French Jim and the WWE

Whenever I mention wrestling (WWE) some genius let's me know that it is fake. No shit! These cerebral comments ain't the most profound. WWE is indeed scripted; but so are most visual mediums.

Anyway my buddy French let me know a lot about WWE. He never made it to the big time, but he spent three years trying to become a pro-wrestler. He did a summer in Mexico (where the water is more dangerous than your opponent). French also performed in Germany, Japan and did a couple of tryouts with the WWE in Florida and the Ohio Valley circuits.

He never got a truly great gimmick: he was French Jim (even though his name is Dave, and he is Jewish), the Wild Quebecer (French hails from Smiths Falls Ontario), and maybe his best the French Teacher (that got a lot of boos).

Back in the mid-nineties he fought some famous wrestlers: Chris Jericho, Haku and he got his face busted open (you should see the scar)when Lance T. Storm monkey flipped him onto a table filled with beer glasses in stint in Hamburg Germany. He also fought one of the Hart brothers, he won't say which one, in a big barn near Calgary.

French doesn't talk much about those days, but he said something this past Christmas as we watched Smackdown and he rubbed the big divot on his forehead: "Some days wrestling seems more real than my real life".

Next time somebody tells me Wrestling is fake I'm going toss a sleeper hold or a Belgian Arm Bar on 'em.

Gravenomics 2.0

Last night I found myself bending a few taps and telling a few tales. A couple of bands put on a great show: Oceans dished out some odes to Radiohead spiced with some new alt poppy rockish songs. Ty West mounted the stage like some reborn sage from days of lore. He worked his guitar and mellowed the vibe. Then TBL slung on their flat tops and let loose with some solid acoustic rock.

Graven:

They just snuck up on stage like the Grinch stealing your Christmas. Ben and Matt strummed and plucked out some folky tunes...but this was just the start. Matt was soon joined on stage with Landon (Freebird) and Owen (Blitzen) and in a few seconds the plugged in part of the night began. Sonic booms, bangs and vibrations shook the room. Windows cracked and the drunk club kids looked up from Murray street texting each other wtfs. They were dazed and sad that they had not heard these sounds sooner. Matt built up into a fury; his hands were whirling tight then he swung into some wild windmills. Landon and Ben kept the beat moving. Matt strutted the stage and tried to get Owen to wail - he did. This created a new bigger sonic surge. The crowd pulsed forward - some hot chicks at the bar slammed back a few more shooters, just to keep up with the madness.

Then the lights went on - closing time - back to the real world, a world with too little Rock n' Roll.

Thanks Graven for bringing the thunder.

Poems and Punches 2.0

No person I ever met was more of a paradox than French. I've seen him tell a teacher that they are a "fucking asshole", punch his locker, throw a computer out a window along with a tray of test tubes, and later that day he'd be sitting in his shed writing down a list of songs that make him cry.
Paradox seems to be a powerful force in the universe; no one embraced that more than French. The only thing that ever made him laugh was irony. Irony is birthed through paradox. Often French would be laughing and no one would be real clear as to why he was laughing. He saw the irony in almost everything. This characteristic made him kinda of an awkward person to be around. A lot of people took him as weird, or they worried that he was laughing at them; a typical self-centred, ego driven response. I learned a long time ago to be aware and just laugh with him.
This Christmas I'll honor that with French's favourite drink: Irish Cream (the whole bottle), and a whole pot of coffee. As French would say: "I like to be hyper and drunk". I'll have the coffee brewing and the Bailey's at hand this Christmas; he often comes by my place so we can go to midnight mass.

Poems and Punches

Back in the early nineties I saw a classic school yard fight. A skinhead had moved into my town. He had a different look: shaved bald, tattooed, knee high Doc Martens, and a safety pin through his ear. This dick had been pissing everyone off with some bully bullshit. We only had one black kid in the school (James); so we couldn't figure the point of being a racist s.o.b. in our little town.

We all went down to the caf and asked French if he would be willing to fight the skinhead boy and teach him a lesson. He was like "sure...when I'm done my fries".

Soon after, Skinny the Skinhead and French squared off and the punches started to fly. This was totally one on one - the ethic of that time was no one could step in. Today most teenager fights tend to be at least 3 on 1...or worse.

French and Skinny went into a long punching match. French kept jumping to dodge the big black boots and massive long arm haymakers. Skinny clipped French a good one on the ear; then French landed three quick ones in his the face with beautiful boxing style. Skinny's teeth started to loosen, wiggle, bleed, then fall to the ground. It was eerie seeing a couple of white teeth lying on the pavement. French laughed and laughed; like always - even when he got hit.

As Skinny looked down and held his busted mouth, French grabbed him by his bloody neck and yelled: "knock off this skinhead bullshit".

Skinny walked off alone and everyone gathered around French...but we all had to scatter. Stackhouse the V.P. back then was running out with a couple of gym teachers to break up the crowd.

French bolted, but I caught up with later in his shed. He was sitting alone writing poems with a pen in his still bloody hands.

A Van Halen Christmas

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It is a little early for Christmas, but all these commercials and jingles in the malls reminded me of how my buddy French got involved one year.

French had a plan brewing. There was a Christmas themed talent show coming up soon at our High School. The principal, George Stackhouse, knew that French could be a bit of a wild child; so George hold French that he could play in the show as long as he played a Christmas song. So French practiced "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" with his band (Godzilla and the Liquid Sound Dragons). This was not the band's usual material. But G-LSD worked hard. This was their roster: French on guitar, Sweaty on rhythm, Pancake on drums, and Turkey on Bass.

I hung out with the lads , but they wouldn't say anything more about their plan. French told them all not to drink before the show (right after the show French downed a Mickey of rye in the front foyer of the school).

The day of the show came - the lads ripped into the tune...for a minute...at the bridge French unleashed his plan. He had learned Eruption by Van Halen note by note. He wailed it hard. French started in slow, but he went crazy. The crowd was loving it - they all rose to their feet and started to stomp and stand on their chairs. After about a second Stackhouse was trying to get to the stage. The gym only had stackable chairs. They all went flying back and flying through the air smashing against the basketball backboards. Almost 800 fans/students rushed the stage. French started to play one handed and with the other hand he pounded his amp up and down against the stage. Next he started to rub his Gibson SG up and down on the amp. The amp was cracking and booming. Turkey just keep the solid thrums of his bass coming. Pancake broke his sticks and then ripped off his shirt and played with his hands. His hand split open - blood sprayed out! Sweaty laughed and laughed. It was a mad scene.

Stackhouse cut the power to the stage and the crowd streamed out - taking the band with them. Stackhouse kept yelling: " You're suspended...You're all suspended!"

Good thing French was the last act of the show.

guitaring

Somedays, many days, I want to strum my flat-top and make my fingers bleed, or at least, sting and flatten out. I gotta be able to feel 'em throb.
I'm no gifted musician, but it is bliss bomb to play some seriously great songs, and sing 'em loud. Shake my house, room, desk, make sh*t fall of my shelves - with boot stomps, body shakes, head-bobbing, eye closing passion.
I found some chords of songs that I love - Joel Plaskett, Jon Foreman are today's guests in my hootenanny.
There are songs that can just make ya cry. I'm no pro - nobody needs to hear me perform, but I'm my concert in this house.
There are no records, tours, or mp3s on the way, but I know I'm doing it right if I'm sweating, tired, voice hurts, and low rumbles make things tumble down. If my guitar is cracking, and wearing away I'm playing the song just right.
Friends: go guitaring. - It is good.

Sweaty Bacon

French had left for college, and Sweaty was pretty bored without his big bro around. So Sweaty would ring my bell to see what I was up to. Everyone did this, but Sweaty would approach it differently. For example, one day he shows up and "calls on me" and says: "I have bacon". Bacon nice! So we followed this old cow track down to the river and set up a campfire. Sweaty kept a black frying pan up in a tree down by this favourite spot. We cooked this bacon up. It was more than a kilo of Canadian or peameal bacon. I didn't ask where he got it, but it sure was nice. The sun was going down slowly, the smoke was floating out over the marshy river, a couple of ducks were swimming out in the bay...sublime.

Another time Sweaty showed up again and said: "There was a party at the locks last night." I was like: "Oh yeah?" I was not too concerned about a past tense party. He then explained that there were a tonne of empties and we could make some serious beer money. We collected over 300 empties and brought them back. French was in town so he bought us some beers. All three of us wandered down to the river, stoked the fire, cooked up more bacon and told some stories. We kept the beers chilled in the river. French said: "We gotta throw a line in here some day." Next time out we were frying perch in a whack of butter and chives.

I wonder if that frying pan is still up that tree.