My not-so-dirty
little secret

By JACK OATMON

Here’s a statistical anomaly for you. Over the course of two and a half years of writing this column, through all manner of unprintable errors of judgment and seedy errands in the Montreal night, one thing I never managed to do was go to a strip club. I once spent a night in one of those horrendously tacky and sleazy swingers’ sauna/hotel places on a review assignment for another publication, witnessing middle-aged couples in the grip of id meltdown. I’ve been to more burlesque shows than I care to admit to, and though I’ve glanced in the downstairs part of Café Cleopatre a few times getting cash from the bankomat at the door, I’ve never actually been in there. Damn, I even once ate a greasy-spoon breakfast at a naked-waitress diner in Hochelaga. But no strip club. Until last weekend. I’ve often been embarrassed to admit that I haven’t been to one, it being such a fundamental part of the cultural canon in this city. Sometimes it seems like every damn person goes to them, no matter how unlikely a candidate they are. Hell, when I went on Friday, it was with a group of girls who were in town for some big feminism conference, but they all got hammered at the strippers and ended up missing their meeting the next day. So I think I may actually be the last person to check it out.

WHEELIN’ AND DEALIN’: Prototypes

Anyway, I just needed to get that off my chest because I was feeling like a real prude there for a while. And I’d also like to mention that, although I obviously have no frame of reference from which to judge, Kamasutra on St-Dominique at Prince Arthur is a hilarious adventure for just $5 entry. It’s highly entertaining, nicely decorated, not particularly grungy in any way, and full of all the sociological stereotypes you need. The announcer sounded like an AM radio host cheerfully introducing the dancers, giving the whole thing a surreal automotive-derby atmosphere. We got to talk to plenty of American guys in town for bachelor parties, and even witnessed one frustrated skinny dude get thrown out, only to try to muscle his way back in through some rather large bouncers, shouting the dubious and ironic taunt, “C’mon and fight! Suck my dick, you faggot!” I suddenly feel like a full-fledged citizen of Montreal. I feel so initiated. Maybe I should start eating smoked meat sandwiches and tipping cars in hockey riots.

In other debauched entertainment this week, the thrill-seeking amongst you should note that the second edition of Sperme & Bubblegum goes down at Divan Orange Friday and Saturday night with a hefty pile of sleazy, pansexual pop acts on tap. Also, RIP: Remix Manifesto, a FNC-featured doc about digital piracy, illegal remixes and all things sample-based, is screening at Cinema Impérial Friday night at 7:30 p.m. Check listings for other showings. That same night, the Glitchkrieg monthly moves to Zoobizarre and features local guest Noia. Don’t miss the Mad Decent crew at Studio Juste Pour Rire on Saturday, with a contingent of Diplo’s ever-expanding crew of avant-garde electro discoveries. And for a little bit of French glam electropop, check out Prototypes, Tuesday at Petit Campus.

HERE’S HOPING YOU’RE READING THIS FROM A WORLD
WITHOUT HARPER…jack.oatmon@gmail.com