Once upon a time then the internets were once known simply as the internet and the (world-wide) web respectively, I had my own website that hailed all things Thornhill, Ontario, at least from my own perspective.

One of my articles was about the music scene in my neighbourhood. Nobody would think that a forgettably mundane bedroom community located just on top of Toronto could produce such artists like Hayden, and By Divine Right (and be home to Anne Murray), but then again people thought that Seattle was just another sleepy Pacific Northwest city at one point, Jimi Hendrix, The Kingsmen, Queenryche and Sir Mix-a-lot notwithstanding.

But like all hotbeds of rock-and-roll awesomeness, Thornhill had many bands that showed a lot of potential, yet managed to fall through the cracks in the end, mainly because even back in the risk-taking 1990s, competition was fierce and uncompromising. And when there is a super-saturated music scene on the go in Southern Ontario, it was easy to fail in spite of all the best efforts applied.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you this band…

They had me at this tune, “I Hate Alanis Morrissette” due to a balance bewteen the punk of Blink 182, the alt-rock of Dinosaur Jr and the grunginess of Screaming Trees (plus, Alanis was the one-girl Nickelback of the 1990s). And if you were a fan of the original “Degrassi” teen-soap that was originally aired on the CBC in Canada, you would love their ode to Joey Jeremiah.

I wonder what these crazy kids are up to these days? Do their kids know what they did back in the day? Has Alanis forgiven them for being jealous haters? Have they eventually received the love back from Pat Mastroianni? Are they still denizens of Thornhill, Ontario or have they gone on to their respectice greener pastures? One can only speculate.

I’m back with yet another one of my meltdowns after 2 weeks in my home and native Toronto.

To say that the stay was a clusterfuck of emotions is just putting it too kindly. To see most of my friends (at least the closest ones) looking the same after entering the middle ages made me realize that those of us born in the 60s had the best in health, education and upbringing. Or at least that has been my understanding.

When I got to Pearson International Airport last night, I tried to sleep in the huge Terminal 1 departure lounge. However, the Tim Horton’s dark-roasted coffee that I had on arrival had left me quite wired to the nines. So I spent the next few hours wandering, having a smoke and wandering some more until boarding time. I had a better seat on the 2-hour flight back and I simply chilled to some of Bizet’s best symphonic works.

After doing some banking and making some calls, I crashed out at my crib. I got on Facebook to catch up on some of the gossip when I found out in my trending feed that Joan Rivers had passed after falling into a coma during throat surgery.

I wouldn’t say that I was shocked, but I was still saddened. She had lived a long, productive life and maintained her razor-sharp wit and tongue well into her senior years. She’s only 2 years older than my Mom, which had me pondering about her well-being during and after my stay at her place. I’ve made peace with her and myself to accept the eventual loss.

But as with all my meltdowns, I lighten things up with a video.

And my impression of the new Thornhill after 9 years of absence? I can sum it up with a quote from the Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie: “My father built this castle. He said that Weirds would live here for a thousand years… and now it’s being turned into fucking lofts!”

More on that later.

Dear Kurt Cobain:

I understand that you may be busy somewhere else. So I’ll try to keep this letter short.

First and foremost, you didn’t realize that Nirvana’s breakthrough album, “Nevermind”, would be one of many in the late 1980s/early 1990s to change popular music’s landscape.

That album created a swarm of activity creating several bands following your style and attitude. Everyone was claiming to be the next Nirvana, the next Pearl Jam, the next Mudhoney, the next Kurt Cobain.

Halifax, Nova Scotia, with an already-established music scene, was being touted as the next Seattle with bands such as Sloan and Thrush Hermit touting the DIY attitudes that helped create Seattle’s indie scene.

Of course, that environment of challenging the status quo, deconstructing/reconstructing pop culture and re-imaging the worldview in the early 1990s Zeitgeist didn’t last long. People grow old, get jobs and realized that things pretty much stayed the same all along.

I’m sure that any other band, any other person could have pulled off what you and your mates had done back in the day. I’m sure that Mother Love Bone would have owned the period had Any Wood not ODed. Certainly Black Francis’s quirks within the Pixies and the Frank Black solo projects would have influenced that timeline. And I’m sure that people would have looked past King Buzzo’s hair to appreciate the demented focus that The Melvins put into their music.

But Kurt, Nirvana was unique. You were unique.

You wrote about biting the hands that feed you, even though the feeders were the ones giving you the soapboxes from which you gave your sermons. They may have had you on a long leash, but you ran as far as possible.

When “Nevermind” came out, I was writing tunes for a band that I formed with a high-school friend. The music scene in Toronto was as saturated back then as it is now. I thought that one day we would be bigger than your band, but I guess that somewhere down the line we couldn’t maintain the focus and hunger that you had with Nirvana. It didn’t help matters any better that we were worried about money and jobs, and being over 30 at the time complicated them even more. Not that they mattered much, but rock has always been the refuge of young misfits like you, and me.

Which brings us to this issue about your legacy, your impact, your passing.

Take a look around and listen to today’s music. At this point in time, it bears no resemblance to what was happening in 1994. True, there are acts carrying on the legacy that Nirvana, Pixies, Pearl Jam, Melvins have triggered. But even with the proliferation of social media and the accessibility of recording technology, most of the hits you that hear on the radio are produced and financed by bigger corporations. Not that having a suit in your corner is a bad thing, it’s just that most of the acts and hit singles appear to be manufactured by focus groups and market research. You can’t really find a Public Enemy, NWA, GWAR, Sex Pistols, Led Zeppelin or even a Van Halen without digging through a myriad of social media articles. There are more diamonds hidden in a lot more rough due to the sprawl or corporate-owned mass media dealing in homogenized soundscapes - elevator music for the masses; aural soma for restless ADHD-afficted primates.

If you hadn’t made that decision on that day in April, would this soundscape have been any different? Would there have been more diversity in sounds and attitudes? Would the environment have been different? Would there have been peace in our time? We’re stuck with leaders who can’t lead, prophets who couldn’t see the forest beyond the trees and all the toys and drugs to numb us into the next millennium. And what do we have for a soundtrack?

Back in the 1990s, artists, scientists and politicians took chances, or at least they appeared to be doing that. Today, too may people are being straitjacketed by fear of offending people, hurting the feelings of others and starting long, pointless wars. We encounter problems and immediately start pointing fingers at different suspect parties without doing any research. Somehow, we forgot to be humans.

But I doubt very much that our current situation had any influence on why you had to take your own life in 1994, Kurt.

I know the pain of your addictions. I am an addict, and there have been days when I simply wanted to go to sleep, never to wake up. When I go outside, I sometimes wonder if my reality is real or a random string of cosmic one-liners spewed out by a drunken comedian in an empty club. I know that I dread looking back at the wreckage in my wake, yet something keeps me going, pushes me to places that few dared to trespass. For even though I have exhausted all options to go on, there remains a sense of urgency, a sense of being, a justification for my existence.

Leaving us the way you did 20 years ago left us with so many questions to answer. You know you could have simply walked away from all this madness. You would have enjoyed yourself in relative anonymity, only to reappear as a living ghost of what might have been as opposed to being a real one wandering all corners of existence, witnessing all but remaining forever silent.

All I knew back then as I know today is that the whole “live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse” mentality is as horrid and inane as “YOLO”. You knew it all along, Kurt. Yet you decided to leave us in the way that you had chosen. It’s pointless to continue asking that why question today because this world, this existence refuses to stand still. We beings still living, our inherent rebelliousness notwithstanding, have to move along with it. It is in our nature to do so. In another 5, 10, 20 years you will probably wind up as a footnote just like the other so-called big-name personalities, worthy of acknowledgement and a couple of token tears, yet pushed in to the background by more recently dead stars. I remember the moment when you left us in 1994, mainly because I assumed that you would keep hanging on, but you decided to push away.

Many people would commemorate your passing today. I prefer to celebrate your life instead. That was what made you famous.

Love, Jacques.

Suicide > L sui of one’s self + caedere to kill

It’s a pretty powerful word.

It’s a disturbing concept.

It’s one of those subjects that would hardly come up in conversation until after the deed has been done.

And once this subject comes into play, a debate would occur over the act and suddenly departed.

As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, Robin Williams struggled with many issues throughout his life: drug and alcohol dependency; depression; stress under the spotlight; family…

I’ve also mentioned my own struggles with the same issues, all of which didn’t do any favours for my health.

I don’t pretend to know what what was going on in the mind of Robin Williams, But at 63, in an industry obsessed and saturated with youth and beauty, I would guess that his main beef would have been his relevance in pop culture.

Maybe these doubts about relevance and usefulness at this age in this type of entertainment industry became a tipping point.

I’m at that age when doubting about one’s relevance and usefulness start to become more pronounced. My recent heart attacks, health issues and current unemployment tend to exacerbate an already precarious situation.

I know that there are many routes to take to remedy these issues. The only problem is which one to take first.

And I’m quite sure that Robin Williams (or for that matter, Kurt Cobain, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Spalding Gray, Martin Streek…) had these routes available. If only someone were there to help out.

When you have this kind of helplessness, the stress builds up, leading to various ailments such as heart attacks, strokes, dementia, depression, addiction, psychotic episodes… all the fun stuff which I have endured.

I’m probably suffering from one psychotic episode already and not even know about it.

It was like when I had the heart attacks in May. My left shoulder was hurting like hell, followed by a sharp, searing pain along my sternum. Of course, when I started getting the cold sweats on top of the pain, I 911ed and got to the emergency ward of Dartmouth General.

Things like that creep up on you.

The despair of being unemployed/unemployable and impoverished can be unbearable to the point of taking desperate measures.

It’s true that I have doubts about my own relevance in this life at my age, and I know that eventually this has to end.

So why am I still alive?

Why have I decided not to end it all?

Why, in spite of all the trouble I’ve inflicted on myself and others, chose to continue this struggle rather than shuffle off this mortal coil?

The 2 simplest answers are a) there are many routes available; and b) there are people who can help choose the right one.

For the past 6 months I’ve wallowed in self-pity, self-loathing and a general sense of confusion regarding my life. And to be honest, I am getting sick of it.

With the skillsets that I have accumulated over these years on this planet, I can pretty well make a name for myself once again.

I did leave out one more answer.

It’s the least politically and socially correct one around.

But I need to make this clear.

Suicide is the ultimate, final act of cowardice.

Some people may call the act callous and selfish.

But then people might say the same of you show others that you are alive, thriving, prosperous and well.

It is the final, rash act of confusion when all alternate avenues appear to have been cut off.

It is seen as a last resort by some people who thrive under the illusion that they’re in control of their own destiny when in reality their lives have completely gone out of control.

All that in spite of the fact that there are others who are willing to help.

Let it be known that I am afraid of heights. I have a deathly fear of drowning, Firearms and explosives scare me int the worst possible way (and I have served in the military, go figure). I hate getting drunk and stoned out of my skull.

I’d really love to be in control of my life, but I know that this is something that I cannot do on my own, even at the very best of times.

So you can say that I am too scared to jump off a bridge, walk directly into traffic or put a .45 into my brain.

It’s not a great thing to admit, but I’m not sorry for being alive. I simply upset at the situation.

If I were to take my life today, what would that act solve?

In the here and now, my suicide would solve nothing.

In fact, it would create a tonne of problems that would take weeks, if not months or years for people to sort out.

For example, who would clear out my crib?

Who will have the means to pay all my outstanding bills?

Who is going to eat the food that I bought at Sobeys? The bread cannot eat itself.

Who will account for my absence? How can it be explained?

Since I yet have to update my will, who will get a share of my estate?

And who will write this blog? Craziness cannot write itself.

It would appear that death by one’s hand is neither feasible, sensible nor logical in any way.

And this is not to mention all the grief suffered by family, friends, neighbours, loved ones, exes, co-workers, creditors, auditors, news media, fans, haters, bloggers…

So I choose to live and fight and suffer and rant and rave and cuss and laugh, sometimes all at once.

I know that I have not lived my life right in the past 30, 40 years or so, but I have done at least some good to a few people.

I’ve written and recorded music and got to play in many Toronto bars. Mostly for no pay but it was fun nonetheless.

I’ve written so many web pages for the past 18 years. I had my own web site. I’ve blogged a lot.

I’ve seen Manhattan, Paris and the Northern Lights in Nunavut.

I’ve driven across Canada (my home and native land). Twice.

I’ve driven through the Rockies. Twice.

The first time I did that, it was during a snowstorm January 2, 2001. On all season radials. Driving a 4-cylinder Chevy Malibu. Had I spring more for a 6-cylinder model and snow tires, that trip would have been a little less exciting.

Looking back at what happened on that trip, I realise that I had been courting imminent death on the steep slopes and turns of the Trans-Canada Highway as it snaked through the mountains and valleys.

That made me realise that I really wanted to live, if only because my co-workers depended on my presence in Esquimalt.

In fact, driving the Trans-Canada forced me to appreciate the vastness of this country. I see this vastness as a metaphor for existence, with its many routes and destinations.

And just by looking back at the positives among the static, I settled on continuing this journey called life and see what it can offer me for my service and sacrifices (along with a payoff that I really need).

It’s true that we know live in this quick-serve, fast-food paradigm where we whine about any entitlements to which we are supposedly entitled, where one could be judged on looks and age rather than merit, and where people attempt to compress any remaining common sense into a soundbite. In this instance, colour me guilty for having embraced this mess for a good chunk of my years, if only because I had been indoctrinated by “The Jetsons” and “Star Trek” while I was a kid.

I chose life over suicide because while the former really sucks, the latter would definitely not make me feel empowered and win any respect.

Once a person chooses suicide, that person has lost control over destiny. That is where friends and family come into play.

If Robin Williams had let his guard down and said that he had doubts about his existence, and if his family had known about his post-midlife existential crisis and staged an intervention, then this tragedy would have been averted.

But speculation and assumption are cheap comforts.

If someone were to suddenly take away the most powerful euphoric drug on which you were dependant, you would feel terrible.

I’ve tried to quit smoking so many times, before and after the heart attacks. In the emergency room, a nurse gave me an Atavan to curb the jones after I told her that I would get violent without a cancer stick. I was virtually vegging out in the cardiac ICU, hooked up to an IV and wired up to monitors. The combination of the ritual and the ensuing high is a deadly habit to break. My type-2 diabetes makes matters worse: I have a sweet tooth, one of my foodie traits inherited by my late father (z’‘l). As soon as I was discharged, I was on the patch for a week before relapsing. If I were to go cold-turkey again, I would get back into the dark funk of depression.

Maybe the relapse was a death wish. Maybe I really wanted to die after all. Suicide by John Player & Sons.

And yet here I am in the middle of the night writing about how suicide is the coward’s way out of a situation. With a Pepsi Next on one side and a lit John Player’s in the ashtray. An existential, cognitive crisis in the works.

So I have all these routes to take. Time to get some help.

Should I go back home to her soon?

Deep down inside, I still miss her.

She’s really my rock, my filter, my second-guesser.

After 12 years on my own, I’m having a tough time getting my shit together.

I have bills up the ass and I’ve been working myself stupid trying to keep up.

So would moving back to Ontario be a good idea, especially at my age?

Would there be a job that would take me at my age?

Decisions, decisions. I just had a very shitty week. Thanks for asking.

Love, Jacques.

Let me sleep in until the rain lets up
Let me sleep in when the sun comes out
Leave me be. Just leave me alone
Let me sleep until I decide to wake up

Don’t wait up. I’m taking my time
Don’t wait up. Just leave me alone
Until the rain lets up, I stay where I am
Don’t wait up. Just leave me be

Let it slide. Let it ride
It’s not worth the waste of your precious time
Let it up. Let it go
Come Hell or high water stay where you are

Don’t go to the shopping mall
There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing to buy
You’ll see nothing but sweet fuck all
Rumours, innuendoes, gossips and lies

Don’t go to the discotheque
You’ll fall down and break your neck
Get drunk get stupid and pick a fight
Dance without rhythm all through the night

Don’t waste your time trying to find my groove

This week, what do I have to lose?

Shall I go in head-first, or take baby steps?

For years, my anxiety told me to take my time.

I decided that the time is now.

I’m willing to take my lumps and say “fuck you all”.

Fuck my past. I’m going to own the future.

And to all the haters, step up to the plate. Let’s dance.