Sometimes when you deliberately try not to think about something, that thought can take on a tangible form. A physical manifestation of the repressed thought will try to push its way into this world.

Nasty notes bloom on winter windshields. A cop kneels down to sift through a nest of needles.

So what else is Montréal trying hard not to think about?

Me, evidently.

The first thing Robin ever gave me was a hand-drawn invitation to a Groundhog Day party. I still have it. I keep it with a bunch of other such items in a drawer back at the house in Gaspereau Forks.

There are photographs and artwork. Little notes. A few articles of clothing. A scarf that retains the trace of her scent, even after almost four years.

It’s usually the sign of a pretty dark night in the country if I find myself sliding open that drawer.

Last week when I moved to Montreal I left the contents of the drawer behind. Now I wish I had brought that invitation with me, I wish I could hold it in my hand.

I think back to the night she doodled it up. We were sitting at the bar at the Khyber Club.

I remember her phone number (431-LOOP), the illustration of little cartoon characters, and her charming handwriting with its mixture of capital letters and lowercase e’s.

It was my Uncle Ted who died. He made his family a big pot of soup for supper, enough soup so there would be enough to eat the next day. Then he went to bed and never woke up. That’s how it goes, I guess.

I’m just heading home from the service and whatnot, sitting here in my car at the secret wireless zone on Route 10. I’m debating if I should go to the Queen’s County liquor outlet and buy a bunch of booze or if I should take that precious dough and send away for Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable on amazon.com. Well dammit. I think might have a bunch of vodka tucked away somewhere up at the house.

Turns out I own some nice clothes that I never wear. Pants, nice shirts, a couple of neckties. I think I might start dressing up from time to time. For no reason, and without having to wait for a funeral to do it.

A couple weeks ago I sat at his kitchen table as we talked and laughed. I remember thinking, “I should hang out here more often.”

Tonight I’m picking out a suit for a funeral.

There’s just never enough time.

Hi there, my name is Philip and I live in Gaspereau Forks, New Brunswick alone in a seven-bedroom farmhouse in the middle of the woods with no phone or Internet. But guess what, about a ten-minute drive up the highway I found this place where I can use the Internet by, how do you say, stealing it.

So am I going to start writing on a blog again? Sitting here in my car by the side of the road? Dude. It’s fucking winter. Plus I’m thinking about some guy coming out of his house with a shotgun and yelling at me to get off his wireless. People around here are all nuts.

I just drove into the village of Chipman to get a few groceries. The guy sweeping the floor said, “Hey, wanna buy a baby?”

There was a baby lying on the conveyor belt beside the cash register. It had a cute little blue snowsuit on. I thought it was dead at first, all stretched out on this conveyor belt.

But I figured the girl on the cash probably wouldn’t be cooing over a dead baby, and so on closer examination, the kid in fact was only sleeping.

I said, “Hey, are those things priced by the pound?”

The baby woke up and looked around and made a “that’s not funny” face.

I was hoping they would turn on the conveyor belt and run the baby right over the scanner. Beep! Four-ninety-nine.

So anyway ladies, if you really want a baby of your own, but you can’t have one because you are inconceivable, by which I mean you are impregnable, possibly because you are inscrutable… there are babies on sale right now, at the Chipman general store.

I think I might stock up for the winter. Mmm, babies.

I’m in Halifax and I’m so hungover, it feels like I fell down a bunch of stairs.

I only had time for one thought, and it wasn’t “I don’t want to die.” It was “I don’t want to die in Toronto.”

You know where you come around the corner of the Gardiner Expressway and down the little ramp onto Spadina? That’s where I put my foot on the brake and the pedal slumped all the way to the floor.

I was sure this was the end, this time.

I pumped the pedal to the tune of “Holy shit holy fucking shit” and there must have been just enough fluid left in the brake lines because I came to a gradual and indecisive stop just a couple feet back from the bumper of the car in front of me.

My heart started pounding and I looked around and realized I was surrounded on all sides by downtown Toronto traffic and I had very little brakes and possibly no brakes at all. My foot was all the way down and it was holding, for the moment, then the light changed and I let up just a little bit and moved forward. I was shaking. What could I do, stop and get out of the car and put my hood up in the middle of traffic, or maybe just try to make it, so slowly up the block, up Spadina to Dundas, to Augusta Avenue just ahead, just enough fluid left in the lines, thank god the venue is only a few blocks away.

This is the fourth time I’ve been in a vehicle when the brakes have failed. The first time was in the Equation Of State van when we floated straight through a traffic light in Columbus, Ohio, and Ian Hart bumped us up onto a traffic island to a safe stop. The second time was a couple summers ago when my Corolla wound up wrapped around a metal pole in Hartland, New Brunswick; seat belts saved our lives that time.

The third time was the last time I was in Toronto, just a few months ago.

All of those incidents resulted in a certain amount of stress, but this was the first time when I actually really felt the terror, like Holy Shit… I’m Gonna Die.

For hours afterwards I had this pain across my whole chest plus an upset stomach. During soundcheck I had the sudden urge to run to the bathroom and when I got in there and locked myself in a stall, I wasn’t even sure why I was there. I slumped against a wall with my head in my hands.

You’d think a near-death experience would lead to an awesome intense performance at the show. If only this were the case. I was a little distracted worrying about my car and about how I would get home. Plus the turnout was rather poor at the show. The Boat is a beautiful room, but the way it’s laid out, there’s the stage and then a big dancefloor and then a bunch of tables and chairs way in the back. The dancefloor was a huge empty space during my set and all the people hung in the back in the shadows. It was probably the largest physical distance between myself and my audience on the entire tour. I could scarcely be bothered to try to engage those people back there. I just played.

After the show I had a big music crisis, like: why am I doing this, touring is going to kill me, is this even worth it, I wish I had a job, I wish I had a normal job like normal people, I wish I could have a job and make money like normal people, have a decent car, why am I even still alive, what the fuck am I doing in Toronto, Toronto hates me, why do I play music, people don’t dig my shit, I should just stay home, before I get myself killed. And so on.

I stayed with Allison Outhit who is an excellent person to have around in a crisis. The next morning I got right to dealing with things, got my car up on a hoist at a nearby Petro-Can garage. The mechanic said he took my wheels off and the brakes fell apart all over the floor. The cylinders on both sides were blown out and the whole works had pretty much disintegrated. He said it was the worst he’d ever seen it and quoted me a price which was more money than I happened to have.

Now as it turns out, Allison’s place is just a short walk from the garage on Bloor Street that repaired my brakes last time when they blew in Toronto. After only a few months since the repair, you’d think there would be some kind of warranty on that work. But I had no paperwork, nothing to show for it. I could walk into this big-city garage and the guy could just give me a blank stare and say “Who the hell are you?”

But I had to try, so I ran from 900 block down to 1400 block on Bloor Street. And I walked into the garage, and the little Vietnamese elf guy came out and said “Long time no see! 1996 Intrepid!”

So we had a little talk and he said “You get tow truck. Bring car over here.” So I got the car towed over and he wound up fixing the brakes and not charging me for labour. The parts were still $200 plus $50 for the tow and then two lines had to be replaced as well at another $120 plus tax. Still pretty pricy but if labour had been included… I shudder to think.

The lines were the culprits. They’d gotten clogged and fluid could get in but not out and that had caused my new wheel cylinders to explode. The elf said it was the worst he’d seen in 25 years, the way both sides had blown out at the same time like that.

He pointed at my vehicle on the hoist and said “That car is going to kill you.”

The first time I had to use the brakes after I left the garage, I panicked for a moment thinking they weren’t going to work. Supposedly everything is fixed now but I’m still scared. If it happened twice it could happen again. Maybe there’s still an underlying problem they haven’t found. I have gotten no sleep, jolted awake by nightmares about impact. I’ve had a headache for three days.

Last Tuesday before I left Chipman I had taken my car into the garage to get the front struts fixed. I said “I’m leaving for Toronto and I’ve had bad luck with brakes so please check my back brakes, they’ve been feeling a little soft lately.” And the mechanic had checked them and he said they seemed fine. So what else could I have done?

On the way to Toronto, I had slowed down by Hartland to check out the spot where the Corolla was totalled. This time when I had driven past Exit 170, there were two new white crosses planted on the hillside. Looks like somebody wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

I am listening to someone take a cold shower, which has a calming effect in the Montreal heat.

You should see this ridiculous sunburn I have on my left arm.

Hi, I’m going to be in Halifax from July 2 to July 6. Playing a few shows in town this week, Pavilion and Reflections on the 4th, Attic and Metal Disco on the 6th.

I’d like to find somewhere to set up my gear and work on some new tracks to play at these events. I just need some small space in some small room, where I can climb inside a set of headphones and disturb no one. If you have any ideas give me a shout.

I’m sitting at Read’s coffee shop on Queen Street in Fredericton. Tonight we play at a place called Vixen’s. We showed up and there was no PA system on the stage. The speakers were actually sitting on the floor in the next room beside the video lottery machines. The bands will be starting tonight following the conclusion of country music karaoke.

Can anyone tell me, what are the exercises that astronauts do in outer space? The ones that are meant to keep their muscles from starting to atrophy after living for a long time in cramped quarters. Right now I feel as though I’m in the worst physical shape I’ve ever been in. I’ve been leading a very unhealthy lifestyle for the past six weeks. Touring is essential a sedentary activity. Sit in a van for a long time, rock out frantically for three-quarters of an hour (your only claim to exercise)… take part in a bunch of unsavoury nighttime activities, sleep little if at all, eat a meal every couple of days if you’re lucky. Sometimes I try to get away from everyone and walk around a city but there’s so little time on the road. When I eat meat now I get high off it and it feels like I’m floating.

I posted a bunch of videos on the way across Canada with the Crimson Tides but haven’t been shooting much on the way back. I’m making the trek east from Vancouver to Newfoundland with The Kettle Black. It’s just two of us in the van now and Nick doesn’t like to be videotaped. So that’s that. We don’t have as many madcap adventures as I had sharing a van with eight or nine zany punk rock alcoholics. I could post a video of Nick using the Internet for two hours.

Touring is fine, shows are going generally well and we’re making money on the shows overall. I ran out of merch unfortunately and that’s the money I was using to eat. I got a bunch of CDs pressed but due to a bunch of messups I didn’t get delivery of them in time to bring on tour. Heartbreaker. And now that we’re in the east, everybody already has my stuff so I ain’t selling shit, I need a new CD in the worst way. I wrote a bunch of new A/V songs and I think I’m going to scrap them… I got carried away with all my new toys. I’m learning how songs with too many layers of shit don’t always translate well over a big system. I’ve been having more fun playing the older songs because they’re simpler and simple is good over a big slammin’ PA. I have to relearn how to write simple songs. Actually the only music I’ve really been composing lately is moody minimal techno. That’s all I really feel like working on right now. It’s my favourite music for long long drives late at night on empty highways sparse traffic just let me keep driving all I want to do is drive, all night long, not to get to something, but to get away from something, I just need to get away, just let me drive, until the sun comes up I’m wide awake. There doesn’t seem to be enough of that kind of music in my collection so I’m going to make some.

People don’t seem to know much about electronic music in the Prairies but nonetheless every bar has their own “indie dance night” with DJs playing “The Look” by MSTRKRFT followed by “Monster Hospital (MSTRKRFT remix)”. The demand for this type of music seems to be greatly outstripping the supply so I suppose I’ll have to bash out a CD of electro and indie-dance-night-style tracks.

We made it back to Gaspereau Forks and I slept in my own bed for two whole nights. It was amazing in the country. No people, no cars, no phone, no Internet. I miss my home. It was just getting hot enough to swim in the river when we had to leave again. I miss my cat… I wanted to drive right back to the country after the show tonight but Nick wants to stay in Fredericton so he can use the Internet. I have no real love for Fredericton or the Internet or cellphones or the music scene or music scene politics or your very silly overrated cities.

Time to go rock the mic at the karaoke bar. There has been no real low point on the tour so far. But the night is young.