Adbusters totally jacked my shit!
There was a time when I was totally mystified by them… Who are these people who aren’t carbon copies of the Granville strip chad? Where are their striped shirts, collars popped? Where are the drunken, suddenly bi-curious cokesluts with frilly minis (2008 UPDATE - that top/dress from Aritzia) so short you can read their lips? I had stumbled upon a sea of carelessly flailing thriftstore junkies with frizzy hair! WTF?
It was almost as though they set out each night to look as unattractive as possible. Jesus beards. Putrid xmas sweaters (2008 UPDATE - oversized, flannel plaid shirts). Tapered jeans hugging their hideously flaccid, pear shaped bodies. Did they even bathe?! They reeked of a coolness that just hadn’t been paralleled in my many years in the Vancouver scene. Urine. Vomit. The stench was so refreshing, I just had to have more. They just did not give a fuck. And the pictures! Oh how I wanted to be in them! So carefree! Fun! Party! All! The! Time! The best music i’d heard in a while (2008 UPDATE - the rave rap has gotten a tad stale now).
We schemed that we would infiltrate this underground society. Then I became busy with my career and forgot the plan, but he kept going. Drawn deep into the endless nights of drunken, coke infested partying that only people who hated life could really get into. I guess nasal drip and vomiting are totally manageable in between ringing through a metallic body suit or dressing a mannequin on Granville while dreaming of a real fashion design career. I would hate life too.
I slowly came back to my friend, masquerading with him during some of his adventures, quietly observing and realizing that it actually takes a lot of effort to ‘not care’ or ‘be different’. There is one rule about ‘the scene’: you must never talk about ‘the scene’ to civilians, or the evil chads will descend and ruin everything! Can’t blame ‘em, really. They do ruin everything. Fuckin’ bridge-and-tunneling Granville chads.
Well guess what? There are douchebags in every scene. Whether it be the chad in the striped shirt chugging vodka redbulls and doing the white boy finger point to the latest Akon infection in a massive warehouse club on the strip (2008 UPDATE - sadly, still applicable), or the 20 year old fashion student with her beer gut stuffed into skinny jeans, chugging a Kokanee (2008 UPDATE - Pabst Blue Ribbon) and dancing around like she just discovered the Pet Shop Boys and she ‘like omg totally loves the 80s’ (2008 UPDATE - dirty south hip hop/booty bass) and bangs anything with a teenstache and monogrammed doorag around his neck (2008 UPDATE - sparse chest hair struggling to escape a deep v).
It’s too late for my friend, but I hope to shine the light into this toilet bowl of broken dreams and maybe save someone else (2008 UPDATE - many have been lost).
single tear.
