My fascination with the art of door-manning, or “bouncing” as it is known best, began on the first – and the last – day of my university education. Newly arrived in Montreal I headed into the party zone to have some fun. I was supposed to meet some friends at a place called Vol de Nuit, but instead I came face to face with destiny.
When I laid eyes on the Vol de Nuit bouncer my heart palpitated. He was just so strong. He demanded respect for no reason and people kind of gave it to him. Rather than call it quits and go back to rez (slang for “residence”), I decided to loiter in the shadows and watch the man at work. If it weren’t for that fateful decision, I wouldn’t be where I am right now. Well, I definitely wouldn’t be here, at my foster-parent’s house, in the cellar, I’d probably have a job and an apartment, but no regrets.
The next day I withdrew from all my courses and put my degree on hold. My religious studies, gender studies, and environmental sciences would have to wait. In order to be accepted as a bouncer, I had to free my mind of all tolerance.
Not really knowing where to begin, I asked the first guy I saw wearing a “Tapout” T-shirt. It turned out he was a bouncer and was willing to take me to his training facilities. His name was Bradley, Brad to his friends. Not being his friend, I called him Bradley. Bradley needed to make sure I was for real and that my desire to bounce was strong, so he took me into an alleyway and asked me three questions. To the question “are you angry” I did not reply vocally, instead, I picked up a filthy syringe and crushed it in between my teeth. I then spat the glass into my open palm, closed my fist, and began punching bricks until he stopped me. The second question was rhetorical, and thus, impossible to answer, and rather than a third question Bradley regaled me with a fight story. Feeling quite confident of being his protégé I suggested subway for dinner Bradley got the tuna sub, toasted. I got the cold cut trio, trio, with sun chips and lemonade. We spoke of hatred, aggression and mean-mugging until the clerks asked us to leave.
The training facility which I would spend much of the next 6 months in was extremely well protected from non-members. There was a guard on duty at all times, you needed a special card to enter, and you were kicked out if you didn’t have a towel. Bradley always had two towels in his back pack, so he loaned me one for the first visit. It was damp and smelled like male ass but, following an intense workout of what seemed to be endless bicep curls, I used it to dry my face off anyways.
Of course, the physical training was only one part of the rigorous preparation, the mental aspects and stamina challenges were to prove even more strenuous. Hours and hours of standing without talking, hours of holding a water bottle at belly height by both its base and its top, and God only knows how many times I had to practice shaking my head, even to things I agreed with.
Literacy is a non-essential part of being a bouncer so I actually had to un-practice my reading abilities. This was carried out by listening to club banger anthems on full blast while looking directly at the sun. I also memorized non-words and yelled them at mirrors. The only word we were allowed to know on paper was a strange three letter one, “V I P”, and we were obliged to satisfy the sexual needs of those who carried it.
I would soon come to realize that bouncing is not an art, but a religion, and these VIP persons were actually deified. They held rank among attractive bar staff, really lame bar staff, massively lame people that used to be bar staff and “regulars.” Regulars were to be treated as friends, but as soon as they had no money, were to be treated as scum, no better than people who wore sandals, or gang colours.
My first shift At Vol de Nuit remains the best day of my life. I worked alongside the very man who planted the bouncer’s seed within my empty womb. (Forgive me for getting carried away, since re-learning how to read and write I have found that all the energy which was once directed towards others in the form of brutality and irrational rudeness has transferred into articulated thought.)
Sadly, however, after that single beautiful shift, my life went on one of those rides which are like trains but at a theme park. It was all up and then down and then around a corner. I got addicted to energy drinks, which gave me severe stomach ulcers. My lack of health and twitchy demeanour lost me the spot at Vol, and I was soon destitute. For a time I lived in the vent behind Molson stadium, but eventually a wiry homeless woman with exceptional leg strength managed to take it away from me. So here I am now, In my foster parent’s cellar, weaning myself off energy drinks and ordering a pizza every week with the visa number and expiration date I transcribed from mother’s wallet some weeks ago, after I drugged her.

But no regrets. No regrets.

Deidricht‘s blog has been translated by The Red Herring’s Rupert Common, who has no command of the German Language other than how to count to ten and the word “shyza.” He used an internet based translation system whereby a strenuous “copy paste” method was used.

August 20^th

I heard second-hand that some of the other foreigners from the hostel were a little put off by my trekking style. Apparently, on our last day trip, the way I approached the rugged terrain was both unorthodox and unsettling. I don’t see why. I am just very adamant about keeping your legs stiff when you walk and throwing out occasional salutes to nature. My physician back in Germany told me that this manner of hiking is much better for your back and a more vigorous form of exercise. I tried to tell my peers but no one listened. They also didn’t like my use of a riding whip as a walking stick, or my choice of long, black leather boots instead of traditional hiking footwear.

August 23rd

We were all in the hostel common room and people wanted to watch a Hollywood film. Other than my vote, there was a unanimous decision for Iron Man. I dislike Robert Downey Jr., and anyone with Jr. in their name, so I insisted that we watch Das Boot instead. An Italian girl – whom I now dislike – strongly complained about how I had spent the good portion of the last two days watching the film in consecutive viewings. She also spoke out against my tendency to sleep naked in the common room overnight.  I was very angry and decided to excuse myself from the lounge. I immediately sizzled up some wiener schnitzels and ate 3 loafs of bread.

August 24^th

New Zealand is nice but too many German’s travel here. It’s very aggravating.  I keep meeting people from my country who only want to speak German. Why can’t they find somewhere else to go? They’re giving us a bad name.

I took a “kiwi tour” for only 60 dollars around the city. I was in a bus with lots of old people that were Asian. We had a good time listening to the tour guide tell us about objects outside of the window. I especially liked the garden we drove past. We even saw some dark skinned “Maori” people. I was surprised to see that one was reading a book! Who knew that these savages were literate? Perhaps he was half-cast.

August 27^th

Sorry I have not written in a few days. A lot has happened. I bought a car from some French backpackers. They sold it to me for 1,450 dollars. I was very pleased with this at first but after driving the automobile for 20 km, the engine began to smoke. How could these liars sell me a faulty car? I was very disheartened and lost faith in humans as a race. But my luck changed. I found a teen-age Brazilian girl to sell the car to at a tidy profit. With the extra money I went bungee jumping. I could even afford to get the DVD of me bungee jumping and by a root beer float. Once I got back to the hostel, I made everyone watch the DVD and then ate a chocolate bar and watched Das Boot again.

Us VanGuard’s don’t hunt like the average colonialist. Rather than choose one gun and painstakingly sling it across our own backs, we employ the use of caddies, who can carry many guns. My rifle-bag is predominately composed of crocodile leather, save the strap, which is anaconda skin.

I don’t miss much, but if I do, the blame is laid squarely on the sinewy shoulders of my caddie. I have little tolerance for failure, and those that underachieve are quickly released from my services and black-listed from employment up and down the coast. This is nothing to lament, for local caddies from generational gun-caddie families are as abundant as anaconda skin in this region.

My khaki suit is made from only the finest plant fibers. Harvested in the foothills of Chad, the sacred buds are collected by hand and woven into top-notch imperial materials. Of course, this is all done in my personal sweat-shop. All of the workers are under the age of eleven because their dainty fingers are perfect for handling the khaki plant with care. I pay the workers next to nothing, and we make a grand profit because we have a monopoly in the area.

I have four wives.

I want to murder a large male giraffe. I think its mottled neck hide would provide much needed warmth for the arduous winter months. It would be a very long scarf, one that would wrap around my person multiple times. I would allow a tail to drag behind me, much like King at his inauguration.

God save the King.

I intend on having no less than two indigenous boys to hold the tail when I walk. I will equip them with wicker baskets full of poppy leaves, to be scattered on the ground wherever I may sojourn.

My opium den is the most popular place of whoring in the vicinity. It is however, the filthiest. Those that frequent the den have built up a resistance to the contaminated well water, but frisky newcomers almost always come down with a nasty case of “Hutuu’s revenge,” by which I mean, cholera. Most of my sex workers are actually male. If any one finds out, I will surely be hanged.

The other day I made a shocking discovery. The rug in our second floor guest bathroom wasn’t made from animal! I couldn’t believe it. After a mild anxiety attack, I jumped in the Range Rover and shot the first snow leopard I could see. It was a pregnant mother with cubs. I made haste to the sweat-shop and suspended all khaki related activities until the game-cat was skinned, treated, and transformed into a carpet.

With the new hearth rug tucked under my arm pit, I desperately wanted to get home, so I took some short-cuts along the way.  I drove through sensitive agricultural fields which were in the last stages of crop rotation, and several bird sanctuaries. I may have bulldozed a few shanty-town homes in the process and was most definitely leaking oil the entire way. At one point I came across a dry irrigation ditch (we are suffering a drought), so I made some nearby villagers construct a make-shift bridge. They were very thirsty afterwards so I gave them the remains of my coca cola drink. It was all flat and warm so I didn’t want it anymore.

After placing the new rug on the floor, I had sexual relations with two of my wives in the shallow end of our fresh-water infinite pool and smoked opiates until I lost consciousness. I dreamt of flying.

~Rupert Common

After a quick shower in the SSMU basement sinks and a hefty dosage of Jean Paul Gautier to my neck and groin region, I was prepared to interview the intimidating couple. Khadija, with her erect collar and form-fitting jeans, made my heart palpitate, while Matt, with his saucy fingers and stained work shirt, ignited jealousy in my soul.

For… undisclosed reasons, I decided to host the interview in disguise. I wore sunglasses and chain smoked excessively. Also, rather than The Red Herring, I told Matt and Khadija that I was from Radix, an on-campus spiritual paper.

Radix: So, let’s start with a basic question: what does the za’atar mean to you, as an entity?

Matt: You know we don’t just serve za’atars. We have pizza, we have falafel, and we have several other pitas besides that.

R: Yes, I am well aware. But I like the za’atar best, and so do most people.

Khadija: Okay… I can see where you’re coming from.

R: Thank you Khadija. Now Matt, with Khadija doing most of the work, how does that make you feel as a man?

M: I don’t quite know what you mean by this.

K: We work as a team, I do most of the preparation and oven work, and Matt does a lot of wrapping of sandwiches.

R: Matt, you seem very happy all day. How do you keep up such high spirits despite being a continual disappointment to your co-worker?

M: Well, I have several extracurricular activities that I’m a part of outside of this job – with my wife. So if things don’t go so well at work, if I have a bad day or whatever, which is what I think you’re getting at here, I guess those keep me pretty happy.

R: Oh really, and what might these be?

M: I play hockey, ball hockey.

R: Of course. It’s less challenging and requires less strength then its ice counterpart.

M: Sure. And I like to play chess.

R: Alright, let’s get back on track here. Khadija, how long did it take you to teach Matt how to roll a za’atar? I say this because I assume he’s a slow learner.

K: My uncle taught us both. In fact, I would say that Matt is even better than me. Have you ever watched him roll a za’atar? He’s extremely fast and also very careful.

M: Thanks Deeja.

R: Okay, okay, I see. Well, on an economic note, do you feel the outrageous prices of the half-cheese-half-za’atar will drop anytime soon? I mean, we are in a recession.

M: I think it will stay somewhat the same.

R: Okay, obviously a little out of your league on that question, so let’s move on. How do you guys feel about “super sandwich”?

K: I don’t really know anything about that place. The only person who talks about it is this guy who hangs around Al-Taib a lot. He always brings his own sandwiches and often asks us for a shot of free sauce – which he refers to as “a squirt.”

R: Oh, okay, yeah…

M: Is that the same kid that always stares to you? One time I think he tried to hold her hand when he paid.

K: Yes, yes it is, and the only item he ever buys is the spinach calzone.

R: Oh… yeah, I know him; he’s pretty cool actually.

~ Rupert Common

Example of opening paragraph:

“As I sit across from him in this greasy-spoon breakfast joint in Mile-end, he takes a sip of coffee (his third cup) and takes a drag from a meticulously hand-rolled cigarette. There’s a non-smoking sign but no one seems to care. He’s wearing a stained grey t-shirt and a brown leather jacket. I ask him where he got the jacket. He says that he traded it with an old Hibachi chief back in ’77 for a Seiko wrist watch.”

A crucial element to your piece is how you treat the subject of narcotics. It’s preferable that you smoke drugs with your interviewee, thus proving to everyone how liberal you are, but making it seem that you don’t even think about how liberal you are because to you it’s second nature. Remember, you must refer to any marijuana cigarette as a “joint.”

Example:

“we smoked a joint and he reminisced about his days in Cambodia”

Or

“We smoked a joint and talked about Cambodia”

And even

“I smoke joints with people that have been to Cambodia/ are war photographers”

There are a few stock words that you may call upon. These include: quaint, surreal, transcends, embark (often followed by “upon a journey of…”) and my personal favourite, Quintessential. Feel free to use all of these words, sometimes in one sentence. Here is an example:

Tucked away under the awning of this quaint pirogue stand in a quintessential area of urban Prague, we embarked upon a journey of higher conversation, one that transcended generational boundaries and was surreal.

As exemplified above, a great word to fall back upon is “urban.” Similar to the letter “Q” -  which is unusable without its counterpart “U” -  “urban” must never stand alone. For example: Urban sexuality, or urban mystique, and why not, urban quintessence?  Throw urban onto anything and you will sound like a progressive bohemian literary mastermind.

A great way to make jokes is by encapsulating them with hyphens. The following is but one example of this mode of delivery:

With the Fijian tribesman all dressed up – or should I say, “dressed down” – in their traditional garbs, I suddenly felt smothered by my western attire. I discarded my jean jacket onto the red soil. It was so juxtaposed. Next came my Levis, then I rhythmically entered a new horizon.

Wherever you may be stationed, ensure that your reader knows you are one with the locals and probably earned a nick name like “el Diablo blanco” for surfing only the biggest waves. There is nothing less cool than a tourist. As a journalist you shouldn’t stick out, you should fit in.

It is very important that you constantly bring up the race, creed, and specific nomenclature associated with those around you. Rather than “I was surrounded by people” write, “I was surrounded by Himalayans.”  Himalayans are not white; they’re Asian or something and are from a really important place where spirituality exists.

Remember, as someone so acclimatized to every geographic location there is no need to explain to people the lingo you use. It’s the reader’s fault for not travelling as much as you. If they don’t know what Sri Lankan currency is called or what kind of soup you drink in Reykjavik, then that’s their loss.   

 If there’s any one thing you need to remember it’s this: You are the shit. Every word you write transcends surrealism and breaches in to another dimension. When you wake up after not brushing your teeth and you dislodge yellow crud from the back of your throat with an authoritative, open-mouthed hork –It’s not stomach bile and tartar, it’s a rolling fucking stone. Now get out there and write, you god damn genius.

                                                                                                                                                                         ~Rupert Common

 There used to be two microwaves next to Tim Horton’s. The one that mysteriously disappeared resembled the enigma code machine from U-571, and subsequently it did not heat food. The one that’s left gets gangbanged every lunch hour and the line ups for it are the most excruciating four and a half to five minutes of your life.

 While I stand their developing a cyst, people glance at what I’m going to eat. I find every one else’s food disgusting and I’m sure they feel the same way about my chick-pea slop. It’s especially gag-inducing when someone breaks out their steaming container of food in the areas of study. It usually smells like some kind of curry made from tainted seal meat. I can only hope that these rule-breakers will come down with a nasty case of Listeria.

   What makes the situation worse is that the microwave is atop a garbage can, so people discard their refuse right next to your only mode of sustenance. It is especially unappetizing when the garbage bag is physically removed from the can, thus releasing odour and debris.

  Concordia has an entire wall of microwaves. I heard that a student went to use one of them and found a Michellina’s from the year 2003. Apparently, kids forget which microwave they used and the search is so exhausting that many of them give up hope. People from Concordia say that they go to Concordia the same way that people from New York say that they’re from New York…and I don’t like it one bit.  

It’s frustrating when you think your next in line, but it turns out that the food in the microwave doesn’t belong to the person in front of you. What was once a three and a half minute wait is doubled because some bitch comes out of nowhere to retrieve her pad thai and you’re left watching naan bread become warmer. The moment this drifter returns to retrieve their meal is usually the low point of my day, its only rival being my search underneath vending machines for mid-night kitchen donations.

I’ve heard that there are a few microwaves in the Shatner building. I also heard that Kay turner is always hogging both of them in order to reheat artichoke dip and constantly drags people into conversations about Haven Books.

The other day I was lucky enough to be assisted by a lovely lady from Tim Horton’s, appropriately named Theresa, who not only toasted my bread but buttered it and wrapped it in name-brand wax-paper – free of charge. This incident brought up two points. 1) Why are there never any public toasters? And 2) why haven’t scientists invented a microwave that toasts? They seriously need to step it up a notch, it can’t be that hard, I mean, we do have invisible tanks.  I propose that these white-coated lab nerds divert funding from studies on genital cysts and figure out how to get my wholegrain toasted in under 30 seconds, if they don’t I’m going to give them a swirly.

                                                                                                                           ~Rupert Common

It seems that an industrial revolution of some kind has transformed mannequins, from a collection of prosthetic limbs and an ivory torso, to a stunning, one-piece, life-like figurine with all the natural curves of a breathing woman. Now, I don’t know if the revolution involved savage child labour and fatal accidents involving machines and children being in them, but whatever went down in the mannequin warehouses – bathroom breaks or not – the outcome is something like window ass-shopping, and it’s making me question my sexuality.

With Lululemon merchandise roping its breathable fabrics all over the face of the clothing industry, the plastic buttocks of inanimate models are being cupped just like real booty. I feel that my double-takes are only natural, but with that fatal second look comes a harsh reality. Their counterparts, the male versions of our time, cause a similar reaction but for a much different reason. This specifically applies to those male mannequins modeling the Under Armour brand of sporting apparel. As Lulu’s masculine alter ego, Under Armour manufactures tight-fitting raiments and presents them to the public via mannequins that are on ‘roids.

These extremely jacked mannequins have way too much muscle. I’m trying to purchase a thermal spandex undershirt and my eye is caught by the massive, black mannequins modelling the very item in my hands. This inert hulk makes me question if I should even bother. With muscle definition like mine, I won’t be able to “protect this house,” on the contrary, if an intruder came into my home whilst I donned a skin tight shirt, I would feel a little insecure about myself and probably flee in fear whilst he robbed me of my expensive Under Armour collection and leafed through my diary. He’s grotesquely yoked and it’s unhealthy to present this image to shoppers. For God’s sake, he’s rocking double XL and stretching it to the limit!

 If he had a brain, and maybe some synthetic genitalia, I’m sure that the Under Armour mannequin would desperately want to be close to the Lululemon doll so that he could bone her doggy-style through osmosis. I know I would.

                                                                                                                                                                                                             ~Rupert Common