The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

Rant Control: How to List Your Apartment on Craigslist April 23, 2009

Filed under: Advertising,City Living,Home,How-To,Manifesto,Neighbourhood — Little Evie @ 11:52 am
And you say you'll SELL me your used futon? 25 percent off?

And you say you'll LET me buy your used futon, too, if I take the place? At 25 percent off? Where do I sign?

 

As July 1st, aka ‘Moving Day’ approaches, Montrealers are looking for places to live, like so many hermit crabs exchanging one dirty rotten husk for another. Between overcrowded open houses and Facebook pleas for help, it appears we’re getting desperate… but not that desperate. In my hunt for a clean, livable property I’ve come across more than my fair share of hell holes. But I swear – sometimes half the battle is just slogging through the Craigslist ads (or Craig’s List, if you prefer). Don’t these people WANT to rent their places out? Don’t they know they could get a few more bucks a month if only they put in a little effort? It boggles the mind.

 

Anyway, as is my way, I’m using my first post on The Tragically Unhip to complain loudly and to tell other people what they’re doing wrong. In this case, it’s listing and renting (or, god forbid, selling) a Montreal apartment.

  • Include photos. It’s the internet, people, not the back of the Mirror. If you can’t afford the $75 needed to buy a basic digital camera, borrow one.
  • Include good photos. You don’t need to be Annie Leibowitz, but fer chrissakes use your head. Offer shots of the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedrooms and whatever else potential tenants might actually need to see to help them evaluate a property. It’s really great that you sprang for a fancy crystal doorknob when you moved into the place pre-WWII, but offering three shots of it instead of, say, a snap of the bathroom just won’t do. Same goes for those of you who think detail pics of toilet plungers, Italian tiles, water meters, etc., are more important that shots of the kitchen.
  • Also, enough with those low-angled shots that stretch out tiny spaces, making them appear immense – we just might get wise when we actually visit the location. (And can someone please explain the reasoning behind including nothing but exterior shots? I can’t help but assume that these ads are posted by hobos with internet access who just snap facades at random and put them online in the hopes of conning people out of deposit money. Because if you were honestly trying to sell or rent a place, wouldn’t you be allowed inside?)
  • And hey, how about cleaning the fuck up? I’m not even asking you to paint over your delightful aqua and neon yellow walls or trash your precious used beer bottle collection (though, again, either would up your price significantly), just try taking your drying clothes off the door before you let me in for a viewing. Or shove all your old pizza boxes from one corner to the other, if only for a second, when you photograph that snazzy ‘European’ living room.
  • Oh, and please keep your creepy roommate out of the photos.
  • Include relevant information. Sure they may seem like minor details, but many potential tenants like to know little things like the apartment’s general location, the number of bedrooms, whether or not utilities or appliances are included, your contact info, etc. Trivial stuff. The whole 3.5/4.5 system used to denote number of rooms in Montreal apartments is mildly retarded, I agree, but that’s why you get a whole description along with your post’s title. Remember, you aren’t paying by the word – in fact, if you’re posting on Craigslist, you aren’t paying anything at all.
  • Don’t make me trek to HoMa and tell me it’s the Plateau. It seems, this year, that crafty landlords have dropped the term ‘Plateau-adjacent’ in favour of straight-out lies. No wonder so many are reluctant to list specific addresses – they know we can just GoogleMap that shit. I’m particularly amused by how many listings include magical areas like ‘Plateau North’ (Laval) and ‘Plateau West’ (NDG), which, oddly, don’t seem to exist outside of Craigslist’s real estate pages. Oh, and you might want to find out if I’m from here before lying your ass off about how long it takes to get to St. Laurent Blvd. from the east side of Lafontaine Park.
  • In the same vein, enough with your ‘creative’ interpretations of the word ‘room.’ A doorway is not a room. A balcony is not a room. And don’t get me started on what I’m supposed to consider a ‘bedroom,’ including door-less alcoves and 5ft x 5ft spaces containing washer and dryer hook-ups. Quebecers got so tired of this shit that they made it illegal to pass a window-less room off as a bedroom (or maybe it was just the fire hazard), leading many kind property owners to install plexiglass squares to let the sun shine in on your miserable existence.
  • That balcony? It’s a death trap. Honestly, I am telling you this for your own good. Don’t say I should have a BBQ out there because it will collapse, I will die, and you might feel bad for a second. (I think I might actually do a whole photo essay on the phenomenon of terrifyingly unsound Montreal balconies. That or the alarming number of Xmas trees and wreaths only now making it to the city’s curbs.)
  • Remember, this is Montreal. We’re cheap bastards. No one’s renting your one-bedroom for $3500, no matter how much work you put into it. (This is the part where the New York-based readers all laugh at how cute Montrealers are when they get angry about a little hole in the drywall, low water pressure, and paying over $1 per square foot.)

 

(And to anyone who ever read my old, crappy blog – god forbid – yes, this is a slight rehash. No one listened the first time around.)

 

L.E.S. Artistes March 17, 2009

Filed under: Art,Culture & Society,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 6:04 pm

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Remember when my roommate and I decided to try out a breeder bar named Hugs? Well, we remembered it well enough—albeit slightly fuzzily—to go again, this time for a queer party DJ-ed by Tikka Masala, who can normally be heard spinning at the once monthly That’s My Jam! party held at Sputnik in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. While our last trip to Hugs involved much dancing, drinking, and scaring drunken frat boys away from my roommate, this foray yielded a nice surprise: an opportunity to meet with a local artist who was kind enough to invite me to her exhibit last week.

 

I met artist Meg McGreevy while standing outside, indulging in a cigarette (one of these days I’ll quit, I swear), and had coincidentally already seen her work on display in a gallery window while I’d been nearby with friends, getting dumplings in Chinatown. She and I swapped information and I was lucky enough to spend a few hours with her at the gallery on the final day of her exhibit.

 

Meg had several pieces in the Foolsgold show, which were on display at the Stanton Chapter gallery in the Lower East Side.  Foolsgold had been running since March 3rd and, along with Meg, it showcased the works of artists Shanan Campanaro, Lana Crooks, Maria Kozak, Jeremie Tolentino and Alexander Zaklynsky. The exhibit was sponsored by Redbull (lame) to benefit the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, which helps protect and preserve African wildlife (cool).

 

Meg is a cheerful, fresh, and helplessly genuine young artist, originally from Minneapolis, and newly returned from the UK where she spent six years expanding and growing as an artist, studying fine art at Nottingham Trent University. She independently marketed her work at a popular seaside stall in Brighton where she sold bird paintings, sculptures, and hand-painted shirts. As part of the Foolsgold exhibit, she has sold her first major piece of work: a large, life-size deer skeleton painstakingly created out of papier maché (original sketch above). Her other sculpture, a buffalo skeleton, has not been sold, but both pieces were featured in the two storefront windows of the gallery, visible day and night to all passersby. Her work is eccentric and linear with elements of one-line drawing, but bright and alluring. Often whimsical and light, but never boring.

 

One of the most enjoyable facets of Meg’s personality is her clear desire to get to know you, which further proves that she is indeed inspired by life, and in times like these, that’s a seldom seen and wonderful inspiration in itself. Follow Meg’s work—she’ll be doing big things and she wants to hear what you have to say!

 

Photo courtesy of Amanda Kirkpatrick

Photo courtesy of Amanda Kirkpatrick

 

Funny Signs: Facebook Wars Edition March 9, 2009

Filed under: Art,Neighbourhood,Signage,Technology — Laurin McNiff @ 8:36 pm
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Photo courtesy of Craig Dick

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Photo courtesy of Todd Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up until recently, my exposure to Australian culture was limited to the following: Foster’s beer, the Mad Max trilogy (before Mel Gibson went bat-shit crazy), and a girl named Rae-Rae whom I met at a house party in Astoria and subsequently did shots of Jameson with off a kitchen sink. I can now add ”An Idiot Named Craig” to that list of all things Oz.

 

A fellow with the dubious name of Craig Dick has created a public Facebook album comprised of photos of witty, thoughtful flyers printed on computer paper and posted onto various lampposts and mailboxes around Windsor, Australia. In my twisted need for socialization outside of interacting with actual human beings, what I discovered upon reading these flyers was profound: inspiration. In this day and age, when we are all anonymous avatars communicating from behind a plethora of electronic devices, Craig is trying to bring people together by getting them to meet up in person in the real world; all of his flyers invite passersby/readers to physically meet him there at a certain time on an ambiguous day of the week. (I’m sure the irony of him using the technology of Facebook as a means to get his message across is not lost on him.)

 

The problem? As Craig’s funny signs became more popular, a New York writer named Todd Lamb came forward and claimed the idea as his own, noting that he’d been posting witty notes around Brooklyn since 2008 under the name “Chris” and accusing “Craig” of plagiarism. Not only did Craig steal the idea of leaving silly flyers written all in caps on telephone poles around his neighbourhood, but some of his flyers are verbatim copies of Lamb’s NYC originals, as found on Lamb’s homepage as Exhibit A. Lamb has even created a Facebook group called “Notes from Chris (The Original)“, assuring that credit is given where credit is due. In fact, while Craig once had his own Facebook group called “Craig’s silly notes”, active as recently as this afternoon, it has since been deleted, likely as a result of Lamb’s fans leaving angry Wall comments due to Craig’s apparent disregard for intellectual property rights.

 

When I wrote to Craig last week asking to cover his postings, I received this as a reply:

Hi Laurin,

I’m not sure what of interest I’d have to say about them. I think I’d prefer just to let the notes do the talking. You’re welcome to use the images in your blog.

Regards,
Craig.

No word from Craig about the possibility that he stole the idea from someone else, but not claiming ownership for the notes either.  What makes this even stranger still is this article from zoomdoggle.com, which further tilts the scales in favor of “Chris” (Lamb) as the original curator of the funny lamppost notes.

 

Regardless, as a passerby viewing these public messages, whether they be in Brooklyn or in Windsor, I know that the flyers are there to make people at least momentarily distracted from all the stress going on inside their head: the meetings, the paychecks, the drama, that bar crush, the bills, the mortgage, the rent. And while the message is universal (“Let’s get together, people!”), art is art and the concept is only original via its source. Everything we do is influenced by the world around us, adaptations are abound in the world we live in, and imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery—but if we simply mimic the uniqueness of another, then we are neglecting the opportunity to shine as individuals, and damaging another’s credibility in the process. It’s easy to create! Just let go of the fear and throw caution to the wind: it’s art.

 

chrismattress

Photo courtesy of Todd Lamb

craigmattress

Photo courtesy of Craig Dick

 

Words Are Meaningless March 9, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society,Language,Neighbourhood,Performance — MP*erron @ 12:56 pm

This weekend I finally left my new NDG home for something that wasn’t work or grocery shopping. That’s right. I’ve a) relocated to the depths of NDG, b) been a recluse all winter, and c) finally participated in a social activity. What could it possibly be that would draw a hermetic literary blogger with a comfort food addiction (and belly) out into the world? Why poetry, of course. And not just any poetry. Zen poetry.

 

This weekend I volunteered to assist at Centre Zen de la Main’s second biannual Zen Poetry Festival, right here in our lovely city. The theme of this year’s festival was Forget the Words, a reminder that only when the poet can transcend semantics can poetry really happen; in the Zen world at least – call your egoistic, affected ramblings poetry if you must.

 

The weekend-long festival began with a pre-festival poetry reading by Sina Queyras, Oana Avasilichioaei, David O’Meara. Erín Moure and Ian Orti, at which the host got deliriously tipsy and showed that even Zen practitioners know how to have fun. Following that were workshops, discussion panels, poetry readings, a literary brunch, and even Zazen, for those keen to participate.

 

I stood guard at the book table, had my idea of poetry challenged, and even made a couple of new friends! Imagine that. Overall a very pleasant affair. Hopefully the festival will be held again in 2011, as planned.

 

Hotel de la AWESOME March 6, 2009

Filed under: Booze,City Living,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Brooke D. @ 2:56 pm
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All photos by Brooke D. (Please don't steal, just ask!)

 

Montreal is full of gems. There are tons of places to drink beer, sip espresso, listen to music, browse the wares of independent artists and designers, and work on your slightly aloof (but hopefully not entirely unapproachable) super-engulfed-by-whatever-I’m-reading/writing/drawing demeanor while covertly checking out the cute girl in leg warmers or sensitive musician-type in the fuzzy sweater. It’s good like that. Well, at least The Plateau is.

 

However, dear reader, should you choose to venture just south of your comfort zone (I know it hurts), there’s a big wide world of even more Awesome waiting for you. Now, normally when I think of Downtown, I picture a wasteland of commercial consumerism (the Crap, Suburban Outfitters) and gaggles of Juicy Couture- and Ugg-sporting college kids. Am I right? WRONG!! In our very own city, amongst everything that is cheap and trendy, there is a complete throwback to the lavish lifestyle of bountiful booze, men in pastel suits, high-class hookers, quality service, and perfectly garish decor. I’m talking, of course, of the one and only Hotel de la Montagne.

chandelier

 

Picture this: grand white pillars; enormous crystal chandeliers; a bubbling fountain complete with dramatic and slightly awkward rotating fairy statue; Art Nouveau (knock-off) nudes; stylish “mature” call girls; traveling business men; a skilled piano player tickling the ivories, banging out instrumental versions of bad 80′s Pop and Easy Listening; and, most importantly, a Happy Hour offering 2-for-1 drinks and $2.50 cheese and pickle plates. (‘Cause nothing says class like a jar o’ pickles.) Oh, and complimentary hand sanitizer in the Ladies’ Room. And a rooftop pool and bar during the summer months. If you’re really lucky, you’ll happen upon the hotel bar in full swing, when all the middle-aged divorcees come out in full force to bump and grind to all your favorite hits. I’m not even joking. This place rules.

 

Now. Don’t all come running at once, and by no means should you abandon ship from your fav neighborhood coffee shop/dive bar. I’m just saying that there’s more out there. If you need to call it Ironic or Kitsch or whatever else to justify leaving the Mile End, that’s cool. Do it. Maybe I’ll see you there! (Or at the dangerously amazing karaoke bar up the street. But that’s a post for another day.)

 

pillars1 

 

Muff Muff Give, or Pass That Butch February 25, 2009

Filed under: Dance,Hipster Culture,Music,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 9:07 pm

muffmuffgiveLast week I attended the newest queer party in town. Muff Muff Give, as it’s called, is held at Sugarland (221 N. 9th Street between Driggs and Roebling) in Williamsburg and takes place on the third Thursday of every month. The event was brought into Sugarland’s brick-walled and dimly-lit gay haven by one of my personal favorite party throwers, Gaysha, self-described as “the short-haired Asian sista runnin’ around like a nut, making sure you’re happy.” And it shows. Even after meeting her only a few times, she remembered both my roommate and me and continues to greet us warmly every time we attend one of her events.

 

Gaysha has been promoting several parties over the last few years and I attend the following: Choice Cunts, Snapshot, and now Muff Muff Give. What to expect from a Gaysha-thrown party? GoGo girls abound, as well as the always original DJ Lesbian Van Halen. Drinks, be they cheap or steep ($6 is a little high for a tiny glass of well with a fountain line lacking carbonation, but yes, we’re still in Williamsburg) are always at hand and in general, the atmosphere is rockin’. DJ Lesbian Van Halen can be heard most frequently at Metropolitan, a venue I miss terribly and need to revisit one of these Wednesdays for some never-ending PBR love. DJ Lezzie VH is one of my favorites because there is no standard club fare with her; it’s always different, and even her mainstream picks seem less annoying and overplayed when she spins them.

 

There was art projection on the walls to help set the mood and a rather long bar with some additional enclaves that seem perfect for canoodling—if people even do that anymore. Enter musical guest Tippy. Charismatic, crowd-engaging, and devil-may-care proved to be a winning combination for this MySpace-marketed local entertainer. She’s got groove, she’s got voice, and she drinks Patron on the rocks. It doesn’t get much better than this for $5 at the door.

 

What I find most rewarding about these parties is the attitude. In the wake of a recession, times of hard knocks, and tighter wallets, all with longer hours worked during the week, you can clearly see that having a great time is on the agenda of everyone present despite the fact that it’s a standard weekday (e.g. the roommate and I pranced off the J train at about 4 a.m. for this particular party premiere—on a Thursday night). Syd London, the roving photographer for Muff Muff Give, has uploaded photos of the debauchery on her Flickr page, a.k.a. the embarasswebs, a few of which I’ve reposted here for your “Damn, girl gets around!”-satisfaction.

 

(Please note that no drinks were harmed in the publication of this review. Oh yeah, and I danced my ass off with a large number of queers. It was awesome.)

lezvh

DJ Lesbian Van Halen (Photo courtesy of Syd London)

tippy

Tippy and friends (Photo courtesy of Syd London)

 

Breeder Bars: An Experience February 12, 2009

Filed under: Booze,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 5:04 am

As I’m sure many of you who withstand my usually alcohol-laden retellings of my outings in New York City, this update will come as no surprise that the setting was in fact, a bar in Williamsburg named Hugs. Just a stone’s throw from the L train, my roommate decided she would do a little pre-research for our Saturday night experience. Being somewhat melancholy lately due to the weather, a concave economy, and navigating a single life, I’ve become a harder crowd to bait into going out into Trendyville, Brooklyn. Initially I was against the idea, but soon realized that my roommate would just end up going without me while I had visions of myself eating ice cream on my couch cursing Jennifer Aniston in some re-run of Friends. It was then that I broke down and agreed to dress accordingly, fill my newly-acquired flask, and headed into the cold night.

 

Before I get into my Saturday, I should tell you how our Friday went:

Roommate: “So, do we want to go out tonight?”

Me: “Well, there’s still 2 bottles of Jameson and a bottle of wine here. And that doesn’t include being ignored at a bar full of hipsters, nor does it include $8 drinks that come in tiny little bathroom cups.”

Roommate: “We’re running out of good television and we’ve watched all the movies. We’re running out of options.”

Me: “How much do you think the new flask holds? It looks like it’s a 6 ouncer. But it’s also deceptively constructed. Let’s find out!”

Roommate: “Perfect. I’ll count the shots.”

 

In true journalistic fashion, I can report that said flask holds approximately 8 ounces of liquor. I discovered this when I awoke at 2 p.m. the next day wearing only one sock and with a stomach that felt as though it was digesting razor blades. I vowed that I would not drink on that Saturday. After all, it’s just too expensive.

 

Fast forward to our evening at Hugs. Yes, this bar is really called Hugs. It had “lame” written all over it when we arrived, as we were under the impression this would be a queer-themed party. We were immediately ensnared in a conversation involving the political climate in Palestine and Israel and a brief yet awkward q&a with strangers. I had brought along my trusty friend, Flask, filled with what seems to be a Tragically Unhip-endorsed booze of choice for this particular dreary winter.

 

The evening in its strangeness included the following: playing bouncer and ultimately intervening between two unattractive frat boys and my roommate. It also involved my view of the most blatant meat market atmosphere I have ever experienced and while I don’t normally frequent straight clubs/bars for our coveted Saturday nights, on this particular occasion, despite drunken boys trying to un-gay my friend, I actually had a blast dancing and meeting a variety of generally good-looking straight folk, a number of which have just friended me on Facebook. I even had a heartwarming rugby hug and chat with a guy who slightly resembles Glen Hansard of Once fame.

 

My favorite part of the evening, however, was my chat with a young lady who confided to me that she was smitten with the blue body-painted Go Go dancer who was seen selling shots around the bar. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Girl: “I think she is just so hot. God, really.”

Me: “I can tell.”

Girl: “How could you tell? Is it that obvious?”

Me: “Well, your face, mainly your lips, are covered in blue body paint.”

Girl: “Oh my God are you serious? No one told me! My face has looked like this for hours!”

 

So, friends, the moral of the story is: breeder bars can be fun. Unexpected, hot, sweaty, blue body paint fun.

 

Will Hang You Out to Dry January 17, 2009

Filed under: City Living,Money,Musings,Neighbourhood — Meagan Burbidge @ 2:39 pm

I don’t know if it’s just me, with my simple Midwestern features and misleading mannerisms that indicate to many that I should be engaged in all their trials and tribulations, but it really seems as though it is nearly impossible to so much as stand in line to buy chapstick and ballpoint pens without someone exclaiming, “Do you know how bad the economy is right now?”

 

I usually just smile and nod politely while scream-humming Arab on Radar in my head.  For me, so long as I can afford a pack of cigarettes and a place to rest my increasingly-worn shoes, I’m all right.  Sure, I miss dining on fancy cheese with Tiffany silver and wiping my ass with Egyptian cotton toilet napkins, but I’ve really embraced falling on tough times.

 

In all seriousness, I haven’t really felt the cold sting of an ungracious economy.  In college, I was too busy drinking 2 for $10 bottles of foul Shiraz and nursing my preternatural angst to apply for valid internships or look for relevant, resume-filling work opportunities. Chances are, regardless of the state of the union, I would be doing exactly what I am now.  That being: working jobs that are painstakingly underwhelming and sitting in my apartment thinking about how much easier it would be if someone would just deliver me a grownup kit, complete with tie and glasses, and I’d start work in the morning.

 

Perhaps I was just worn out from the constant flood of nay-say that came my way upon my decision to move to New York.  People would apply witty catchphrases to conversation, such as: “When you shake someone’s hand in New York, check to make sure you still have all five fingers!”, which merited my response of: “People shake hands in New York?” Most would continue on to say that what with the “hustle and bustle” and the “Angry New Yorker” persona (which I’ve only experienced with visitors, but take care—that will come later, I am sure of it): “You’ll be destitute! Do you know how expensive it is there? Do you?!”

 

Truthfully, the only thing that I’ve noticed a difference in price with is the cost of cigarettes, and frankly, they’re worth every penny. Other than that, I can understand the “cost of real estate” argument (location, location and all that), but if you subtract insurance, gas, tires, oil changes, and the will to live that it costs to drive around that suburb collectively known as America every day, and you will probably even out.  If you can wrap your brain around not dining at Jean-Georges four times a month, then you’re set, as far as Manhattan is concerned.

 

All this reasoning, of course, came before I walked into the abomination of the Way of Things and Natural Order: I am of course speaking of your local Brooklyn laundromat. I came prepared with your expected laundromat staples (water, trail mix, Vogue, detergent, and a roll of quarters), but when I arrived, everything went horribly wrong.

 

Apparently, modern washing machines are too sophisticated for the average American quarter; don’t insult it.  These days, they only accept a specific magnetic strip card—never to be misinterpreted for the sub-standard credit card—which you are required to pay 99¢ simply to obtain from a machine that is also anti-coin, pro-paper bills, and anti-reason, rationale, and general convenience. Once you’ve signed away your rights as a citizen to get the magnetic strip card, you have to pay $4.00 per load for the average single-person load, or $2.00 per load to use the smaller machine: a real bargain if you happen to be one who only washes a single washcloth and perhaps a pair of underpants (but you may not want to overdo it; nobody likes a glutton).  After that, it’s a mere 30¢ per 8 minutes to of dryer time. Fifteen-minute intervals would be menacing.  Be serious.

 

I’ve wanted to move to New York for as long as I can remember: the shoes, the music, the films, the grime, the practice of being in the midst of millions of people and still having the advantage of being entirely unto yourself.  I couldn’t resist and thus made a very hasty decision, one that had bright-burning warning signs that read “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? DO NOT DO THIS!” This decision involved moving into the living room of a single, 45-year-old (legally 60) female owner of three bastard sons of The Renegade Angel Lucifer (her “babies”, better known as “cats”) on the Upper West Side. Decent rent, fantastic neighborhood, bat shit insanity.  It’s an epic and convoluted tale that has so scarred my psyche that I don’t ever imagine being able to cleverly adapt it into a satirical greeting card or miniseries.  (Those of you who are intrigued, know that it involved cats shitting where I slept; statements like “Well, since I’ve gotten through menopause…” followed by “…but that wasn’t until after I stopped using cocaine”; and awakening to find her watching me as I slept.)  Needless to say, there was an in-building laundry room, sympathetically priced at $1.25 a load, and I was blissfully unaware of how good I really had it, in laundering terms.

 

This is The Man: weighing me down, cuh-cuh-cuh-crushin’ me.

 

You Are Gorgeous December 17, 2008

Filed under: Advertising,City Living,Culture & Society,Neighbourhood,Photography — Brooke D. @ 4:16 pm

When I moved recently to my new neighborhood, I immediately noticed all the great hair and beauty ads in the shop windows along Jean Talon and the diversity of human beauty proudly displayed behind its panes of glass.

 

I went walking the other day and decided to take a few pictures to chronicle the variety of faces I saw peering back at me from the inside, looking out. Some were really striking, some were extremely cheesy, and some were a little straight-up creepy (e.g. mannequins of small children with dirty, matted hair is a little… I don’t know… ew?).

 

I was greeted warmly with waves and smiles in some shops, actually kicked out of others, and had the pleasure of meeting one man who stood proudly by a photo of himself taken some 40 years earlier (see the black and white number).

 

This is my ‘hood:

 

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Get Your Sax On December 15, 2008

Filed under: Music,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — MP*erron @ 10:06 am

Where can hip cats go to scope out up-and-coming music from (as of yet) undiscovered talent? Why Parc des Princes, of course. OK, so I’ve actually never heard of this place before, and have no idea what kind of strays it draws in on a regular night, but this Wednesday it’s where the music is at. It’s a musical debut as New Yorker-cum-Montrealer Brajah Waldman brings the fruits of a lifetime’s labor to the stage.

 

No stranger to public performance, Waldman, a jazz-crazed tomcat if ever I’ve met one, has been known to hold court with his sax on Montreal streets during the tourist months, and has been improvising alongside Montreal’s Serial Numbers for over a year. This is the first time, however, that Waldman brings his own work to the spotlight. December 17th the quartet, which includes pianist Damon Hankoff, bassist Martin Heslop, and drummer Daniel Gelinas, goes on at Parc des Princes. The show starts at 8:30 and is free of charge. Those wary of getting hit with another dose of the holiday season’s nauseous jazz need not fear—this sound promises to be kind to your ear.

 

Those interested by the music can catch Waldman in action north and south of the border this season. New Year’s Day he’s scheduled to perform with his aunt, revered Beat-era poet Anne Waldman, at the St. Mark’s Poetry Project’s 35th Annual Marathon Reading in New York’s East Village. (FYI Lee Ranaldo and Patti Smith also take the stage that day.) January 8th he hits the stage with Serial Numbers at Montreal’s L’escalier. Otherwise, you can hunt him down on Montreal street corners, as I’ve been known to do.

 

Cool Kids Love VLTs December 11, 2008

Filed under: Booze,Hipster Culture,Musings,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Poppa John @ 4:12 am
1

My womens. (All photos by Poppa John)

 

My friends kept mentioning Le Black Jack’s “Time’s Up” DJ night every Thursday as the coolest place to drink in St. Henri. I live on the Plateau, so I rarely need to go searching for a “cool” place (or a “hot” place, or a “phat,” “sick” or “totally ill” place, for that matter) to drink and listen to good tunes. However, one evening I had two hot girls with me who wanted to go dancing. Always willing to please the ladies, I suggested we attend this hip DJ night down in the coolest of Montreal’s Southwest boroughs. (Sorry, Verdun.)

 

Le Black Jack is located at 3814 rue Notre-Dame Ouest; a short walk from Place St. Henri metro station. We got there at the reasonable drinking hour of 10 pm, greeted by the newest Beyoncé single entitled “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” The girls I was with—being single ladies—went nuts. After purchasing a large pitcher of Labatt Blue, they got their groove on.

3

My weakness.

 

I noticed a cool-looking fellow playing a video lottery terminal (VLT) beneath one of the screens that was broadcasting the hockey game. He looked like he was having a ball, so I decided to try my luck too. It was at this point that I starting losing in more ways than one. Around 11, a disheveled artist-type walked in and turned off the boombastic music that was driving my womens wilds with the pleasures. 

 

First came the feedback, then came the muddy basslines, then came the dwindling libidos; my two luverlies were wilting! After confronting the DJ—a member of party-promoting posse the Pirates of the Lachine Canal—on how he just killed my mojo, I found out that Time’s Up’s regular playlist revolves around disco-punk, No Wave, nu wave, and other extremely unsexy genres of music.

 

Way to make me not score, hipster DJ.

 

Friday Night Police Lights November 15, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Home,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Kimberly Senf @ 4:43 am

There isn’t much that tops calling the police at 3:30am—except maybe a good night’s sleep. Yet sleep was not in the cards for me tonight, because when I got home I was greeted by the sounds of a scuffle going on above my head. From screams to shouts to plate breakage, it was all going down on the second floor of my humble abode. That’s when I pulled out the mobile and called 911 for the first time—and got put on hold.

 

A couple of minutes later I was able to tell the operator the issue at hand: that my neighbours were having some sort of disturbance that seemed to be out of their control. They assured me that they would send a car to check things out, so I hung up, sat in my living room in my pyjamas and impatiently waited.

 

Ten minutes later the first police car came to a stop outside my house. Now, I live in a pretty residential neighbourhood; this isn’t Hochelaga-Maisonneve or even the Plateau, where the partying can sometimes get a little out of hand. We’re talking Cote-des-Negies, where people’s grandmothers grow old and eat bagels. This isn’t where the police spend their Friday nights giving away noise complaint tickets, so I think they were as surprised to be here as my neighbours were to see them.

 

While the first set of cops went upstairs, I was pleased to see that my call had been taken seriously and that two more police cars were waiting outside my house. The culprits from upstairs spilled onto the sidewalk and began a drunken embrace that seemed to last for decades while the officers looked on in semi-amused silence.

 

By 4am the last cop car had left the scene and those who’d broken the peace had not so quietly vacated the premises. The only problem now is that it’s the middle of the night and I’m wide-awake and rather annoyed. I thought I no longer lived in the part of the city that merited phone calls to the police at all hours of the night? When I lived in Genevieve D. Markle’s sketchy building I never had to call the police on my many crazy neighbours, yet somehow they’ve managed to find me in Cote-des-Neiges. Next time around, I’m moving into an attic.

 

How To Get Wasted For Ten Dollars or Less September 7, 2008

Filed under: Booze,How-To,Money,Neighbourhood,Shopping — Ryan Marlboro @ 11:34 pm

I don’t want the fact that I was born and raised in Verdun to define me, but when Gen called and asked me to write this article, I think we both knew that my borough-folk and I are real experts when it comes to getting completely annihilated for as little financial expenditure as possible. Verduners like to drink a lot—usually outside on the balcony or, if you’re from neighbouring Pointe Ste. Charles, out on the front stoop with your legs stretching into the sidewalk. Regardless of neighbourhood, however, there are numerous ways for you to get wasted for ten dollars or less, but it’s quite obvious when I say this that hard liquor and bars are pretty much out of the question.

 

One great way to get your buzz going is to find a non-franchised dépanneur that advertises selling beer for the “lowest price permissible by law.” I’ve seen a few joints on Wellington doing this. Most stores will carry brands like Pabst Blue Ribbon or Old Milwaukee (not to be confused with Milwaukee’s Best or Milwaukee’s Best Dry), and these beers go for about a dollar a can. A bottle of beer contains 341ml of liquid while a can contains 355ml, so you do the math. With ten dollars, you should be able to pick up eight of either, providing you with a good buzz for the night. A 355ml can of beer with a 6.1% alcohol content for a dollar sounds like a real steal, doesn’t it? Oh yeah, except the beer tastes like crap.

 

This one worked well a few years ago, but I haven’t tried it recently. While Colt .45 is cheaper, a 40oz bottle of Big 10 (Black Label 10%) has a higher alcohol content and less social stigma attached to it. Big 10 tastes even worse than the Pabst and Old Milwaukee beers, but sometimes sacrifices must be made in order to drown your sorrows and/or escape reality. This stuff is bottom of the barrel, but it’s cheap! A forty of Big 10 goes for about $4.50 a pop, so why not go all out for the evening and buy two? You could even leave the dep owner a one dollar tip. Expect a night of blurred vision, horrible-tasting mouth, and probably vomiting.

 

If you live in Montreal, Foufounes Électriques has $5 pitchers on Tuesday nights, but tips for your bartender and the 3$ cover charge must be factored in to your night’s total spending. Throw in a few games of pool and maybe a drink for the hottie you want to take home with you, and already you’ve gone over budget. But unless you are an alcoholic, most people want to get hammered in the company of other people anyway, so you can always rally up a group of your friends to go to the dive bar of your choice on Cheap Beer Night and have everyone chip in to a communal pool to help fund the intoxication. If you’re money-savvy enough, you and your friends should be able to spend a drunken evening in an enjoyable social setting, which sure as hell beats drinking on the sidewalk.

 

Hair Crimes September 7, 2008

Filed under: Hair & Fashion Crimes,Neighbourhood — Kimberly Senf @ 6:47 pm
Double the fun? More like double the hair-raising disapproval.

Double the fun? More like double the hair-raising disapproval. (Photo by Kimberly Senf)

 

I was enjoying an espresso in the window of Cagibi, witnessing the many sights that Mile End has on display, when I caught a glimpse of this young fellow. Not only is the back of his head party to a rat tail double feature, but he is also stealing the wireless internet from just beyond the doorway, where a minimum purchase is not required.

 

Never mind not understanding the motivation behind a single rat tail, I wouldn’t even be able to conceive of two tails if I hadn’t snapped the picture myself. Rat tails have never been properly in vogue except with people who don’t own mirrors or never (ever) want to get laid. According to MulletJunky, a rat tail that trails past puberty could even be an indicator of much larger issues.

 

Oh Rat Tail Man, what were you thinking?

 

Things We Have Love/Hate Relationships With August 14, 2008

Filed under: Neighbourhood,Things We Have Love/Hate Relationships With — Kimberly Senf @ 1:28 am
no dirt, no crime. That's Monkland for you. (Photo by Kimberlily)

Pretty street corner. Look: no dirt, no crime.

I have an interesting relationship with enigmatic Notre Dame de Grâce and Monkland Village. NDG is so sketchy in some areas that my neck hurts just from looking over my shoulder, while the Monkland Village puts on a veneer of eerily-quiet quaintness that simply doesn’t fool me. Then there are the ever-so-pretty tree-lined streets, where people walking their dogs actually say hello to each other and those sitting on their front steps send a welcoming nod in my direction. Yet sometimes, as I break away from Sherbrooke or leave the polished sidewalks on Monkland, I feel as if I’ve landed in small-town Canada. And I find myself wondering if I’ll get cell phone reception or if anyone will notice when I jaywalk my way across the street.

Pots of earth in front of The Real Green Grocer in NDG (Photo by Kimberlily)

Pots of earth in front of The Real Green Grocer in NDG. (Photos by Kimberlily)