Video of the Moment: Wycelf Jean

In light of the earthquake in Haiti, a thought for those who were injured, who died, and those left standing.

A thought to the diaspora as well, as Haitians are spread just about everywhere on this planet, particularly in North America, shaping us as we are shaping them.

Wyclef Jean first burst onto the scene as the frontman of hip hop group The Fugees; from the get-go, he wore his heritage on his sleeve, and as soon as he came into money, he made sure to help spread it in his country of origin as well. Sure, some of it was lost to local corruption, but that just made his resolve stronger in bringing aid directly to those in the street.

We might lose track of this from some of his more recent contributions to modern music, cameos on songs that don't mean anything, collaborations with pop stars (Shakira), film stars (The Rock) or divas (Mary J. Blige) - but the guy is a heck of a humanitarian.

Shout out. Props.


Also: if you're going to send money, please do so through usual, recognized NGOs. Too many fuckers are trying to use this crisis to rip you off.

Aussi: si vous donnez, veilluez le faire au travers d'ornagismes charitables reconnus mondialement. Il y a trop de crosseurs qui veulent profiter de votre générosité.
Je recommande Oxfam, Croix-Rouge et World Vision.

The Passing Of Time Through Winter

The future is inherently a good thing. And we move into it one winter at a time.

Things get better one winter at a time. So if you're going to celebrate, have a drink on this: the world is, generally and on balance, a better place to live this year than it was last year.

Those are the words of Spider Jerusalem, writer Warren Ellis' take on a Hunter S. Thompson-like journalist in the future; they are taken from the very last page of the fourth volume in the Transmetropolitan series, called The New Scum, in which a new President is elected to the U.S. Ironically, they were written and published in the year 2000.

Transmetropolitan currently sits atop my line of favourite books, along with other comics Preacher and The Walking Dead.

It's funny that I happened to read this volume again, for perhaps the tenth time, today, if only because tonight marked the final in a five-night series that I was outside putting up posters for a show happening on the 18th at La Sala Rossa, for supergroup Magic Christian, comprised of members of Flamin' Groovies and Blondie, among others.

Five nights during which I froze my balls in minus-30 weather, with a windchill I hadn't felt in years. And last night was the worst. I actually witnessed the temperature go down at least 5 degrees in mere seconds, with the swoop of one short blow of wind, at precisely 2:10AM. It was decently cold, with the wind providing extra chill to the fingertips, but without exaggeration, when out of the blue a tiny whirlwind of a weirdly milder wind came and took over Parc Avenue for a few seconds, just enough to make you realize something wasn't quite right, and as soon as it died off, it became colder than death in an instant.

It was yet another proof that Nature is a much stronger beast than we bipeds, but I know for one I didn't need any. It was also a reminder that February is coming at full speed and we Montrealers should just lock ourselves inside and hide/hibernate for 28 days and just order out, fuck, and play Playstation and let the whole world go right by past us for a month.

And if Jerusalem's/Ellis' words are to be true, it's so fucking cold out there right now that this particular winter should signify the death of the past decade completely - what with its 80s-revivals, shitty music, brand new and brand old wars, political tragedies and all-out fucking up of our way of Life - and bring about some actual, consistent, lasting change. For The Better (not sure why I need to add this in particular, but I've been unlucky with my wishes the past few years, in case you can't tell).

It's not in my genes, in my upbringing, in my habits. Perhaps it can be, although I'm quite happy being skeptical and realistic - but I'm actually hoping for Hope. It feels juvenile and stupid, but set against a backdrop of 100 km/h winds outside my window pushing a growing cemetary of white snow in minus-40 degree weather merely 5 inches from my face, a bottle of Jack Daniel's in my right hand, it's all I can muster up that feels right.

That, and putting this text to rest so I can go meet the Lady Of The House in bed.

Good night.