jchrisobrien (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jchrisobrien) wrote2002-06-04 04:17 pm
jchrisobrien) wrote2002-06-04 04:17 pm
Day 3 - The War in Heaven
It's easy to let yourself get expectations for an experience, or an event. You imagine all of these fabulous things happening to you because you are in a strange land. It's understandable, and sometimes it's even irritating when they don't pan out. But in the end you can decide how much fun you have. You can decide to keep looking for outrageous expectations, or you can focus and get what you can achieve. With that thought running through my mind during breakfast (at a nice café with dirtyknees, eeyrg, and silentq) I passed on the cemetery tours and ventured alone into Montreal.
St. Catherine's is caught between commercial mecca and sleaze pit. There are plenty of upscale swank stores, with brazen neon sex shops nestled right next store. As you descend towards St Laurent, the gaps and the like vanish, replaced by tattoo parlors, dive bars, and more strip clubs. It's the home of the first hotel I crashed at during my first trip to Montreal. It's also the home of M, the store where I saw the fabulous pants my second trip. Alas they weren't there, nor was there any clothing anyone male or older than 14 could wear. But they did have directions for more stores on St. Denis. Armed with the new directions, I continued on my quest.
St. Denis is a much more interesting street. The absence of sleaze is refreshing, and there are a lot more bookstores, CD shops, and clothing stores. I can imagine it getting a little more commercial, but not for a few years at least. I tried Aritmatik, Acme, and Modern 2010 for raver clothes, but was again thwarted by no real options. One combat vest looking thing came close, but was too small for me.
I finally reached Rue Mont Royal, home to Cruella and Diabolik.I browsed through both of the stores, trying to find something interesting for me. I'm always nervous when going club clothes shopping, as I hate looking in the wrong sections of the stores. No sir, that's for women. The men's section is over there. Poseur. Fortunately, Silentq and Eeyrg came to my rescue. We voted down the vinyl bondage shorts, but got a thumbs up on the shirt and skirt I picked out. I made another trip to pick up some Underworld boots and a one size fit all shirt, then we marched home. The last shirt I bought looks poured on me, but perhaps it will stretch a little. And it goes well with my strappy pants.
There were no tickets available for the haunted dinner, so I instead went to Chu Chai's with the proprietress of The Velvet Garden. We had a great walk to the restaurant, a vegetarian Thai place that was the best she'd ever eaten at. I can now say I share her sentiment. We met A and T there, and had a sumptuous meal and engrossing conversation. I always enjoy my discussions with A and T, and this was no exception. The subject of livejournal came up, along with discussions about the merits of online and personal conversation. Good food (beef satan with potatoes and carrots in yellow curry), good wine, good company.
My body begged and whined for a nap and chance to digest, but there was no time. It was into the shower, and new skirt and shirt, and rushing upstairs for makeup and last minute fixes and pictures before a quartet of stylin' Boston Goths walked to Fou Foun Electronique's for the final evening's Masquerade. DJ's spun all night long, in two different rooms. There were fabulous costumes, but much of the details were washed out in the red light. Eventually they had their award ceremony, and space was cleared for the industrial set. I danced a little earlier to New Model Army and Nick Cave, but spent most of that time drinking and talking and buying birthday drinks. But when I looked up and saw people dancing on the stage, my fate was decided. I climbed the speakers to the stage and began spinning. On the far side I saw Damiel making his way up as well. I dance and spun, watching the costumed revelers below me, hidden in smoke so thick I thought it was support me if I threw myself on it. The music built and built, and I rose with it: curling, dipping, turning, arms flashing quickly during Fun with Drugs and flowing languidly during Beloved. I asked for and received water from the dancers, and never left, never stopped. I didn't need to. Time ceased to exist. Finally, I leapt to the dance floor, nerves humming, giddy and hoarse. One song later, they closed up shop. I must have dance for two hours with no break. I walked back to the hotel like a man possessed, buzzing I sat in the lobby, grinning madly I found myself in the penthouse party again, watching the sun rise, watching pages of the Bible float like falling angels to the streets of Montreal below me. I didn't need my imagination to see the angels that night, or any physical proof to realize that for a time, I was in Heaven.
St. Catherine's is caught between commercial mecca and sleaze pit. There are plenty of upscale swank stores, with brazen neon sex shops nestled right next store. As you descend towards St Laurent, the gaps and the like vanish, replaced by tattoo parlors, dive bars, and more strip clubs. It's the home of the first hotel I crashed at during my first trip to Montreal. It's also the home of M, the store where I saw the fabulous pants my second trip. Alas they weren't there, nor was there any clothing anyone male or older than 14 could wear. But they did have directions for more stores on St. Denis. Armed with the new directions, I continued on my quest.
St. Denis is a much more interesting street. The absence of sleaze is refreshing, and there are a lot more bookstores, CD shops, and clothing stores. I can imagine it getting a little more commercial, but not for a few years at least. I tried Aritmatik, Acme, and Modern 2010 for raver clothes, but was again thwarted by no real options. One combat vest looking thing came close, but was too small for me.
I finally reached Rue Mont Royal, home to Cruella and Diabolik.I browsed through both of the stores, trying to find something interesting for me. I'm always nervous when going club clothes shopping, as I hate looking in the wrong sections of the stores. No sir, that's for women. The men's section is over there. Poseur. Fortunately, Silentq and Eeyrg came to my rescue. We voted down the vinyl bondage shorts, but got a thumbs up on the shirt and skirt I picked out. I made another trip to pick up some Underworld boots and a one size fit all shirt, then we marched home. The last shirt I bought looks poured on me, but perhaps it will stretch a little. And it goes well with my strappy pants.
There were no tickets available for the haunted dinner, so I instead went to Chu Chai's with the proprietress of The Velvet Garden. We had a great walk to the restaurant, a vegetarian Thai place that was the best she'd ever eaten at. I can now say I share her sentiment. We met A and T there, and had a sumptuous meal and engrossing conversation. I always enjoy my discussions with A and T, and this was no exception. The subject of livejournal came up, along with discussions about the merits of online and personal conversation. Good food (beef satan with potatoes and carrots in yellow curry), good wine, good company.
My body begged and whined for a nap and chance to digest, but there was no time. It was into the shower, and new skirt and shirt, and rushing upstairs for makeup and last minute fixes and pictures before a quartet of stylin' Boston Goths walked to Fou Foun Electronique's for the final evening's Masquerade. DJ's spun all night long, in two different rooms. There were fabulous costumes, but much of the details were washed out in the red light. Eventually they had their award ceremony, and space was cleared for the industrial set. I danced a little earlier to New Model Army and Nick Cave, but spent most of that time drinking and talking and buying birthday drinks. But when I looked up and saw people dancing on the stage, my fate was decided. I climbed the speakers to the stage and began spinning. On the far side I saw Damiel making his way up as well. I dance and spun, watching the costumed revelers below me, hidden in smoke so thick I thought it was support me if I threw myself on it. The music built and built, and I rose with it: curling, dipping, turning, arms flashing quickly during Fun with Drugs and flowing languidly during Beloved. I asked for and received water from the dancers, and never left, never stopped. I didn't need to. Time ceased to exist. Finally, I leapt to the dance floor, nerves humming, giddy and hoarse. One song later, they closed up shop. I must have dance for two hours with no break. I walked back to the hotel like a man possessed, buzzing I sat in the lobby, grinning madly I found myself in the penthouse party again, watching the sun rise, watching pages of the Bible float like falling angels to the streets of Montreal below me. I didn't need my imagination to see the angels that night, or any physical proof to realize that for a time, I was in Heaven.