Category: Uncategorized

I got a copy of ‘John Denver’s Greatest Hits’ on vinyl in the mail today from a friend. The artwork is composed of a portrait of John in a forest somewhere, shoulders up, huge dope-induced smile, Huckleberry Finn style haircut, old leather hat held on his head by his hand, sunshine on his shoulders making him happy. The backside’s layout is similar, although the photo was taken from further away, John is sitting, and there is an aged dog next to him. He actually looks like Kurtis a little bit.

In the kitchen, five steps from my desk, my roommate is planning his wedding with his fiancée. They aren’t speaking English, and they haven’t told me that they are planning their wedding, but it is evident. The annoyed tones, the procreative tension, the debates about money. That’s love, baby.

And I wonder how I always end up living with these people.

Walking to school yesterday I found a rubber popper toy. I don’t know their actual name, but it is a half-sphere with a tiny hole in the middle. You flip it inside-out, set it on a hard surface, and wait for it to turn inside-in, shooting up in the air a few feet of absolute ecstasy. One of my favourite childhood toys, next to the Magnetic Gyro Wheel. Only gravity defying toys impressed me. I picked it out of the gutter encrusted in dirt, washed it off with water from my water bottle, and brought it home for personal enjoyment.  My roommates talk about a day that means nothing, while I try to time the photography of the rubber popper. It’s not easy. Timing the rubber popper, I mean.

I am in the middle of my second laundry day of my two month Montreal existence. I am washing my sheets myself, for the first time in my entire life. Washing sheets is like changing underwear; everyone but me does it all too often. I spilt my bottle of hot sauce on my bed after Pizza City the other night while streaming some episodes. I also spilt half a beer on my bed last week while on a two hour Skype adventure. I still wouldn’t have washed them, but March is a month of guests and sharing beds, so I figured I’d be kind enough to make my room smell less like crotch rot.

To John Denver, and the sender of his goods.

There is a cat that lives outside my home. He peeks in the window every now and then. If it was really cold out, like Saskatchewan cold, or Everest cold, I’d probably invite him into my home. I don’t especially like cats. I’ve met maybe two cats that I remember liking, and that is because they didn’t rub up on me like some dancefloor slut, leaving handfuls of hair on my pants, or they didn’t take a swipe at me like a chained up monkey. But this guy is different. Maybe because he is devoted, sitting at the window for at least four hours the other day. Or maybe because I met him on a day that I was about to burn down my apartment in boredom, loneliness and rage.

Largely because I think most people are tired of my angstful posts and would like to see something upbeat and positive, I’ve been enjoying photos lately. What is more upbeat and positive than a young cat trying to survive in the big city? There is a dead bird outside the apartment, in the gutter, trampled and soft, probably there since autumn, preserved by the salt and gutter snow. I want to tell the cat to go finish it off. Eat the beak and whatever remains. Get rid of this bird that I step over everyday. Clean up your city streets.

So I wanted to name him. The cat. Here are my ideas, please choose one of the following, but I’m open to suggestions.

Henri (French, pronounced En-Ree)
Raja (Hindi, meaning king. I met a kid who had two pet goats, one was named Rani and the other Raja. He talked to them and they slept in the house. He loved those goats.)
Jules (French, like the author of  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea)
Donald (like the name of a fat kid that lived in White City)
Heathcliff (my favourite cartoon cat)
Louis (either French or English, like the dude that was a coke addict at my old office)
Mr. Aubergine (French meaning Mr. Eggplant)
Westley (Late addition, suggested by Jeremy. I’m liking it.)

I got home from French.
I wanted Pizza City so bad.
Nine dollars.
Extra Large.
Lundi et Mardi.
I fell hard on the skateboard ride there.
Speed wobbles.
They were playing erotica on the HD TV,
In the restaurant.
I blistered the roof of my pizza hole.
I skateboarded uphill home,
XL box in hand.
The pizza was cold upon arrival.

This is how I know.
I’m in the right city.

At my happiest, this is what I look like.

It is hard to be a fan. I’m in a Habs bar; Habs memorabilia on the walls next to postcards of Krishna. In an hour some free blugrass music will be played. Lots of bad glasses from the eighties, plaid shirts, bad shoes, and good attitudes will pack into this dive. It smells like hippies (you know the smell). Two students, one with a bad flame tattoo, the other wearing a tanktop that promotes unsupported breasts, are drinking pints and doing mathematics calculations and Psychology papers next to me. And the intermission highlights have only shown all of our ex-Habs league wide that are actually doing something for their teams. Everyone vocally protests their hatred for Carey Price, but if he put on Halak’s sweater, no one would even know. It’s hard to be a fan in Montreal, I can’t imagine being a player.

It’s hard being an anglophone, unilingually. Many see it as a privilege, blessing, but it is truly a curse. There is less opportunity unilingually, rather than a life of opportunity like they say. And even though I’m in classes and my accent is good because of the hours of French hockey I watch, I am in no way anywhere near bilingual. But if I put on a beret and some unneccesarily huge boots and a black and white striped shirt, no one would notice. It is hard to he unilingual in Montreal, I can’t imagine being someone who wouldn’t feel bad.

It’s hard being negative at the end of the day, even though I’m so good at it. Skateboarding to the bar wearing a hoody in the month of March. The Habs come back in playoff style fashion. I talked to the old man in the sweater vest in the corner of the bar about music. It is hard to be negative at the end of it all, when things overall are not bad at all. I can’t imagine being a cynic.

Me: Me and Paul, or Paul and I. There is a proper way to express self in a grammatical situation, just like there is a way to properly express self in life. The ‘Me’ that is referred to in any setting is often thought of as best, central, of great importance, which is why it feels more comfortable when in dialogue to be placed first (Me and Paul), because it is in the forefront of our own minds. Even the word ‘me’ is only ever used when referring to one’s self (you don’t talk about someone else and use the word ‘me’, you only use the word when talking about yourself), and is only ever used subjectively. ‘Me’ is held in high regard by any person. It is when a person begins to revere their own ‘me’ too much, because the person thinks that they are the only one worth being with, they need something to take them down a notch.

vs.

I: After looking at ‘me’, and loving the ‘me’ too much, humility comes into the picture, and ‘I’ comes into place. When something hits your mind and reminds you that the ‘me’ you love so much is a lowly, self-righteous, self-loving buffoon, you realize how despicable you really are. And from there, ‘I’ is born. I now believe that my deep rooted distaste with humanity springs from my own personal discomfort with myself. It is entirely reflected off of myself, and although I like to think I am different, I, my own person, is the reason I dislike any other person. Because the ‘me’ is brainwashed by ‘me’, that ‘me’ is top notch. The realization of the ‘me’ leads me to the admission of the ‘I’. ‘I’ is used linguistically when admitting to fault, or when an awareness occurs. I am now aware that I am what is wrong with the world. And I think that is a good thing to be aware of.

Winner: You. The winner is never Me or I. It will always be You.

Today was the first day in three years that I have gone to school. Today was the first day of my life that I walked to school.
But no, it wasn’t real school, where the chief objective is success, but it was language school, where the chief objective is force so much new language down your throat that you will have no choice but to digest it and use it for many years later, or at the very least vomit everything back up in short term and accented fashion.

Je suis completely screwed.

A fellow student of the language of love noticed the Hindi inked on my right arm, asking if it was Korean. I told him it was Hindi. He asked what it said. I told him, ‘no problem’. He asked me how my Hindi was coming along. And I cringed. I felt ashamed of myself, turning my back on my ‘roots’, on my beginnings as a sophisticated human, and learning a new language instead, for personal gain only.  But knowing my life’s record for commitment, it likely won’t last long and I’ll move on to learning Korean, or swing dancing, or knitting.

On Friday my young dream of going to McGill University will finally come true, I am enrolled in the Department of Psychology… as a test subject. I have made so many poor jokes about joining different universities in the past, that it is too late to stop them now. I have the opportunity to be tested in stressful multi-tasking situations. I don’t really know what I do, but I will make $10 in 45 minutes. That is more than $10 an hour, in case you were wondering. Under the table, no taxes. Who needs to go to school when you can make coin like that letting the ‘doctors’ probe you?

Rumour has it that there are full time French courses in Montreal where the government pays you to go to school. The same amount as Employment Insurance, plus $200. There are other rumours that if an outsider moves to Quebec, a year after the day the outsider gets a Quebec health card, university becomes cheap or free. Hey Obama, that is a health care system I can get behind. But even with free school, I’m not sure school is worth it. When I worked retail, a day that Travis and I were playing actual mini-golf in the store, my auntie came to visit. She asked me when I was going to go to school and get out of the pitiful life of selling women’s dresses. I said, ‘I’m still not convinced of the merits of institutionalized education.’ to try and sound as eloquent as I could without having an English degree. And though my opinion of the terribly designed system of education is tired and over-announced, here it arises again. Education is good. Systems are bad. A system that gives ‘brains’ but not minds. I read more pertinent and interesting things now than I ever have and ever could in school. I have gained more in my past three years of self-tutoring than I feel I would have anywhere else. But learning a language alone, is not so easy.

But now I have a student card. Fifteen percent off of sandwiches and bus passes. Totally worth it.

Unemployment: Day 6

I have always wanted to ride the Metro from one end to the other. Curious as to exactly what the trains do when they reach their ends. To see the sights from one end of the the city to the other, smell the body odours of those from Laval, and hear the whines of spoiled Saint Laurent children, while feeling the cold hard hemmorhoidal pinch of cold hard plastic that allows only right-angled posture and leg to leg commuter rubbing.
I had decided which of the subway stations was my favourite, Place St. Henri, high ceiling, rotating sculptures that connect the main gate to the station below, great pizza across the street, quiet, on time, empty. But I realized that I hadn’t seen anywhere near all of the stations. To make a proper decision I needed to see more of them, and eventually, all of them. Cote Vertu on the northwestern tip of the Metro’s reach, and Montmorency, almost a full circle around from Cote Vertu, across the water in Laval. I walked to Sherbrooke station, nearest my house, on the map, a station to the left of the only three line transfer station, Berri-UQAM. If the Orange Line stations were letters of the alphabet, Sherbrooke would be the letter N, in between the A of Cote Vertu and the Z of Montmorency. I rode N to A to Z to N. Total trip time, approximately three hours of metro time. I stopped for slices at Cote Vertu. I got out for a walk at Montmorency, which was unknown to me, not technically part of the STM system, so I had to pay an extra $2.75 to get back on the train.

Nothing particularly interesting happened. A few cute girls sat beside me. I child behind me screamed for five stations straight. I read for two and a half of the three hours of commuting. There is something about the underground that makes a man feel alright. And I expect that if you ever come visit me, you’ll now have the Metro map memorized. From A to Montmorency.
Why bother getting a job ever again?

An all night winter party, Nuit Blanche, to cap off a week long winter festival, Festival Montreal en Lumiere.  It began with a walk outside in February, wearing only a hoody and eating a Blizzard, from the only DQ in Montreal that is open year round. Standing in line for an hour for a free gospel concert. Standing still in the middle of an electric crowd an an electronic concert. Standing in line for the ferris wheel before realizing it would take three hours. Standing in line for the Planetarium. Enjoying contemporary art, the most peculiar pieces of art I’ve ever seen. All for free. All so cool. For more, click the photo above.

Arriving home at 5:30 I needed some time to catch up with myself and get ready for a 3pm EST start, the biggest hockey game I can recall. The entire time, under cursing Kesler, Burke, Wilson, Kessel, my mind was prepared for maximum depression and that familiar football feeling I felt in November and that recent burning that tore up a nation in January. I watched with separatists (not really, but they cheered for Halak and not Canada in the semis) and Saskatchewanites, anticipating a loss in my usual negative manner, and replaying the American celebrations in January, and last Sunday. But it happened, and Luongo didn’t even choke. Not as bad as he usually does anyways.

And now Alanis Morrisette is lip syncing and Simple Plan ruining Canada’s last chance at legitimacy. Again. Our country’s music is world class.

I want to release something when I die. When I die as an eighty year old, like I was told I will, I want it to be both preluded and followed by a release of something mythical, legendary. There is always some sort of significant tone built around a famous mind’s last piece of work. Untouchable wisdom of years, true understanding, complete vulnerability and freedom from fear can produce unseen blends of music or unequaled combinations of words that wouldn’t otherwise be created. I have documents. I have written documents, compositions, sitting on a spinning hard drive of my computer, unseen by any human eyes beside myself. Password protected so that my secrets can’t get out. So that no one will steal my brilliant images and visualizations and capitalize off of my distinct mind. I really hope to finish a piece of literature before I die. The pace I’m setting, as long as I live until eighty I should be alright.

I have given thought to my death and what will happen to these ever important pieces of literature, and how they will probably be deemed as some of the classic written works of our pathetic generation and how famous I could be when I die. How my family could just sit back and collect royalties, money pouring in from the inevitable ‘best seller’ status. Only because I was dead.
But I’ve got sixty plus years of writing ahead of me, and the only thing that will be any good to read, is the three quarters of a book that I write while sitting in a hospital bed being treated for advanced esophagus cancer and colon polyps from overexposure to capsicum. This is all leading up to that. Three or four chronicles of life in quotes that might someday end up as an advertisement on the Metro like Nietzsche, or tampered in a way to be generationally relevant like a t-shirt of Mona Lisa smoking a huge joint. That is all I ask.

I’m (still) reading ‘The Brothers Karamazov’, apparently written three months before Dostoevsky’s death. Johnny Cash’s newest album, ‘American VI: Ain’t No Grave’ was released posthumously this week and has the unique tone same as any production that surrounds the death of the creator. I plan to see ‘The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnasus’, Heath Ledger’s last piece of work before suicide, and in my mind it has a certain undertone that allows it to be among the classics.

If I die, The Last Will and Testament of Nicholas Olson:

I own nothing of worth, so split that up between my brothers.
My writings. They can be found on my computer, or on a small external hard drive that is hidden under the hardwood in my room, where the floor begins to give out and rats probably pass by every other day, in a plastic bag, in a sock. Please distribute them to the people to whom they are dedicated, and then sell them as fast as possible.  I’ll tattoo the passwords for each document on the bottom of my left foot. If, when I die, my left foot is severed and missing, it is a sign that my writings should not be released.
My legacy. Can’t be distributed physically. But it can live on through the souls of children, the cynical, the unshowered, and those with chronic heartburn.

Enjoy me when I’m dead.