A Citizen's Arrest

I tend to come across some extraordinary people in my path. I ask a lot of questions and genuinely am interested in other people's lives. Meeting people has never been a problem for me. The fact that my profession is that of a waitress makes a sort of sense.

This is Jamie. Check it! He's a gay cop from Georgia WITH a doctorate in French literature AND is principal euphonium in the Atlanta Wind Symphony. Generally I hate cops and all authority that flexes, but for a cop he's pretty cool. He can guess your weight, height and age just by giving you the quintessential cop stare. This is the look that makes you think, "Fuck it. Alright. You got me. I'm guilty. Just slam the bars in front of me on your way out," whether you did anything or not.

Jamie asked me to put on his sheriff's jacket.

The Comrade: Sorry, Jamie. That goes against everything I believe in.
Dr. Officer: Oh, come on! Please?
The Comrade: Okay. (I'll have to spin this somehow)


I shall be The Sheriff of All Things Right and Good!

My friend Perls came in last week. Perls is great. Even. Ever present smile on his face. Charming, but not disarmingly charming. Disarmingly charming would make a girl want to hop on a plane to Mexico to get married for the third time, even though she promised herself she wouldn't. Perls is just charming enough to be my pal.

His job is to secure the rights for music heard within soundtracks on film, television and more than likely commercials. He's probably the only one in Canada doing this. When he was in for dinner the other night, he brought in his friend Jodie. Male, just so there's no confusion.

Jodie manages bands. An agent, broker. He's always looking for new talent. He's always wanting to put new bands, he says, on the map. His company is always looking to exploit and pillage the majority of the royalities received from the sweat and toil of artists. "Here's your one red cent! Don't give up your day job!"

We were talking bands that night. I told him about my concert goings this past summer/fall. It was a particularly good year for concerts.

Jodie: Interpol and Franz Ferdinand? You are a hipster.
The Comrade: No I'm not! What's a hipster?

Apparently hipsters are assholes that jump on the bandwagon of any current trend. Music is not lost on this trendgoing, though good music is often lost on them. These people comprised a very large percentage of the audience at the Interpol concert. They were militant in keeping their dance floor real estate. They were expressionless save their almost scientific approach to watching the show.

Arms crossed in front of them.
Zero head bobbing.
Zero foot tapping.
Zero mind loss.
No smoking of anything, though they probably did a few lines earlier.
In a word: POSERS

The Comrade: I am NOT a hipster. Take it back!

I've discovered the music I listen to both purely and organically. It happens to be good. Very good, indeed. Yes, those boys with the cleverly constructed thrift store stylings have been accused of being the "it" boys by G.Q. magazine. I didn't read that article. I just simply love that band. They get under your skin. They seep into your pores and cell by cell change your physiology. They are craftsmen alchemists. They are wunderkinds. They are my darlings.

I asked Jodie if he'd heard of the Arcade Fire.

Rolling his eyes, he said yes.

The Comrade: Well, what the hell does that mean?

Apparently Jodie and his company had been trying desperately to woo this Montreal band over to the Dark Side. Corporate. Major label. Time and time again, wined and dined, the Arcade Fire unequivacally stated a big fat "no".

Jodie: And... on their own... fucking independant... they've been selling 2,500 units/ week... every week! Fuck!

The Comrade: YEAH!!! In your face, Corporate Scum! Sorry, Jode.

Justice. Sweet justice.