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In a mildly smoky and dank cellar below Old Street`s, The Foundy,
a cluster of uni-scenesters congregate on a night that is humid and
expectant. At the front, well-lit and theatrically draped in black
fabric, a poet announces, (rough translation) " a Canadian cannot find
his ass with both hands." A vibe of coolness and contented smiles are
shared between cigarettes and sips of water. The poet (looking like a
cross between the Brazilian footballer Leonardo and a young, ragged
Peter Fonda) adds, "allowing to a shortage of cocaine I turned my back
on public life."
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In a mildly smoky and dank cellar below Old Street`s, The Foundy,