Monthly Archives: July 2003

Got drunk and kept drinking.

Got drunk and kept drinking. Getting plastered was fun and perhaps I will have the urge to do it again in another year-and-a-half or so.

Notes. 1) Bachelors tend to be commitment-shy; in my case, I’m not even anxious to commit to a few hours in the altered state of intoxication. I remain in character under the hammer and argue with perception. “Well that was fun, now I’d like to stop seeing double please.”

2) When you’re drunk, people seem to just melt into each other.

Woke up this morning after a couple hours sleep–still drunk. I felt fine today. A little sleepy. Did last night’s disruption in mental routine cause me to break out of summer torpor? No. Only travel will do that.

It was a fine sunny day, but decorum compelled me to put my shirt back on after I got the memo re: the claw marks on my back.

“One should always be drunk.”

“One should always be drunk.”
-C. Baudelaire

I haven’t been drunk since March 2002. Tonight I decided it was about time. Annette’s moving out of our house in less than a week; Geoffrey and I have decided to get her drunk every single night before she leaves. (She’s just so sweet when she’s plastered.) Right now it’s 9PM, I’ve had five or six shots of tequila but I’m not really feeling anything, so off I go to the liquor store.

I’m dressed up like a raver, it’s hilarious. I found these phat pants in the basement, and an oversized Ghetto Blaster hoodie (donated by a former resident of Bloomfield House). All I need’s a pair of glowsticks and I’m set. I should probably change before I head out, considering I would probably beat me up if I met me on the sidewalk.

Back in the day, I used to get drunk and write stuff on the Internet all the time. I wonder what happened? Maybe I became too uptight? I need to relax.

I work until 4am and

I work until 4am and get up at the same time everyone else does. By mid-afternoon I’m falling over sideways. Slumped on our spongy outdoor sofa and I don’t even realize I’m asleep until I wake up.

In my hunger, I am a machine with its heart torn out. I am negative space–all stomach, no brain. I cook a can of thick, dull soup. Eat it straight from the pot. Bachelor’s rights.

Stephen and Geoffrey are playing badminton on the backyard grass. They banter back and forth in fake French accents.

“Ahh you are too short, little man!”

“Now see what I have done to you!”

Lately food seems to stick in my throat unless it is prepared by someone else. Am I a horrible cook or is it psychological?

I know women who can’t have orgasms from solo masturbation–the satisfaction lies in being served. Thank god I live across from the diner.

“Don’t touch me! It is too hot to fuck!”

“Ahh, c’est dans l’arbre.”

A bush swallows the shuttlecock. Rackets whack at the shrub. Then Stephen and Geoffrey go back inside to work on some music. I sit and digest.

A neighbour comes up the driveway. “How you doing! Nice quiet day eh.”

“Yes!” I say. “It’s quite lovely.”

I surprise myself with the energy of my reply. Of course the real message of my cheerfulness is “Don’t fuckin’ bug me.”

Claudette: “Gerry wrote something on

Claudette: “Gerry wrote something on his blog about me being one of the meanest people. I don’t think I’m a mean person at all.”

“Gerry didn’t say that. I think he was just quoting something someone had said.”

“Who would say that? I’m a totally kind and gentle person. You know that,” said Claudette. “I’m only mean to fuckin’ stupid people.”

“I know,” I said. “Maybe it was one of your enemies who said it. Or one of your admirers.”

“I don’t have any enemies. But men are always rude to me when they want to fuck me.”

“Shut up.”

This weekend, some friends of

This weekend, some friends of ours are putting together a party entitled “Axes Vs. Beatboxes.” Apparently, it’s going to feature an epic battle of rockers against rappers.

My roommate Annette is putting a band together for the show. I asked her what instrument she would be playing, and she said, “The drum.” All this time I’ve known Annette and I never knew she played “the drum.”

Annette’s band is going to be called “Jen and the G-Spots.”

I said, “But how will anyone find your show?”

~ After I finished setting

~ After I finished setting up in Hell’s Kitchen this evening, I went upstairs to catch some of the Tom Tom Club’s soundcheck. (I’m glad I got to see some of the soundcheck, since I usually miss bands that play upstairs.)

I was the only one in the club, aside from the front-of-house mixer and Melinda doing the stage mix. The band played “Genius Of Love.” It was like a special, private performance of “Genius Of Love,” especially for me.

I had met Victoria, one of the lead singers, and I was having trouble taking my eyes off her. Those eyes… that dazzling smile… that body. And a voice that made me feel like I was floating.

After soundcheck, Victoria and I will make out in the dressing room. She will whisper to me that I am her “Genius Of Love.” Then we will hold hands and run laughing through the fog on the Halifax waterfront.

When I woke up from this genius daydream, the band were starting another song. I went and stood with Melinda beside the stage.

The guitarist leaned into his amp to produce a feedback-drenched lead intro. Then at the appropriate moment Tina Weymouth hit an open-E on her bass. BOOM B’DOOM. As the music picked up, she continued to drive out this open-E rhythm with her left hand–BOOM B’DOOM–while her left hand hung at her side, not even going near the fretboard.

She glanced over and saw me watching, and she smiled and nodded along with the music. Still pounding out the one-note bassline with her right hand, she grinned and raised her left hand to me in sort of a shrug.

My interpretation of this gesture was, “How can you improve upon perfection?”

All this combined with her black miniskirt and red fishnets made for a sexy rock’n’roll moment that I will never forget.


“So what do you do at the club, Philip?” Victoria asks me.

“I’m the ahh, bahhh, dhahhh downstairs sound tech,” I say.

I’m not normally tongue-tied around women, but then I don’t normally talk to sexy rock stars from New York City.

Would you like to go

Would you like to go see the Tom Tom Club this weekend? How would you like to go for free, courtesy of

Send me an email and tell me a funny story or anecdote involving someone named Tom. It doesn’t even have to be true.

I’ll pick randomly from the entries sometime late Friday afternoon and throw a couple of passes your way. Woo!

Sunday afternoon I went down

Sunday afternoon I went down to the Chicken And Goat Festival, the annual African festival held down on Gottingen Street. I’d been asked by a local reggae artist to make him a music video so he could send it back to Africa. Apparently, he’s already a star back in Ivory Coast.

The shoot didn’t go too well though, because the reggae star wound up getting arrested. I guess he just became a little over-excited.

“I was getting my vibe!” he shouted as the cops hauled him away. “This is African music!”

After that I felt a little self-conscious with my camera and tripod, so in spite of all the food, music and good times, I didn’t stick around long at the Chicken And Goat.

Last night I looked at some of the footage I’d shot before all the chaos broke out. There’s the reggae star, dancing around in his red track suit with the audience in the background. (“There!” he’d shouted when he saw me. “Put the camera right there!“)

In the third or fourth row of the audience I spotted a cute lady from around the North End. She’s smiling and she has her hand over her eyes to block out the sun. She’s watching the reggae star as he hops around in front of the stage. It looks like she’s watching me videotape the reggae star. I really should find out her name.

I feel a bit like a stalker, albeit purely by chance.

Sunday was such a long crazy day of adventure and action. At one point I remember biking up Agricola Street on wobbly legs and thinking, “My god… life is interesting.” And that was before I even arrived home to find two girls from the Planet Cute had crashlanded on my back deck.

Tuesday, on the other hand, was not interesting. I spent the day in my basement trying to paint a portrait of a lady I know. I was working from a photograph, and I was nearly crippled by the thought that I wasn’t doing justice to her legendary beauty. The eyes… I just couldn’t get the eyes right.

I wound up smearing black paint over the entire canvas and hiding it in a corner of the basement. Then I slumped in despair with my head in my multicoloured hands.

I don’t know why I seem to have traded a perfectly good hobby–writing music–for one that I have no skills at. Perhaps I have a subconscious urge to teach myself a lesson in failure.

Self-portraits are easier because I don’t have to give a damn about making myself look a certain way.

A few months ago I decided to redesign to put more emphasis on the visuals. But then I somehow lost the special cable that connects my digital camera with the computer. It quickly dawned on me that, without this cable, the digital camera is just a useless hunk of glass and plastic. Replacing the cable has proven difficult; I’ve had one on order from Carsand for weeks.

If you have a spare USB cable for a Fuji FinePix 2650 kicking around please let me know.

Our roommate Annette is taking a job in Ontario, so she’ll be leaving us at the end of July. Geoffrey and I will miss our lovely housemate. If you’re looking for a place to live and you think you are nearly equal to Annette in fabulousness, please get in touch.

l to r: philip, annette, geoffrey.

Rent is $265/month plus utilities. Includes washer, dryer, art gallery, performance space. Reasonably tidy, female non-smoker preferred. We have one cat, which is enough.