indeed travel just as quickly as bad.

And there she sits in front of her computer, trying to carry on as though nothing has happened even though it certainly has. The carrot which once dangled impossibly in front of her now rests in her lap; soon the feast shall begin.

To be continued…

I was there on assignment to see local icons Ron and Joy test drive some new material for their hometown audience. I’d worked with Ron several years prior, and I had a genuine respect for the man’s humility and talent. When I asked him if I could get a comp to the show, his response was overwhelmingly enthusiastic. His Facebook reply read something like:

“Hey Nick!

Glad to hear things are going will with Monday! We are gonna be recording an album in a month or two: super excited to see where it takes us! We’d love it if you came out to the show: I will put you on the list and Margo should come too! Here’s my number if you have any problems with the door-staff (they’re douche-bags): 123-456-7891.

Peace!

Jon

And so, I went. Margo had a prior engagement, so I invited my a friend Albert to be my date for the show. Albert was somewhat reluctant to descend into Glucose’s blackened bowels, even for one night, but we hadn’t seen each other for quite some time, so he agreed to meet me there after the openers had finished.

I got there early, as I always do for shows I’m covering. I feel that if I am going to write a review of a show, I have to see it from beginning to end. I like to watch the first eager folk bound down the stairs; I also like to watch the reluctance with which stragglers leave as the club turns on the ugly lights.

My entrance was faced with resistance, however. While I was first to arrive, the door-men made a point of taking their time joking and laughing before evaluating the two pieces of identification I provided them.

“Hmmm…. buddy, “your” hair is shorter in this picture.”

“You’re right! Sorry. In the one and a half years that have gone by since having my picture taken at ICBC, I’ve changed up my hairstyle a bit. Are there any barber shops open so I can conform to this particular rendering of my photographic image?”

They stood stunned for a few moments before the guy in the back countered.

“Quit being a smart ass or we won’t let you in. Where is your ticket?”

“Well, I am covering the show. I think I’m on the list.”

“Ooooooohhhh, he’s on the list!” The big ape finally found his voice. “Well, talk to her!? (he pointed to a nice young lady behind what looked to be a pulpit just behind the front door), “She’ll let you know if you actually are on the list; if you’re not, we will escort you to the street.”

Thank God Ron remembered to add my name to the list; I was actually scared.

And so, I was stamped and descended the stairs. I immediately went to the bar and started a tab; again I had to provide two pieces of id, but no frisking was involved. The bartender was lovely. She even offered to keep my bag safe behind the bar for me. I smiled as I drank my beer.

About an hour later, I walked up the stairs and to the street to enjoy a smoke. My hand was stamped, after all, thus securing my re-entrance into the club, or so I thought.

About half way through my first smoke of the night, I was tapped on the shoulder in a manner, most confrontational. I turned quickly, expecting to see a motion-blurred fist of one of the wolves who guarded the place. I was pleasantly surprised, and relieved to see Albert’s smiling and bearded face; he extended an open palm instead of a fist.

“Hey bud! Sorry I’m late!”

“Albert! Thank God! I am so happy to see ya!”

“Hahahahahahaha.”

“No, serious. Let’s go in!”

We stood in front of the line to the right of the door. This line was the equivalent of a supermarket express lane as everyone in this line has already passed the grueling security check; on most nights, they get by without being hassled too much.

But on that particular evening, such was not the case. I stood at the velvet gate, baring my stamped wrist, and was told to get into the other line. I thought it was a joke, at first, but upon Albert’s urging, we kept one another company in the massive line to “door left”.

“I’m not in a big hurry to go in there, anyway, man. Let’s catch up!”

By the time we got to the front of the line, the opening band was finishing their set. I was non-plussed, but not exactly surprised. I showed security my stamp, and got a dirty look from all five of them.

“Two pieces of ID please.”

“Well, I’ve been in already; here’s my stamp. But, this is my plus one. He’s got ID.”

“Where’s your ID?”

“Well, I’ve been in already. I started a tab, so my ID is behind the bar. Here’s my stamp, though. That’s what it’s for, right?”

“We need two pieces of ID, sir, regardless as to whether or not you have a stamp.”

“Ummm…. ok. Well, my ID is at the bar. If you go up and ask them…”

“We don’t get paid to walk up and down all those stairs; we get paid to protect the stairs. Step aside, both of you.”

While I was astounded by the injustice I faced that evening, I was also surprised by how quickly I “stepped off”. My resolve dissolved quickly, however; I gave the guy who gave us the boot the finger within striking range as Albert chuckled nervously.

“Fuck this shit man. You fuckers are completely out of line. I’m phonin’ Ron!”

On the fourth ring, Ron answered his phone from the noisy confines of greenroom.

“Ronny boy!”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Nick!”

“Nick! How goes, brotha? Are you gonna come to the show?”

“Well, I’m here, kinda. But I’ve been kicked out.”

“What? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, man: lame. I was looking forward to seeing ya, but i guess it will have to happen next time! You should play Lucky instead!”

“No, no, no. Hang tight.”

Click.

And the bouncers began to banter.

“Oooooo, did you phone Alfons? Are we gonna be in trouble?”

I laughed at first.

“Get the fuck off the block or we will kick your ass!”

Now having been provoked by the people whose job it was to mediate conflict, I reacted. And I snapped.

“You know what? Fuck all of you; all five of you, fuck off!” I was surprised by my own bravery.

Their collective mental process was a bit slow: molasses slow, to be exact. I spoke up well before they summoned the sufficient collective cognitive power to respond.

“Fuck all of you! I hope you know how redundant each and every one of you are! You’re all useless! It galls me to think about how useless every one of you are… so much wasted money. But every one of you will fall, eventually. Don’t think that people aren’t on to what you’re doing here. You’re all as useless as the foreskin on a limp cock! Buh-bye!”

Albert immediately went pale as a ghost. The third bouncer in line confided to his cohorts that he had to go inside to cool off a bit before he commenced punching me out. And so, Albert and I left: he baited me with the promise of a chili-dawg down the block.

I don’t know what happened to change the bouncer’s mind. Maybe Ron talked to them; maybe they just came to their senses, but half a block down the big monkey caught up to my friend and I.

“Ok, You guys are good. Get back there.”

“Are you telling us, or are you asking us?”

“You wanted in. I am telling you to go back in. What’s the problem?”

“The answer is in the question. We took issue with your complete arrogance, and vulgarity tonight. You owe us an apology. If we do not receive an apology, you can go fuck yourself.”

He ground his teeth. Clearly, he was unaccustomed to treating people with dignity.

“Ok. We fucked up; I’m sorry. Now get in there before you miss the show.”

And so, we finally descended the staircase to dance floor. I was full of adrenaline, and commenced drinking more than I should have, and dancing in a way, most irreverent.

I am sure that Sugar Nightclub has security cameras monitoring every angle of the dance floor. I’ve often thought about what these cameras would have recorded that night; I chuckle aloud when thinking such thoughts.

First of all, I was dancing like a maniac. Albert is a trained dancer; he can dance to any style of music, at any given BpM, whereas my approach to dance is more instinctual. We high-fived several times throughout the night, though clearly he was embarrassed to be with an uncoordinated dance hurricane; he left early, taking the paltry remainder of my inhibitions with him.

No longer content to dance in the open space at the back of the room, I pushed my way to the front in order to get a better photo-op. I even tried to convince security that I was entitled to get behind the fenced off area in front of the stage for a better vantage point… they disagreed, and once again threatened to throw me out.

I laughed and headed to the washroom. As I snaked my way against the wall, I came upon a double door and fell on my ass. Luckily most of the crowd was fun-loving; they didn’t judge, and helped me to my feet. It was then that I spotted Victoria’s premier promoter, Alfons Al. He tried to avoid my glance, but I gave him a jubilant bear hug regardless.

“Alfons! How the hell are ya?”

“Good, good. Glad to see ya, Nick. Are you doing a review of the show tonight?”

“Ya man! Better yet, I am going to review the show from the vantage point of beer tub gal!”

He blushed, and looked away,

“Well, that would certainly be an interesting… an interesting angle.”

“Totally joking. Man, I am going to do an expose on the fucking security here. May I ask why you book here? It is a total shithole; you must know that by now.”

And the guard went up.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ummm… well, to start, I was almost thrown out. Everybody I’ve talked to since being here is here despite the fact it is Glucose Nightclub. You must know this; you grew up here, no?”

“Nick, look around you. This is the best venue in town. You’ve been to shows here before– how many great bands have you seen at Glucose, c’mon.”

“No, no, I’m not saying that I’m dissatisfied with the bands you bring here, I’m saying I’m dissatisfied with the venue itself. I could get past the way it smells, the bathroom attendant… maybe even the shitty sound, but Alfons, the bouncers they’ve got in here are total mad-dogs all juiced up on fucking ‘roids and Red Bull. Sugar should fire every single one of them and start from scratch.”

Alfons shook his head vehemently; “Whatever, man. I really think we should just watch the show.”

“You’re right! I hope we’re still friends, bud!”

I gave him another massive bear-hug and ran into the fray, dancing almost as obnoxiously as the hippies around me. I was still full of adrenaline from my encounter, however, and struggled to stay in one place. I shot around the crowd like a pingpong ball, falling several times.

When the show was over, I made haste to the door and sprinted home down Quadra Street in my dress-shoes, sure that the bouncers would be in hot pursuit. I’m still not sure if they’d bothered.

An unfortunate reality for Victorian music lovers is that Glucose Nightclub, the largest venue for shows, doubles as a nightclub during the week, a fact which is painfully evident with a mere glance at their door staff. Patrons of the club are met at the door by five or six mad-dogs. The leader of the pack is about six foot six and weighs roughly 300 lbs. His name is John, though, for reasons unexplained, he insists that the rest the Glucose staff call him “Maximus”.

One is essentially forced to check his/her dignity along with jacket or purse at the coat check coat upstairs. This, the great reward for often being publicly humiliated by doormen who make a point of abusing their power, stooping to every imaginable low. I’ve often seen doormen do things such as using meter stick to measure and later announce the height of shorter patrons. I’ve seen bouncers feel up young women under the guise of a “pat-down”. I’ve seen it all, and kept quiet about it until that night.

The interior of Glucose Nightclub is almost as disgusting as the mugs of their door staff. Chandeliers look absurdly out of place swaying side to side, threatening to fall upon the heads of those stuck to the dirty dance floor like flies on tape.

Glucose Nightclub is the only music venue in town to hire beer tub girls who do their damnedest to writhe seductively to the off-kilter rhythms of some of Canada’s best musical talent. It is hilarious to watch, though most patrons choose to by a pint at the bar instead.

But even more out of place than the chandeliers and the beer tub girl combined, is the ever-present maitre-dis in the men’s washroom. Yes, male patrons are welcomed to the appallingly stank washroom by a clean shaven dude who has obviously over-indulged in every Axe Body Spray he so kindly offers to his “clients”. Confused, we try to avoid the stranger in our midst. We walk quickly to a trough-style urinal and urinate with incredible force.

But when faced by the prospect of hand washing, a courtesy that has been handed down from a tender age, patrons encounter an aggressive, makeshift entrepreneur who never asks if said patron would like some help at the sink; I’ve heard many awkward “ummm, thanks, I guess’” come from the hand wash station of the washroom as I rapidly pee.

I make a point of never taking up the maitre-dee’s offer of tap turning, regardless of whether or not I accidentally splatter myself with urine while forcing my stream against the trough’s polished steel. I’ve grown most accustomed to the soap jockey’s dirty looks; I smile regardless.

Needless to say, I’ve never been excited to see a show at Glucose, regardless of how “big” the un-witting booked band. But work often takes me there, so I go.

Last February, Islands front man Nick Thorburn left Brooklyn with a broken heart. Heartache’s lost highway took him across the continent to the City of Angels where, with the help of an old piano, he documented his pain. A year later, the spoils of Thorburn’s self imposed, anguish laden solitude will seep into the public conscious. Island’s “A Sleep and A Forgetting” is set for release, ironically, this Valentines Day.

It has long been established, most famously by Shakespeare, that music is the food of love. More recent poetic traditions have added and addendum to the great bard’s famous maxim, however. T.S. Elliot, Leonard Cohen and a host of others have shown that the absence of love is oft’ the food of music. Indeed, modern music lovers owe much to heartache; it has consistently proven to be a most reliable muse to our beloved musicians. The blues burst from the deceptively fertile soil of heartache; heartache spawned raw, confessional masterpieces such as Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and Beck’s Sea Change.
With “A Sleep and a Forgetting”, Islands step out of an established tradition of country and western inspired sad songs, choosing pop as a backdrop for Thorburn’s sad words. Heartbroken pop is hardly new; Brian Wilson did a masterful job of wedding pop to melancholy throughout his career, no doubt inspiring Elliott Smith to follow suit on “XO”. This strange union was later perfected by Wilco on 1999’s “Summerteeth”.
Unfortunately, whereas Wilco, Wilson and Smith manage to capture the curious power of ambivalence in their respective strange, musical alloys, “A Sleep and a Forgetting” fails.
Yes, the album proves that Islands are more than capable of crafting some pretty little tunes reminiscent of The Travelling Willburys. Yes, Evan Gordon’s production is wonderful. But overall, the album falls flat.
The main problem with “A Sleep and a Forgetting” is that, quite simply, the lyrics fail to capture Thorburn’s supposedly sad emotional state. Song titles such as “This is Not a Song” betray Thorburn’s desperate attempt to hide behind irony instead of facing the reality of his pain. Instead, we question whether his sadness was genuine to begin with, left to wonder what happened to the muse of melancholy.

http://mondaymagazine.wordpress.com/2012/01/22/into-the-abyss-with-nasstasia-yard/

It comes as a mixed blessing that Nasstasia Yard’s debut EP “For Someone Else” occupies a mere centimeter or so of spooled analogue tape. While the beatific beauty manifest in each of these four songs leaves us craving more, the most casual listen also confronts us with a distilled, monstrous form of melancholy that few dare to observe, much less confront. But with “For Someone Else” Yard stares at her monster’s bared, bloody teeth and proceeds to embrace him with broken arms; lucky listeners are the beneficiaries of her enormous bravery.

The darkness Yard confronts on “For Someone Else” is mirrored by its cover. A child’s face is shrouded by darkness; a silent scream bursts from open lips. The look in the child’s eyes, a disturbing alloy of terror and rage, does not extend a glimmer of comfort or hope. We don’t simply observe her pain; we are responsible for it. These songs were composed for someone else, after-all.

Yard channels the child’s silent cry with “Generate”, the album’s tiny first track, which recalls Elliot Smith’s earliest lo-fi recordings. While completely devoid of hope, Yard’s voice is strikingly beautiful in its vulnerability. Yard promises that if she “could keep generating more to give” she’d keep going; just as the song comes to premature halt. We are forced to follow Yard into the abyss.

For the rest of the album, Yard’s weary voice somehow summons the necessary strength to plod through a haunting territory of textures which include dropped pennies, shattered wine glasses and wire brushes. When the play button pops up at the end of side two, we are relieved though undoubtedly our instinct is to turn the tape over for another go.

A musical equivalent to a Lars von Trier film, Yard tastefully conveys a darkness that is tragically ignored in our cheap and shallow North American culture. The album is not intended to the weak of heart. But I urge you to summon the necessary courage, listen, and listen often. You will be rewarded.

http://nasstasiayard.bandcamp.com/

Upon opening the attachment, I found the following letter. I have removed some bits as they are exceedingly personal, but I have altered nothing.

Nick,

The past couple of months have been really hard on our friendship. I was going through some big life changes right about the time that you started what you call your “up” phase. And I think that some how that combination of things made for a wedge.

I need you to know that very little of the strain between us stems from Ken. And for the record, he and I broke up the night after you and he spoke at Smith’s. We had been taking that week apart to figure out what we both were wanting and the morning after Smith’s we called it off. I expect that we will still see each other occasionally, because we both still really care for each other, but we aren’t going to pursuing a relationship. I wasn’t because of you, but the timing of it all made me really angry with you. I just feel like you have never had a conversation with Ken and so you don’t actually know anything of his “character”. You have never had a conversation with me about Ken and so you know nothing of what I was wanting from him or getting from him. I don’t think you were acting out of a place of love, and what I saw was a supposed friend who couldn’t even be bothered to find out what I wanted before presuming to “take care” of me. And that not only made me mad, but it really hurt my feelings to think that the friendship I so cherished was made on a make-believe version of me and that my dear friend both a) knew me so poorly and b) didn’t care to learn more about me. I found it quite devastating. And I think you should know – the things that Ken said to you that night he got from being there for me as I struggled watching yours and my friendship fall apart. He got them from listening to me and being supportive as I worried about where my real friend went and as I wondered how I could some how connect with you and help you through what I see as a very scary and dangerous time. He was caring, understanding, supportive, and never said a bad word about you.

One more piece on Ken and then I’ll move on. Nick, for what it’s worth, despite things with him ending, Ken has truly been my favourtite relationship I have ever had. I went into it very casually and was not looking for anything heavy – and neither was he – we talked very openly about things. And that was the difference – we talk so openly about things – everything. We really connected. We were both able to let each other in in ways that we both have struggled with in the past. He was smart, and funny, and we liked so many of the same silly goofy things. He has an amazing circle of friends that he cherishes. He is thoughtful and kind and gentle and generous. He is pensive – he thinks about the world around him. He is empathetic and considers how his actions affect those around him. He is creative and welcoming and without judgment. And most of all, for my first time in a relationship, I felt that he truly understood me and I didn’t feel the need to hide or conform. So, when you say you don’t like his character it cuts me to my quick, because I absolutely love his character. He was so so so good for me. I only hope that I am lucky enough to find another man just like Ken and that I am able to truly commit.

So here’s the thing, Nick. You have said a few things in our facebook messages lately, and in the past when you were “blue” about how you are when you’re “up” and they lead me to believe that you don’t have an accurate understanding of what people close to you see when you are going through this. It isn’t that it is a “sudden change” that is confusing, or that you are just so productive and energetic that people aren’t sure how to respond. Maybe for acquaintances who don’t understand, but not for me. I know you and I love you and you are not yourself when you are like this.

The night of my Anniversary Party was also devastating to me. You wrote the next day and apologized because the day was supposed to be all about me. That wasn’t the issue. I could give a fuck if there is a day all about me. I was scared to see you so out of control the very next night. I was mortified for so many people who were there who had no understanding of what was going on. I was sad for your wife. It wasn’t you that people were looking at – it was her. People wonder why she lets it happen, people wonder what is going on in your marriage to make you drink so hard, smarter people wonder why she isn’t doing more to help you. I know the truth in it all and it just makes me very very sad. Even at my birthday you were out of sorts. Not nearly as drunk, but clearly uncomfortable in your own skin and uncomfortable not being the focus.

Another thing that some people may think is funny, but really makes me afraid is when you go through phases of creating facebook personas. I don’t find this funny. To me it is like you are screaming at the top of your lungs that you can’t stand being in your own skin, that you are desperate not to be you. I have literally wept over my computer over this one. I see all the fevered activity over Frog Communications, and I truly hope that some of it is real, but my first reaction is that it isn’t. That it is part of your manic phase – it makes people feel productive but it also lies. This one s hard for me to articulate, but I wanted you to know that, to me, it is a huge red flag that makes me sad.

We have talked in the past about this. You have said that you think people like you better when you’re “up” something about you being more interesting or some bullshit. But really you just turn yourself into a spectacle. Strangers and acquaintances my get a kick out of it – but I (and I think most of your true friends) feel like you are hollow. Empty. It is like you are a puppet or something. We see you just going through motions trying to get a rise but there is nothing inside you. Nothing to connect to. I would a million times pick a mellow pint and a conversation over slam dancing, shouting, spectacle Nick. I never ever ever miss him when he gone. He brings nothing to my life. I miss even Nick. Nick I can talk to, walk with, hangout with. I miss him every single day when you are going through this.

I have been worried about you and I confess to having voiced my concern with some of our friends. And I have been told “oh, well, it’s just Nick, he goes through these phases”. And I know that is true. But I am really not comfortable with that being the only response. I’m not ok with just watching and letting this pass without trying to explain to you how this affects me. And how dangerous it is for you.

I love you so much and I just really wish that there was something I could do to make you see that. And I wish I could help you through these times. I know I can’t help, but I would really like to at least be able to be there. I see you hanging out with other friends and stuff and it hurts my feelings. But I also know that the real reason that you can’t see me is because I love you and I worry for you and I see through this into what it really is and I think that makes you uncomfortable. I get it. But you need to know how I feel about you, what I see when I look at you, and how I worry about you. I hope that you understand the things I am saying to you here.

Your Forever Friend,

Jessica

(Break)

Upon reading the letter, I was shattered, though amused. I laughed aloud while reading some parts and shook my head as I read others. I was baffled, angry, and scared.

I had been pathologized in the past, but never with such meticulous rigor as Jessica had demonstrated in her private pelican brief. As she might say, I was “cut to the quick”.

In the space of about 10 minutes, I went through all of the stages of grieving (I hadn’t known her for as long as her letter might suggest). And I ended up laughing uncontrollably by the absurdity of that in which I’d read.

Essentially, a complete stranger had diagnosed me with a severe mental illness, claimed that she was one of the unfortunate few who “really knew” the “real me” and had shared her concerns with the friends I had introduced her to in the first place.

I laughed because I had faith in my friends. I had faith in my wife. I thought that the mere dross of her speech would be carried, along with her back to Southern Saskatchewan’s barren soil. I was wrong– dreadfully wrong.

I was exhausted, though I didn’t know it. I had an incredible amount of energy and I could drink massive amounts of booze without any significant impairment my intellect, or fine motor skills; in fact, the booze kept me level as it balanced the inordinate quantity of caffeine and nicotine I ingested throughout the day.

My energy can be attributed to a number of factors. First of all, I was energized by my job. I firmly believe that we are meant to be outside; we are meant to walk a lot, foraging for food or, in recent years, money. I was also ingesting massive quantities of music, both as I walked and as I wrote. A number of incredible albums were released in the Fall of 2011, most notably Blackout Beach’s “Fuck Death”, which soon became the soundtrack to some intensely confrontational thoughts.

While I knew that for the most part, the album was written from an antiheroic perspective, I allowed my psyche to enter into the darkness fully. And while I would never absolve myself of my own role in the confrontations which were to follow, it certainly inspired me to be brave and carry out the tasks at hand.

The first of these confrontations came immediately after an amazing show courtesy of doppelgänger Dan. Dan Mangan played for over two hours that night, and then stood alone in a receiving line for another hour in order to meet, hug, and shake hands with every one of his fans who wanted to say hi.

I’d interviewed Mangan for the local rag a few weeks prior, and took him up on his invitation to introduce myself after the show. As he signed my ticket stub for a friend of mine who adored him, I confided that since his star had started to rise, I had been the beneficiary of many-a-hug meant for him. He laughed and asked if I got Seth Rogan a lot too; I had.

The show was an all ages affair, so I left with a thirsty tongue. Some friends and I had agreed to meet up after the show at a little English Pub called Smith’s, which was just down the block. By the time I got there, my friends had already procured a nice little spot in a darkened corner.

By about three beers in, I spotted Ken (for those of you who have not read previous entries, he was dating our friend Jessica); he was clad in his trademark Bomber jacket, his collar was up, and he was with another woman.

I took the opportunity to observe the animal in his natural environment. I watched him corner his potential prey, many years younger than he, and work his ‘magic’; he adjusted his collar more than once, drawing attention to his prized black jacket.

As I watched and as I drank, my blood began to boil. I smoked even more than usual that night, running the risk of being spotted, though I never was.

As he became increasingly fixated upon his juvenile prey, I gathered strength. I went to the bar, about six feet from him, and I ordered a double rye. I spoke to the waitress about the predicament into which Ken had cast me.

I tried my very best to gain some perspective on the whole affair. I talked to the sober-as-a-pope-server who had been serving my friends and I for the evening.

“So. I was wondering if you’d be able to give me some advice.”

“Sure! What’s up?”

“Well, a good friend of mine has been seeing this fucking loser for quite some time now. I’ve always known that he’s a piece of shit, but know full well that I would be compromising our friendship if I told her how I really feel.”

“Oh, for sure. Don’t ever step between a friend and the person they’re dating; sure way to end a friendship.”

“Exactly! But! He’s here tonight; she isn’t. And he is completely hitting on some young thing just over there.”

“No way. Who is he?”

I pointed him out in a most obvious way. Miraculously, he still didn’t see me.

“Oh my God. She’s not dating Ken, is she? That dude’s notoriously dirty. Ughh.”

“I knew it!”

“Yip.”

“So what should I do? Should I just stand here and watch him do his worst? Should I tell Jessica? Fuck; what a fucking asshole!”

“That he is. I think you should call him out on his shit, Nick. He needs to know what a fucker he is.”

“I think you’re right.”

“If you do it, this one’s on me.”

“Deal.”

I used the waitress’ evaluation of the sack of shit as leverage for the next few moments, which have, in retrospect, become an adrenaline soaked blur. I walked up beside him, tapped him on the shoulder aggressively, without offering my hand.

“Hi Ken.”

He countered quite quickly, I must say.

“Oh, hi Nick. How are you doing? This is my frien…”

“Shut up now. I’ve been watching you for the past hour or so and you’ve confirmed every suspicion I’ve had about you since I first met you. You are a fucking piece of shit, Ken.” I turned to to young lady he was with. “Don’t waste your time with these old balls. He probably has crabs.”

“…”

I walked away with an energy that rivaled my departure from the amazing show I’d witnessed earlier that evening. I rejoined my friends; they all immediately noticed that the burden I’d been dealt for the entirety of the evening had magically been lifted (none of them had seen the events that had transpired at the bar).

About five minutes later, Ken came over to our table. I remember being surprised by how calm I was.

“Oh hi Nick!”

He stammered with false bombast.

“Oh, hi Ken!”

I countered.

“I just wanted to say that I think you are a loose canon; you are dangerous.”

I laughed uproriously.

“Oh yeah? How many times have you watched Top Gun?”

“I don’t think we should share the same social space anymore, Nick.”

“I couldn’t agree more; you should take this opportunity to fuck off. Leave, now.”

“Happy to.”

He extended his hand to seal our spoken pact.

“No. I’m not going to shake your hand, Ken. Fuck off. Now.”

He chuckled to himself and walked over to the mahogany bar to defiantly finish his drink. He left after shooting several poisonous looks toward our table, or so I was told by those I sat with, whose mouths were agape over what had just transpired.

It took a while for someone to break the ice his stare inflicted upon the rest of my table.

“So, what the fuck was that all about Nick?”

“Hahahahaha… I think that all went pretty well. We conducted ourselves like gentlemen. No punches were thrown, we told each other exactly what we think of the other, and now we can move on with our lives. People should do that more often!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am completely serious. I feel as though a massive weight has been lifted off of my chest!”

“Well, what about Jessica?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think that Jessica’s going to be a little bit upset by the fact that you publicly berated the guy she’s with?”

“Well, that would be pretty weird, wouldn’t it? I mean, I stood up to that sack of shit on her behalf. I was protecting her.”

“That is not how she is gonna see this, and you know it.”

“Ummm… how else could she see it?”

I found out less than 12 hours later.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,200 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 53 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Since forming in Vancouver just one short year ago, The Ballantynes quickly set to work recording a self-titled 7″ for local label, La Ti Da Records, and playing in various venues across the West Coast to a growing legion of faithful fans. The band’s fan base is a multifarious composite of hard-core punks, old soul lovers, dance-aholics and soccer moms. Lead singer, Jarrod O’Dell, explains:

“Vancouver’s probably a lot like VIctoria in that we don’t have too many venues. What ends up happening… and it’s kinda like a happy accident… what ends up happening is that you get these seemingly strange mixes of scenes. On any given night, you might get some indie band on the same bill as a hardcore punk band, and a country western band, or maybe a soul band; worlds collide, and it’s pretty neat to see what happens. Most of the time it’s great!”

The Ballantynes’ diverse following is a testament to the plethora of elements at play in the beautiful menagerie of influences dancing upon the complex web of their sound. Summoning the spirits of many, yet imitating nobody, the band’s overlying thesis is deceivingly simple: shake your ass and have some fun.

Set to make their Victorian debut this Saturday night, it is obvious that the Ballantyne’s plan to conquer. The festivities begin at Club 919 where, armed with a Hammond Organ, a wealth of tambourines and other assorted instruments, the band will headline their inaugural Victorian show, supported by local darlings The Chantrelles. The party will then stumble up Broughton street to Smith’s Pub, where the band will vie for a coveted spot behind a needle.

So rest up, Victoria. Forgo your best laid Friday night plans, and eat a big ol’ breakfast on Saturday morning. The Ballantynes settle for nothing short of several litres of sweat upon 919′s lit up dance floor. They’re gonna bring it; you should too.

I rehearsed my speech in the shower for five consecutive mornings. It went something like this.

“Peggy. Over the past several weeks, you’ve proven to be a valuable asset to Frog Communications; your torch burns bright– you inspire. Unfortunately, you have also proven to be extremely unprofessional. You have crossed many lines, with me, with Joel and with clients as well. I think you’d be a much better fit somewhere else.”

Every time my monologue resounded from the steam drenched ceiling of my bathroom it rang less and less true; I hated myself on behalf of she, Joel, and even myself. But I had to do it.

A few days later, Peggy was cut loose completely. She took the news much better than I’d expected. She went silently back to Calgary, where she found work almost as soon as her plane touched down.

I let Joel go too, under the guise of “stripping the company down to regain our initial focus”; he went to Calgary too– I’d always wondered about the two of them.

While I was saddened by the loss of my fellow employees, I felt strangely relieved by their respective departures. Suddenly, I had more time to work free of the drama my imagination had deeply instilled into the whole frog venture. Within a week, I’d signed three contracts. I was tweeting up a storm via the coffee shop’s wifi signal across the street of my makeshift office, The Beagle Pub.

To be quite honest, I struggled under the now-solitary-burden of my recently aquired work load. I had no Frog Communications related diversions anymore; I was faced with my own solitary, entrepreneurial manifestation of myself. And I hated “him”.

Despite all of this “self” loathing, I carried on. I created accounts. I friended and followed any and everyone within my frog-grasp, and they followed suit. I guess I was successful; I was able to go to the pub more. But more and more, I got distracted.

Peggy, Joel, Freebo, Freebo the second, and the multitude of other internet personas I had created over the past decade at once gave up their respective ghosts, infecting swine, bedbugs and my own imaginary dreamworld: I was commanded to write once again. And so I did.

I bucked the hallucinatory approach I had accustomed myself to with Luc’s story, in favour of a realistic account of life, the self same account you now hold in your hands. My levels of exhaustion increased exponentially (I’ve been here for 10 hours, I kid you not).