October 2002

RENT THIS SHIT!

BY RAD LIEUTENANT & BUDDY OF THE PINES

You're in senior year of high school. You're off to college. You've got your whole life ahead of you. You're gonna die! This isn't fake. This shit is real. Teen thrillers have become an evolved genre in the video market -- full of complex ideas kids just aren't learning in the classroom. They don't last long in theatres save the summer season, because for the most part they "suck." But at the same time, they're "awesome." For your Hallowe'en viewing pleasure:

Final Destination (***) introduces us to the futility of life via fatalist serial-killing, while the I Know What You Did Last Summer series (**/***) shows us the will to survive in the face of questionably ethical vengeance. Both involve death by transit. We thought Hollywood were Buddhist Zens and shit, but they have hard-ons for CNN violence as much as any asshole.

And don't hit a hot babe's boyfriend while you're driving drunk, because Robert Englund will give her ideas on how to kill you and people in your dorm you just met in Urban Legend (***) -- filmed in Toronto! Lithium! Goth! Chat rooms, Bonnie Tyler and anoraks all end up meaning somebody's gonna get it -- the knife way -- in this lively college student massacre.

Goths and stoners don't die in Disturbing Behaviour (****), they just get turned into preppies -- conformist preppies. What is this, U of T? As the Toronto Sun said September 12, 2001, "BASTARDS!" Rapist and gay porn enthusiast Nick Stahl (Bully), the kind of kid with a hoody you imagine listening to the DK's in grade 6, typifies the Ô90s alt-stoner, with Katie Holmes (seen at left) as his soon-to-be-normalized counterpart. He gets normalized too, and the sequel is In The Bedroom.

But fuck, even the preppies are goth in Cherry Falls (****), where a serial de-lifer sets his/her sights on virgins. This movie knew what it was doing, even if it was on coke. But we love that shit. Rad Lieutenant says, "I'm a porno addict! Fuck it!" Buddy replies, "Cherry Falls is like two orgies! It is porn!" Brittany Murphy is a goth virgin. Her best friend is a rad gay goth photographer with a faux-fur vest and a cellphone. He dies. Her dad wants her to have sex, "...for me?" Teens start doing it because their lives literally depend on it. What is this? U of T?? Madcap bloodshed ensues!

You know you're bored anyhow (you're reading this, aren't you?), you've got a lot of renting ahead of you. You're gonna die! Die! Die! Die! Kill yourself!

ryanthomasfoster@hotmail.com
buddy@wavelengthtoronto.com

MISSIVES FROM THE OLD WORLD

BY DOC PICKLES -- THE FRIGHTFUL PART FIVE!

Ms. Pickles and I had hiked just north of Brussels to a suburb which is akin to hiking north of Toronto to Richmond Hill, and decided that it was time to call it a day. We found a quiet bench in a quiet park and were sitting down to wait out the remainder of daylight when a jogger approached us and asked us a question in French.

"Parlais anglais?" I asked him.

He held his hand up to his head and said, "Do you have a phone?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't," I replied, hoping that this was the end of our short conversation. A strange look crossed his face, as though he were chewing on a lemon wedge but was trying to mask its bitterness. At hip level he revealed, from out of the right sleeve of his coat, a carving knife. He stood over us and we sat on the bench, for a moment not a word was spoken.

On the hill above us, a young man had parked his mountain bike and sat on a bench of his own. The mugger knew of this and was careful not to flash the knife around so as not to draw any unwanted attention to himself. He said something to us in French.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Your money."

"I'm sorry?"

"Your money, give it to me now."

"I'm sorry but you'll have to be clearer, I don't understand."

His eyes began to dart and his movements became fidgety. "Hurry up. Your money. Now."

I looked at his knife and back up at his face.

"Are you hungry? Faim? I have some bread if you want."

"Your money. I'm not going to say this again." "What are you saying? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

And so on.

At this point you might be saying, "Pickles, give him your freaking money," and you would be right. That's exactly the advice I would give to anybody being held up at knifepoint, but there was a problem, due entirely to our bad planning. In addition to nearly every penny to our name, in my money belt, alongside my money, were my bank card, bus tickets from Antwerp to Paris, and my passport. In Ms. Pickles' money purse were her passport, her bank card, and our tickets from Paris to Toronto. We had to figure out a way to part with our money and nothing else. We had to stall and wait for either a hero or a miracle.

"Your money, give it to me now."

"What's that? Do you need money? I can't spare any. Sorry."

"Money! Money! Money!" You could almost detect steam coming from his ears. Even his eyebrows began to shiver.

The young man at the top of the hill had been watching the goings-on with some interest, for before jogging down the hill to make our acquaintance, this jogger had sauntered past the young biker and, after giving him an odd glance, sauntered off. Though the jogger was dressed in a track suit, there was something about his demeanor that suggested an occupation other than jogging. At first the young man thought we were his friends, due to the duration of our conversation.

Meanwhile I stood up and began to slowly unzip my knapsack. "Hurry up." While drawing out my bills for him, he caught sight of our camera. He looked behind me up the hill and I slipped my passport, bank card, and bus tickets out of my money belt and slid them underneath my pack. He looked back down at me, slightly panicked.

"He's coming down the hill," said Ms. Pickles.

He took my camera. "You want I should take your picture?"

I was taken aback by this odd gesture of kindness. Then I heard Ms. Pickles say, "Help! He's got a knife, he's trying to rob us." Our mugger turned his attention to her. Ms. Pickles had stopped the biker from riding past by grabbing his bike.

"Au secours!" I yelled. The mugger turned back to me. By the time I looked up, he had his knife on the strap of Ms. Pickles money purse, but her back was turned to me and from my perspective it looked as though he had plunged it into her chest.

A noise I have never made before passed my lips as I left my feet to attack him. He let her go, she was all right, but now he slashed his knife at my face. I lurched back, he missed, then he backed away from the three of us.

After a great deal of hectoring and badgering, he decided he was outnumbered and agreed to pour the contents of her sack, minus the money, on the ground. Then he ran back up the hill into the woods.

This biker didn't have to get involved, but he did, and I have to wonder how this story would have ended if he had done the expected and looked the other way. He also gave us five Euros he could ill afford to part with, let us pitch our tent in the lane behind his house, and he and his sister supplied us with food, water, and a lift to the highway the next morning. Such generosity of spirit I have never before seen in all my days in me-first Toronto, but then again I have never needed to meet a spirit of such generosity until that day.

While walking us to his house he shed some light on why he helped us. For seven years, he explained, he was confined to a wheelchair due to an illness that ravaged his body but left his mind intact. As a result, he was sent to a remedial school. In time, he overcame his illness, and by the time he was twelve, he was fit to attend "regular" school where, instead of encouragement, he was subjected to a level of cruelty that only children are capable of. Despite this, every new day was a miracle for him and he now lives his life with the zest of one brought back from the dead. If he hadn't told us this, we never would have guessed, for he seemed to Ms. Pickles and I to be no different than anybody else, except of course for his generosity of spirit.

Give Doc a welcome-home hulloo at doc@wavelengthtoronto.com