TERMINAL LAUGHTER

By LEE TIPTON

…and this is my “office”, so to speak. Why yes, Mike, that is a mini-fridge. I’m pretty sure I could paint in here if I wanted to. Just don’t feel like it. It’d involve unplugging and moving the old M-fridge, which has beers in it. Usually. And the beers that are usually in it are Steamwhistles, because I can now easily afford the uncompromising taste of a premium domestic pilsner. Ever tried the delicious taste of an Ontario Steamwhistle, boys? Haha, guess not.

Seriously though Stevo-O, Anne, my boss, is easily as chill as Bob from your record store. She smells like she smokes, and I’ve caught her listening to The Beta Band on three seperate occasions. On top of that, I’ve been working here four months and I don’t even know the bitch’s last name! Do you know Bob from Bob’s Records last name, Steve? You do? Huh. No. It’s nothing. I guess I was just thinking about how Anne and I are just informal enough in our interactions to get by without knowing one other’s last names. Don’t worry, maybe one day you’ll somehow forget ol’ Mr. Robert ‘Bob’ Kendell’s last name, then you guys can attempt the same level of laid-back understanding that Anne and I enjoy, workingday after workingday.

And I mean, sure, the dress code is technically “business casual”, but it usually skews more towards the “casual” than the “business”, if you know what I mean. Honestly, Sandi last-name over in administration may as well just go ahead and change the name of Fridays to “Chuck-Taylor-days”.

Well, “Black-Chuck-Taylor-days”, at the very least. Which is actually cool with me, because when your job is this chill, you need something to distinguish the weekdays from the weekends. So I save my red Cons for Saturday, and that way, when I look down, I know “hey look, red Converse high tops, I am not at work right now.”

“Data Entry”? Uh, where did you get that from, Steve? Well I’m sorry we all can’t work in the glamorous world of selling garage records forever, man. While you’re behind that counter making minimum wage hawking Sonics re-issues that people don’t even need anymore because of the internet, I’m halfway to owning a motherfucking Pontiac Sunfire. So have fun with all that Montreal youth-culture stuff, man. All the rest of us in the twenty-four to twenty-nine year old demographic driving late-model coupes during our generous vacation allotments will all be very impressed with your bus passes, your jean jackets, and your unruly, fly-by-night bangs.

Besides, did you even see this computer? Did you even see it? What’s that little symbol underneath the screen right there? Could you maybe identify that for the rest of us Mike? Yeah. That’s right. An Apple. It’s not really ‘data entry’ when you have a built-in webcam and something like fifteen professional-quality photo-filters to put over the corresponding jpegs. And I know you guys have noticed the difference in MSN Messenger pictures lately, because I mean, I can essentially chat whenever the hell I feel like it. And do. And I do other creative ventures, too. Yeah, you laugh it up Mike, but you see this Jetplanes of Abraham show poster of a neon deer exploding? Two words: All, me. And that show was fucking awesome. We had pizza and everything. Do shows in Montreal have pizza usually? Don’t think so. I would say, oh, roughly eighty percent of shows here have pizza on-hand at all times. I bet sometimes you could really use some pizza to wash down your sour Quebecois beers over in some N.D.G. shithole, couldn’t you fuckfaces? So enjoy talking to me on Messenger all day while it lasts, because once I fire Photoshop 4 up on this little puppy, you won’t be seeing this handsome emboss-filtered face in the corner of your MSN windows all that often. No. The only way you’ll be relating to this-here guy is by emailing ericcassidy@subpoppostermakingguys.com

Shut the fuck up Steve, you know I meant Seripop.

And Ottawa – no, listen – Ottawa is actually pretty cool. Take the food, for instance: I know you guys probably think you’ve had nachos before, but believe you me; you haven’t. The Highlander Pub over on Bank does this thing with grilled chicken strips and Monterey jack that renders your previous understanding of the term “nacho” impotent and misguided. And coupled with a pint of delicious Steamwhistle beer, they’re like 7 dollars no tax between five and seven. And segueing from the five-till-seven into the seven-till-eleven-thirty time slot, let me just say that the night life here is absolutely hopping. I mean, you can’t judge Ottawa just by last night, guys – it was a Thursday, and it was sort of raining out, which come to think of it is surprising because its never rained in Ottawa any other days I’ve been here. Tonight will be better; I don’t know if you guys have heard of a little band called, oh, I don’t know, Embassies of Denmark, but they’re playing a basement show just down the –

Fuck you you haven’t, Steve. We saw them open for that other band with cellos that one time, and you fucking well know it. You’re such a piece of shit.

Oh so I’m a sellout, now? I’m a sellout, am I? Well, you know what, Steve? You know what, my man? I hope you’re familiar with the nearest bus stop, Stevey my boy, because you can get the fuck out of my office.

Oh, and Steve, one more thing: Close the door behind you.