At this moment in really scrunched up time, I am ensconced deep in the bowels of a flying festival of contagion. The tuberculin-ward quality coughing and spewing that surrounds me and verily bathes my corporeal being in multitudinous clouds of thin expectorant mist is an icky, sticky Terry Gilliam film come to life but without the witty dialogue. A viscid, pestiferous, bilious consommé erupts from the maws of the alarmingly unwell, like pestilential popcorn exploding in a microwave.
Some people think it would be great fun to be able to travel back in time to their youth, where they could relive the golden days of radio, nickel bags, and mega concerts where tickets ran you less than the cost of a TTC token today.
And certainly, there were good times to be had in the 60’s and 70’s, and I have tons of fond fuzzy memories of elephant pants and go-go boots, Sassoon haircuts, and Mary Quant and Twiggy makeup tips.
The weeks are just flying by. As a matter of fact, I think I missed a few just by blinking. This summer was one of the best ever in terms of music, mayhem and marvelous people. I have met countless new faces, made some brilliant new friends and reconnected with numerous folks, long thought fallen through the many cracks of life. It’s been a unending discovery, a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights discovery, of going places and doing things that never, not even in my wildest neurons, would I have even remotely considered. It’s been a mind-bending, life altering, rollercoaster ride and I don’t want to ever get off. It’s called living!
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 