Ape Rifle

St-Patrick’s Day Weekend is the sort of event best written about days later, when the alcoholic tide recedes just enough to allow one to sort through the detritus of memories left behind. Rummaging around in your vague recollections, perhaps you can find radiant smiles, melodies from bad Irish jigs, glimpses of green and a bunch of Guinness banners soaked in various alcoholic beverages. You might also remember a parade with wonderfully gaudy floats, Shriners in go-carts and a raucous crowd reveling in the opportunity to get blind drunk in public on a Sunday afternoon. What you might not remember so well, however, is how you sustained the inevitable injury you woke up with on Monday morning.

The infamous St-Patrick’s Day parade in Montreal is held on the day of the Lord, perhaps because it is the only day of the week Montrealers still feel they might need an excuse to party. It is also on the cusp of spring, when the fair people of this city awake from their Siberian slumber to rediscover how attractive so many of their fellow citizens are. Of course, in these parts, “on the cusp of spring” means just below freezing and some snow flurries for good measure, but that can also be counted as tradition. Having been away from my hometown for a number of the last few years, I’ve been working on rediscovering Montreal as I plot and ponder my next (likely career) move; and on March 19, 2006, that quest to rediscover my roots involved drinking no small amount of beer in honour of my ancestral lands…or maybe it was to celebrate my name day or, uhmm, perhaps it was a rite of spring…oh, honestly, who am I kidding? On St-Patrick’s Weekend, no excuse to party is needed.

We’ve all heard the cliché that on St-Patrick’s Day, everyone is Irish (although personally, I still felt Canadian as per usual despite my three quarters Irish and one quarter Slovak heritage). This might be true, but in Montreal it also seems that for this occasion everyone is once again a rambunctious student. For those who have long left the hallowed halls of academia behind for a more mundane (and profitable) existence, it’s a cherished opportunity to get shitfaced in broad daylight, piss in alleyways and just generally not remember much of what was said or done. In other words, it’s a rare chance for a North American city to resemble its European and Asian counterparts for a day. For myself, the guilty thrill of drinking in public without being fined is somewhat lessened after spending time in London, where boozing on public transportation has been elevated to an art form (I hear the Japanese are particularly good at this as well). Similarly, the pleasure of heavy drinking for no particular reason is tempered by my memories of China, where a businessman stumbling out of a restaurant at 2pm on a Tuesday and pissing on someone’s car- and then falling over - is considered a display of good business acumen.

But have no doubt, Montreal sure puts on a great show. It has the energy, it has the vibe, it has the will to let loose- and, thankfully, it has the good fortune of not being in Ontario (shudder).The spirit of St-Patrick’s Day fuels the city’s barely repressed celebration of hedonistic abandon; something about the day is a catalyst for Montreal to showcase its partying street cred. Oh, did I say ’something’? Let me rephrase that: I meant copious amounts of alcohol. We may not be Irish, but we certainly make up for it. It’s the one time of the year you’ll see club-style lineups outside grungy pubs, the city’s hipsters all clamouring to get inside and spill litres of green beer on themselves. It’s that special occasion when the collective memory of the city doesn’t make it too far past 6pm. On this weekend in March, sloppy is the new urban cool.

Here’s to you Montreal, ya drunk bastard. Get up on that table with that pitcher and dance the afternoon away.

Donnie Darko is one of the more memorable movie I have seen in a long time. While certainly not the best nor the most coherent film, it nevertheless had quite an impact on me. At times darkly funny while at others just downright eerie, Donnie Darko is a twisted little piece of film-making. It features two of the creepiest characters in recent memory- thanks to a demonic bunny suit and an unorthodox turn by Patrick Swayze- not to mention a mind bend of a story blending high school angst, time travel, a jet engine falling from the sky and an amazing 80s soundtrack. Let’s just say it’s a pretty difficult film to categorize- and judging by the online debates surrounding this modern cult classic, it’s also safe to say that it’s a pretty difficult film to follow. Even after several viewings, many- including myself -are still not entirely sure what it is even about. Yes, it is the sort of movie that your self-important film snob friends will deem a brilliant masterpiece based largely on the fact that it is confusing.

Donnie Darko is one of those movies that leaves itself wide open to interpretation. Is it about the search for God? Is about acute psychosis? Is it a cautionary tale against wearing giant rabbit suits on Halloween? To be honest, I’m still not too sure myself, even years after first viewing the film on a pirated DVD back in China. What I do believe, however, is that a central theme in Donnie Darko is the dissection of destiny. In this regard, it asks a very profound question: If you are made aware of your destiny, can you consciously choose to follow it or not…or was it pre-destined that you would choose to follow that path, hence making it your destiny to begin with? Pretty convoluted, I know. But give yourself a few minutes to think about it, and soon enough you will be twisted in your own metaphysical knot. What came first, the destiny or the choice?

This film, I believe, is so intriguing precisely because it taps into these age-old questions of humanity. Like the rest of us, it wants to know: how much agency do we really have over the course of our own lives? Are we destined to follow certain paths, or rather are we making it all up as we go along? Does fate exist, or it just a more romantic word for chance and statistical probability?

These questions, among others, have been bouncing around my mind a fair bit as of late, as I find my life in yet another transition period. Who doesn’t love the legendary transition periods? Usually following the end of academic studies, employment, a relationship or a sojourn abroad (or, if you are really unlucky, several of them simultaneously), they are those lovely times when all that was once solid melts into air. While dreaded for their inherent bouts of aimlessness, angst and possible temporary returns to the parental fold, they can nevertheless be understood in a positive light. Being in a transition period is a precious chance, if you are lucky enough, to pause the movie of life and think: What do I want to do with myself? What sort of career am I really suited for? How can I best make use of my experience and qualifications? Where do I want to live? I fight to remain positive in my transition periods because I realize that, unlike the huge majority of people, I can afford to stop and ask these questions. Instead of just barreling along, I get to make explicit choices. And this is certainly not something I should take for granted.

Choices, of course, are not always easy. They can be scary. They can have uncertain outcomes. They can go wrong, leading to pain and regret. Perhaps it is for these reasons that so many of us are so often afraid of choice; it is because we are afraid to take responsibility for our own decisions and their consequences. Rather, we prefer to hide behind ideas of destiny and fate. How many times have you heard someone tell you something “was meant to be” or “wasn’t meant to be?” Sure, these are just expressions, but they betray our underlying desire to dump agency on some unseen force, absolving ourselves of responsibility for what took place, especially if we did something potentially wrong.

But, in the end, I don’t believe I am pre-destined to be in any particular career or place, or be with any particular person. I could “wait for something to come along”; I could wait around to somehow meet “the love of my life”; I could believe that “somehow everything will work itself out”. But after twenty-five years, I have come to the realization that this is the coward’s way out; this is how to avoid making the tough decisions. Of course it is easier, and more comforting, to think that fate is guiding you- and yet, will this spectator’s view of your own life really get you anywhere? Should you really rely on some metaphysical invention to make you successful and happy?

I say no. I say boycott the ideas of destiny and fate, those refuges of the weak-minded, the indecisive and the lazy. I say it’s time we accepted that, above all, we are responsible for our own actions, and thus the path down which we guide our lives. I say make your choice and take responsibility instead of blaming the stars or a situation. In the end, something is “meant to be” or “not meant to be” depending on what is chosen to be. Ultimately, expecting fate to make your choices for you does not a happy life make. Get that Disney nonsense out of your head, and take the bull by the horns.