Who doesn’t have at least ten different sides to their personality? Hell, I’ve got a minimum of ten and according to my cab driver a few weeks back (in his obviously very tainted experiences), as a Gemini I should have at least twenty-five more. No no, this isn’t a final admittance of my craziness (stay tuned!); this is a celebration of multifaceted personalities. If you’re a Millennial (also known as Generation Y, Generation Next, Net Generation or Echo Boomers) you likely grew up…

The Blue Metropolis International Literary Festival is in full swing until Sunday May 1. With an incredible amount of events featuring world-renowned and locally-grown authors, it’s an overwhelming task trying to plan your weekend’s schedule. A sure way to hear an assortment of excerpts from a variety of Montreal writers all at once in a single location, is to attend Imagine Montreal this Friday, April 29 at the Holiday Inn Centreville…

In less than 48 hours, the long weekend will be raring to go, like your overly impatient father circa 1994, who just wants to get the road trip started and doesn’t care that you left behind your favourite teddy bear. So, tape your fragmented freedom back together, because you’ve got at least three days to enjoy the fact that Monday morning is a foggy blur at the other end of the Canal. You’ve got all day Friday to sleep in, rest up and re-fuel on Redbull because you’ll definitely want to be at Cabaret Playhouse Friday night to party with Four Minutes To Midnight, as they celebrate the launch of their eleventh issue.

St-Henri is resonating with the raw energy of a burgeoning scene. An impending volcanic eruption of creative gusto, hip boutiques and cozy cafes, St-Henri is on the brink of becoming Montreal’s hip new borough. I love that it’s a westward valley laying low beneath the overdone hype of Mile End. It’s a picturesque little hub with a strong neighbour vibe, where Mom and Pop diners still serve all-day breakfasts next to new-wave bistros with harvest menus…

So we’re talking beauty, eh? I’ll tell ya what’s beautiful: a vernissage. It’s a word I’d never heard before moving to Montreal, which isn’t all that surprising since french kissing is about as French as we get in Halifax. Sure, I’ve been to opening nights at art galleries before this year, but “opening night” lacks all the glamor and excitement that vernissage conveys. While opening night conjures up images of velvet curtains and stage fright, vernissage is equated with such beautiful things as free wine, tiny h’orderves, crowds of art enthusiastic and bite sized cupcakes with fluffy strawberry icing

I’ve soaked up a lot of things since moving to Montreal in September. Primarily wine and caffeine, both readily available a short three minute trot from my abode, but I’ve also taken in and absorbed Montreal’s rich artistic culture and creative expression. In fact, my romanticized daydreams about moving to this artistic mecca were only a little of the mark…

Calling all English majors, journalist grads, creative writing kids—the lot of you! If you’ve tumbled out of your academic bubble with impeccable writing skills and eager zest, only to be splashed in the face by the dejected paper boy as he zooms through a large swampy puddle directly in front of you, traumatized by the fact that he no longer has a job because no one’s reading papers and the newsroom closed—THEN, friends, I bear hope…

I’m not a huge sports fan. I traded in my hockey skates for jazz shoes at age five; my track ambitions ended when I slowly but surely came in last place at my high school track meet; and with my serious lack of hand-to-eye coordination, no one will dispute that I put the “bad” in badminton. So when I was offered tickets to see a play about the black American boxer Joe Louis, my heart wasn’t necessarily palpitating with excitement. But then I did a little research, talked to playwright David Sherman, saw the show, and realized this play is rooted in a much richer soil than just sports history. It’s rooted in racism, sexism, and…

Sit back—or on the edge of your seat—and witness the Brown Bomber and Max Schmeling face off for the second time, as history is relived this month at Infinithéâtre.
Playwright David Sherman’s Joe Louis: An American Romance opened last night at Bain St-Michel, and runs until February 20. Arriving just in time for Black History Month, the play focuses on the American boxer Joe Louis, one of the most influential figures not only in Black history, not only in sports history, but arguably in the last century.

Starting this Friday night at Galerie-Espace (4844 Blv St Laurent), visual artist Steve Walls will be showcasing his photography work. Photos range from Montreal’s Glam Gam burlesque toupe, rave kids who make their own clothing to New Dandy’s and “the occasional mom turned tattooed blogging model queen.”

Steve Walls moved to Montreal after a decade of nomadic travels—”London, Singapore, Sydney, New York, Detroit, bits of Spain and Korea, even a spell in Vanuatu. I thought that I knew cities, but this one felt different,” says Walls. “Montreal lives in the dusk and the dawn, in conversations that happen in the moments between light and dark. Yet it’s a city that’s built on the people that it rewards and recognizes the least.”

Have you ever played Two Truths One Lie? If you haven’t, it goes something like this: you tell two truths and one lie to a group of people, and they have to guess which is the false uttering. A misleading title, I know. But the point of the game, other than to pinpoint the lie, is to embellish your truths to seem like lies and hone your lie to seem believable. ‘Tis a game of bewitching trickery and devious intentions. Okay, so take this concept and apply it to a room full of adults, throw in some wine and beer for good measure, and top if off with three comedians wearing thick-framed glasses I thoroughly approve of (funny with awesome glasses? Check). What do you get?

What’s funnier than four guys racing around barefoot in life jackets? Oh wait, let me qualify—with manic energy and crazed expressions on a nearly naked stage at the Centaur Theatre in Old Port? I bore witness and can attest; the answer is nothing. On Tuesday night, Montreal’s most acclaimed improv and sketch comedy troupe, Uncalled For, opened the 14th annual Wildside Festival to a wholly receptive crowd. Well, except for that stodgy couple who left half way through. The only explanation I can reason is that everyone else’s perpetual laughter ricocheted off the walls and knocked the sense out of them. Otherwise, no one’s eyes veered away from the boisterous foursome that is Uncalled For.

Nina Arsenault enters the intimate theatre in a haze of dry ice, illuminated by gelatinous images of silicone looping on a large screen. She slowly, purposefully slinks to the stage and sits on the edge. With balletic grace she extends her slender arm, like a mermaid reaching towards shore. The room is silent, as if she has sucked the breath out of every single audience member and is using it to restore her own mannequin form to life. Once satiated, she rises and stands before us in perfectly proportioned, cyborg beauty.