PON Dribbler™ V3.7 & 3.8

The other day i was rockin' to the 'glock at Esperanza, burrito akimbo in a room vibrant with swathed exchanges, through meandering music which came and went by wonderful ways. The Previously Thought Impossible happened; the music stopped, a few minutes passed, and high volume Scott Walker came running through the speakers, crying "Mathilde" to the public masses, kicking off memory freqout moments of epiphanic past appreciation for The Thundering Musical Talent That Is Scott Walker. Esperanza is rife with familiar frequency curveballs, but this was a whole new level of "I fucking love this place." To seal the deal, they took the cd changer off random and let the entire CD play, hopefully because of the goofy grin that stuck to my face like a happy parade.

The temperature at work entered a new period of climate change, hope-stripping gusts still move around deeper shades of disgruntlement, and the oarsmen pay less attention to the beat of the drum. They'd like us there until 11, we leave at 8.30, some are in at 8, most are in by 9.30. At least one evening a week I sit in esperanza tapping out The Report™, which is part of my pennance for leaving my employer. However, being a zealot for complaining, they're getting more spit on their face than the agreed upon minimum. And you could not ask for a better hangout to craft your kissoff in elequent and lengthy ways than Pharmacie Esperanza.

***
As I wander the walkways, the temperature outside treks though revelatory torrents, precipitation unsure what shape to take when the planet's pointed this way. Snow falls periodicly in heavy bales, more often in light dustings, otherwise it's greyscale. On late night urban wanders, the waves of light and underfootings are both flat, if you pick the right path. Similar to the ski hills of a Kootenay range, this city employs an extensive cloister of snow packers who keep the parks useable year round. Pick a park and you'll find the snow groomed to provide walking paths of crunchy consistency, toboggan hills with varied levels of bumpliciousness, as well as skating rinks for both hockey or romantic hand holding, and they're smart enough to segregate the two. I do not have skates, or a hand to hold, so i stand on the storybook bridge of my favourite pseudo-circular weeping tears who freeze on my cheeks to drop into rivulets of regret, ticking off the ice surface, setting young couples to stray in the bitter dog's tears. Damn that Scott Walker has a LASTING POWER!

This consistently podiateriffic walking surface appeal took me to the rich folk's park one weekend, an enclave of Stanley Park environmental protectionism in contrast to the groomed Mount Royal bread and circuses park of the masses. Though regardless of a park's surroundings or intended purpose, the paths remain flat and consistent, soft to the step, until walking becomes a blissed out floatation of tuned outedness. No considerable need for shifty root awareness, there's nothing left alive in the forest but wood and wierdo's, and the spatially special sounds of a cross country skier stradling the trail beside you, can make life take on a kind of winter silliness which has me feeling that the season to visit this city is definitely the dead of winter. (#H0067FF replace $activitycommon variable "%rollerblader" = "%cross-country skier" If ParameterALocation = "%Mount Royal" else "%Seawall") Screw the festivals of the summer, i am mad-keen to get over to the snow palaces on Expo Island, where sliding chutes and frozen future forms await! Then, in the dead of February the Piknic Elektronic freakazoids fire up a city powered PA to let Akufen and his ilk keep us moving to stay warm, for free. A few hundred dance freaks will show up, go bonkers, and consider sticking their tongues to that giant metal temptress.

***
Temperate days are mostly on the pleasantly crisp side, gloves unnecessary, rivers of salted ice pooling amidst intersections and splashing back at peds. But some evenings bring the harden, and the push/slide that was once your walk becomes a wobble of waves in stasis. As air gets sharper than nails i revisit the feeling of iced oxygen moving in and out of a body, and it is of primal appeal. It is a joy to walk both transportational surface maps which result from the areas distemperature, each providing new opportunities to feel motion in different levels of equilibrium. Still, hearing Francophone coworkers share a Sean Connery impression can set you giggling, and you better hope you're not on ice.

***
The first shot and tinkle from gretta's new stâplëgun signaled more walking wanders were in the works for The Collective™. Aside from park exploration, away teams went into darkest Westmount to experience the jaw dropping full sensoria panorama postcard affluence of Old Money. In 3 (three) hours of wandering our explorers encountered only two other pair of peds, and less than a lepers handful of cars rolled through our sightings of tastefully decorated castles. No one was home. Value imbalances of the superwealthy shone through their darkened rooms, as what is likely the best season of their property goes to waste for a warmer climate. Their lawns were immaculate untouched bluffs of snow, Their heated walkways evapourated snow and ice amidst freezing temperatures. Icicles drooped from every house; there was heat inside keeping assets safe from the climate, and nobody was home. No one but those employed to be there.

***
PONACL members have become more active as our time draws to a close in Quebec. Evangelistic efforts redouble to convey the west as A Place For People Doing Shit. Our involvement in New Years Eve® involved establishing lines to bend the room around a flowing stream of curious onlookers, who mostly wouldn't sit still but still wouldn't dance, except of course the Illuminated Five who cut a rug all night long. After re-packing the milk crates, PONACLaborator tobias C. van Veen guided us through altimeter filters to watch the sunrise amidst Interesting Folk. While the hip kids kept their distance, our away team engaged the previous generation and found we shared a gift for the gab outside initial layers of social pleasantries. It was nice to ring in the Arbitrary Cycle Marker™ with a couple of minds who've passed many decades and cultures, beyond me, before them.

***
Visiting Vancouverite™, and early collaborator with Product Of Neglect Art Collective Ltd., Cordless Electric helped olo J. Milkman place some wallpaper into the Belgo Hall Of Art Nooks, furthering our western style cultural stickups. In other creative non-sequiturs prior to flight time, the collective will provide rooomtone for Mix Thursdays in Saphir; a Freakhaunt of many frequencies, and most of them get you going good. With rising interactions i meet more friendly faces, mostly out of place, interested, and also leaving town. Winnipeg is a brutal place for a returning psychobilly looking for money, especially when you've been used to spending nights in Montréal. I thank "Bob" it will be vancouver my feet find soon.
***
while passing through the streaming sidewalk of downtown, the day's sideways conversational compacts were of crack and knives. Passing an evening café where the surfaces were harder than usual, i nabbed sight of warriors air-battling with imaginary tam tam weapons while people sat at tables nearby to drink tea, soup, or hooch. You see the darndest things down an alley when walking a pack of folded boxes home from work, recognizable culturenegade add-ons and backside blowouts of clandestine culture, but bad computer companies make good shipping boxes and while the Rebel Aliance may have better designs, the Imperial Army sure knows how to ship armaments around a battlefield™.

***
The Ashram is up for grabs, and the first parade float checked it's corners and crannies with cheer. Housing in this province is a commitment to keep you around, you're responsible, and the lease is the law. Credit check and references required, so I targeted others duped by the same work appeal. Approved posters went up at work, advertising the Ashram's lack of poltergeist activity, so with any luck PONACL won't be paying 2 (two) rents four (4) months after the Collective bugs from this sugar shack. The prospective tenants were an imported brit boy and his anglocal pleasurevessel. Talk of vancouver elicited a "Vancouver? CoooOOOOOOooooL!" from the Montréaler, wile the limey checked out the window of wierdness on one of one of our early Products. After they left I packed my first box in a benevolent voodoo ritual.

***
Mid-January Montreal is +3 Celcius and raining like a Westcoast waterslide. Disappearance of the street's top sheet has revealed a cumulative winter of refuse below, the past 2 months of litter and civicrap now exposed to passers by. Though it looks hideous, I can't help but think some people are thankful for the future reduction of pungent pageantry during Shithaw season. Hanging around for a bus still feels like a two sailing wait, but at least these days the invisible air badgers don't bite at your ears, though February's freeze promises to harden the freshly soaked tundra in a slippery grip.

***

PON Dribbler™ 3.8

It's a ramp up to fun factor 4.5 while time counts down; I stockpile moments like a street cleaner picking up what could have been recycled. February finally finds the frost, following slips down freezing sheets of rain, making me glad I kissed the civic nipple of mount royal's circumnavigation in the warmer months. Amidst the culture I meet more imports preparing their exit strategies, though the locals discussing departures give the impression this is something they are used to. It seems at some point everyone leaves Montréal.

***
I steep amidst the brine of humankind, snakehandling trilateral shriner c.h.u.d.s. and all, my skin prunes in the rain like the required cleanse of showering after attending the "Sex Meat" tour by Willie And His Butt Plugs. A man in the office tells another "i think you need a santa hat." long after the appropriate season, ...and he gets "No man..., I'm tight." in reply, though in a culture big on presenting identities to each other, the rest of the streetped headgear on display is somewhere to define yourself. Hats have been a social calling card longer than buttons have been around*, and the tradition continues in Montreal's toqueulture. I donne either a Clairehat™, or a homejob frankenstitched from a former gift, and both are met with goofy grins, though it beats me why. Even my beachcomber throwback to Relic gets the smiles, so I begin to think it might be my overall appearance that's goofy, and it's not just the hat. Still, there's something to be said for a goofy hat.

***
My last visit to the Best Laundromat On The Planet treated me to a welcoming smile from the blacktacular hostess in her friendly finery, as she rocked metal on the hi-fi at elevated volumes over the tumble of hot air. Last time I visited i got a Beastie Feastie and raga roundup; their music's always a mixed blessing. After making me some change she continued her knitting while singing "welcome to the jungle" and I want to bring each corner of her rectangular frame back west. We caught each other watching respective activities, and i wished her farewell on the way out. She smiled and advised me to have a nice life.

***
I prepare the Ashram's current digs for a new tenant, extracting the purposeful bad juju, cleaning in corners, and waging unsuccessful war on the mice. I set a trapline and scatter the jonestown cubes, but harvest no souls. I recompartmentalize my life in a three dimensional mockery of tetrisimplicity, somehow I picked up 9 oversized throw cushions while here, but leave with three fewer boxes than my arrival. The Product Of Neglect Art Collective Ltd. redistributes Products™ generated during our residency; wallpaper for alley poles and stickout thank you cards to those in the immediate vicinity. More of the Ashram's Leftovers™ shed to the Lease Replacement, and in his displaced south african zeal he seems happy to receive, rodential presence and all. The tennant tells me tales of Johannesburg's walled prisons for the affluent, detailing levels of low-cost terror that leave him scared as he walks through one of North America™'s least violent-crime locales. His arrival touched down in January and he's looking towards The Cold as a challenging antithesis of his home climate. I suspect he'll be looking for a job in vancouver's high tech trenches in a couple of years, but he's going to love it here.

***
I am still not sure what makes a Shawarma, different from a Donair, and the two of those separate from a Gyro. It's all elephant leg meat to me, even at the 24 hour drunktank that is Montréal's post-bar dietary offerings of all three ill-defined meatpackets. But the best falafel i've had is out near Metrotown™ at Abdoul's and Montréál's middle eastern offerings could learn a thing or two from the thumbless one, just as the woketeers making cantoneasy queezy around the royal mountain could learn a bit from west coast choppers. However, vancouver's curry collaborators could catch some clues on spice and price from this city. Considering The Ashram's kitchenware left the building two weeks previous, i take the chance to revisit favourite digestible distributors, Portugese chicken sandwich, hot bagels, nibbles and bits, like a mix tape soundtrack for my tongue.

***
Price range and public funding flow fun for a few into fauxhemia, poncy presentations from Ph.D.'s and everything that baited my craw around Banff. But this city rides the cultural gravy train like it owns the rail lines. How else could i sit in an eighth of the SAT's facility, look above me, and count 9 dormant video projectors hanging from the lighting grid (yes... they have lighting grids!). But after trying to ride the electroacousticultural noggin' 'boggan for a bit, I thought garage bands did the same thing just as well, and made scarce.

***
Nothing speaks of fun like muffled mitten claps rolling over Expo™ Island on a cold night. The Picnik Pageantry defrosted the position aside their usual groovespot at the base of the metal man, then were joined by not hundreds, but thousands, asking DJ Mini to keep us moving for warmth. Little effort was required in this climate of western-style winds; the city had to cart in snow machines to fake a winter and give the kids some carved fun. While i packed a patch of snow down deeper Mini made me want to bring her back to vancouver so she could lock the floor down and keep it moving, but here in Montréal she dodged pyrotechnical snow throws and gave reason to stay warm long into the night. Other participants wore attic-moldy mascot heads, asking people (not so) unusual questions under the guise of university radio. A one-piece snowsuit competition interrupted everything, though Bonhomme with his Bride™ did not qualify because they were on the payroll, and not a Musiqueplus camera or radio-related SUVehicle anywhere to be found, it was beautiful. The crowd was still thick and freaking out at 11pm when I left.

***
Bhangra is the new folk punk, both Esperanza and the laundromat feed me curried beats straight outta Bollywood. Blended with arabic and breaks, the bhangra resequenced to bring the head bob to a roomful of fabric folders. I wish more production numbers would break out, spontanious public dancing occurring more often, or ever. Pi continues it's indie folk/rock playlist, few world flavours stray outside of the sixth string and standardized harmonic structure. One evening spent drawing in Pi's tobbacco haze offered a Robert Dayton-a-like patron ("we must repeat"**), though this gentleman turned out to be a for-profit palm reader, so i am not sure which one is more the charlatan. The previous night i spotted the same character at a StinkMitt show, then a couple weeks later manning a camera on an indie film job outside esperanza, so who'd-a-thought!? Diversification is key to cultural survival.

***
At work, The Report™ is delivered as the project enters a twilight zone purgatory of extensions. I am glad my Representation™ negotiated a hard date of departure, but my coworkers begin to disappear in both body and deskpresence, while the workfloor is reconfigured to erase memories and promote focus. Important pins are pulled from the chassis and I count my lucky stars they're letting me out at the next gas station. Meanwhile The Report™ becomes quarantined and Shit Starts To Happen topside. Coworkers wonder what's in the pages after hearing tales of it's heft, but i am playing good, letting the problem sort its self out. But memespread® can be hard to control.

***
The way back West dug deep into the soup of plenty and ladled out a fresh layer of asphalt, Esperanza prepared me by playing hong kong karaoke pop, the winter shut-in romance on everyone's mind is falling out their eyes, and my heart wonders where's up. I finally see a smile from the queen of copies, following her fax transmission of a signed contract moving me West, in a panic I give her three w(ith) mixes all at once. Sometimes the dog barks up the wrong tree to prove there's no cat hiding in the branches.

***
A couple nights bracketing a Publicly Encouraged Purchasing Opportunity offer moments to compare and contrast crowds. One valentines night offers a kissing booth staffed by les petite jolie's, who scream drunkenly to attract attention, and pucker for profits to stay drunk. They work me hard, but I explain that i never associate money with fun that uses my mouth. A half hour later they are still at it and I find a compromise. I pay the loonie and offer a chivalrous touch to the back of her hand. The sense of gracious courtesy overwhelms her and my investment is repaid in a forced head-grab-cheek-kiss, later followed by an ass grab. I figure those are pretty good gains on the minimal investment of manners.

The next night I find myself at a minimal/trance crossover social and CD release. The crowd is mixed, no one looks techno or trance, but rather everything but. There's a strong show of nerdy art girls and leering nerd boys awkward in their glasses, there's tribal tips in their caucasian dreads, blacklicious beauties in poker straight lines, emaciated ravers in rubberized dog collars, hot compressed Indians, a stunning obsolescence of breast support, a few hundred people, and 95% of the room moving. Men screamed, women pumped their fist to the ceiling in sexual release, it was a punchbowl of toxic new dances. I bought the CD, but without the venue and villagers, it misses the vigour.

***
the three days leading up to my departure were out-late-get-going kind of nights, houseitting homebase for a PONACLaborator who'd made a run for Mexico in short order. While out and about I noticed a marked increase in encircling females of supple superlatives. I am not sure if it's familiarity of seeing me walking alone around town, or the winter shut-in randiness, but I contemplate explanations for their attentions as I coast in neutral. Regardless, I will miss the close proximity of their eyes and smiles. On a tail-end night rife with female, I checked out a 70's era David Bowie tribute experience, though i'm no Bowie fan; it was a "why the hell not?!?" decision. The crowd continued the trend of mixing all over the map. MS victims holding themselves up on a bass bin to sing along with Major Tom, men with piercings connecting nose to lip, shaking their head tattoos, goths waiting for it all to end so they can dance (god bless 'em), metalheads working their manes, college kids indifferent to the quality of tribute, and more interested in drinking. Ziggy played an encore followed by canned standards to get the room moving. A repeating theme emerges, and I find myself followed by The Most Beautiful Woman In The Place as i move through the night; she's everything i like to look at, and nothing i want to hold, while her underappreciated friend lets the smilles and eyes fly way more trying to shine through the eclipse. For a moment I realize i'm swimming in a shark tank for the first time in many years; the female predators circle while other males try and breach the border to get in line of sight. I try to find something I want to say to the Queen Of The Night, give up and leave.

***
I woke up at the crack of 1pm on Saturday, cleaned bits of the borrowed burrow, and prepared my possessions in an idiot-proof setup, planning not to be 100% aware when picking up the goods and making for the airport. I walked across the plateau to meet Nørbërt, a befriended former citizen of the soviet bloc visiting Montréal on a pilgrimage to Constallation Records. I arrive before him, so I down a grilled veggie baked burrito and the pleasurablexperiencesperanza takes hold. While we both eyed the room, Nørbërt passed me his new CD and a bunch of stickers to toss up out West, we talked about Liepzig, vancouver, and Montréal while two men with laptops commandeered tables and set up turntables with their midi gadgets. Nørbërt and I said goodbye and I walked to Blanc de Blanc to staple up some wallpaper in their back alley. Travelling past the "mountain" going downtown by foot, I eyed the cross and walked the other length of the plateau to watch snowplough ballet.

While waiting for the engines to rev I met two other BC'ers studying in Quebec, who assumed I wouldn't know where Kamloops was, BUT I SHOWED THEM! The snowplough ballet was a feature of the Nuit Blanche all night cultural festival, its funding support showing in full sound stack reinforcement which intended to be heard for blocks, 8 "dancers", and an electronic experimental musician noodling out a score live. It began like synchronised swimming for light machinery, threatened to become 'experimental dance', then got dangerous, winding up with all dancers out of cabs doing water ballet moves, then all 8 crammed into a single snowmobile cab for the finale. After some bows and cheers hip hop hit the speakers and plough drivers started doing doughnuts for the crowd, so I wished the BC'ers well and walked across st. catherines to find it full of people with festival maps.

I walked my way to Station C, a well thought out place for a few thousand people to get bent. The arrival shoots people straight into the basement bunker, dropping coats into the hands of ample staff. On your way back to ground level you have a chance to use the drunk-tank bathroom; a tiled room with little or no walls, and lots of drains, but further upstairs there are functional and clean toilets, dovetailing genders to intimidate each into good manners. The venue has two rooms playing the same sound (though can switch to isolated sound in both), one room gets 200 or so people moving, the other for 2000. Evenings start in the smaller room when there's less people around to shake the sound, and tonight Deadbeat was already in progress and turning the cramped crowd over well. The attendance is even more a mixed melody than ever, and when deadbeat drops his last dub, people start spreading into the main hall. In the cavern, massive video projections paint three walls, and the bins have bass to rattle your teeth. A duo play well for too long, then Dan Bell gets started and melts minds in minimal abstraction, people freak out and jump to sounds in a galaxy far-far away from "dance music". i see two highlite rhythmovers about town, 'happy dancer' and 'the bearded freako', we exchange smiles, and continue the beatlaturhythmotion. The headliner plays until 5.30ish then Akufen comes on to taunt me with prime layers, but i have to be in a jetstream 2 hours from now, so I say goodbye to 'happy dancer' whose beatacular smile shines up a room when she moves. I catch a cab and as usual, I have to tell the cab driver directions to where I am going. Perhaps this is the price of streetnames-not-numbers, but some of the hacks i talked with had been driving the plateau for over 10 years so you'd think they'd know, which i think they do considering the number of times i was taken for a ride on the fare.

I Packed up the misc. bits, did closing sanity checks on the apartment to avoid burning the building of such a beautiful person, called a cab, and hauled my dufflebags down the cockeyed stairs to curbside. The cab was a no-show for 15 minutes, though i stood within three blocks of 3 taxi stands. I called the cab company again and was assured it was 1 minute away, though over five minutes later it showed up and flew me down the freeway, passing everyone like a salaciously spawning salmon heavy with eggs. I decompressed from the ride as I hit the airport security check; a massive lineup leading towards 8 processing bays, with only three open. I am let through and don't have to take off my boots for the first time in a few years, at the boarding gate the flight staff are your buddies. When examining the posted flight info, I find the non-stop flight i booked is now stopping in Toronto. As we arrive in Toronto we are told the plane is not continuing to vancouver, and i have to change planes. Flight attendants tell us one gate to move to, On separate occasions the PA system tells us two other gates, and I have been assured by these people that my luggage will be transferred for me. i kill an hour and a half in the Toronto airport, eating foodstuffs not fit for machines, hijacking power from a wall socket, listening to Nørbërt's cd. It's decent, w(ith) mix material for sure.

The Nina Hagen show i was coming back early for is off for a common vancouver reason; trouble at the border. i also learn that the basement tenants in my new home are no longer crafty nerd girls. vancouver is doing it's usual culture shut-down routine, spreading the anti-bacterial on anything which looks like it could grow and take hold. it blows, for sure, but is also not surprising, and something you accept when sitting yourself in vanculture. it's not a passive place to be entertained, vanculture is participatory, no one is going to do it for you. Changing surroundings from a re-purposed warehouse with 3000 screaming minimal techno freaks, to basment parties of 40 digging raga and grime is a change of gear to be sure. Not necessarily a deceleration, since often rolling your own takes fast hands and nimble focus, but instead the change in beats are a switch of framework and level of interaction. Instead of knowing only the reference "happy dancer" i will know first and last names, occupations, interests. I thank and shake the hand of Anonymity at the luggage carousel as I collect my conveyer-belt feces.

I arrive at The Ashram's new space, unpack a sleeping bag and pillow, visit with the new roomies, then wander east to Shuffle, an annual clusterfuck of inktacular linesmiths. On walk down the sidewalk i get an aknowledgement nod from a passer by. Then a street guy stops and talks about the insane weather with me for a while, but doesn't come looking for change. The bus pulls in and a squeegee skater in the back strikes up a conversation on how vancouver has more cops than ever. In the next week this is confiirmed; in Montréal I think i saw two dozen police cruisers during my 7 months, in vancouver i see two dozen a day, and I remind you again; Montréal is one of the safest cities in the world. The shufflers are sitting in pods. I renew my membership at inter-Mission and am greeted with welcomes. i catch up with known faces, meet new ones, draw a bit, find out what else has been shut down by the city or a landlord, and walk home from the sugar factory through strathcona. Pender and East Hastings are messy as ever, i see the chicken walk of crackwhores for the first time in half a year.

I walk up through the spray paint chaos of the Ashram's new digs, passing leftovers and gifts from the buiding's days as a snakepit for art. Johnny Cash and zombie women, an Ample Lamp from Product Of Neglect Art Collective Ltd.'s earliest public interactions, the halls are missing lights, spare wood is screwed to the wall, but it adds to it all. My sleeping bag lay at the foot of 17 cardboard boxes, the walls looked like vomit, light was a stage light sitting on the ground and pointed at the ceiling to diffuse the reflection into a semblance of ambient light, drunken youth and car alarms yelled at each other. I went to sleep feeling at ease.

*****

* I believe the first record of a hat being used on the head is a cave drawing dating to the Era Of Thuk, though buttons weren't seen until 1962.

** Devo, "Jocko Homo" 1975