Dear international punk and hardcore community,

Well, here I am, still in Newfoundland and becoming obsessed with ice pans, an obsession that started after I heard this awesome and pleading “Please Talk to your Kids about Ice Pans” public service announcement. I guess each year when these broken-off bits of ice bergs drift past the coast of Newfoundland, local youth jump on them for kicks, leading to a few annual helicopter rescues or deaths by cold, cold drownings.

I tried to go see the ice pans last week, despite the fact that I was so tired I'd get head rushes from turning my head. Strings of graveyard shifts. I cannot pull that shit off. On evening three, after a day of failed napping, standing over a stove and preparing a pot of espresso seemed too much, so I hopped on my bike and coasted downhill towards the harbor and just paid for some smiley 20-year-old in all black in one of those extremely lame nouveau rich-fancy fair trade establishments to make one for me instead. Sure, I am in theory for the move towards all-organic food industry, but in a place wherein the the term “organic” has no regulation at all, it's just an aesthetic, some cheesy St. John-ers with ebay-bought Prada and fake mainland accents buying twenty dollar appetizer sampler plates. I ordered that double espresso to go. Yes. Let's burn this fucker down one non-sustainable cup at a time.

Anyway, the coffee did nothing but turn some stomach some more and I went around by the harbor and I couldn't see nothing around the fishing boats, so I forced myself up the stairs of a parking garage, six floors up, about half the height of the tallest building in town. I tried to see out, but it was getting too dark, maybe, or they'd passed through the harbor and were gone by now, but anyway, I couldn't see much. Nothing I could possibly jump on, at least.

Not like the ice pans I saw on the news that night, watching TV at work. Ice pans were so thick in some parts, ferries were marooned. Featured was the Bell Island ferry and a group of people trying to get back into St. John's― they'd flown in for a funeral from all the usual ex-expatriate spots: the Alberta oil fields, Qatar, Nunavut. The denseness of the ice pans were so thick, the ferry delayed its trip to wait for an icebreaker. But when the icebreaker didn't arrive and flight times loomed closer, the ferry decided to go it alone and trudge through the ice, constantly backing up and rerouting, a 20-minute trip dragging into well over an hour.

It just defies conventional seasonal logic, you know? Like, I see an ocean full of ice that thick and I'm like, fuck. That is fucking cold, man. But here, it's just a usual occurrence, symptomatic of warmer weather, see, because the ice bergs a little north are breaking off and drifting southbound. Ice pans and glacier-thick water means summer is a-comin'.

“Are you upset about the delay?” the funeral goers were asked.

“Oh, heck, no, Newfoundland, ice comes with the territory.” with a calm casualness, a genuine indifference to armageddon-like conditions.

Just like my landlord says when I hand him my rent late because I'd been stuck at my home care job for an extra day― yes, in my new life, blizzards lead me to sometimes work for a straight twenty-four hours. Anyway, he responds, in pure small-talk demeanor, “Well, no one said it would be easy, b'y”

Which is a funny thing to say to someone when taking their money for rent. Oh well. In international standards, this apartment is underpriced. Go upstairs and listen to this floor stereo unit with a broken record player that I got for free out of the Buy & Sell magazine. I listen to cassettes on it by connecting my Walkmen to it with a Y-cord via the aux inputs on the back. My old best friend/roommate circa early-2000s just sent me a mixtape. I always forget she's not 17 anymore until she sends me a mix tape that's all “Burn out” by GREEN DAY and that Bruce Springsteen song waxing nostalgia about teenage sex.

Anyway, last week, my new band played someone's twentieth birthday party in their mom's basement. Awkward occasion. If someone quotes that Greg Ginn via Henry Rollins quote about playing the fuck out of a show despite only five people in attendance maybe never played a show to said amount of people while an equal amount of college girls stood in the adjoining kitchen, smiling politely and drinking Big-8 brand lemon-lime sodas, waiting for this to all to be over. I'm wishing I was still in the study watching youtube videos of juggalos. Everyone says every year prior, the 17th birthday, 18th and 19th, this party was bumping. Something else I missed. I'm hoping the raging punk heyday of this place isn't over. I don't want to move somewhere cliche-punk because I want to be 25 and enjoy a sweaty and insane house show with my peers. I'm looking for something to jump on here.

Hopefully, next month, my column will be punker.

xo juls generic