Some people become your heroes whether either of you know it or not.
One fateful day, Bruce McDonald walked into the cafe in downtown Kitchener where I slung espresso alongside a bunch of other friendly punks. High as a cloud but slowly coming down, as it was mid-morning, I took his order and gushed to my clever but clueless coworkers.
They didn't know who he was. They had never seen his films, but my favourite director had entered my sphere. Roadkill, Highway 61. Hardcore Logo. Dance Me Outside. Trigger. Holy shit. His movies reflected my own sense of off-kilter Canadiana back at me like the glassy surface of a glacial lake in my native Alberta. The films swaggered self-effacingly, projecting our national identity through a punk rock lens that didn’t exist anywhere else. His presence meant something big to me, and only me.
Bruce was, reportedly, scouting potential shooting locations for Hardcore Logo 2.
“Have you heard of Die Mannequin?” asked Bruce’s companion - a regular at our cafe, and a middle-aged municipal liaison whose task that day, apparently, was to show Bruce around.
I sure as hell had.
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