Wednesday, Aug. 04, 2004
Dear Diary:

The days, the weeks, the months, the years, they wash over subtly. As long as I stay in my routines I can kid myself that I'm not really aging.

No, not me.

It's the times when I step out of my routines, those are the times that I'm forced to acknowledge the changes.

Saturday I tagged along with my daughter and her friend Adam to Sex Garage, the punk music section of Pride Week. (Apparently not all gay people listen to disco. I know. I am as discombobulated by this revelation as you are.)

When I first come into Montreal I really enjoy the buzz of all the sensory stimulus. Remember, I live in a log cabin in the woods, a 45 minute drive from the nearest traffic light. It's kind of fun at first to ratchet up my personal odometer to match the pace of a big city, to let all the noise, the smells, the kaleidoscope of ads, signs and neon whoosh into my brain.

But for my daughter and her friends all this is background, kind of like the hum of my fridge kicking on downstairs is for me. I doubt she's even aware of most of it anymore. So when the bands started to play, my daughter and Adam wanted to be close to the speakers to get the full effect.

Of punk music.

I am too old for that.

As I looked at the appallingly emaciated frame of the lead singer of Chernobyl Cha Cha all I could think was, "Eat a meal." Yep, there he was being all goth and punk with stiletto heels, all sorts of silver spikey goodness protruding from his all black wardrobe, singing vaguely menacing songs.

There I was worrying about whether or not he was eating anything approaching a balanced diet.

Wait. It gets worse.

I like to think that I'm a fairly open-minded person, but I have major issues with extravagant facial piercings. I define extravagant as anything more than three. I know, I know, it's a stupid and arbitrary number, but there you go. And yes, I realize that what someone decides to do with their body is their own business. But I can't help myself. I feel vaguely alarmed and menaced when I see a face loaded with metal.

We were at a punk venue. By definition the crowd was going to be full of people who were not going anywhere if someone pulled out a large industrial magnet. So there I stood being blasted by music I find jarring, music for which I have little sympathy, surrounded by people who made me feel vaguely nervous. Oh, man, but I felt all my years.

The last act was The Gossip, an American soul punk band. I know. A soul punk band. This I had to see.

It was too loud. They were plagued by technical difficulties. They have absolutely no stagecraft, so there was no patter at all to keep the crowd with them as the guitarist dealt with all sorts of tuning and broken string issues. For someone who grew up watching the extravagant costumes and tight choreography of Motown, visually this was pure amateur hour.

And yet, they were amazing. Beth Ditto made me think of Janis Joplin without the vocal ravages of whisky and too many cigarettes. A major street had been closed off for Sex Garage, so they had to pull the plug at ll:30. I was vaguely disappointed when The Gossip set ended.

Here's the worst part of all. I think we can all agree that 11:30 is hardly dancing until dawn, but when the music ended I was totally ready to toddle home and crawl into bed.

Apparently you can throw me on a treadmill for half an hour, but don't ask me to spend a couple of hours listening to live punk music because I no longer have the stamina.

As my daughter and I set out to find ourselves some ice cream, I caught sight of myself in a window. My posture betrayed my fatigue. Around me, the crowd buzzed and surged with energy. They were just getting started.

And I'm not. Not any more.

This isn't a pity party. It's more a virtual sticky note to myself, a reminder that routines, while comfortable and efficient, can sometimes insulate a little too much from reality.

I must remember to shake up my routines a little more often.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 608.08 miles. Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck. 25 per cent thereTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck..Ten percent there rubber duck.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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