RIP: Malcolm McLaren

Another cool person had to go and die on us today. Malcolm McLaren died of cancer today at the age of 64. For those who don’t know who Malcolm McLaren was, and why he was cool and a massive dickhead at the same time, I shall explain.

In the early 1970’s McLaren opened up a clothing boutique in London called “Let It Rock,” which even today is a really shitty name for a store of any type. In 1972 he travelled to New York City for a boutique fair and while in town he convinced the proto-punk band The New York Dolls to allow him to manage them, even though it’s quite clear that he had no idea how to manage a band.

Later that year he changed the name of his clothing store to the much better “Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die;" a massive improvement if there ever was one.

Since he owned a clothing boutique and managed a band it’s pretty obvious to say who dressed The Dolls on their tour of England in 1975; Malcolm McLaren. Needless to say his red leather outfits and Communist style iconography didn’t go over well in conservative parts of England. The New York Dolls soon broke up.

By this time McLaren had renamed his boutique again. He chose the simple SEX name and switched his style over to S&M influenced clothing completely.

After The Dolls broke up he was left without a band to manage. Soon enough though he found one; a little band you now know as the Sex Pistols.

The story is that he started managing a band known as The Strand (another name that really sucks) and their three members: Glenn Matlock, Paul Cook and Steve Jones. McLaren thought that the band needed to become a four piece and move Matlock off vocals so he could just play the bass.

Well how did they find a singer you ask? They picked a kid off the street who had green hair, torn clothes and a Pink Floyd t-shirt with the words “I Hate” painted on the shirt. McLaren asked him to mouth, not sing, the words to Alice Cooper’s “I’m Eighteen” and when the song was over the band was renamed the Sex Pistols and Johnny Rotten was the new singer.

Why the Sex Pistols? “I wanted the name of the band to sound like a group of sexy assassins.” That works for me.

Just after helping to write 10 of the 12 songs for their debut album, “Never Mind the Bollocks Here’s the Sex Pistols,” the band and McLaren fired bassist Glenn Matlock as it was found out that he liked the Beatles. That’s the reason. It wasn’t that he couldn’t play the bass guitar (he could), not that he was an addict (he wasn’t), but the fact that he liked the Beatles was too much. I’ll always love that little piece of rock n’ roll history.

So the band needed a new bass player to join the band. McLaren hired a well known thug, sometime musician, and full time junkie in the new punk community named Sid Vicious. While Sid looked the part of a punk rock musician he never actually learned how to play any of the songs on the album. Steve Jones recorded both the guitar and bass tracks on the album and when the band played live Sid’s amp was never plugged in. His job was to stand up on the stage, look cool, hop around and be a junkie.

By 1978 the Sex Pistols were massive stars in England so McLaren set up a tour for them in America. The tour was a disaster.

McLaren refused to pay the members of the band any of the money that they were entitled to, except enough for heroin and beer, and the crowds in places like Texas were less than receptive to a group where 2 of the 4 members were on the stage simply to look cool and piss the audience off. The band imploded after just one year.

We all know that Sid never kicked heroin, murdered his junkie groupie girlfriend Nancy Spungen, and died of a heroin overdose while on bail awaiting his murder trial becoming a god to morons everywhere.

Well now it looked like McLaren was out of work. I guess he still had his SEX boutique and all but by 1980 the punk look had really died out in England.

So in 1980 he decided to create a new band. This would be Bow Wow Wow (another horrible name. What the fuck Malcolm?)

How did he form the band? Well he simply told the guitarist, bassist and drummer to quit their old band (Adam and the Ants) and start over again. Wouldn’t you know it, they did it.

Again though Malcolm was left without a singer for this new band, so he did the logical thing and hired Annabella Lwin a 13 year old girl who worked at her local dry cleaning shop.

The band released “See Jungle! See Jungle! Go Join Your Gang, Yeah. City All Over! Go Ape Crazy” in 1981. The cover had Annabella Lwin and the band on the cover posing like Manet’s painting “Le déjeuner sur l'herbe.” That all sounds fine and well until you notice that the woman in that painting is nude and Lwin was only 14 years old when the photo was taken. Yikes. Needless to say that album cover wasn’t printed in either the U.S. or the U.K.

So yeah, the band became popular stateside in the 80’s when they released “I Want Candy” but who gives a shit? What else was Malcolm up to?

Well he started his own music career in the 80’s releasing the singles “Buffalo Gals” and “Double Dutch.” The songs were African and hip-hop influenced which wasn’t common for the time, but then again the Clash had that exact same idea in 1980. No bonus points for you Malcolm.

Oh yeah! Also in the 1980’s Johnny (Rotten) Lydon took Malcolm to court claiming that McLaren owed him money and the rights to the band the Sex Pistols. Lydon won the case and received the money he was clearly owed for years and Malcolm was no longer owner of the Sex Pistols brand. The two never spoke again and the surviving members of the band basically told the world what a massive douche bag McLaren was to the world in the film “The Filth and the Fury” in 2000.

Um yeah, that’s really about it. To be honest the man hasn’t really been culturally relevant on this side of the pond in about 20 years. So let’s break his accomplishments down.

He made a fortune selling kids shitty clothing with slogans and safety pins in them

He managed The New York Dolls in their final days.

He basically created the Sex Pistols while at the same time being the catalyst for their destruction.

He created Bow Wow Wow by stealing them from Adam and the Ants, and had their 14 year old singer pose nude for an album cover.

His own musical career was doing the exact same thing the Clash did three years before he had the idea to do it.

Really though, if you think about it, that’s not a bad run.

The Golden Moustache Years

On New Year’s Day of 2009 I was having a terrible meal with some friends at our usual Chinese buffet when a group of men, all older than us, came in. All of these guys had moustaches. My friends were quick to make fun of these gentlemen. I heard the usual stuff about how they looked like porn stars from the 1970’s or child molesters. Unlike the rest of the group, I took a stance. For I knew something that they didn’t know, when you enter your 30’s you are entering a new era: The Golden Moustache Years.

Just when my friends had made about their 10th comment insulting these men I stopped them. “Now just wait a minute,” I pleaded. “How can you make fun of the moustache? It’s a true sign of a real man.”

At this point I really didn’t know where I was going with my argument, I just knew that I was now facing the task of sticking up for the oft-insulted moustache. I was going to have to use all of my powers of persuasion on this one.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, it came to me; hit them where they live.

“Ok, you’re all making fun of these guys but how many of your Dad’s had moustaches when you were growing up, or still have one?” As soon as I said it they all stopped and thought about it. Everyone’s father had a moustache at some point and some of them, including mine, still have one.

Now I had their attention, it was up to me to floor them now. I briefly thought it over and I came up with my hypothesis.

“You know why our father’s had moustaches? It’s simple; it’s what men do when they turn 30 years old. It’s expected. Those are your ‘Golden Moustache Years!’”

I then asked all of my friends to think of all the men they knew over the age of 30 and if they had moustaches. It turns out it’s not just our father’s who have moustaches, our uncles, friends of the family, and neighbours have them too.

Now that is not to say that all of the men that we know in their 30’s, 40’s and 50’s have moustaches. Some of the people I was dining with would mention how they have an uncle family friend who does not have one. “Well, how much do you trust this man,” I asked.

“Not too much,” seemed to be the unanimous answer.

It was at this point in time that we all as a group did something that we haven’t done before, or since; we all agreed on something.

It was declared right then and there that any man between the ages of 30 and 60 years old MUST have a moustache. It’s the respectable thing to do. Your father did it and goddamnit, you’ll do it!

The bad news is that currently I’m 25 years old and I seem to be unable to grow a moustache.

Well, I can now cross that off the ol' bucket list!

Yesterday, March 18th, I received the news that I had been waiting my whole life to hear: someone had finally included my name in a graduate dissertation! The shocking news is that it has taken me over 25 years to make it into someone’s paper. I thought my name would have been in one by age 21, maybe 22 at the absolute latest. Needless to say, the news was a relief.

I have never had too many goals in life but to be name dropped in someone’s paper in a graduate program was definitely one of them. I always knew that I was bound to be mentioned alongside the greats of some certain field of science or the arts. It was what I was born to accomplish. Finally, I have accomplished my goal.

As I have mentioned earlier, the news came to me yesterday. I was sitting at my computer, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea and aimlessly roaming Facebook, as I would during any free moment I have. All of a sudden I received one of those instant messages I hate so much. Instead of clicking the “x” in the corner to close the message, my usual routine, I decided to actually look at who was sending me this message. It was actually a friend that I had made in New York City during the summer of 2008. She is from England and we don’t speak or communicate with each other often so I decided to actually have a conversation with someone, which is pretty rare to say the least.

So after the usual pleasantries (“hi,” “hello” and all that crap) she said “I have something to tell you.”

Now this got my attention right away. No one ever has anything to tell me, especially not women who live in other countries. Why would they? I am not that important in the grand scheme of things. So with my attention directly on what she was about to tell me she said “I’ve written my graduate studies dissertation in English Literature at the University of Westminster in London and I have included you in it.”

At this point I am completely floored. This is not news that I expect while drinking a tea in my shitty apartment wearing boxers and a t-shirt. The news I usually get while doing something like that is “hey, I think you’re a douche bag,” or whatever is on the Huffington Post. I am not getting news from graduate students at Universities in London, England often.

“What do you mean I’m included in your paper,” I asked her.

I have literally no idea how I could have been included in her education in any way possible. We hung around each other for five days in total almost two years ago while staying in the same hostel in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I hung out with her, her travel partner and a girl from California, whose name I can’t remember. We went to restaurants, museums, stores, and other regular New York stuff. We didn’t have any meaningful conversation besides “hey, large cans of beer are $0.99 at the Duane Reade at the corner,” or “can you believe how fantastic the coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts actually tastes?”

“Well, do you remember that you brought On the Road by Jack Kerouac with you to New York?”

Quite frankly I had no recollection of bringing that book with me. I do own the book and it does sound like something I would have done. “Of course I remember that,” I lied.

“One day that book of yours was sitting on your bag and I asked you about it. I had never read it before and I was only marginally familiar with it. You said that you really enjoyed the book so I read it soon after I left New York.”

Recommending books to people is something I do quite often so this was not surprising to me at all. What was surprising was what she told me after this.

“After I read the book I decided to really get into the Beat authors. I kept reading Kerouac, Ginsberg and the rest and when it came time to writing my graduate dissertation I chose to write on them.”

(Note from Cameron: If you don’t know who or what a Beat author is there is no helping you.)

At this point I am now swelling with pride. I have influenced someone’s education! I am important! All hail Cameron, knower of fine books! Influence to the intelligentsia! However, I still had no idea how I could possibly fit into anyone’s graduate paper.

“The beginning of my dissertation is written in a sort of prose format. I told the whole story about New York and how you recommending On the Road influenced me to read it and the rest of the Beat authors.”

At this point one thing stuck in my head, I am at the beginning of this dissertation! Even if the paper was terrible anyone who makes it past the first page is bound to come across my name and my influence on the author. What more could I really ask for, a good grade perhaps.

“Oh, and the best news is that I received the highest grade possible,” she then told me.

Unbelievable! My name and an anecdote about my excellent taste are on the first page of an extremely well written graduate studies dissertation at a foreign University. It might be included in some sort of journal. It might get published. I’ve gone international!

So by now I have nothing to say. I am too pleased with myself to say anything; I don’t even congratulate her on an amazing accomplishment. In fact right now is the first time I’ve actually thought of her accomplishment while thinking of this story, how about that?

Then she broke the silence with “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve included your name in my paper.”

“Mind, how could I possibly mind? It’s amazing that you put my name in your paper. I’ve been telling people for years to put my name in their papers. Now it finally happened and I didn’t even ask!”

Minutes after this she had to leave to go to work but my ego had been stroked enough. We said our casual goodbyes and then she was gone.

So yeah, that was the highlight of my week. What was yours?

RIP: Alex Chilton

Alex Chilton died of a heart attack last night. He was 59 years old. Chances are you have no idea who he is, and if you do it’s because you’ve heard the song “Alex Chilton” by The Replacements (but that’s a stretch too.)

He first grew to fame singing with The Box Tops, a blue-eyed soul group, who had a number one single with “The Letter.” In 1972 he formed the power pop group Big Star with Chris Bell. The group released #1 Record that same year to little fanfare but many good reviews. They released two more albums, both largely ignored by the public, before disbanding.

I won’t go into any more detail about Alex Chilton, the man who launched 1,000 indie bands. If you want to find out about him you’ll have to do what everyone else who loved him did; search and listen for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNKSs1J38EA

St. Patrick's Day: The Worst Day of the Year?

There are literally numerous things I love about Irish people, but I loathe St. Patrick’s Day.

The Irish people have given us fantastic things like James Joyce and Irish whiskey but St. Patrick’s Day cancels those fantastic things out in my books. Why do I hate today more than any other you ask? It’s quite simple really; it’s the people who love St. Patrick’s Day of course.

Today brings out a certain kind of moron like no other day of the year does. In cities around the world every fucking Neanderthal walking the earth plays dress up and pretends that they are Irish for a 12 hour span and proceeds to drink their face off and scream things like “St. Patty’s day, whooooo” at everyone they come into contact with. How wonderful.

The people who get really into St. Patrick’s Day are not a certain demographic; no it’s not that simple. Every drunkard from the age of 18 to death makes a huge deal about this day and they all seem to act like gigantic jackasses for a 24 hour span.

I’ll never understand why either. It’s not like you need a holiday to drink your face off and act like the world’s largest bag of dicks. You could do that on any weekend, and most of these people already do that. So what I’ll do is sum up the things that you will see tonight at any bar anywhere in a few paragraphs.

Tonight the first thing that you’ll notice is a bunch of people wearing green. This is obvious. Now there’s no reason for any of these people to be wearing green except that they’ll want to fit in. Most of the dumb ass jocks will be wearing tight t-shirts with a stupid slogan on it like “fuck me, I’m Irish.” The whorish girls will be wearing the same shit that they’d wear any night at a club, except in green. Hipster guys and girls will also be wearing green, but I am certain it will be in some ironic fashion. No surprises here.

(Interesting side note: none of these people will be Irish.)

The next thing you will see is, of course, green beer. Everyone will be drinking green beer. (If they aren’t they’ll be drinking Guinness because they think it’s more authentic for the day. Sure. Whatever. Go fuck yourself.) Green beer is just like wearing green today. You’re drinking it because everyone else is doing it.

Every bar will be adding green dye to Labatt’s Blue to make green beer. Now, do you normally drink Labatt’s Blue? Of course you don’t, because it’s horrible. Now why are you going to spend over $50 today buying Labatt’s Blue? You’re a moron, that’s why.

So now you’re decked out in your green clothes and have your shitty green beer. Look around, what kind of bar are you in, a club or a pub?

If you’re in a club the overall look of the club will be exactly the same except for some fake looking clover shit all over the walls. The employees will also be wearing green and will have either one of two expressions on their face: pissed off because they’re working and can’t act like the moron you’ll be acting like in four minutes OR happy as fuck because they’ll be making an insane amount of money off of your dumb ass on a week day.

If you don’t see any of this but instead you see more wood beams and a better liquor selection you are in a pub. Now normally I would applaud you on your decision of a pub over a club. However, since its St. Patrick’s Day and your selection wasn’t “fuck all of you, I’m staying home” I will have to tell you why you made the wrong choice.

A pub is a fantastic place to get loaded. I love them. The workers are nicer (and typically better looking), the music is better (obviously), and as I’ve mentioned the drink selection is much better than a club. Normally this would be a great time to go to a pub, but there’s a problem; you aren’t the only one who thought about going to a pub.

St. Patrick’s Day brings some of the more thoughtful morons out to the pubs. These are the people who never go to pubs except for one day of the year. Guess which one it is. These dipshits come out because they want to get violently drunk in a pub, you know, like they do in Ireland (or in any pub any during any of the other 364 days of the year.)

What they don’t realize is that they go to clubs because they like the music and dancing that clubs provide. These things do not exist at pubs so they get bored. What do they do when they get bored you ask? Well let me tell you! These pub tourists bother everyone else. They bother the workers, the girls, and the normal people who frequent that pub on a regular basis.

Again, I love drinking. I love it. No questions about it. I also like acting like an ass from time to time. But I fucking hate St. Patrick’s Day. If it’s not the worst day of the year it’s only because New Year’s Eve has taken its place. Just fucking stay home and spend even more money getting loaded on the weekend.

A few things that I hate.

Most people who know me (read: everyone who will ever read this) know that there are many things in this world that simply bother me.

I might not have any legitimate reason for not liking these things but you people are going to hear about some of them now anyway! I won't be going into a huge amount of detail on each of these things because, quite frankly, just thinking about them makes me so mad that I want to punch something. Hey, here are a few of them. Enjoy.

Dance Clubs:

Holy shit do I hate dance clubs. I hate everything about them

What I really hate is the fact that they all have dress codes which involve rules for shoes. Ok, so I have to stand/dance all night and you want me and everyone here to wear uncomfortable shoes? Great. Here, take my $15 cover that all of you charge so I can listen to second rate club music while 'roided up date rapists with way too cologne on surround the place. Awesome.

If I'm going to go to a dance club (spoiler alert, I'm not), I have to get really drunk. I'm talking “shit, we need to take Cameron to the emergency room” drunk. The problem is that dance clubs always over charge for their drinks. So, either I have to drink at least a 26er of rum before I leave for the bar or I have to spend well over $100 at the bar just to stop me from killing myself while I'm there.

Another thing about the booze there! Bottles and no draft? Are you fucking kidding me? Who the hell wants to drink beer from a bottle? The answer? Morons. The fact that I'm paying $6.00 for a bottle of domestic beer is bad enough but to not even give me the option of draft, that's criminal.

Fuck you dance clubs.

Since I'm enraged right now just thinking of dance clubs let's move to Lady Gaga.

I can't stand this woman. People are calling her a genius. Really, you fucking think that someone who penned the lyric “bluffin' on my muffin'” is a genius? Yeah, let's rank her right up there with Keats and Joyce.

The real reason people are so interested in her are her outfits. People always talk about how original her outfits are. Are you kidding me? Recently she wore an outfit at a European Awards show that made me think that she was raiding Gozer the Gozerian's closet. Oh, and gluing shitty beads to your face and putting on a big silver lobster on your head makes you a fashion visionary?

She's a fucking pop star, and not even an original one either.

Right about now I've reached the point where I'm so mad that my writing is suffering so I will only talk about one more thing: winter boots.

Now I understand that winter boots are, in theory, a great idea. The problem is that no one wears boots that actually do anything to protect you from the winter weather!

Look at the winter boots that people are wearing when you go out next. Winter boots with heels? Are you fucking kidding me? What are the point of those? How is that helping you in the winter months? I hope you fall and hurt yourself when you wear those.

I don't wear winter boots, I wear the same canvas shoes every day of the year. But at least I don't spend $100 on winter boots that aren't fit for the winter weather. My god, these people make me want to throw up.

I have go get off this site now before I punch a fucking hole in the computer screen. Ugh!

Cameron Durkin: Woodsman Extraordinaire

One of the more insane ideas I’ve had recently has been giving everything up (job, school, and responsibilities) and just moving into a cabin in the woods somewhere.

Now I think we all know the chances of me going through with this, admittedly poorly thought out, plan is pretty much at 0%. The thing is though, what if I did do it? Would I be able to do it? Would I just end up more bat-shit insane than I am now?

I am pretty sure that I first had this idea while I was at my previous job. I knew I was going to move to Toronto but there was a voice in my head that just kept saying “fuck it. Don’t move to Toronto. Find a crappy place to live out in the woods and isolate yourself from the people who are driving you so crazy.”

Needless to say I did not pay attention to the voice in my head. I moved to Toronto and started over. Things are going fine, I guess. I’m living in excessive poverty at the moment but things are sure to turn around soon (go optimism!). Still though, at least once a day I get little voice telling me “come on, screw this town. Find a cabin to live in. You hate this nine to five life and all the materialism.”

This is where the voice is correct. I do hate the materialism that exists not only in this city but all over the nation. Also, I’m not too crazy about the lifestyle that comes with joining the working week. To be quite honest I’d rather live on my own terms, which is really why I thought about just leaving everything behind and moving to the woods.

In addition to the work life that is mandatory of anyone living in the civilized world there is also the necessary interaction between people. I am none too crazy about this either.

Despite my rather comically loud voice I am not really comfortable with starting up a conversation with anyone. You wouldn’t believe how much you need to do this in real life! It’s amazing how much talking is expected from you. It’s disgusting really.

When I go out on my own anywhere I will always put my headphones on, wear sunglasses and look directly at the ground when I walk. Not only do I avoid hearing people so I don’t have to interact but I don’t even look at people when I’m out! I don’t feel comfortable talking to people and making eye contact only multiplies the chances of human interaction. No thank you.

So I don’t want to live in our materialistic, career-driven world where people expect you to interact with other members of society. Based on these criteria I look like a prime candidate to become a recluse. But before I pack everything up and just move into the deep woods away from everyone I need to figure some things out.

The biggest question I need to ask myself is “would I die if I moved into the woods?” To answer this question we need to really think about my living situation in my non-existent cabin.

The first thing I would need to think about is location of my new home. Where would I want to live? Well, since I don’t have any legal right to live in any other nation it looks like my home would have to be in Canada. This isn’t a deal breaker in the least. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ll probably live here until I die.

If I am going to remain in Canada I will have to pick a Province to live in. Immediately we can rule out the Territories. There’s not a chance in hell that I would ever move up there. We can also cross out British Columbia as it would be too much of a start up cost. Alberta is Texas North so it gets crossed off the list. Saskatchewan is a barren wasteland of a Province, so it too is crossed off the list. Manitoba? No. Never. Quebec is beautiful but I can’t speak a word of French. That would really be a problem for a guy living alone in the woods. To save time I’ll just tell you that I am also ruling out all the Maritime Provinces.

So it looks like my non-existent cabin in the woods is located in Ontario! Well that’s convenient. I don’t think I’m going to pick a town right now, but I am certain that it would be between Toronto and Ottawa. No need to move too far. I’m looking to escape, not vanish into the void.

Now that I have a location I need to think of what I would bring with me. My bed easily makes the trip, no getting around that. All of my books are making the trip too. There’s no way I’d move anywhere without my books. I don’t even leave my apartment without a book. I’d bring my camera because I’m sure my new surroundings would merit a camera. My guitar would also come with me. I’ve been playing it again recently. Who knows, I might move into the woods and write an album about my experiences! Why not? I’d need my computer too. I’m not bringing a stereo or anything so I’d need something to play music. Also, I’d want to write up there. Lastly, I guess I would need to bring a generator to operate all of these things.

There’s no way I’d be taking a television or a cell phone with me though. Not a chance. I want to escape all of the things that a television and a cell phone represent! No room for that in my badass cabin of coolness!

Ok, so I’m on the road with my stuff packed. How am I going to survive up there?

Well, I can start a fire so that’s good. At least I’d be warm. What would I do for food though? I don’t hunt and I’m pretty sure that I know so little about wild vegetation that I would die from a poisonous plant of some sort in less than a week.

Oh, I just remembered something else. I’m not what one would call “handy.” In fact I think my handiness rating is actually in negative numbers. I’d probably get seriously hurt if I needed to fix my cabin for some reason.

Oh my god! I would get hurt. Like really badly too. Who would help me? I don’t want to die of something lame like breaking a bone and it getting infected because I have no way of getting help since I left my cell phone back in the so-called civilized world! Not a chance that’s going to happen to me.

Could you imagine my funeral? “Oh how did Cameron die? He was so young” some sexy lady would ask. Another sexy lady would give the answer: “he fell off a ladder and broke his leg. It got really infected because he had no way of calling for help and getting to a hospital. What a dumbass.”

Well I can’t go out like that. It wouldn’t be fair to the imaginary ladies who are mourning me at my funeral. So for the time being, I’ll stick to the headphones and sunglasses. You know for the ladies.

I always think of others before myself.