You have to kind of feel sorry for metal bands. As if it isn't hard enough for the average musician to come up with the right band name, these dudes have to conjure one that adheres to an elaborate, unwritten code. I can tell you what won't cut it: Death Cab for Cutie. Neutral Milk Hotel. Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah. Somehow, even band names with "wolf" in the title don't sound as metal as they should.

Worse yet, Judas Priest is already taken.

So, forgive last Sunday's lineup at Metropolis if the marquee looked a little silly: Cradle of Filth, 69 Eyes and Three Inches of Blood. But to be honest, the marquee (marquis?) was probably the least silly thing I saw all night.

Our friend OmnipoTim has a unique gift. You might call it a superpower, except that if you did, he would get too excited to perform. He can speechify on ANY subject, and charm the pants off of any colleague, coworker or cab driver in his path - without Google! Go on, give him a try: email your random queries to me at sara-AT-midnightpoutine.ca and we'll put him to the test again.

Teetering on the Edge of Veracity: So, what is this little column all about? Just another teeny tiny little fish in the giant pond that is Midnight Poutine, really. I’m just a chatty Cathy who seems to be able to find common ground with just about anyone due to my vast knowledge of crap. Conversations witnessed: the subtle and nuanced differences between European and African soccer, the difference between a beef tenderloin and a Chateau Briand cut, or perhaps the difference between a fop and a flower (Scarlet Pimpernel=Fop, the Sun King=Flower…duh).

See, I thought I was “jus' talkin,’” but apparently normal people don’t a) talk about that stuff or b) care to learn/remember that stuff or c) have any reason to think anyone would a) or b).

Screw them, the douchebags.

Here are the rules for the OmnipoTim question/answer period:

Pics by Sir Hill, Lord of the Commonwealth Fotogs

Let me tell you a little something about Heavy Metal Bus Driver. Heavy Metal Bus Driver had a city route in London, Ontario. For all I know, he still does. He wore one of those regular city bus driver uniforms - you know, dark blue slacks, light blue collared shirt with city bus logo. He wore this uniform with SNAKESKIN BOOTS. And a giant rawk belt buckle. And big ol' rawk sunglasses. And waist-length, bleached, permed hair.

In conclusion, he was my favorite person ever.

Dave took these wicked shots of Illuminati.

As a teenaged headbanger in small-town Southwestern Ontario, there were few words more repugnant to me than "pop." It smacked of NKOTB, Tiffany, the Metallica black album, and all of the vapid, trendy things my friends and I were against. Sure, we were a marginalized group of stoned, skittish, pasty nerds. But at least we were True.

The way Mike tells it, life in the even smaller enclave of New Hamburg was different. "Metalheads RULED that town!" he reminisces. They were the popular kids, the jocks and the bullies. Yes, it was a pop-free utopia of corn fields and refrigerated transport trucks.

I don't wear as much acid wash as I used to, but I've never really gotten over that knee-jerk reaction to the idea of pop. So I was relieved to discover the hardly-secret fact that Pop Montreal offers much more.

Sometimes it seems like activism takes a summer vacation from this city. That's not the case, of course - Radio Tadamon's excellent podcasts cover some of the local organizing around the attack on Lebanon, for example - but it certainly does get quiet around here between June and August. And while I cringe at the thought of the winter to come, I welcome the energy that the cooler season brings.

So whether you're an eager new student, or a seasoned lefty who needs a bit of a kick in the pants, get busy this week:

Concordia's Alternative Orientation (Sept. 18-26): Community garden tours, workshops, films, info tables and a "Karaoke Birthday Ball" on the 26th
RadGrad 2006 (Sept. 19-28): "A politicized introduction to grad student life at McGill" - workshops and panels on the intersections of academia and community organizing
PROTEST extraordinary and ordinary "rendition" to torture (Sept. 21, 8 a.m., CSIS, 715 Peel): "Against Canadian complicity in all kidnap and torture, whether illegal or 'legal'"
DIE-IN (Sept. 22, 5:30 p.m., Phillips Square): For Car-Free Day, a ketchup-soaked theatrical spectacle "to commemorate the death and the wounds caused by all kinds of motorized vehicles" - inspired by a similar demo in 1976 by Le Monde à Bicyclette

There are few things that can redeem a day that features frantic sprints through O'Hare and four-hour weather delays. But here's one of them: sitting two seats away from Undertaker!

Okay, he was in first class and I was skulking behind him in coach, digging through my bag for my die-cast Kane keychain and sneaking glimpses of his entourage of Armani-suited goons. But it was very exciting nonetheless. At 6'10" and 305 pounds of tattooed muscle, he didn't so much appear large as make everyone around him seem comically small.

It was the antithesis to a humid and mundane week spent in San Antonio. Undertaker's pyrotechnics-heavy, costumed, brooding, hellfire-and-Texas performance is what sucked me back into the fabulously wrong world of professional wrestling years ago, and although I have since drifted away from Monday Night Raw, seeing him again reignited my giddiness over all of that Baudrillardian hyperreality. When I finally made it home at 4 a.m., my head was spinning with over-hyphenated hyperbole and the improbable logistics of various mile-high scenarios - handily, Undertaker already has my name tattooed on his neck.

You too have a chance to open a can of your favorite flavour of whoopass/smell what the Rock is cookin/insert what the kids are saying these days at the WWE Raw+Smackdown SuperShow in Montreal TONIGHT! And tomorrow get your ass to Ottawa for TRYOUTS! Hell yeah!

I can't yet tell you what Nick and Mike are shaking on, but believe you me, some crazy shit is in the pipes...

You already know that it pays to visit Midnight Poutine eighty times a day for the most up-to-date local news, toilet sightings and slanderous celebrity gossip. You also know that we're not above bribing you to keep coming back.

Just ask our lucky Osheaga contest winners, who have been notified by email.

These hopelessly devoted MP readers will be treated to a closer look at Goliath. Plus, I hear there are some bands playing.

So, in 50 words or less, tell us how much you love us (you can use the handy comment section below). There will be a prize. It will not be concert tickets.

PS - Stick around for wall-to-wall, candy-coated, fat-free, bilingual Osheaga coverage from Nika, Evelyne and Liam. Wheeee!

Photos by Dave, who will officially turn 30 on Sunday. Does that make him over the Hill?

Here at Midnight Poutine, we occasionally (um, not exactly weekly) like to distract you from the drudgery of your workplace with a few fun and quasi-SFW links. I'm making an exception for this particular OCT - you can't link to squat from this post.

I want you to get up, mumble some sort of half-assed excuse, and make your way for a "15-minute" break at Frénésie de la "Main" (aka Main Madness), the plateau's second yearly street fair.

There are dogs - both kinds. There are juicy, tangy, sexy mangos on sticks. There is $2 beer. There is also $2 chow mein which, contrary to what the cheap bastards on Stillepost would have you believe, is a fine deal. I prefer the greasy goodness of le Gourmet d'Orient, since you asked.

And, I know you don't want to hear it right now, but this is It. Summer's last hurrah. Slather your still-pasty self with SPF 270, get out there and soak it up.

I don't know about you people, but I am SO sick of Tupperware parties. It's not that I don't enjoy mixing alcohol and shopping, or sharing recipes with the other perky homemakers on my street in St. Bruno. It's just that I have enough colour-coordinated, stackable individual watermelon slice holders. For now, at least.

Imagine how pleased I was when our very own Nika Vee offered an alternative! La Chatte Bottée features a unique selection of women's
vintage shoes and boots from the 60s, 70s and 80s. Only it's not some musty frip--it's a roving cocktail and nibbles party.

Tomorrow evening, the always fantabulous Nika and the equally stylin' Carole will welcome their first batch of rubberneckers and customers: 4152 St-Laurent #402 (4th floor, south of Rachel, right next to the Vespa boutique). Read on for the full scoop...

By now you've heard all about The Devil and Daniel Johnston: part music documentary, part harrowing exploration of manic depression, covering everything from carnies in Austin to Casper the Friendly Ghost to Sonic Youth.

What most reviews aren't saying is that this film is absolutely hilarious. Why shy away from that? This isn't like laughing at burn victims or something. What my experiences with a certain hillbilly have taught me--and what Johnston knows and plays with mercilessly--is that mental illness IS funny. Sure, it's also heartbreaking and confusing. But you can either laugh or go crazy, you know?

During Montreal's tantilizingly short summers, I prefer to stay in the city. Dog and skid-ball watching in the park, sweating into a giant beer at Idée Fixe, cruising down the Rachel path on my (er, I mean Mike's) bike... this is why I live here, bitter winters and grim career prospects be damned.

Unfortunately, the Powers That Be don't generally consult me about such matters, and I spend a lot of these sunny days doing the Willy Loman thing far from home. But it turns out that it's summer in California right now, too, and as Señor Hill's postcard-perfect pics attest, San Francisco has bike paths that make ours look like chipped beef on toast.