Toast to the mortal

by JACK OATMON

It all began when the Minister of the New New Super Heavy Funk died on Christmas day. But then Daft Punk was finally able to play at our house, at our house. Some amazing bands made mediocre albums, even Modest Mouse. You too, Radiohead and you too, the Shins. The year indie rock went straight to the bargain bin. The paparazzi worsened but the fashion got better, Harper still ignores climate change, in spite of the weather. Castro survived Vonnegut, Disco D and Simon Lortie. Great news for Bush, here comes Sarkozy. Nicolas may be president, but Justice reigns supreme. But if I hear that fuckin’ album one more time I’ll scream.

I lost two close friends to the reaper’s decree, not one of them corporate label profitability. OiNK is gone too, but the Waffles taste great. Winter’s here early but autumn was late. Pop was the best week of the year, St. Viateur Street Festival the best day, and I still haven’t friggin’ managed to see Malajube play. I finally caved and hornswoggled me a computer in 2007, I quit smoking forever (I think), I kicked off university full time and grew a smidgen cleverer (’cept when I drink). I fell addicted to the Internet, eased off the weed and I charged, teeth bared, through finals without taking speed.

The Main looked like Baghdad all summer but felt like Bohemia. Insomniacs and bulimics outnumbered the cars. The smoking ban has yet to shut down all the bars. The Yankee buck dropped to the Loonie’s content, the Big Owe is toast but UQÀM can’t pay its rent. Boisclair fucked up and Marois’s stealing land. Between them and Duceppe, the quarrelling children play voters right into ADQ and Conservative hands.

The tuition freeze is gone and arts funding is about to go south, along with the icecaps and endangered species and just about everything else. We’re gutting the planet and reformatting it forever, but for some crazy reason I’ve never felt better. The Mayan calendar says we’ve got about four years to go till apocalyptic famine and blight. By the looks of global politics and local indifference, that seems just about right. So why am I smiling? Well, I’m single and healthy and I just got new kitchen tiling. My Disco Mobile low-rider got stolen and I stole it right back after some arsehole by Mont-Royal metro sold it for crack. True story.

Have a happy and safe break from whatever you’re doing and say nice things to whomever you’re screwing. Get totally trashed, tits up on New Year’s Eve, wake up at 5 p.m. the next day, have mimosas for breakfast and just a tiny pinch more MDMA. Make every single one a banger because it might be your last, even if it counts to just sit all day on your ass. Eat more chocolate and talk to more strangers, no matter whether they worship six-armed elephants or diapers and mangers.

Here’s a huge thanks to everyone who made this the funnest job in the world in 2007, and an olive branch to anyone that might hate, and Disco Volante will be back making your life just a little more wasted and glib in 2008.

Too Much Love! jack.oatmon@gmail.com