Rockstar Writer at the Junos

Will Rockstar Writer get to hang out with Indie It Girl Leslie Feist?

I'm headed out this weekend to the Junos and blogging all about it for my weekly The Coast. As a favor to you and because I'm lazy, I will post my entries on Status Single as well as on The Coast website. Pam Anderson press conferences! Crazy after-parties! B-list celebrity sightings! Musings on Chad Kroeger's hair! It will all be here. See you at the Junos.

Here's my first entry:

So it begins

Here we go! A weekend of schmoozing, star-sightings, drinking, and most importantly, experiencing great live music is here. For those who aren't in the know, this is the Juno Awards weekend and it's a music writer's dream come true.

Especially this music writer. Ever since I knew I'd be missing South By Southwest - AKA the world's largest collection of bands that you actually listen to - earlier this month in Austin, Texas, I decided I'd throw my body and mind into the Junos.

If there's a late-night singalong with Sloan, The Super Friends and the other members of the Halifax Pop Explosion Class of '95 - I'm there. If there's a 20-minute long rendition of "Cause = Time" at the Broken Social Scene show - I'm all about it. If Diana Krall decides to dress up in a Ms. Claus outfit to promote her 5-time Juno nominated "Christmas Songs" album and hang out with me at Second Cup on Saturday at 1 p.m., I'm most definitely there. I'm at your mercy Coast readers. I'm headed to the frontlines for you. That and the booze, of course.

The craziness began with me writing just over 6,000 words for The Coast's Juno preview edition within the space of a week, something I hadn't done since university. After a couple days to allow my typing fingers and brain to heal, I started to plan out my itinerary for the weekend. That means choosing from 80 acts over 15 venues that comprise the JunoFest line-up on Friday and Saturday nights. It also means figuring out which after-parties to attend, if I can actually get into them (more on that later this weekend…). Not to mention, what I should wear, and what to say if I actually meet Chris Martin from Coldplay ("Um, how often do you shave and cut your hair?" and "What do you think of the name Banana for a boy?" are good choices).

But first things first. Tonight is the "free" concert on Grand Parade in downtown Halifax. I say "free" because I'm certain that taxpayers had to dole out for this somehow. Someone had to pay for the bands, equipment and security. Part of me knows corporate sponsors didn't shill out a lot because if they did, we'd be seeing someone from Canadian Idol performing. However, the line-up is strictly east coast – the one thing I like about it.

The show kicks off with 2005 Junos blues winner Garrett Mason, followed by Jimmy Rankin, then Dartmouth-living heartthrobs with big hair: Joel Plaskett and Matt Mays and El Torpedo. The night is capped off with The Trews, whom I actually don't mind in a live setting. Let me tell you, it's too bad certain bands have to put CDs, because no recording is going to ever represent The Trews the way they play onstage.

Anyway, I'm going to miss Mason (he's playing as I write this) and Rankin. Sorry, but I need to get pretty and fill up on some grease before this long, fun-filled weekend begins. I'll let you know how it went as it happens. It's all for you, my friends. Enjoy!

The End of the World is Near
or
What I will be doing on May 26

I admit it. For about three awkward prepubescent years, I was a comic book geek. I got into comic books around Grade 7 and it lasted through Grade 9. From ages 10-13, I marveled at the world of Marvel, propped up my low self-image with Image, and dissed anything DC. I thoroughly enjoyed the pages of X-Men, X-Factor, Uncanny X-Men (different team from X-Men), Spawn, Wild C.A.T.S., West Coast Avengers, and What If… My idea of a constructive Sunday was riding my bike to the comic book store and spending hours sifting through the $1.00 comic discount boxes. In fact, the highlight of my week the first year I moved to Texas, when I had hardly any friends, was when my mother took me to the store to pick up my weekly allotment of books.

Yes, I know this sounds pathetic, which is why I quit collecting comic books the moment I realized that I’d never score a girlfriend if I continued to look forward to the latest Wolverine-Ghost Rider crossover. I cancelled my subscription box at the comic store and immediately got a subscription to Rolling Stone. It changed my life. Now I have five VDs.

No, not really. Please don't listen to Library Girl. Seriously.

Although I left the superheroes and supervillians behind, I still carry a little torch for those times. Every once in awhile, it's allowed to manifest itself in the form of comic book movies. I am usually the sucker that pays to see a comic book adaptation, no matter how bad I know it’s going to suck. I was there for Daredevil, The Fantastic Four, and even League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

However, some great, critically acclaimed movies were worthwhile: the first two Spider-Man movies, the Tim Burton- and Christopher Nolan-directed Batman flicks, the first two Superman movies, and of course, the X-Men films.

So, it was especially hard to hide the fact that I reverted to a pubescent teen when I saw the trailer for the third installment of the X-Men franchise. My voice squeaked in approval when I saw Magneto rip apart the Golden Gate Bridge (he never did that in the comics!). My peach fuzz prickled when I saw Jean Grey had turned into Dark Phoenix. I marveled once again watching Wolvie rip apart some mutant baddie.

Yes, I will be at the movie the night it comes out. And much like the time I spent as a preteen in my bedroom on a Friday night, flipping through the colourful pages, I don’t care if I have to do it alone.

Canadian-U.S. relations

"Uh, where'd you say I was again?"

An old friend from Texas just recently visited me for a weekend that involved copious amounts of booze (thank you, duty-free!), Brit-pop, dancing and debauchery. A great time was had by all. We did the requisite tourist bullshit, but mostly drank and recovered from drinking, a preview of my weekend to come when the Junos, the Canadian version of the Grammy’s, hit town.

10 Things I Learned From My Friend Who Lives In New Jersey:
1. Americans think Canadians are surprisingly friendly
2. Canadians like to give Americans shit for their crappy government, but in a friendly way
3. Characters featured in the Sopranos do exist
4. The city officials and said characters hang out in the same dining/drinking establishments
5. Supposedly there are a lot of crazy people in New York City, especially guys that play in Fountains of Wayne
6. Canadians are generally more positive than Americans
7. Canadian beer is still better than American beer
8. American boys like Canadian girls
9. Nova Scotia has good oysters (I’ll take your word for it)

10. Drinking vodka and Jagermeister until 7 a.m. is not good for your physical health

Change of fortune

Rockstar Writer's heart gets a last minute repair job

***I’m sorry KD, I may not be able to have relationship-talk with you so as to maintain your sanity, which is totally cool. But the premise of this blog must live on! ***

It’s amazing how life changes at the drop of a dime. You’re having a shitty day and out of nowhere, something happens to change your fortunes, morph your perspective, and maybe just have a lasting impact on your future sort of like that really bad Ashton Kutcher film The Butterfly Effect.

Just over a month ago, I meet someone. Someone cute, smart and funny who I enjoy being around that can carry a conversation past, "I need another drink." We hang out, I start to like her, I think she starts to like me for reasons unexplained, then I start to get excited like when I was 8-years-old on the Christmas Eve I asked Santa for the electric racetrack before I found out it didn’t work a well as it did in the commercials. Then perhaps I get too excited and she starts to look at me like I’m walking down the street naked a little too often.

Anyway, to make a long story short, we stop seeing each other. Partly because I’m a freak (true), partly because she doesn’t like electric racetracks (not true), and for other reasons I’m not going to get into here. I go back to hanging out by myself. I am no longer excited. I start to act like Rudolph in that Christmas movie before Santa starts having a problem flying his sleigh in the dark. No, I don't have the red nose, but with the red cheeks that come with the requisite post-break up binge drinking.

A week passes with no end in sight to feeling that comes with the knowledge that another person I actually wanted to share more than a month of my life with, did not feel the same. My insecurities have their way with me. No matter what I do, I can’t ignore them, the way you can’t ignore the next-door neighbours having loud sex through your apartment wall.

Then comes the day when she comes over to pick up her stuff. DVDs, toothbrush. The unceremonious goodbye. She comes in to talk and is gracious enough to hear out my dying wishes.

That’s when it happens. We start to wonder why we’re doing this. We question our original motives for ending things. We talk like adults (I think). Eventually we come to the conclusion that we like each other too much to give up so easily. Just like that, we are back together and all is right in the universe again. And just like that, the sun is shining a little brighter today.

Oh, wait. What's that?

I'm sorry, I don't carry airline motion sickness bags with me.

Reading material

***NOTE: This has nothing to do with my recent romantic woes, so please don't think I'm talking shit. My previous interest knows how I feel about her, so don't accost me at the bar on her behalf. - RW***

The Library Girl
"They come in all shapes and sizes. All genders. All different ages. Unless you appreciate a good headache, an occasional heartache and some serious psycho-drama, you are keep at least 100 feet between you and said Drama Queen..."

A Question of Love

Is love possible in this generation?

Lately I've talked to so many people my age who are afraid of the idea of love. Rather than something that might bring great fulfillment and happiness into their lives, many believe that falling in love means giving up independence, compromises their individuality, and gets in the way of long-term endeavours and plans.

I admit it: I’m a hopeless romantic. I’ve been slightly jaded over the years, but I still remain smitten with the notion of unabashed, uncontrollable feelings towards another individual.

I look at feelings like a set of tasks. When a task arises, we adjust to accommodate them. But do we forget the tasks that have been set before? No, we do not. When one falls for someone else should they ignore the feeling because it may get in the way of some set plan? I say no. I believe it’s possible to make allowances for both goals and love. If one truly has a strong feeling for someone else, they can make room for those feelings. And the object of their affection, if that affection rings true, will support those goals.

I believe ignoring feelings rather than acknowledging them leads to worse consequences. It’s as though one is throwing a wrench in the machine that is life. To ignore affection is to welcome sadness, confusion, and personal repression.

Yes, I wholeheartedly believe we must stay driven. But love is a welcome respite in a world of pain and suffering. Stay focused, yet remain open to the possibilities that may arise and let some light in.

WWVND - What Would Vince Neil Do?

***I don't usually post my published work on my blog, but this was too good to pass up.***

Only at a Motley Crue after-party would this moment be possible. Without any warning, two breasts flash before my eyes, followed by an ear-piercing shriek. "Vince Neil just signed our boobs!" scream the two women, holding their bras open for anyone at the nightclub to see.

A crowd mobs Vince Neil for autographs and high fives at the Marquee Club. Still flying from the Metro Centre concert, Neil sports a Stetson cowboy hat, chin goatee and leather jacket. On one arm is a blow-dried, peroxide blonde woman in a leather nurses outfit, as if she had teleported straight from the "Dr. Feelgood" video circa 1989. Word is she ditched her boyfriend to hang out with Neil. Little does she know, as the cameras flash around her, she'll be ditched by Neil when his mandatory appearance at the event is over an hour later. He spends a good 20 minutes signing autographs, celebrity mania at a frenzy point.

"I got my stomach signed by (Canadian Olympic curler) Brad Gushue," says one of my more cynical friends. "It was when he was here for the Lord of the Rings thing at Metro Centre. I got the entire team to sign. It was sweet."

"Oh my god!" shrieks one of the Vince Neil-autographed girls. "I'm not showering ever again!"

Or maybe at least until they decide to compete in a wet t-shirt contest judged by none other than the platinum-headed wonder that is the lead singer of Motley Crue, one of the most notoriously debaucherous acts in the history of rock 'n roll. Singer of the radio hits "Shout At The Devil," "Smokin' In The Boys Room," "Kickstart My Heart" and "Home Sweet Home," Neil was the poster child of 80s rock 'n roll excess: boozing, drugging, and fucking his way to the top of the charts with his just-as-guilty bandmates Tommy Lee, Nikki Sixx, and Mick Mars.

"We need one more girl for the contest!" the MC shouts over the roar of "Feelgood" and whoops of the appreciative crowd that's easily 3:1 men, most in leather or denim jackets. Where the female participants for the contest appear from remains a mystery.

"I studied feminist theory in university," a curious female friend told me over pre-party drinks. "This should be interesting."

The festivities get underway around 12:30 a.m. as six women of different shapes and sizes walk onstage. A dozen pitchers of water line a table. The crowd roars as Neil makes his stage entrance.

"Who here was at the show tonight?" he asks. Almost the entire room raises their hands, all voicing their approval for what they've just witnessed.

"You motherfuckers fuckin' rocked," Neil yells to more cheers. "You fuckin' Canadians rocked!"

The beau of the ball takes a seat on a large wooden throne center stage. The opening riff of "Girls, Girls, Girls" kicks off the contest, the first girl grabbing two pitchers. She walks into the spotlight in front of a slobbering testosterone-pumped audience. Lifting the pitchers above her head, she pours the water over her white Hanes t-shirt, shaking her hips at the same time. Vince signals his approval from his throne with a flash of his trademark, shit-eating grin.

Each successive girl gets nastier, rubbing themselves seductively, shaking their asses at the front row of spectators. Some of the girls ignore the confines of their see-through shirts, one even neglecting the social penchant for pants. Meanwhile the rabid audience encourages the contestants every step of the way.

"There goes 30 years of feminism down the drain," my mortified friend says after Neil helps the last contestant soak every inch of her outfit, giving herimpromptuomtu chest massage to make sure she leaves with no dry part uncovered.

Once the preliminary round closes, the participants walk across the stage one more time, making their case to the Marquee crowd. More female parts are flashed with little coaxing. The time comes to make a decision. Neil slowly surveys the madness around him, building tension.

"You're all winners, motherfuckers!" Neil concludes. The girls mob him, showering him with kisses and unseen gropes.

One thing makes itself apparent throughout the evening. Regardless of the expanding waistline, the darker than usual coiffure, and the aging wrinkles, Vince Neil is still a rock star. He has not changed one bit - through the sex tapes, manslaughter charges and model wives. He's made a living at being the life of the party and he knows how to do it well.

Earlier in the evening, a couple of acquaintances walk up as the two women show-off their autographed tatas. The two university students look at what's going on, and then mischievously look at each other. They promptly disappear into the crowd surrounding Neil. Fifteen minutes later they return, beaming.

"Oh my god!" they shriek. "We just made out with Vince Neil! At the same time!"

Surreal life, indeed.