A Californian fad has made it's way to Canada, and it's causing some alarm among Suburban puritans. This fad is the Raver Code, an off-shoot of the ancient handkerchief code that was made popular by the San Francisco gay community.

The handkerchief code, which sometimes goes by the name "hanky code", "bandana code" and the more prosaic term "flagging", is a way for gay men looking for casual sex to let other guys know what they're erotic interests are. Want to anally fist a dude? Wear a red bandana in your left back pocket. Looking for a guy to fist you? Wear the red bandana in your right back pocket.

Handkerchief colors and patterns indicate what sexual act you're interested in, while the placement in the left and right back pocket tells other hanky coders that you're either a top or a bottom, respectively.

The raver code first reared its head in the late 90s, right at the height of the dot-com boom. The West Coast nerds mingled with the gay community, and a couple of them fell in love with the hanky code. They started throwing hanky raves -- parties where hedonists of all stripes and colors could buy handkerchiefs to advertise their particular peccadilloes, making it a snap for the well paid geeks to hook up.

The hanky ravers soon realized though, that buttons were cheaper to make then bandanas and, unlike bandanas, they could also be combined. It was far easier to wear five buttons, each denoting a different sexual vice, then it was to wear five handkerchiefs. The ravers devised a new button code based on the old hanky code, and the button raves became the new hanky raves. These parties were always small, exclusive affairs, but over the last few years they've started to catch on and spread throughout the rest of the world.

The raver code uses standard one inch buttons that have an outer border and an inner color or pattern. The border color indicates if a person is top, bottom, or switch. The inner color indicates what sexual act the button wearer is interested in. The buttons are often worn on hats, shirts, and occasionally pants.

Most of the time ravers don't bother to use buttons to denote their sexual orientation, they just wear buttons for the acts they're interested in. However, four buttons are sometimes worn to denote sexual orientation -- a pink and blue intertwined triangle for bisexuals, a male and female symbol interlinked for heterosexuals, two male symbols intertwined for gays, and two female symbols intertwined for lesbians.

Button parties have been held in places like Paris, Berlin, London, Tokyo, Vancouver, and, just recently, Montreal.

One of the newest additions to the raver code are drug letters. These are buttons with letters on them that let the wearer tell people the drugs they have to sell, and the drugs they'd like to buy. When wearing a drug button, only two colors are used for borders -- white borders for people who want drugs and black borders for people who have drugs. The inclusion of drug symbols has piqued the interest of police forces around the world, who worry that the raver code will make it easier than ever for teenagers to get high.

The chart below is a sample of some of the button colors and patterns that make up the raver code.

Here's a story that might put the fear of God into some of you -- over in England, a 19 year old was recently banned from raving. Magistrates in the UK ruled that the teenager, who had been arrested for possessing a variety of intoxicating substances that his social betters disapproved of, would no longer be allowed to party on weekends.

He could still go raving Monday through Thursday, but Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were out of bounds. While his friends were out partying, he'd be under curfew at home, forced to watch the BBC with his family, and maybe even eat dinner with them.

Our story isn't all sorrow and tears though. Local ravers rallied to the poor boy's cause, and his county is now home to a variety of weekday raves. The magistrates, meanwhile, only placed the lad under curfew for a year. Once he's 20, he'll be free to drop ecstacy and dance to the beats being spun by his favorite Donk DJs at a legitimate, Friday night rave.

The idea of drug users being banned from raving is pretty novel. The UK is a pioneer when it comes to harassing ravers, though. Don't be surprised if they start exporting their anti-fun know-how to the rest of the world. One day in the not so distant future, judges in Canada might start handing out curfews to drug addled ravers, telling them that they can no longer go out dancing on weekends.

When that happens, you'll know who to blame: The British.

A Longueille raver was pulled over for speeding early last week, which is when the boys in blue made a sordid discovery: our south shore party boy was carrying a foul smelling passenger -- a rotting corpse.

The body belonged to a homeless man who, back in May, had asked the raver for a place to sleep. This dubstep afficionado had spent a year on the streets himself, and out of pity, told the guy he could crash in his beat up Chevy. Unfortunately, the vagrant passed away while sleeping in the car, and when raver discovered the dead body, he didn't know what to do, so he decided not to do anything. He just kept driving like he normally did, even though a body was slowly decomposing next him.

He masked the odor of the putrefying flesh with baking soda and pine scented air freshener. When the maggots started crawling out of the body, he covered it with a tarp.

It's weird to think about, but there was a rotting dead guy within steps of every single party this guy went too for the last six months. Shades of Psycho. There are some messed up ravers out there.

Criminal charges seem unlikely, though the raver in question is undergoing psychiatric evaluation. The car, meanwhile, has been impounded and will likely be destroyed. I don't think anyone would want to buy it after what it's been through. No one short of Norman Bates or Jeffrey Dahmer, anyways.

There's one sound guy who might be having trouble finding work in Montreal after a disastrous weekend party. The young man in question showed up at a party blitzed out of his mind on a variety of toxic substances, and proceeded to utterly and completely destroy thousands of dollars worth of sound equipment. He spilled beer over two CDJs and shorted them out, he knocked over two speakers in a drugged out stupor, seriously damaging one of them, he somehow managed to set the mixer on fire, and to top it all off, he and almost asphyxiated himself when he fell asleep in a pile of cables that, through the magic of drunk fu, became tangled around his neck like a noose. Had some random party kids not found him in that state of disgrace, who know's what would have happened.

His (now former) employer wasn't impressed, and it seems like the sound guy is going to have to pay for all the equipment he wrecked. The lesson here, folks, is that people don't treat things with respect that they don't pay for in some form. People who aren't invested in the equipment aren't going to treat it right. They'll knock it over, spill shit all over it, and basically treat it like a two dollar hooker. Then they wake up with herpes and realize that maybe they should have been a little more cautious and a little less wreckless.

I doubt this sound engineer will be showing up drunk at work anytime soon.

Last June, a well connected event organizer was gifted a large sheet of top quality LSD. The chemist responsible for this magic paper knew his stuff -- Timothy Leary would be proud of his work. The sheet of paper had two hundred hits of the potent mind bending stuff on it, which made for a marvelous summer of psychadelic fun. Every Friday, the promoter would call some friends over to his place to drop acid and watch some old movies from the 1980s.

There was a regular circle of three revelers who would drop by his place for Acid Fridays -- his girlfriend, her best friend, and an old high school friend. Occasionally, a couple of random people would drop in on the fun. And it was fun... Until the promoter spilled a bottle of coca-cola over his sheet of LSD. For reasons unknown, the promoter, who has no background in chemistry, became convinced that the cola had weakened the LSD, and that from now on, the only way anyone would get high is if they quintupled their doses.

The night he made this radical decision, he and his girlfriend were too busy arguing with each other to get high. They decided dropping LSD wasn't a good idea if they were in a bad mood. His girlfriend's best friend had to leave early for a work emergency, so she also avoided the ten hit drop. This left his friend from high school, and a random guy that the promoter had met at a comic book store earlier that day -- a young 17 year old anime nerd who had never once done drugs in his life. Not even marijuana.

The two guys dropped their acid, and proceeded to lose their minds.

What happened over the course of that night is open to some debate, though the outcome isn't: a woman was robbed, and drugs were flushed down the toilet.

At some point in the night, the promoter's high school buddy and the anime nerd both decided that they were trapped in hell. The Anime nerd, in order to protect himself from the demon's who were out to get him, locked himself inside the bathroom.

The high school buddy, meanwhile, was convinced that the only way to break out of hell is if he seperated the promoter from his girlfriend. He thought they were the demon gatekeepers of the netherworld, and that they derived their power from being together. He grabbed the promoter's girlfriend by the hand, and dragged her outside. Unfortunately, the girlfriend didn't realize that this guy was bad tripping, and decided it was a good time to have a heartfelt conversation about how unhappy she was with her boyfriend. The high school buddy, who thought he was dealing with a demon god, couldn't understand why she was asking him for relationship advice. He demanded that the demon god pay for his cab ride home, and when she said she had no money, he dragged her to a bank to take out forty dollars to pay for his cab.

While the promoter's girlfriend was being mugged, things at the apartment had taken a turn for the worst. It was now 5am, and the anime nerd was rolling around naked in the hallway of the promoter's apartment yelling "I'm on fire! I'm on fire!" The promoter had no idea what to do, so he called 911. The girlfriend got back from her misadventure in time to see the nerd being placed in the back of an ambulance.

Convinced that the cops were going to show up, she forced her boyfriend to flush all his LSD down a toilet.

Now, the promoter always makes sure he has some valium on hand when doing LSD with people.

Fifteen years ago, heroin chic was all the rage in the gilded world of high-fashion. Models who didn't look like they spent all their time free basing heroin in the back alleys of Beverly Hills were passe. Pale skin, dark circles under the eyes, and arms full of needle marks were your ticket to the in crowd. Life at the top of the fashion crop demanded an authentic drug addled look.

Fashion moves on, and heroin chic has given way to the forced irony of the hipster generation. American Apparel and its ilk feast on the rotting carcasses of insecure, awkward twenty somethings who prefer Pabst to poppy seeds. The low fashion of the trustafarian generation dominates the landscape of Montreal's party scene. Skinny jeans, bad haircuts, and ironic t-shirts have replaced the emaciated heroin look popularized by Kate Moss and Calvin Klein.

This change in the zeitgeist doesn't sit well with one local DJ/Meth Dealer. Our glass loving CD mixing troglodyte has made it his life ambition to revive the druggy chic of the mid nineties. He's evangelizing a return to his favorite era -- but instead of heroin being the drug of the fashion forward, he wants to make crystal meth the new "it" thing.

His life revolves around the aesthetics of drug use. He's writing a book on the philosophy of meth, and is currently studying the works of a dozen French philosophers to help shore up his arguments. Our crazy dealer believes that the words and thoughts of men like Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault prove that only a life that's lived on the edge of addiction is authentic, and everything else is fake.

Our DJ isn't only writing a book about the glories of meth, he's also working on a documentary, a fashion line, and a lecture tour. Every single one of his projects is dedicated to convincing people that meth isn't just a drug, but a viable and ethically sound way of life. If he has his way, the pro-meth movement will be Montreal's hippest export. Forget Vice Magazine and Dov Charney -- Montreal's biggest contribution to the fashion world will be the Way of Meth.

A heartbroken raver went off the deep end this weekend when she spotted her former honey at a party, arm in arm with a new woman. The sight of this buxom goddess of the gothic persuasion draped over her ex-boyfriend made our love lorn lass lose her cool. She grabbed a pair of scissors from her tote bag and began chasing her rival in love around the room, desperately trying to give the girl a new and not at all fabulous hairdo.

This mad diva tossed her scissors when they proved ineffective, and decided that in order to get her revenge, she'd have to amp up the crazy. She got her mittens on a bottle of bleach that had been tucked away in a broom closet, and ran towards her sworn enemy like a kamikaze pilot, launching her makeshift chemical weapon at her black clad foe. Not only did she ruin her adversary's expensive threads, she also ruined those of a group of innocent bystanders. Bleach splattered and smattered half a dozen people.

The party gods could not abide this woman's unfestive behavior, so they kicked her out of the party. The crowd was stunned by the nutty antics they had witnessed, and the chattering masses spent the rest of the evening talking about nutty ex-lovers, stalkers, and creepers.

Every year, countless Quebeckers die of alcohol poisoning. Binge drinkers destroy their body by imbibing more booze than it can handle. They flood their blood with the stuff, causing their alcohol level to spike. Once it reaches a certain threshold, they kick the bucket. Most ravers have tempted the gods in this manner, but few of them have been as unlucky and as reckless as one recent victim of vodka mayhem.

The party goer had smuggled in a 700ml bottle of the finest Russian vodka at a party. He started the night by sharing a few shots with some friends. Once the first round was done, the bottle had a little over 500ml left in it -- or about a pint. This is when a stupid idea popped inside the man's head -- he decided he wanted to chug the rest of the bottle in one shot.

This turned out to be a fatal mistake. Apparently, gulping down a pint of Vodka is a very bad idea. Maybe huskee, bulky types who live in the mountains of Siberia can pull it off, but most people can't. That includes our mad raver, who dropped dead shortly after drinking the last drop of his Vodka, which he downed in under eight seconds. He passed out shortly after the shot, and his friends thought nothing of it, and left him lying down in a dark and dank corner of the party. When they came back for him a couple hours later though, they found him dead, in a puddle of his own blood and vomit. He had choked to death.

Sometimes, moderation has it's virtues.

The Japanese have exported some wonderful cultural products to the West over the years. Unfortunately, they've also given us some pretty horrible things as well, like bukkake porn, pokemon, and the topic of this report -- the Chikan movement. The Chikan, which is Japanese for groper, have now found a home in our fair city, and they've started terrorizing ravers, clubbers, and hipsters. Dozens of reports are coming in from clubs, pubs, and parties about the mob like groping activities of the Chikan underworld.

Over in the land of the rising sun, pervy men fondling strangers is such a common affair that over 70% of teenage girls are reported to have been the victim of public molestation at some point in their lives. The Japanese have a word for these groping victims -- Chijo. Every day, more and more Montreal party kids are joining the ranks of the Chijo, as the wandering hands of desperate and foul men reach over and cop a feel.

One of the things that separates the Chikan from your run of the mill pervert is that they are well organized. The Chikan hunts for Chijo in the same way that military commanders plan sieges. They gather data, build maps, plan escape routes, and figure out the easiest place to hit for the greatest rewards and the lowest risk. Nowadays, the Chikan have become so sophisticated, that they even use social media websites to coordinate group groping attacks. When a Chikan notices an opportunity to molest someone while out and about, he sends a text to an internet base camp that informs all the members of his pervy tribe about the booty available. Members who are available then descend on the target in a manner similar to a flash mob.

Chikan's are always on the lookout for an opportunity to successfully fondle some Chijo. They are at war with the boundaries of acceptable behavior, and every time they see a chance to destroy those boundaries, they will take it.

They are the samurai of perversion, and they're in Montreal, dancing at your parties, grabbing your girlfriend's butt.

There's a trend brewing in the 'burbs of Middle America. Waistlines are ballooning throughout the vast land of our Southern Neighbours, and this increase in the girth (and cholesterol level) of the American people has created a fault line between the world of the skinny folk and that of their blubbery counterparts. The obese are becoming increasingly hostile towards their lithe and supple brethren. The hostilities are most likely a result of the patronizing and often condescending anti-fatty views that permeate the world of the slim and beautiful.

Fat advocacy groups have had enough, and many of the extra large are taking a stand. The fight between big and small has finally made its way to the rave scene, as members of the obese community have banded together and started throwing Skinny-Free parties. These massive gatherings are huge fun for the overweight set, and off limits to people who prefer carrots and celery sticks to deep fried twinkies and butter balls. You've got to be round to go to these parties -- even the DJs have to wear XXL to hit the decks.

I don't think we'll see this particular trend come to Montreal anytime soon, seeing as how we're not suffering from the same kind of obesity epidemic that's hit America. There currently isn't any demonstrable hostility between the skinnies and the fatties, at least not to the same extent that exists in places like Philadelphia.

Skinny free parties are almost certainly going to increase in popularity in the years ahead, so if you're large and in charge, grab a ticket to the states to celebrate with your fellow giants. One day, your kind will rule America!

One of our more debauched promoters was recently engaged in a rather steamy relationship with a cougar. The promoter is barely 22, and the fierce feline who captured his heart is 38. The couple met at a fetish night at one of our city's seedier clubs, and apparently sparks flew during a public spanking session, or whatever it is that people do at fetish clubs.

The star crossed lovers are big drunks. Massive. Gigantic. They make Galactus look like Jiminy Cricket. They drink booze like it's water, and they're not beyond mixing liquors with beers. Hell, some of their friends swear that the drunlken duo have even drunk rubbing alcohol on occasion. They're dedicated to the drink, and even prefer a good bottle of wine over a bag of pills or powder or herbs.

This propensity for drink has come at a cost, however. Our cougar has a young, ten year old daughter. One day, the young promoter got very soused up and, stumbling into his girlfriends home, mistook the ten year old, who was sleeping in her PJs on the couch, for his girlfriend. He sat down next to her, and with lascivious intent, began his dirty work. The moment he grabbed what he shouldn't have grabbed though, the girl woke up, and let out a scream so loud that the neighbors ended up rushing over.

The cops arrived in time to stop the promoter from getting his head kicked in from a concerned and exceptionally well built man who lived next door. The police hauled our young raver away, and now, months later, his case has finally made its way through the courts. He was able to convince the judge that the whole thing really was a matter of mistaken identity. The judge has given our drunkard promoter the benefit of the doubt, and the boy is getting off with a light sentence -- home arrest, alcohol treatment, and community service.

Don't drink and fondle, folks. You might grab the wrong person.

A young mother is facing charges of child endangerment after she brought her six month old baby to a rave. Throwing caution and common sense to the wind, the mother decided that bringing an infant to a ludicrously loud party was a smart idea. It wasn't. In fact, it was a very stupid idea. It isn't exactly uncommon for party goers to have hearing problems the day after a party. In the case of the baby, the hearing problems never went away.

Details on the story are scarce, but it's hard to imagine a six month old child at a booming party surrounded by coked up strangers not throwing an incessant and uninterrupted tantrum. That's exactly what her baby ended up doing. The crying, in fact, never stopped. Not even after they left the rave. She got concerned, brought her kid to the doctor, and that's when things got bad.

The loud noise at the party had permanently damaged the child's hearing. The doctor called child services, and soon the police were brought in. The whole situation is a mess, and it doesn't seem likely that the young mother will be keeping her daughter. Quebec is one of the most unforgiving places in the world when it comes to child abuse. Over 30,000 children a year are removed from their families in this province. Per capita, the Quebec government removes twice times as many children from their families as Sweden, six times as many as Great Britain, and seventeen times as many as Spain. Basically, child services over here are itching to find a reason to take your kids. Killing their ear drums by bringing them to a rave? That's like waving a giant red flag in front of a bull.

Don't bring toddlers and infants to loud parties. It's child abuse, plain and simple.

Ted got more than he bargained for that night. It was one of Montreal's first major outdoor techno parties, and our naive, seventeen year old raver bought some pot from a couple of guys in the tent next to his. It wasn't your average marijuana, though. It had a little special something thrown in. Who knows what the mystery ingredient was -- this party happened over a decade ago, and no one ever found out the truth behind the weed. Maybe there was nothing special about it at all. Maybe Ted was always crazy, and the pot just made it obvious to everyone. Or maybe there really was something in it. Maybe the marijuana was laced with some kind of hallucinogenic that could be smoked, like DMT, and getting high on it without forewarning broke him. All we know for certain is that Ted went off the deep end that night.

He smoked the mystery weed he bought from his neighbours, and within minutes, he was running all over the place. He was convinced that E.T was chasing after him. When people finally caught up with Ted, he told them that the phone loving alien was hunting him with a shotgun, telling him he was going to die a bloody and violent death. E.T wanted Ted dead, big time.

Ted never came down. To this day, he's still convinced that E.T is trying to kill him. His family eventually had to get him institutionalized.

Drugs can be a wonderful thing. They heal bodies and minds, they're great hedonistic tools, and are powerful therapeutic agents in the hands of the qualified and the educated. However, there's a definite risk that comes with taking drugs you know nothing about, a risk that is multipled by not knowing anything about your own mental health. Not everyone who smokes pot or takes DMT goes crazy, but it's been known to happen.

Watch your backs folks, the needle jabber is back. Many of you probably remember when, years ago, a sociopath was running around in crowded clubs stabbing people with dirty needles. Several copy cats later jumped into the needle stabbing game, though thankfully none of the needles the crew of loonies were using were contaminated with deadly diseases.

It's been over five years since the needle jabbing epidemic died down, and apparently the creeps are crawling out of the woodworks and starting their twisted game all over again. The usual modus operandi of these cretins is to find a very, very crowded club or rave to hide in, and then stab people when the rooms are packed to the brims. The more folks in the room, the easier it is for these slimeballs to get away with their work.

It takes a particularly broken human being to stab a random innocent person with a needle. The recent crew of needle attackers, though, are even worst then the last. Not only do they jab their victims with a needle, they also slap stickers on them at the same time with things like "Welcome to the HIV club!" and "Hope you like Hepatitis!" on them. To date, there are no reported cases of people actually catching a disease by getting stabbed by a random psychopath. Chances are, the needle jabbers are just jerks and trolls who get a visceral thrill by ruining a person's night.

You can never be too cautious -- if you find yourself the victim of the jabber gang, call 911 and get yourself tested.

The latest craze to hit Montreal was born and bred in the United Kingdom. It's as classy as crystal meth, but the high is nowhere near as intense -- it's the vodka soaked tampon. Foolhardy party kids in Montreal are now trying to catch up with their British peers drug and alcohol habits. Local ravers have begun dipping tampons in Vodka. They let it soak up for a good twenty minutes, and once the tampon is fully saturated with everyone's favorite fermented potato beverage, the kids grab the little fluffy tubes of doom and insert them either vaginally or, for the boys, rectally.

Rectal and vaginal alcohol consumption is not a good idea. Your muff and your crack don't have the same kind of heavy duty protection as your gastrointestinal track when it comes to stopping dubious substances from entering into your bloodstream. Vodka gets your blood all dopey slowly when you drink it -- but when you shove vodka up your vagina or your asshole, your blood gets a nearly instant hit of the stuff. It's a fast and dangerous rush, and the chances of getting alcohol poisoning are infinitely higher when your preferred method of consumption is through one of your lower body cavities.

Women should be especially wary of shoving vodka soaked tampons up their vaginas, because they run the risk of damaging their reproductive system. That's a high price to pay for such a small buzz. On the bright side, the women who do end up doing this are taking themselves out of the gene pool. Darwin doesn't favor stupid people. You want kids? Don't shove vodka up your holes. Instead? Drink it. Your body will thank you.

Several weeks ago, a promoter threw a small party in a building owned by a rather charming lady. The building in question is in a neighborhood that is undergoing rapid gentrification, and apparently her refusal to sell her property to a group of deep-pocketed developers has created some drama with the city. This drama has occasionally involved the cops, and one of these cops has taken a rather big disliking to our mini real estate mogul. When this officer got wind that she had rented out her building to our friendly neighborhood promoter, he took it upon himself to shut the event down.

The promoter claims that all the paper work was in order, that the sound level was within the legal limit, and that no laws had been broken or violated. This made absolutely no difference to the officer in question, who had his friends in blue clear the building of over two hundred revelers.

The kicker? While the officer was giving the party-goers the boot, a gun fight was taking place down the street. One person even died. A dispatcher asked our grudge holding officer to head over to the murder scene, but our man in blue reportedly refused to because he was taking care of "serious" business. Officer Grudge thought that shutting down a small rave was more important than helping out at a murder scene -- thereby confirming a suspicion many of you undoubtedly have: raving is, in fact, more important than death.

Last September, a small outdoor psychedelic rave was held in the outskirts of Montreal. It was a tiny, tiny affair full of neo-hippies dancing to old Goa tracks in a giant muddy field. The goaliens were probably too busy smoking various herbal products to practice good hygiene, because their little dance party turned into a horrible clusterfuck of filth and disease.

People with warts shouldn't dance naked in the mud with a bunch of strangers, and they most certainly shouldn't grind up against anyone. Not only is that disgusting, but warts are contagious. Transmission of warts from person to person is rare, which makes the dermatological disaster that followed this dirty hippie party all the more incredible.

A little over seventy five people attended this gathering, and two thirds of them reportedly developed warts in the days and weeks that followed their muddy festivities. Their cheerful bacchanal turned into a disfiguring warning against excess and decadence. The party goers who are willing to talk about their experiences swear up and down that the party wasn't that dirty, and they honestly don't understand how so many people ended up developing nasty little buggers all over their bodies.

This wasn't a verruca acuminata outbreak -- no one has come out and said they got genital warts at this party. It's the common wart, the verruca vulgaris, which is the culprit in this case. And that name tells you all you need to know about what went down at this hippie gathering. It was vulgar. And the attendants have the scars to prove it.

Kids, remember, don't scratch your warts, don't rub them against other people, don't let folks touch them, and please, if you're covered in them, don't dance naked in a muddy field full of people.

Three ravers who were out scouting for locations in Montreal North fell on hard times earlier this week when the floor of the decrepit, abandoned building they were in collapsed beneath their feet. Bones were broken, blood was spilled, and bruises were made, but thankfully none of the injuries were life threatening.

Our hapless trio of urban explorers dropped eleven feet before crashing on to a clean patch of wood flooring. They were lucky the floor gave out where it did -- their landing area was only five feet away from a large pile of rusty iron bars, which almost certainly would have made their fall lethal.

One of the ravers escaped relatively unscathed, and had the pleasure of calling 911 to get assistance for his friends. Neither the police nor the paramedics were impressed with our intrepid adventurers. The boys were brought to a hospital and once their wounds were treated, charged with trespassing. Adding insult to injury, they also had to pay for their ambulance ride.

The lesson here, kids? The people bringing you these parties often put their life at risk -- and all in order to give you guys a chance to engage in a primitive mating ritual involving copious amounts of intoxicating substances, loud music, and outrageous displays of sexual availability. People are falling through floors to help you get your rocks off, and that's something you should all appreciate.

Hug your local promoter. They're doing this for you.

A group of four Montreal ravers have a malicious game they like to play at the end of the parties they go to. Many of you might remember going to birthday bashes as little children, and getting a grab bag at the end. These gift bags would have all sorts of trinkets inside -- candy, small toys, cards, and dollar store knick knacks, among other things. You never knew what you were getting until you opened up the bag.

Our four ravers apparently miss being treated like eight year olds, so they've decided to bring the past into the present. Raves don't give out grab bags, but that hasn't stopped these enterprising party kids from simply grabbing unattended bags as they leave the parties they go to. On the ride back home, the ravers then compare the surprise loot in the bags they took.

It's a contest, and whoever finds the best gear in their bag "wins" the game. The winner is decided through a point system -- electronics are worth more than legal pharmaceuticals and prophylactics, though they're not worth nearly as much as humiliating personal items like diaries and pictures. Sex toys and self-porn though are most sought after goodies. One time, one of the thieves found an iPhone full of home made pornography and explicit chat logs on it.

The prize for victory changes after every party, but it usually involves the losers buying some drugs and alcohol for the winner. None of the participants can steal more than one bag per party, so the four thieves are generally picky about which bags they take.

Let this be a warning to all of you: keep an eye on your backpacks and purses once the party you're at starts winding down, because these jerks might prance away with them. And don't forget to password protect your iPhone. Especially if it's loaded with videos of you giving blowjobs to people.

A small and shady Montreal based adult movie production outfit has reportedly launched an upskirt site dedicated to our wonderful city's nightlife. Two men, armed with a variety of well concealed cameras, are prowling clubs, bars, and parties in order to capture glimpses of the lovely underthings adorning the netherbits of female party goers. These men, both in their mid twenties, got the idea after stumbling across a Japanese porno site dedicated to clubber upskirts.

The exact modus operandi of our illicit smut makers isn't known at this time, though we do have knowledge of at least one trick these men are using to capture videos and pictures of party panties. One raving damsel, an acquaintance of the two men, alleges that she caught them filming her using a well placed shoulder bag that had a cheap Flip Mino camera peering out of it.

There's a good chance that these pornographers are not only concealing cameras in shoulder bags. They might also be acting in a more brazen manner, like Darin Burkholder of Pennsylvania, who was recently arrested for allegedly snapping upskirt shots of Walmart customers using his cellphone camera. Oddly enough, another man, Mario Esquivel-Jimenez, was arrested in Idaho for the same crime -- catching snatch shots at Walmart. At least our local voyeuristic miscreants have a modicum of taste. Who needs Walmart when you've got raves?

Camera phones and loaded shoulder bags are only two means by which these sneaky perverts might be filming up your skirt. They could also take a page out of Erik Alvarado's book. This Utah man was arrested a month ago for taking pictures up a variety of dresses using a camera that had been concealed in his shoe. We can't say for sure if our two depraved reprobates are using this camera-in-the-shoe trick, but considering the amount of time and effort that is apparently going into their creepy activities, there's a good chance they are.

Keep your eyes open for these perverts. You never know which party they'll hit or which club they'll visit.

Prince William was in the news recently for airlifting a man having a heart attack off of a gas rig. He was busy being heroic while his younger brother, Prince Harry, was allegedly busy getting high on hippie crack at a rave.

News out of the UK is that the man who is third in line to the throne of Canada spent a lovely Friday sucking on ballons full of nitrous oxide. Royal groupies fought for his attention, but apparently the Prince of Canada was more interested in the balloons than in the bimbos.

Witnesses report that Harry had a blast on laughing gas, partying until the wee hours of the morning, when finally he succumbed to the temptation of two lovely lasses. The trio snuck away from the party at 5am, when they apparently absconded to St-James Palace for a depraved morning of sexual excess.

St-James Palace rests on the former site of a leper hospital, and considering the alleged behavior of our beloved Canadian Prince, it is apparent that the lepers have given way to lechers.

I would like to take this moment to point out that huffing nitrous is an incredibly ghetto ways of getting high. It's only slightly classier than hanging out in a Walmart parking lot on a Saturday afternoon, scouting for parked cars that have their engines turned on, then kneeling behind them in order to breath in the fumes coming out of their exhaust pipes.

You'd expect a Prince of Canada to pursue more rarefied highs. Like opium suppositories or LSD eyeball injections.

Hippie Crack, though?

It's undignified and déclassé.

If the people of Canada are going to have a drug addled, party mad Prince, then we deserve to have one that knows how to lose his mind in a proper and dignified manner.

On that note, I would like to extend an invitation to our Royal overlord. Harry, if you're ever in Canada, the people of Rave Canada will throw you a magnificent party.

Our women are cheaper, our booze is better, and over here we don't get high on laughing gas. We get high on life.

Among other things.

This ones a little dirty, in more ways then one. One of your favorite rave promoters was recently caught with his pants down and his girlfriend with her legs up by a group of teenagers. The kids caught the couple in flagrant indelicte while taking a shortcut through a dank and grungy alley behind a fast food restaurant.

The horny couple had ducked into the alley while on their way to an after party for a quickie, and ended up putting on a show for a half dozen minors. The kids, incidentally, screamed in disgust at the couple. The promoter laughed it off and yelled a few ribald comments at the children about the virtues of carnality, but his girlfriend was decidedly more demure in her response to being discovered in a compromising position.

To the credit of our reckless duo, the cops were never called, and their adventures in outdoor sex were never punished by the forces of moral decency which rule over our sensible society.

For the record, the danger of getting caught might have added a certain thrill for the girlfriend, but the promoter is so shameless that fucking in a dark alley has absolutely no effect on his libido, for good or ill. He'd just as soon have sex in a garbage dump as he would in an airplane, a sewer, a ritzy hotel room, or in the middle of a school room that was full of students. His libido would stay level in all cases, for he is a sexual force of nature, constant like the speed of light.

This cracked out raver has a doormat of a girlfriend. The couple, if you can call them that, aren't exactly high class. You won't find them drinking Perrier while discussing Matisse at a vernissage, nor will you bump into them at the ballet. You might find them snorting lines of K in front of La Belle Province, swigging a forty, and arguing about the merits of taking opium by means of a suppository, though.

Classy, they're not. Crazy? In the words of America's next president, you betcha!

These are two very self destructive individuals. The woman, or girl really, has absolutely no self esteem, and chooses to tolerate what most healthy, self respecting women would find intolerable. Her boyfriend isn't just white trash, he's abusive white trash. He tried his hand at dealing drugs, and it didn't go so well. He got in trouble with some nasty people, and he owed them money. They were... insistent that he pay them back. They were quite physical in their insistence.

Instead of manning up and dealing with the dangerous criminals who were breathing down his neck, he sent his girlfriend over to pay them.

Now ladies, if your boyfriend ever sends you on a psychotic errand like trying to pacify a bunch of gangsters, dump him.

Please. Don't encourage the idiot.

We're getting some reports of some funny god business happening at a few recent raves. No, no one's seeing images of Jesus printed on their rolling papers, or talking to magical bushes. They are, however, getting the good news from some Evangelical Baptists hanging outside the entrance of the raves.

Yes, ravers are now being proselytized to by Evangelical Baptists. The Southern variety. This has been going on for the last month or two, and it's only happened at a handful of events, and the evangelicals left after a few hours. They apparently stood outside from 11pm to 2am, handing out bibles and telling the party goers that they're going to hell, but if they open their heart to Jesus and repent, they'll find their place at the pearly gates.

I doubt it, but it would be awesome if this was the beginning of a trend. You sorry bunch certainly are sinful, and hopefully some of the faithful will save you from yourselves. Who knows, soon we might have Catholics, Mormons and maybe even Raellians preaching outside parties.

You might not know this, but the Montreal rave community has more than a few pick up artists living off of it's back, like fleas. Or lice. Or even weevils. These pick up artists are students of The Game, and members of a loosely connected community of men who methodically try to pick up women.

Montreal is one of the hub cities for this worldwide pick up community. It's part of a corridor of creepiness, along with Kingston and Toronto. All three cities have given birth to important members of the pick up community, though the guys from Kingston and Toronto eventually moved to the states. Our guy from Montreal though, is still here. He founded the Montreal Lair, a secret little group where men meet in real life to talk about their exploits, share tips, and plan pick-up expeditions. Several ravers are members of the lair (pronounced lay-her).

Ladies, a few simple tricks to spot a pick up artist. These don't work on all of them, but I've caught some in the wild before and ruined their night using the following guidelines, so these might help you out.

Pick up artists are generally fashion conscious, and will be overdressed when compared to the men around them. Their clothing will often be a perfect fit, while most straight Canadian men wear clothing that's a size too large. Their belts will always match their shoes, they'll wear layers to complete their look, and they'll almost always have at least one standout piece of bling - like a necklace, a bracelet, or a hat.

Basically, if they have the fashion sense of a gay man but they don't like sucking cock, there's a good chance they're a pick up artist. Of course, there's a chance they're a metrosexual, or have had some fashion sense beaten into them by one of their girlfriends, so you can't depend on looks alone to determine if they're creepy players or not.

Pick up artists who are out trolling for women generally do it with the help of a wingman. They'll often start out by socializing a bit with everybody in the area they're targeting to get a feel for the group, and to lower everyone's guards. Once they start hitting on their victims, they don't want interference, so that's why they butter people up. They are more social than most people, but it's a slightly mechanical kind of socializing. It stands out if you know what to look for. Once the crowd is buttered up, the pick up artist will focus a great deal of attention on whoever is closest to their victim. A best friend, a boyfriend, a brother. Whatever. They'll try to win them over, and failing that, they'll have their wingman play interference while they chat up their target.

Pick up artists, like dogs, come in a variety of breeds. Some play direct game, others have a more labyrinthine method that relies heavily on structure. They'll start with an opener, a question or statement that's meant to evoke a response from you. It might be something weird like "hey, my friend and I were having an argument, and we need an female perspective - who do women find more attractive, David Bowie or Johnnie Depp", or it could be something innocuous.

Most openers will either include or be followed by a time constraint - a sentence that places an apparent limit on how long their conversation with you will be. It'll be something along the lines "i'm going to meet my friends, but before I do, I need to ask you guys something...". They might not even have any friends to meet, but that doesn't matter. They just need you to think that you're not going to stick around for long - they're to busy to glomp onto you like a leech. Keep your ears open for time constraints. They're a red a flag.

One more thing to look out for - the ever popular neg. The prettier you are, the more popular you seem to be, the more likely you'll find yourself at the end of a neg, a minor insult or comment meant to put you on the defense. The goal of the neg is to create a social power imbalance that demands a resolution. He wants you to want his approval, and he insults you in order to compel you to defend yourself. He's making you make him like you. The neg is the players way of convincing you to convince him that you're awesome. He's tricking you into trying to pick him up.

There are thousands of little creepy tricks that these pick up artists employ to get women interested. Some are more effective then others, but many of these players are methodical, and will often spend countless hours trying different techniques in the wild in order to get an idea of what works and what doesn't. Every pick up artist has a different arsenal at their disposal, one that they personally developed over months and even years of experimentation.

These pseudo-casanovas might exist in every city, but because of Montreal's prominence in the seduction scene, you're much more likely to bump into a pick up artist here then you are anywhere else, with the exception of Vegas and L.A our rave scene is perhaps the most afflicted community on the island, since pick up artists consider raver girls to be easy pickings.

You've been warned, ladies!

Ladies, please -- stop fucking guys for drugs. There's a circle of ravewavers who seem to be in the habit of fellating and fornicating in exchange for a variety of mostly illicit substances. MDMA, cocaine, ketamine, and pot are just some of the drugs being traded for pussy. Now, if you think screwing some sceezy guys for pot was bad, word on the grapevine is some of the girls are spreading their legs for beer.

Beer! That's basically a step away from giving a guy a blowjob in return for a big mac or a happy meal. If you absolutely insist on being a whore, can you at least have a little dignity? High class escorts can score thousands of dollars for a single night of debauchery, yet some of you are trading favors for a six pack of pabst.

That's sad. You girls are giving whores a bad name. Have some self respect! You should at least ask for some quality micro-brews or a fifty dollar SAQ gift card. Aim high, ladies; you can do it... you just have to believe in yourselves.

Now here's a story that will warm the cockles of your brittle, shriveled hearts! Okay, that's a lie. This story won't warm your heart. It'll make it cold and black and full of sharp, jagged edges. Read on, anyways.

Apparently, cops from a small American border town, not too far from Montreal, have been harassing their local rave promoters. This isn't a big city, he'll it's not even a big village, but it is does have a small, lively rave commnuity who sometimes throw local parties.

The cops, however, have made it a habit of showing up at these parties - and shutting them down unless they get a cut. These parties make next to no money, so the officers in question are effectively being bribed for a couple hundred bucks per event. The fact that the cops are willing to risk their careers for such a pittance is kind of ridiculous, but the promoters don't seem to have the balls to confront the officers, and figure paying them off is better than having to deal with the shitstorm that would result from challenging them.

Your average citizen, and this goes for nearly every damn country on this planet, has nearly no recourse when it comes to dealing with crooked cops. It's even worst when you're stuck in a small town.

This up and coming Ottawa DJ threw his five year marriage out the window when his wife caught him in bed with the underage babysitter who was looking after their three year old child.

The babysitter in question was the (very young) daughter of one of the DJ's childhood friends. Given the age of the babysitter, the DJ in question was lucky that his childhood pal didn't call the cops on his ass. He was not, however, lucky enough to avoid getting his ass whooped by his old friend. Needless to say, their friendship is now over. It's been several weeks since the beating, and his face still hasn't fully healed.

His wife, meanwhile, is filing for divorce, and most of his friends no longer want anything to do with him. Few people within the community are aware of this DJ's ephobilian tryst, but considering the decadence and immorality of the rave scene, there's a good chance few people would actually give a damn.

Roman Polanski had more than a few defenders, and this DJ is no different. When you create culture, many of those who consume your creations will turn the other cheek as you rape, pillage, and plunder your way through the world. They will effectively give you a license to fuck little children.

This trance DJ had a special pair of phat pants that he always wore. The pants were over five years old when they started to come a part at the seams. They were worn down, battered, and abused - but the DJ loved them, and refused to throw them away.

His friends asked him to, and he told them no way.

His parents asked him to, and he said it couldn't be done.

His girlfriend? She didnt even bother asking, she just snuck the pair out during the cover of night, and put them in the bin outside his flat. When he couldn't find them the next morning, they had a huge fight. She broke down and told him where they were. He rushed out and was ecstatic to find that his favorite pants were still in the garbage. He brought them back in and cleaned them up. His girlfriend resigned herself to the fact that her boyfriend liked looking like a hobo raver. Little did she know, but those pants were going to play a mean prank on her boyfriend. He was going to regret ever taking them out of that garbage bin.

Later that day, the DJ was on the metro, heading to school. He was wearing his favorite pants, of course. He put them on just to spite his girlfriend. He sat down in the metro and smiled to himself. Soon though, he noticed that people were staring at him in disgust. Several of them were backing away from him. He was confused by their actions, up until he looked down at his crotch and saw his balls hanging out. His pants had finally given up on life, and ripped open right where his crotch was. Our intrepid DJ had gone commando that day, so his family jewels had been on proud display for the whole world. Who knows how long his little show had gone on for.

He left the metro at the next stop in an embarassed panic, and threw the pants out that very night. His girlfriend had a good laugh at his expense, and still brings it up - even today.

This is the story of a creepy music VJ who works for a popular tv station. The events take place at a party that happened in Montreal, though the people it happened too aren't necessarily Canadians. Neither is the VJ, or the station he works for.

A lanky, awkward lad managed to score a date with a woman who often did decorations for rave events. She invited the boy to come to a party she was working at, a magic themed goa fest. The two spent a good part of the night in a park that was next to the ancient stone building where the party was located. They were flirting at a picnic bench when the boy noticed that the two were being spied on by some guy in the bushes. The moment they got up to investigate, the man in the bushes ran away. Neither he nor his date managed to get a good look at their stalker, and flummoxed as they were, they decided to head to the party, where they found a corner to nestle in.

Eventually, the boy once again noticed someone peering at him from across the room, who ran off the moment he was spotted. He was now starting to get concerned. The two decided to head back outside and look for the man who was following them.

He spotted the stalker across the street from the rave, and his date immediately recognized him. It was a boy from her high school who had been obsessed with her - and who was now working as a VJ for a major channel. The boy laughed, when he realized who it was.

"We're being stalked by a music VJ?"

The lanky lad called out the VJ, who, realizing he had been caught acting like a creepy weirdo, escaped down the street.

Once upon a time, the rave scene of our fair city lived under the vicious thumb of several biker gangs. The island of Montreal was carved into a patchwork of territories, each one controlled by rival criminal organizations. When a party promoter organized an event in an area controlled by the bikers, he'd get a visit from one of their low level members. This guy, and it was always a guy, would be the chaperone of a group of street dealers called 'The Syndicate'. He would tell the promoter in no uncertain terms that he and his friends were getting in for free, gave the promoter 10 pills for his friends and mentions that only they could sell drugs at the party and if anyone else were to do so they would have their fingers broken or worse.

One day, a particular biker and his retinue of dealers visited a tiny happy hardcore party that was being thrown by a minor, first time promoter. The biker, who looked like a creepier version of Ron Jeremy, barged his way through the line-up and told the people doing door duty that he wanted to talk to the promoter. They shrugged their shoulders, and called for the small time event planner who had organized the event.

The promoter and the gangster had a quick conversation, and a few minutes later four or five lily white dealers, most of them dressed like rejects from a Coolio music video, strutted into the party and stationed themselves close to the bathrooms. Their boss, meanwhile, gave himself VIP access to the event, and decided to hang out behind the water bar, where he rifled through the backpacks of the sales people.

One of the water bar volunteers, for reasons unknown, had a super soaker in his bag, and the gangster decided to steal it. He spent the rest of the party chasing down girls wearing white t-shirts, and spraying their with his stolen water gun. One 16 year old girl was so enamored with her middle aged, toy gun toting gangster that she dragged him to a quiet corner of the party....

And things got a little steamy.

The moral of the story is that, if you're a criminal, you can score with an underaged school girl if you spray water on her tits with a super soaker.