Countdown to Music Waste Begins



Grease up your bike chains mother fuckers because the countdown for Music Waste 2009 has begun. Rather than doing some boring Counting Count countdown to the fun, we’ve decided to do things a bit differently than the Children’s Television Workshop.

We’ll be releasing awesome promo vids all the way up until the start of the festival. Woah, so fun. It’s even worth getting off our poolside lawn chair long enough to write this. The first one is called Super Can.

Thanks to the Music Waste team, White Lung, Bronx Cheer, The Shots, and Man Hussy for their fine efforts.

Alright, FINE. Here’s the COUNT.

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Credit Check: At work, sorry

-1 Vancouver veterans associations want a property-tax break on their clubs because finances are hard because members are passing away of old age. Why not just sell? The clubs are not going to be needed – or do they know something that we don’t know?

-10 In a shocker, the City has to bail out the Olympic Village developers.

Today: 11 This Year: 130

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Top 5: Blogs

5: Corporate Bloggin’
4: MadDecent
3: Solid Goldberger
2: XXJFG
1: Fluokids

BONUS: Mutant Sounds

Top 5 is a diary. It’s a short-list of favourite and favourite least favourite things. All put together by a jerk who generally has a trusted opinion(?), the Top 5’s intent is to stimulate the spirit of inquiry in its readers. It’s all good publicity.

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it's chinatown




Yeah sure, it’s a classic and anyone interested movies should watch it, but right now, it kind of ties in with two things. 1- it’s playing a the Ridge as part of the Projecting Change Film Festival coming up in May and maybe number 1 is because of number 2, which is that “it’s all about the water”. And while it’s set in Los Angeles, that’s also pretty relevant to Palm Springs. Where we are right now. Another town “made” in the desert. That aside, the real question here is: Is it really plausible that no one in the movie would ever pronounce his name wrong? How would you pronounce “Giddes”? You sure? And yes, that is Roman Polanski as the guy with the switchblade.

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Palm Springs: It's Always Sonny in Palm Springs

Before he hit the trees on his skis, and before he began his rather uneventful stint as a US Congressman, Sonny Bono was the mayor of this ridiculous city for over a decade. How the man who wrote “I Got You Babe” and whose name was, for much of his life, attached at the hip to one of the scariest women of all time managed to become the mayor of anything, let alone a city as distinguished as Palm Springs, isn’t much of a mystery. After all, this is California. The perversity of a variety-show host playing host to Palm Springs — a city of artifice and play, of gated driveways, gray hair, sunshine and automatic sprinklers — is as natural a pairing as bacon and eggs. The only confusing thing about it is that more like Sonny haven’t followed in his path. Bob Barker? Tim Allen? All natural born mayors — of Palm Springs. And Palm Springs needs more men like Sonny. Desperately. When he became mayor in ’88, the city was floundering. Its economy had slowed and its identity was eroding. Sonny, being the understanding individual that he was, turned it all around and shaped it back into the thriving desert paradise that it is today. But today Palm Springs faces equally consequential, completely opposite problems. Problems like how the hell can a desert city become environmentally friendly? Problems like getting around, because gas is nutty expensive and there’s hardly a speck of public transportation to be found. Problems like the golf courses this city is famous for, and where the hell does the water come from to keep the grass green? Yes, Palm Springs needs another man like Sonny. Nick Lachey, we’re looking at you.

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Palm Springs: An Abridged, Gay History

Palm Springs, a gingham playground of golf courses and private pools in the green desert of the Coachella Valley, south central California. A climate controlled wonderland of sideways mountains and Suessian palm trees; a place where movie stars, Rat Packers, busloads of conventioneering doctors and whooping college kids can party until they need more busloads of doctors to stitch their livers back together.

Or perhaps, not so much anymore.

In the mid-nineties Palm Springs City Council decided to aggressively court homosexuals to visit and move there, with the odd idea that a preponderance of gays and lesbians wandering about holding hands would cause young people to think twice about flocking there every school break to get drunk, naked, stoned, drunk and broke. In a sad indictment of the apparent ignorance of college students, it worked. Palm Springs today is no longer a Mecca of edjukit debauchery, but does have seven times more gays than the national average. And since the scientifically estimated rate of homosexuality in both humans and animals is one in seven, that means everybody in Palm Springs is gay. Gay! San Francisco is only five times the average, making Palm Springs the queerest town in the world.

Ah, Palm Springs! First called La Palm de la Mano de Dios by the Spanish, or The Palm of God’s Hand. Then some engineers installing a Jacuzzi saw a clump of palm trees and started calling it Palm Springs instead. The population is 80% white but the land is mostly owned by the 4% Cahuilla Indians. A rolling, jutting, sprawling haven of queers and native landlords, a zephyr-dusted checkerboard dotted with electricity-generating windmills and cheap, sleazy bars ‘neath unblemished empyrean infinity. If heaven can be found anywhere on Earth, it most surely rests in God’s palm.

Life in Palm Springs may have calmed down somewhat, become more gentile–except during the White Party, when tens of thousands of waxed men dressed in virginal white get filthy. However, a certain coterie of neer-do-well journalists have booked a villa featuring hot and cold running booze with the intention of single-handedly returning Coachella to alcoholic madness and livers that burst like boiled grapes. WHOOOO! Spring Break! Lez all get TOOOtally fucked UUUUUUP!!!!

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Top 5: Bummer

5. Price of Pizza slice raises city-wide.
4. Ovaltine Cafe sold?
3. Terasen cut my house off.
2. More murders.
1. Wasp & Dog shit season begins.

Top 5 is a diary. It’s a short-list of favourite and favourite least favourite things. All put together by a jerk who generally has a trusted opinion(?), the Top 5’s intent is to stimulate the spirit of inquiry in its readers. It’s all good publicity.

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Time Travel: Vancouver 1980

Long before there were leaky condos, tiny dogs and “Yaletown”, the Vancouver of 1980 was a balls out working class city with one of best hardcore punk rock scenes in the world.

Just 18 28 years ago, aside from the rich fucks in Kerrisdale, Vancouver was both affordable and eccentric. With the hippies and their wonderful weed magic still mingling with the fishermen and loggers, neighbourhoods like the West End and Kitsilano had lots of cheap homes, the Dowtown Eastside didn’t have any crack, and East Van was like a scene from The Outsiders.

This odd combination made Vancouver a really friendly and accessible city. It was both political and unpretentious. You know how everyone in Vancouver now acts like a bunch of dicks who won’t invite you to their party until they’ve known you for two years? Well, the old Vancouver was like Newfoundland, but on weed.

It’s hard to imagine that a city now known for its bloated real estate, yuppie cokeheads and inability to buy a beer, gave birth to bands like D.O.A. and the Subhumans and made Dave “Tiger” Williams a hockey star. If the Vancouver of 1980 met the Vancouver of 2008, it would give it a curbie. Not only would I go back to that time, I would take the rest of this city with me.

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Time Travel Week at Only Magazine

Ever since the overwhelming success of our Tourism Week last month, we’ve been trying long and hard to come up with another theme week that we could all rally around. It’s been slow going. Initially we thought Horrible Local Internet Week would be a good idea since, well, there’s pretty much an endless supply of fodder (present company included). But then we decided that a week long hate-fest of the mediocrity that runs thick through the DSL lines of this city would get boring and repetitive pretty quick. And who wants to be bored? Nobody, that’s who. Stalemate ensued… until last week when we were all sitting at the Astoria watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, and had a breakthrough: Time Travel! Everybody does it and knows lots about it, and the concept allows us all the opportunity to write about pretty much anything we want as long as it took place in the past or might take place in the future. Sound vague? You’re damn right it’s vague… Vaguely exciting! Just like the past, the future, and the concept of time itself. Expect a few eye-opening expeditions into the Vancouver of yesteryear, gaze into our crystal ball and see what’s in store for this futuristic city, and expect a few fun little personal anecdotes as well, like what we wish we had done with the past four years of our lives instead of making this retarded magazine.

UPDATE: Shit. Us from a week in the future just traveled back in time to tell now us that this theme is a horrible idea and totally bombs… But what do we know.

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Top 5: Breakfast

5. Open Cafe
4. Unlimited Pancakes at IHOP
3. 5 cups of Bon’s Coffee
2. No Breakfast
1. 7-11 Jamaican Patties at 7 am on the way home

Top 5 is a diary. It’s a short-list of favourite and favourite least favourite things. All put together by a jerk who generally has a trusted opinion(?), the Top 5’s intent is to stimulate the spirit of inquiry in its readers. It’s all good publicity.

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