DATE: SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 2008.
AGENTS: URSA MEGA, (A.K.A. DEAD MAN) WEDNESDAY, (A.K.A.-CHEMICAL ROBOTIKS) ABORIGINALITY, SKULL MAN, AND MOTOWN DEFACTO (A.K.A.-20 PIECE)
LOCATION: (GTA)- DANFORTH, KENSINGTON MARKET, QUEEN/SPIDINA, COLLAGE/DOVERCOURT, THE ANNEX, KING/SPADINA, JUNCTION.
EVERY THING BETWEEN.
SAUCE: 6 PACK OF MILWAUKEE ICE, MICKEY OF YAGERMIESTER, 40 OF BOMBAY SAFIRE JIN, 26 OF CANADIAN CLUB, ANOTHER 26 OF I CANT REMEMBER, SEVERAL BEER PER VENUE.
OBJECTIVE: TICKER TAPE ISSUE ZERO/VARIETY STORE TV LABELS AND LEAFLETS DISCLOSING BOX WAR SPECIFICS.
AGENDA: VENUE SWITCH EVERY 90 MINUTES (LIBERAL ESTIMATE)
INCENTIVE: INFAMY, BRAGGING RIGHTS, LEGACY.
THEN, ADD ONE FULL MOON, BRING TO AN OVER-BOIL AND LET TO BURN.
SERVES 5 LARGE PORTIONS OF PANDEMONIUM.
THIS WEEKEND WAS A FUCKSHOW WIZZ-BANGER. IF I COULDA DONE IT ALL OVER AGAIN, I WOULDA BROUGHT FIRE CRACKERS (LIKE "AFFIRMATIVE ACTION" JACKSON) AND LIT 'EM OFF IN A CROWDED PLACE. I'VE DONE IT BEFORE, AND GUESS WHAT KATY PERRY, I FUCKIN LIKED IT, TOO. YABEDAAXSMBDY.
I'm not even going to embellish slightly, but I totally set an Irishman's face on fire saturday night by filling a pint glass with butane and sticking it his face before lighting it. Then the guy sells me a big bag of coffee beans he stole from Starbucks for one, cold, dollar.
I fuckin love my life.
And I fuckin love this city.
And I really really, potentially psycho-obsessively-but-like-in-a-cute-way love my romping fiance, who was not able to see the whirlwind of disaster that the Issue Zero Propaganda Machine churned out that night. BITTER-SWEET.
THOSE CRAZY-ASSES WILL DO ANYTHING I FUCKIN TELL THEM TO. EASIER THAN THE INTERNET, CHEAPER THAN KOOL-AID, AND TWICE THE SPEED THAN THE NEWER MODEL.
Let me tell you a little story. It all started at about 8 in the morning. Which was only wickedified by waking up beside My Better Half. Then, after I had a pea meal beacon sandwich for breakfast, I passed out on the bus with my headphones on full blast with White Zombie pouring into my head. This made for an interesting way to wake up later, cuz it was pretty quiet in the dream. vicious transition. Blood clot-making.
Later I found myself in the East end printing up over a 1,000 business cards and labels and tiling the TTC with them. When I couldn't get into the apartment of my friends, the crew and I decided to drink in the hallway, where we took out the six of Milwaukee Ice and gave the six of them the bad news. With the inaugural power-drinking under the belt we spilt down the street where we made some new friends in the film industry who we promptly scared out of their sweet patio spot, ("No, it's okay, we were leaving anyways.") and continued to used fear and confusion to enlist interested bodies into the September 7 BOX WARS in TRINITY BELLWOODS PARK. The clientele of this nameless establishment began to feel our choice in music requests and as we got louder and louder, Skull Man gave us a ring.
Fiendraiser, eh? "I got four with me right now...and they don't need any raising"
Looking at the clock, we had only forty five minutes to get out of the Kensington and down to the Gorilla Monsoon and make a proper disaster the whole way down before Fiendraising time. We hit everything that we could at the righteous loud, power-laughing, obstruction of traffic pace we were holding.
Sorry about the parking meters, telephone poles, doorways, store signs, garbage cans, buses, hot dog vendors and the random people we got them on to before they realised it.
Turns out we had time to kill.
Enter: the Irishman.
I'd like to thank, first and foremost, Reverse Psychology.
how else could you convince someone to put their face in front of a pint glass full of combusting Butane?
He still sold me the coffee for a song (about burning Irishman's faces) and Robotiks walked away from it with a pretty fly toothbrush, i don't think he even paid for it. Skull Man called and we had to flash drink our pints, and finish the conversation with the crazy old fart with a lizard telling filthy, filthy jokes, and hoped into the skull-mobile and headed to Suspect Video, where we hassled counter staff with flyer's for the coming BOX WARS and the heavy smell of spil liquor the Renka Income Click's breath directly traveling on their warm endorsement for their pornography section.
That task under belt, we rushed to collect fiends, and off we went to the Smiling Buddha, screaming and rocking the hell out all the way.At first, the most important thing at the time was to hassle people in the alleyway with taunting "What's your poison!?" and "You
don't even know what the hell a Boxwar is, do you?" while drinking and smoking. It must have been. At the time we were doing it so well, it was clearly what Gods will included. A lot o people came down that alley, like a Nightbreed SuperHighWay.
Upon entry, Mr. Robotiks, was denied the wearing-a-costume 7 dollar cover, and had to pay ten, despite th
e fact that Wednesday, the most died and come back to life, and voted in our club as second MOST LIKELY to concede to eating human flesh, (We actually share first,) was living in his costume. I paid seven cuz I had the trusted conversation piece bear mask. But where I payed in service, I was returned in real estate. I "rented" about fifty 2" by 4" lots all over the property. (Conservative estimate.) 
THIS IS THE PARTY THEY THROW TO RAISE MONEY FOR A FLASH MOB? A FLASH MOB FULL OF PEOPLE DRESSED LIKE ZOMBIES? WHAT THE FUCK KINDA FLASH MOB HAS A BUDGET? (ONE THAT ISNT ONE, THAT'S WHO.) FLASH. MOB. FLASH LIKE FIRE, MOB LIKE CROWD. THESE ZOMBIES ARE STARTING TO PISS ME OFF.
Sorry about the bathroom, bar, waitresses, outside window, and unknowing zombies.
You wanna make an omelet, you gotta blend unborn, undeveloped chicken fetuses in a bowl, first. And that's that. There's no way around it.
Whoever was playing the venue that night, let me apologize now, it could have been many external factors determining the tone of this critique of the overall sound quality and talent present, but
you guys sucked.
Hey, it's just how I remembered it.
What? You want me to lie? Then what would good would I be
to you?BY FAR THE WORST ROCK-A-BILLY, EVER.
With much to do, and the 5 Alarm Grimey going off hard, we were summoned by forces unknown to the AWOL Gallery for the foot by foot exhibit. It was a sick location, and the room was a little too well lit for the full "when the hell did that happen?" effect we here are looking for, but from all styles and walks, the pieces were dope as Hell. friends of mine had their
thing up and good on them for pulling it together.Sorry about the alley, stairwell, hallway, bathroom, bar and things I've forgotten.
Affirmative Action Jackson was apprehended at the door for trying to give a Grolsch refugee status in the alley, but was accosted by the security, who paradoxically cheered Jackson on while he power-chugged it, descended to the alley where he drank the liquor we brought, and persuaded a nice polish girl to follow us on the terrible night to follow.
I didn't really find out what happened to her cuz I blacked out in Skullies trunk, where I remained all the way to Tingles B-Day bash we were late for, and then through the R.I.D.E. program in the annex, (Where I remember thinking, "well that settles it, this night's pretty much over" as the truck pulled away close enough to the local constabulary that he could look in to the back where I was sprawled out and unable to defend my actions) and then ejected my self to the side of a good friends house warming party in Junction. I was upset to have missed it, cuz the party was to celebrate the moving away of her foul, pretencious, art-fag wannabe-hippy room mate, Andrea What-the-fucks-that-cunts-name-again.
If you're reading this, you sorted twat, I hope a really hungry Korean kid finds you passed out in the alley after your celebratory first night in a major city. Get bit.
But alas, my perch on the side of the porch was to be abandoned for a lovely in depth conversation circling the complex policy inside the hospitality industry (and the usual "scar compition" that cooks do) with a cute couple that lived downstairs over some high octane nightcaps, and some more power-laughter.
The conversation was only slightly obstructed by a flamboyant homosexual who decided to not like my crude antics and yelling, and then did, and then left. Fuckin weirdos. Stick to your guns, you damn pushover.
The evening, for what can be said about it, was a success. the blanket of independent mini-publications we distributed to willing (and other) people was vast and stain-resistant.
Over a noontime pint of Kootanee Somethinorother and a self-hand-fed Real Canadian (That's me!) breakfast in the Junction (God gave me a fork, it's my hand without the thumb) we rolled in and out of the bar killing ourselves with regardless laughter...
And then we made our next move.
ISSUE ZERO MAGAZINE IS BUILDING AN ARC. OUT OF CARDBOARD. AND YOU ALL ARE COMING, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT, OR NOT.
O9/07/08
BOX WARS
TRINITY BELLWOODS PIT.
1400 HOURS.
WWW.BOXWARS.TV
AFTERNOTE
"Terrible" Thursdays is a name that's being thrown around the office. I think it's gonna stick.
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