I Like Art! I Hate Art! perpetual motion roadshow tour diary [part two]

[disclaimer: these are my opinions, everyone sees the world through their own prejudices and experiences. I'm not omniscient, yada yada yada]

MONTREAL

By this point you may have noticed that Troy isn't the best communicator. None of us are, really, or we would have aired our grievances right off. He's just the least passive-aggressive. Anyway, the whole time I had one pair of car keys and Troy had the other, either because we were more confident in driving than China, or because of some subtle misogony that we all silently subscribed to. Troy would never ask to drive, or not to drive. He would just get to the car first, and sit where he felt like. For some reason, it was my sickass' time to drive, which was fine. China had bigger worries than I did, as she had been turned away at the border before. She'd been put on some sort of international list after being kicked out of England some years back, and there was a 40/60 chance it would happen again. Meanwhile, Troy was pissed at China over not getting some money she owed him. I wasn't pissed at anyone, just embarassed about all the sniffling.

Our trouble came to a head just before the border, with Troy and China yelling at each other and me driving, with no radio signal and fuck yous flying.

"HEY! Motherfuckers! Maybe it would be a good idea if we waited til after we're across the border to settle this?"


Do I Like Art? [Montreal]

And we made it. Montreal radio was the best of the trip. It was an even mix of French and English, with dancy synthpunk sharing a frequency with profane bootyjams like Spank Rock's "Put That Pussy On Me" and Freak Nasty's "Da Dip" (perhaps the best song ever written about rimming strippers).

Everything was perfect in Montreal. Almost too perfect. It seemed as though we were in some indie film from the 1990s where everyone wa intelligent and well dressed, witty and urbane. There were wide bike lanes insulated from traffic and nobody's clothes had any writing on them. No irony, and no designer labels, even the bums were dressed pretty well.

We performed in the Toc Toc Cafe, home of the Bibliograph/e Zine Library. Toc Toc was amazing, it seemed to be far more interested in holding community events than acting as a cafe. We drank hemp beer and pawed through zines before the show started. Montreal even had the best local acts. There was Shanghai Triad, who played Chinese pop songs from the 30s and 40s on an accordion and a Chinese violin and a fantastic writer whose name escapes me right now (I'll update this as soon as I can find it).

Our host apologizes to us in advance: I've noticed that American audiences are more willing to donate when you pass the hat than Canadian audiences. I think it's because the government funds so much art here that they forget the concept of starving artist.

I sell a few zines though, and it feels better than anything to get paid for my art in a foreign currency, even if it is just the next country up.

Later that night, Troy and I went to a noise show that would have been amazing at an underground club or a basement, but was only interesting in a cozy, well-lit bar. The one downside to having so many open-minded people is that antisocial art isn't relegated into the scumbag places where it belongs. In Chicago, I'd have been dancing my ass off and throwing myself around like a goon, but in this bar, I can't do anything but appreciate it. I climb into bed with China with my clothes on. This is the set up when there are more people then beds. It's nice to be able to lie next to someone, especially with the knowledge that I'm going to be the only one not to get laid on this trip.

We spend the next day exploring. French pastry, a record store nestled into some guy's apartment. I get a Munich Machine album, and one by Friends of Dean Martinez, and really regret buying beer and not taking out more money at the border. I'm still getting over how awesome Montreal is, and given that, why I didn't like it more. It certainly bears further inspection.


No wait, I do like art! [Montreal]

OTTAWA

So far, everyone has warned us that Ottawa will suck, and I still haven't figured out why. It was an interesting place, whose gay center was completely integrated into its downtown, with dyke hobos, liquor stores where your beer comes in on conveyor belts, and a shwarma joint on every corner. It was a place where adventures kept almost happening.

We performed at a dildo store called Venus Envy. Our opener is a funny poet who seemed far more sad than funny in his constant self-deprecation and nervous delivery, but who brought out the only audience we had in that city. China read a piece about the history of the dildo written by her daughter for the first issue her zine Dildo, and another about being clitblocked by her daughter and her daughter's girlfriend when they were both sixteen and hated her boyfriend. It was the only time she read either of these pieces, and it was her best performance of the week.


I Like Art! Also Monsters! [Ottawa]

Outside the store, there's a crew of leather daddies with hip floggers and trenchcoats smoking. The oldest one smiles at me, and asks if we want to go to a party.

"What kind of party?"

"We're having a pansexual play party. You can join us...as my guests...if I could maybe flog you?"

"Cool."

We head back to where we're staying, to drop our shit off and change. Troy is daring me to go, as if he doesn't think I will. I think he misjudged me somewhere along the line, where I wouldn't think that a pansexual play party would be the coolest thing to do. I decide to go and China comes as my escort.

At the door to the party, a nondescript and very nonthreatening hallway, an older woman sits with a clipboard, in lingerie that shows off her saggy tits and what I presume to be a pretty hard life. Past the hallway, there are bloodcurdling screams that can't be the product of anything nearly as interesting as our imaginations are conjuring. The woman looks surprised to see us, we explain our encounter in the parking lot.

"Oh, okay. Guests pay just twenty-five dollars. Oh and there's an all-black dress code so ou may need to find something else to where...."

On the way home, China tells me about another encounter with a stranger. She was trying to decipher the procedure at the beer store when an older gentleman came to her aid (and lets be clear that when I say gentleman, I mean a big, burly, tattooed and bearded biker).

"Hi, my name is Al. Captain Al Caholic."

Apparently, China met the leader of Ottawa's only bike gang and he invited us to a party at his place, The House of Pain, but China couldn't find the address and none of my calls to Chicago bike people yielded results.

It was clear on Troy's face that we had ruined his evening when we showed up back at the house. We explained what happened and he said nothing. At all.

He turned on the movie Anchorman and we all watched in silence.

C'est la vie.


I like Art! Also monsters! [Ottawa]

TORONTO

Toronto is where it all finally comes to a head. China is driving, she knows that if she gets us to our last city alright everything will be fine. I sleep in the back, even though she wants me to navigate, just so I don't have to deal with all the tension and all the crazy. I should have made the sacrifice. The argument happens over something so stupid it's ridiculous.

China nervously drills us about the last exit. At the off-ramp just before ours, Troy notices the sigm.

"HERE! Here! Here! Here!"

China slams on the brakes.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"You said here, right?"

"The sign, the SIGN you've been asking about is here. The exit is NEXT. Drive!"

I've had enough. The least I can do is defend her, though it should've happened earlier.

"Dude. You're yelling here here here at an off ramp. I would've freaked too."

"Well I don't recall asking you what the fuck you thought, did I?"

"Well fuck you cause I'm saying it."

"What? You got something to say to me?"

"Yeah, and I said it."

"Fine, we'll see when we get out of this car."

"Fuck you."

We're all jittery and pissed when we park at a grocery store, and Troy's already waiting outside my door. I've been in this situation before and lost. At least I'm sober this time, just groggy. I open the door and step out, and Troy shoves me back in.

"You got somethin to say to me, huh?"

Our sensitive little singer songwriter has gone all aggro.

I don't do well in fights, seeing as I haven't opted to get into a one-on-one since grade school, and I'm a little shaky, but I want to hold my ground.

"No I said it already, I want to get my boots out from under this seat. What's your fuckin problem with me?"

I grab my boots and he gets up in my face.

"You wanna go?"

Go as in fight. I don't wanna go. The car is in Troy's name. If I fight and win I've got to find a new way home. If I fight and lose, I've got to find a new way home. Troy's about the same build as me, same height. Leaner but not particularly muscular. I don't know what his skill level is, and he doesn't know mine (at least if I still do have my old boxing training ingrained somewhere). The fight could go either way.

"No, I wanna know what your fuckin problem with me is."

There's a macho staredown then I walk to the curb to put my boots on. I'm guessing he's not mad enough to kick me in the face while I lace my boots but I'm prepared for it anyway so I feel comfortable enough to start bitching.

"What's your fucking deal anyway? I've treated you with nothing but respect for the past fucking week. I've been fair about money and personal space and tried not to be too annoying so what's your fuckin' problem?"

He growls and walks away. I spend the next minutes shaking and calling Chicagoans for advice. My Dad laughs, my Mom is worried. China and I agree to ditch Troy and the rental car and take a bus back to Chicago after Sarah looks up the schedules.

We all end up at the hotel where we're performing. It has three bars. An art bar, full of bad charcoal nudes, a jazz bar, and a fancy bar. There's a country band in the jazz bar, by the name of Woah Nelly playing as I set up my stuff. I've got all my bags now, and I'm drinking gin.

Despite the wack name, Woah Nelly plays some beautiful country western music on drums, guitar, steel guitar, bass and accordion. The accordion is played by their singer who is beautiful. I'm drawn into the room, almost against my will when she starts singing "We'll Meet Again" (you know, that song from the end of Dr. Strangelove).

We blast through a show with another funny poet and a performance artist. I read shit I haven't read yet, even though I'm drunk. By the time we get to the Greyhound station, I have enough leftover funny money to buy condoms, candy, soda and a tofu dog. It's time to go home.


Fuck art already! [Toronto]

EPILOGUE

One of the first things I noticed about Troy and China was that they both have scars on their arms like I do. I figured that this unites us. That we must have had some shared insight on the world that drove us to be in the same place here and now. Really, all it means is that we were three sad people.

It's my birthday, and I'm riding a Greyhound from Toronto to Chicago and I can't wait to feel my bed. Sharing this train with me and China are a bunch of podunk Canucks heading home after seeing a Tool concert. They're drunk and bolsterous but I think I could sleep through em. No point in making any connections now.

There's a stopover in Detroit, where we watch the sun rise and I take pictures that don't come out on my last disposable camera. I would think that the Detroit Greyhound Station would have to be just the saddest place on Earth but that distinction goes to the station in Gary, Indiana.

None of that matters. It doesn't matter that i'm out of books and cds to care about or that my adventure wasn't as adventurous as I'd imagined. It's my birthday and I'm going home, and for once it's where I want to be.


I Hate Artists! [Cincinnati]



[Currently watching Run Ronnie Run]