MEMORIES Dream, Baraka, 24 Hour Party People and Apocalypse Now. I like to keep a finger on the pulse of the Montreal music scene and try to make it out to shows when I can. But at the end of the day, there is nothing quite like coming home to some good old Bob Dylan. Old habits die hard. And now you’ll have to excuse me as I go and try and get my hands on ‘Sparky’. I have some memories to re-live.
JAY WATTS III
At a certain time in a man’s life, generally when he has reached a point of material success and the specter of mortality begins to invade his thoughts, he begins to reflect on the long and strange voyage of his life - how he came to be who he is and who he could have been. Thankfully, the big players in Hollywood have already addressed such late-life regrets, not the least in films like Mr. Donner’s 'Scrooged' or Mr. Lubitsch’s 'Heaven Can Wait,' and so I feel little to no obligation to express regret or remorse over any of my actions in the past. Instead, I will take this opportunity to settle old scores, and fling vitriol at those who, I imagine, have neither the ability nor the sufficient courage to respond. To the meddling neighbour (Mr. Don Holloway) who convinced my father of the need to sell the family cow in the village market at a significant loss on the eve of my 12th birthday party, impoverishing the family and forcing cancellation of my soiree, thus causing me to lose much face with my peers, I wish nothing more than that he may be remembered as a squint-eyed fool of questionable taste, untrustworthy in business manners. I am only sorry that he has long since passed from this earth, so that I may not give him the thrashing he so richly deserved. One hopes his widow reads SNAP! Magazine.
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To the assembly of vulgarians and philistines (primarily Kevin Wall, Matthew Spencer, Dustin Lloyd, and Tyler King) who failed to recognize me in my tenth grade
performance of Shylock (the genius of an original and moving talent), I only would let them know that they aborted the career of a thespian who would have been a true star of the footlights, and thus deprived much of the English-speaking world of my theatrical mirroring technique. I have yet to set foot in another theatre, though the call of the greasepaint ghetto haunts my every waking hour. To the terribly common and low-minded usurers (Visa, Mastercard, Wachovia and the Central Bank of the Bahamas) who at every turn have thwarted me in my not unreasonable attempt to hold a credit card, I hex them and their offspring, and wish them to know that it is entirely their fault that I have little taste of the delights of Ebay. Having marked me as a 21st century outsider, the contemptible money-changers did me further insult by turning down the applications I made under my pen-names. Jay Watts may not be the most well respected debtor, but I find it suspicious that Saul Isaac Schwatzberg (a man who has earned grand sums from the tables of Monaco) be so slighted. Having unburdened myself of these few preliminary festering wounds, I would recommend such a process to any of the readership of SNAP! Magazine - it is bracing and brisk, like a Finnish sauna, and I am now lighter on my feet, more upright in posture, and attractive to members of both sexes.