I had a good run, as Various CE/A/FO and janitor. Those bygone glory days of folding inserts and dubbing cassettes, selling em for less than they cost to make. It was all worth every ounce of sweat and pennies. But I've grown now, into the kind of person I swore I'd never become. My hands are charred with red dust and my eyes sink well below my nostrils. I've taken all the mirrors out of my apartment and cancelled my subscriptions to the Wire and MRR. I'm one of them now and I hope you never forgive me for it.
No, it didn't happen instantly. There were even some happenings, proceedings, whatever you'd like to call them during that painful and degrading process. For one, Surveillance played their first show in almost two years at the Seahorse Tavern in the colonial city of Halifax, Nova Scotia, better known as K'jipuktuk. It was a bill shared with the Booji Boys and Washing Machine. Then they played again at the same location, only a few months later. Rabies almost played in their hometown, even made it on to a bill, but vanished, almost out of thin air, due to a minor rift in the forced time continuum. Still, it was a saucy show and I made a poster for it, which looked like this:
Notice that glub, sweatstained whitetoothed icon hiding something that was, perhaps, once visible. Will its panic stricken smile ever fade into transparency, revealing the words it so plainly obscures? But this is a blog not a fortune cookie, and, as it should be, that future is as veiled to me as it is to you.
Surveillance and Rabies also visited St. John's, Newfoundland (real name unknown) in August to graciously participate in the first annual Out of Earshot Festival. It was their most triumphant moment, from which they made it out by their skivvies and hope to return someday.
So this is all to say that people and objects exist and probably always will in some shape or form despite the fact that I, DB Influenza, am stepping down from my post as overseer/C/F/A/O/janitorial executor of Various Antinational Corporate Enterprise LTD to pass on such pressing duties to another uniquely qualified individual of remarkably similar build, age, race, gender, taste, flavour, class, and magnitude, an individual who arbitrarily calls himself Glen Davis.
Oh, you know him? You listened to CKDU 88.1 FM on the night of September 21st between the hours of 10:30 pm and midnite? Well then good for you. Send away for your reward. Perhaps you can retire early and live on some desert island beach if you didn't already spend your entire life there.
Anyways I've spoken to Glen of his plans for the enterprise and he has assured me of its almost guaranteed future success in all fields of exploits, which is to include a wide swath of casual investments in both far right and left wing political ventures, burgeoning anarchist hierarchies, innovative indoor-ecotourism, cosmic geo-thermal industrial manufacturing, and a devastating concept he is apparently finalizing a patent on known as "silent music".
As for this little space on the global network of digidungeons, he may have mentioned something about his self-styled lit-fiction, pseudo-journalism, personal feline photocollage, and other semi-creative mind farts. He's just chomping at the bit, galloping towards you like a herd of infected equine to get some screen time in yr mind's eye, so I'll ease up and pass the buck. I hear him coming now, humming some monotonous tune from the previous, nearly forgotten century. "Denim and Leather". What does this even refer to? Disgusting. I fear for the future.
Good bye forever,
DB Influenza.
