Back in Bedlam

Geez, I hate America. Fuck this place with the freest of speech. Folks, I bought a couple of baking potatoes from Walmart up in Fairbanks, Alaska. After crossing the border into Port Angeles, Washington, the soul less border and customs officials confiscated my American bought potatoes. Essentially, it's starting; the US government justifies doing whatever the fuck it is they want to do with impunity. What a massive injustice.

The worst part is driving across this land. It is vast, varied and beautiful but the people rival the worst on Earth. I picked up a couple of hobo children in Portland, Oregon and these kids garnered nothing but stares all across the country. The sheriff in Podunk West Yellowstone, Montana had the nerve to tell one of the girls that he doesn't appreciate her "kind" around town and he offered to arrest her for vagrancy. The gas station attendant in Buttfuck, Oregon, when asked how he was doing insisted that he had no idea. I made a purchase and offered the most delightful of pleasantries and he couldn't even look me in the eye. The lady at the pizzeria/Internet café in West Yellowstone was a complete bitch and barely acknowledged my futile attempts to get some traveling information. Luckily, the Firestone service station in Northwestern Chicago, Illinois was filled with helpful, swift technicians who had me out the door in an hour. And the delightful woman walking to work in Portland also was very genial and pointed me and a travel mate in the direction of Voodoo donuts, of Anthony Bourdain fame. Also, the T-Mobile in Portland also facilitated my request to waive the account activation fee to set me up with cellular service. Whatever, we shotgunned it from Seattle to Brooklyn in three days, 4 adults, 3 dogs, no showers, barely any sleep and one blown-out tire. Fuck America.

I'm in a nasty mood because, well, I've seen better. In Alaska, your neighbor is the ONLY thing you have. The place is so vast, so remote, so brutal that you do anything to lend a hand, if even just to smile at your fellow warm-blooded oxygen breather. You don't buy Mercedes, French Connection, or care about Bluetooth connectivity. You get quilted flannel, 4 wheel drive, and red meat. And it makes you all the more practical and humane for it. In Canada, you light up a bowl before you lift a fist in anger. You puff a "j" before you huff and puff. The police even seem to respect you for it. In America, they confiscate your belongings and tell you you aren't wanted. They barely look you in the eye. Canada, adopt me; I'll love you more than the Queen.

"Oh, I'm longing to be out in the sweet unknown.."
Heartless Bastards on Be so happy.

Summer of 2009, I opened you mowing lawns somewhere in West Mount, I'm sure. I closed you on the shores of Vancouver near Stanley Park watching the sun set and snapping a photo or two. I went North toward the future. I urinated under the northern lights. I went to Whitehorse and didn't get drunk. I saw Tegan and Sara back stage and they said "hey" to me about 7 separate times. I watched Gentleman Reg rock out. I got zooted in the woods and made fried bread in the bush. I got completely wasted, then drove off-road to entertain two Louisianans. I burnt coffee on purpose and had people praise it. I had hippies pass me joints. I met a hundred + new faces. I rediscovered a deep seated/seeded hatred of my motherland. I got fed free beer and bar b que. And I learned that I can't wait to do it all over again... because nothing's stopping me.

The Bulgarian Bonfire Soirees

Eastern Europeans. Every time I forget my woes and start seeing life for its very few charms, it's in the presence of foreigners (or, in the case of Quebec, people foreign to me). Here in Alaska, young Eastern Europeans are brought in for the hospitality and tourism industry. They're cheap labor to the local proprietors and the kids get to come to America to suss out whatever it is Eastern Bloc-ers come to America to suss out. It's a win-win.

The season is winding down faster than a rig going 65 MPH is incapacitated by a moose on paved permafrost. And the RV park the clowns I work for put us in has closed for the season. The RV park's Eastern Europeans throw a party of sorts every night now. They light a camp fire and play bad techno/electronica/dance music. They've invited us Jeep boys to drink cheap beer with them and hang out around the fire. They burn anything they can get their hands on. I never knew Budweiser cans burn so well.

So at night, we hang out under the moon drinking the cheap stuff and chatting absolute nonsense. And I couldn't be having more fun. I hope they're out tonight, though Maria is on a flight to LA or Vegas or NYC and the rest of the Moldovans, Macedonians, Bulgarians and Russians are about to fly the coup too. Any day, as a matter of fact. Our group is bound to dry up quickly. And when it does it's back to the blanket feelings of underwhelmed-with-being. Bang! I fucking love moose, mountains and fire. I'll miss the the heck out of this place. But I gotta split!!

From bad to September

Feeling low. Low. The sun went from setting at 10:45pm to setting at 8:30pm. Northern lights were out again last night. They sucked. Today, 09/09/09, my rideshares headed south decided to nix the whole thing. Now I have to bear the burden of driving 5 thousand miles and paying for 5 thousand miles worth of fuel.

And I keep seeing moose splattered all over the place. I saw a massive rig with a dent the size of my extended family in it. And a blood splatter bigger than a Ford F-150. The last thing to go through the mind of the moose it hit? Its own asshole. Hanging out in the middle of the Parks Highway at whatever hour that happened, maybe its own asshole was the ONLY thing to ever go through that moose's mind.

I'm very excited to be leaving this place in under 2 weeks. But I'm still sitting with the unnerving feeling that I'm not going to be very happy anywhere else. Sometimes. Well, I think that I'm bigger than this brain. This body. This life. What kills me is the wants. I want to eat every day. Hunger is a pesky little habit. I want stuff. Maybe even a woman friend. Vey. Purple tennis shoes. A winning lottery ticket. A road bike with flat handle bars. A skill. A New York strip steak. A happiness maybe very few people know. Lucky kid that I am. To want to be happier and not healthier, or safer, or cleaner, or less closer to death. Lucky to be unhappy.

So I'm rolling down the Stampede trail and come to a calf moose trot right by me. Then the mama moose saunters in front of my Jeep. So I sit. And throw the Jeep in park and watch. I didn't do much thinking. I just watched. I suppose if I did think I would have wondered that I can't watch this sort of thing in Brooklyn. Or that I'm on the clock is this is helping me pay the bills. Or that this is the exact reason I came to Alaska for 6 weeks. Or how I'd be writing about my thoughts in another day or two. Writing about her and her calf. Writing about how each one of her mouthfuls of tree leaves equates to about 5 or 6 large salads at any deli anywhere. And then I actually did have a thought. I threw the Jeep into drive and motioned onward. But she squared me up. And I thought either she's not going anywhere. Or that I'm disturbing her meal. I put the Jeep back into park and hung out a while longer. Microcosm for my life? At almost 30, did I just throw it back into park? Am I idling on my trail?

What about you and your trail?

Thoughts on future sadness

Yo! This summer has greeted me with the happiest of happies I've ever experienced. It started fresh in Montreal, had me driving forever to Tennessee to experience Bonnaroo, mega huge parties way back in Quebec, meeting maybe a hundred new friends all over the place, learning to repair bikes at McGill U., seeing tons of bands play live, and driving across the continent to Alaska. All the while I never missed Brooklyn, though seeing that bands would be playing live in Brooklyn made me appreciate the access to ALL New York City has afforded me. If I ever actually live there again, I won't take it for granted.

But I'm almost 30 and my brain is fucking fucked. The thoughts that swirl in my head just won't let me live in the moment and appreciate not being 30 and being in Alaska for no other reason than because I can't work above ground in Montreal.

But that doesn't help. I have these bad feelings that I won't be happy after this. That no matter where I go, after this summer, will pale in comparison to this one hoorah. Ouch. It's soooooo real to me. Going back to Brooklyn would almost feel claustrophobic. Going to Montreal would certainly mean working under-the-table, menial tasks and living hand-to-mouth. And staying in Alaska would offer some promise, but tons of misery and a cost-of-living that I'm certainly unprepared for.

How do I balance my chronic spells of depression with; new, exciting and healthy experiences that stimulate and keep me reasonably happy; AND find a way of making a living that doesn't have me continually thinking of seeking out a new way to earn an existence? Doesn't seem possible. It's the sort of way-leads-onto-way that forks me over and over again.

I keep melting.

Someone teach me French, a skill that stimulates me to no end, and write me up a work visa. Or motivate me to act and not think. Or better yet, distract me.

But no one wants to read this bullshit. So I'll have you know that last night I saw the lankiest cat ever bound its way across the George Parks highway. Turns out it was a lynx. And I finally saw Dall sheep hanging out. And the ptarmigans' feathers and arctic snowshoe hares' fur are changing color! There are a couple hares that visited me at cook's camp today. Cutest things ever.

Living in Alaska is like:

Living in Alaska during the end of summer is like:

-Smelling, perpetually, like a camp fire. And after bathing, you smell like camp fire/soap.

-Crowd surfing when the crowd you're surfing is gravel. This stuff is everywhere. One ended up embedded in my car's windshield the other day. Needless to say, Novus and Speedy Glass do well out here.

-Living 4 hours behind the rest of the world. Because we know the whole world is in the Eastern Time Zone.

-Keeping constant vigil for animal droppings. Why? Although stepping in it would be stinky and nasty, running into who left them would just be nasty.

-An orgy of duct tape. Because duct tape is everywhere and if, heaven forbid, you run out of the stuff the Walmart in Wasilla sells more of it than any single store anywhere else in the world.

-Struggling to have just a little heat, warmth, coziness. There's a dearth of sunshine here during the rainy season so emotions run high in a sad way. Rainy and damp. And chilly. It's an epic setting for a Hitchcock, Wes Craven collaboration. Worst of all, I've found love is in short supply. There's no cat and mouse to play, no flirting, no gesturing. People here are clad in flannel, are hearty and are forward. In short, the people are as cold as the name Alaskan implies.

-Everything you expected it would be. Today someone down at Keith's Service Station called me looking for a moose tag. She gave me only 4 digits for her phone number. People routinely refer to 30 miles down the road as "just" down the road. Addresses aren't addresses as much as they are mile posts. I sleep at milepost 231 and I work in and around milepost 238.6. You hitchhike, wear Merino wool socks, fish, hunt, drink, and have fingers built like beaver tails.

Pissing under the Northern Lights

Friends, I can't provide a picture for this post. I just couldn't do it. I tried snapping one, but there was no justice. Tonight, I went to the Panorama Pizza Pub just south of Denali here in Alaska, which produces some awful grub. But I had a few Miller High Lifes and took to getting home just before midnight local time. Obviously, upon imbibing my beer I had to relieve myself and tonight, of all nights of my almost 30 years on this here planet, tonight I peed under the Aurora Borealis.

Timbuktu

Morning. It's still night here... but I'm 4 hours away from most anyone who would read this. And by that, I'm referring strictly to time zone. No way anyone is traveling 4 hours and ending up in Denali, Alaska. Not if you're anyone I know anyway.

So what have I seen? Duluth, MN. Great place. Really.

I think I passed Glacier National Park in Montana. There may or may not be a glacier.

I saw Calgary, Alberta. Not a nice place. Very middle of nowhere-trying-to-be-somewhere.

Whitehorse, on the other hand is a gem. Drunk First Nationers and francophones all over the place. They've also got a Walmart whose parking lot doubles as an RV park. And a campground where I paid C$1 for a 4 minute shower.

I saw bison walking along side the road in the wee hours of the morning. I swear to you, they are so dark, had it been in the middle of the highway in the middle of the night, I'd have been stew meat. That far north, you only read about street lamps. Quite dangerous.

I saw Fairbanks. Nothing fair about it. They've a couple of great outfitters, a McDonald's that sells the McMckinley (a Big Mac with bigger beef patties), and the largest Walmart I've ever seen.

I saw Anchorage. Drunk eskimos abound. The people are rude. They practice shady business. Very disappointing.

I saw Wasilla. Wasilla is Alaskan heaven. The people are nice. They remind me of pleasant Canadians.

And of course I've seen Mt. McKinley. Big. Word on the street; it's bigger than Everest. It starts lower, has a higher rise (18 thousand feet, whereas Everest, though taller, rises a lowly 13 thousandish), and a larger base.

Oh yeah, I've peeped a cow moose and her calf eating the life out of some leaves not 100 feet away from where I sleep. Talk about big. I've seen a threaded flange break off my car's alternator. I've seen the Stampede trail made famous by Christopher McCandless and that whole Into the Wild hoopla. I've seen the midnight sun. I'm not exactly in Timbuktu, but I'm not in Kansas anymore either.

Summer 2009, will you marry me?

Ah man! It's been almost a month, but Canada is rocking my socks off. I'm shipping off to Alaska tomorrow morning and I am going to miss this balls to the wall place.

Last night I did Osheaga. Girl Talk hit with pounding synth beats and La Ronde (the local Six Flags amusement park) serenaded us with fireworks. The weather was absolutely perfect. I can't say anyone could ever plan a better party on paper.

My time here is clearly winding down and with my future up in the air here comes this pesky down, depressed me again. But seriously, lately I've done everything from trying to illegally escape Canada on foot, to riding home on a stolen Bixi at 4 in the morning, to developing a reputation for drinking everything out of extra large yogurt cups.

I just can't take blogging. Too much of a responsibility. I feel guilty. I can't update the blogosphere on my comings and goings. MY comings and goings. I can't, in reality, because why would anyone care, either way?

But I trudge. And my spell check seems screwed. And I've met the best people in the world. HERE. And I'm leaving in 24 hours.

"Je suis contente parse que nous somme ensemble."

To the EAST!

Hippies do it best. Over this past weekend, I've come to revisit the lifestyle I just recently got a hardcore taste of in Tennessee. A bud here in Montreal had this 36 hour party to get to in the Eastern Townships... and I've got a car. It was a dangerous mix. So I invited the girl I have a crush on and she brought her girlfriend. Oh the antics!!

Everything went uphill from there. Had I not lost my tin of Burt's Bees lip balm, I'd say the weekend was PERFECT. Crush and I swam through bottles of hard, hard alcohol (though not liquor). 11.1% Blithering Idiots were chugged, 13.5% Merlot was pounded, and we chased all that good shit with 8.6% Boris Bold tall boys. So we got so hammered by the time the djay threw on Punjabi MC we had no qualms 10 minutes later when the djay again threw on Punjabi MC!!! That's how drunk we were. But did it make a difference? No, because everyone there was zooted on MDMA and even crush's girlfriend was given psychadelic juice at 8am before she hit the hay. Sunday was one massive hangover in paradise.

On the drive back the girls hit the lake. And then we stopped at A&W and I got the highlight of the trip. Me and crush were going apeshit over my iced tea in a chilled A&W rootbeer glass/mug.

Is it any wonder I'm sitting here in front of this laptop on the verge of a major depression now that that happiness is over. It was literally the best trip of my whole entire life.

Alright, anyway, it's off to the Jazz Fest to try and recoup some sanity in good music. Apparently, a Rocksteady show is beckoning the friend who brought me out to the East. Fingers crossed it'll be good.

Oh Canada!

I love Canada! Canadians? Not so much, but oh Canada; I'm pretty fond of thee.

The first of July was Canada Day. The Old Port of Montreal threw a massive dance party with fireworks and shenanigans. It blew my mind. It was so much more fun than the lousy Macy's 4th of July fireworks thing on the East River. At the end, the MC told the crowd exactly where and when we could find them again: July 1st, 2010. The energy was over flowing and everyone waved their Canada flags. I was happy.

So I walked over to St. Catherine's and saw the Jazz Festival in full swing. St. Catherine's was closed to automobile traffic and the whole area was one big Jazz promenade with free live performances too. And the music was nothing to scoff at. It was great! The weather was great. Montreal is a great town. But the people here are a little less than great. I was alone. Even though this was Canada's independence day (or something similar) and Montreal has actually become a jazz festival, I couldn't convince anyone to go anywhere with me.

In Brooklyn I'd have any number of kooks willing to run around to all corners of the city for the corniest of fare. Here, Montreal has AMAZING things happening, all within walking distance, and everyone seems to be avoiding me.

But I love you still Canada. Wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life here. All I really need is you.

And I've come all the way from America to swoon over an American lesbian. Have I hit rock bottom? Almost. Almost.

Okay, so a few nights ago, I'm walking home from St. Jean Baptiste Day (a whole 'nother story) all half drunk at 3-something in the morning when I come across not one, but TWO skunks! The first one had it's rear... reared and ready to spray. The second, a couple blocks later, was frightened to bits when it saw me and looked very sketchy. Why are skunks soooooo scared? They've got barely any predators. And they can hardly see. What's there to frighten these crepuscular chickens?

So St. Jean Baptiste Day is like the national fete of Quebec. It's their sort of Independence Day. That day I hit a bar-b-que and a bridge burner party in Mile End. Fun and drink and crazy, crazy happiness were in abundance. I got invited to an "after party" where I drank warm Carlsberg beer too. All this to walk home and scare the living nightlights out of some skunks.

The story, apparently, is that Quebecois celebrate St. Jean Baptist then protest Canada Day by making everyone move. Like some cacaphonous symphony, everyone's lease in Quebec ends on July 1st, so everyone is so busy moving and not so busy feting. AND!!!! Everyone has to bring their own stoves and fridges and washers and dryers into their new abodes. CRAZY! I am crazy about this town... and this one terribly cool gal who likes other gals. Help me.

Computing is the new Prohibition

Sorry folks, I spilled beer on my laptop. I'm now sans computer. I will be minimizing my presence on these here Internettings for the forseeable future. Once I am able to fix my doohickey, however, I may just be chock full of half interesting anecdotes to recount.

Until not so soon...

2 Live Roo

Bonnaroo! Such an epic start to my summer of 2009. Manchester, Tennessee in mid June is like Mecca in the year 600 or so.

Highlights of this year's festival include a little known band called Hockey, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were sharp. The guitarist, Nick, either broke his electric guitar or it was out of tune for Maps. He ended up swapping instruments and they played the acoustic version. Then he broke his electric guitar at the show's end. TV on the Radio rocked the house. They started the set perfectly by going right into Love Dog. Phoenix is a band full of rock stars. They know what the fuck they're doing. Listzomania is also a very appropriate way to start a show. The lead singer ended the show crowd surfing (right by me). I missed the Crystal Castles who followed Phoenix (I hear their show was even better). Girl Talk finished up. CRAZY! Jessica Lea Mayfield autographed my t-shirt. The Heartless Bastards played a masterful Sunday afternoon set. Moe. rocked until 6 in the am. MGMT was packed to the gills. Booker T. made a fat white guy in the bleachers say "Damn!" And Vertigo made everyone shake like the Parkinson's ward during the '88 earthquake.

I got more shit to throw up here, but this is it for now.

Gone Phishing

Dearest reader. Your fearless egocentric blogger (that's me) is road tripping into the wilds of the US Interstate system and won't be back for well over a week. I intend to be 'off the grid,' as those of us in the know say, for at least a couple of those days.

Fear not, upon my return, I hope to whelm you with tales of forlorn love and skulduggery. Until such time, feel free to click on all the masterfully contrived links to the right.

Godspeed.

Staying outta trouble

So it turns out bike co-op volunteer is Papa Smurf. She likes to caution folks to "stay outta trouble." Such good stuff, she is. We hung out all day yesterday. We ended the day drinking a beer in the park, Boris Bold no less. And we chatted and laughed and made fun of things. I wish I were 23. I'd have asked her out. Did I just type that?

Yeah, yeah. And I meant it too. She's just so smurfin' cute and cooooool. She wanted like a hand shake or some shit when we left the park, but I gave her a big smurf instead. Seriously, she makes Montreal so much sweeter... and she's an American.

Alright, enough with the dreamy shit. Montreal seems to be in full festival swing. The Jazz Festival starts soon, and they've got a beer festival going right now. So as part of the beer fest, which you can assume I'm all about, I show up to hang out with this other chick. She's crazy, and a wreck. So I get there when the thing ends and we Metro it to her place for an indoor bar-b-que (that's how much of a WRECK she is). The beer fest, in case you're wondering (which, for obvious reasons, you weren't), was not warranting of my visit. They pour about 2 ounces of beer per $1 ticket. That's just highly inconceivable. I'd only ever go to check out drunk Quebecoise chicks. Anyway, the indoor bar-b-que was in a part of town called Snowdon or something. I live in a part of town called Verdun. Google Map it. In fact, Yahoo! Map it! Because, inevitibly, the metro closed on me and I had to walk that distance. With plantar faciistis, no less. Good thing I was sufficiently drunk.

Damn! I just wrote, to one of the most aloof human beings I've ever met (who is a teacher) that one has to be, in the classroom, more Hillary Clinton than Albert Einstein sometimes. In other words, I was suggesting she temper knowledge with diplomacy. Man, can I toot my own horn!

Alright. So I know I'm no good for anyone. I'm marginalized by weak self efficacy, advancing age, and a lack of charm. But I have a crush on a girl and it feels so good.

The Creature Feature

What a fiasco!!!

So I had my first shift as a bike cooperative volunteer. There's bound to be some sort of gaffe, right?

Of course I'm expecting NOTHING to run smoothly. Yeah, ideally, I'd be in this dimly lit room with a bunch of grease monkeys toiling away for a few hours and working those wrenches. I get there on time after sucking down a cup of coffee. I throw on an apron. People throw bikes up on the racks and know most of what they're doing. I point, nod, agree, etc, etc.

Then the problems strike. Women! They show up, they grab tools, and they go to work on their bikes. Problem? Yeah, they're all so cute. Wait. Wait! They're way cuter when they've got grease all over their hands and grit on their cheeks. It's problematic. It's Chernobyl. Free Tibet!

One of the volunteers is so super cute and mentioned something about me being cute (which was obviously her way of being funny), but super nice and it was all exactly what I envisioned of my trip to Montreal (see tags, below).

So, problem? Yes! Yes, yes, yes. So very, very troubling. I'd ask, rhetorically, for someone to shoot me, but Canadians don't wield guns the way Americans do.

Home Slick

Wow! Bonnaroo is fast approaching and the folks I'm traversing the US Interstate system with to get there are completely excited. I'm more excited about my couple hours return to Brooklyn, but the adult obligations of my Bonnaroo pals are severely limiting my time at home. Alas, my car IS the red eye.

I get a hunch mother dearest is a bit bored or lonely from our phone conversations. She lingers on the horn and grasps at new topics to chit and chat about. I miss my cats. I often find myself playing with the cats at the homes I visit here in Montreal.

But one thing that remains constant between the two, both Brooklyn and Montreal: the miscreants. My first week here, waiting for the night bus that never came, I stood in a bus shelter in the pouring rain next to a homeless man smoking crack out of a pipe. I don't have that keen a sense of smell and couldn't tell you what it smelled like, but had I not seen the rock sizzling in his apparatus with my own eyes, I would have enjoyed my first ever contact crack high.

The peddle crank of my free bike broke yesterday, and today I start working at a bike cooperative. I know zilch about bottom brackets and how a crank set can make a bike better. I went to a meeting of the co-op yesterday and they were bandying bike mumbo jumbo about and cracking bike nerd jokes and all I could think to myself at the time was; "this IS why I came here."

Sunday was free museums day, apparently. I took it upon myself to visit a couple of the city's most obscure. The Darling Foundry and the DHC/ART Museum of Contemporary Art. Seriously, the day was packed with deleriously cute Francophone girls. Now if I could only find it within myself to be more... "forward" with these specimens...

The bagel verdict...

A Canadian man hopped aboard a NASA rocket and finds himself in outer space. No big deal, yeah? Well, it is a big deal... if you're from Montreal. The guy ordered a boat load of bagels from this place on Fairmount near St. Urbain and the rest is history.

Did you know that little anecdote? Not likely, if you're from bagel-loving New York, where the city undoubtedly boasts the world's best. The Canastronaut was destined to bring Canadian bagels. Seriously, would he have brought maple syrup or Canadian bacon? Only bagels would keep long enough to be consumed at some point down the line and you wouldn't expect him to bring AMERICAN bagels now, would you? For all we know, perhaps he's never even had a New York bagel up until that fateful point in Bagel history. It's sheer bagelnomics my dear, Watsonheim.

Being that I am not moneyed and far from my beloved Brooklyn (and consequently the financially subsidized confines of my mother) I've embarked on quests by the handful in search of cheap and filling foods here in Montreal. Then it hit me! After enduring taunts by various Montrealers about how great the bagels here are, I seem to recall that bagels are quite filling and cheap. Bagels are quite filling and cheap (repeated because someone somewhere thought to him/herself "phew, you could say that again").

The thought hit me at an hour fast approaching midnight, so I summoned my old friend; these here Internets. Apparently, Rocketboy, eh's bagel shop was a 24 hour establishment and with narry a hesitation I entered my coordinates and headed out ("oat"). Yes, the bagels were reasonably priced (less than C$1 each) so I picked up a few and headed to a Provigo for some peanut butter and strawberry preserves. When I got home I reached into my bag of bagels and pulled out a cinnamon-raisin and a plain. Hard as stones! Still, barely deterred, I reached for a breadknife and sliced them in two, popped them in the toaster and applied ample amounts of peanut and strawberry matter. That's the stuff! Like my mother says "You butter your bread real nice, man. All sides."

Okay, so here's the verdict. The bagel itself has so much hole to it and as previously mentioned, it's a hard piece of wheat. Also, if you paid close attention, I had to slice my own bagel. Bagel stores where I'm from have contraptions (expensive, but classy looking things, really) what slice your bagels for you. Also, bagel stores in my parts toast AND do the buttering/jellying/peanutbutter et. al. for you. Fairmount Bagels only bakes you bagels and sells you bagels and bagel provisions (cream cheeses and stuff). Oh yeah, the hole industry works against the bagel consumer. The bagels, too, are smaller. So this all equates to a more expensive, though indirectly so, bagel. There is less bagel and you have to work harder to get it ready for your tongue. But, it IS delicious. They are really, really good. A little sweeter, tougher and chewier, but gumptious. I will say, the New York bagel is the better value. There is less hole and more bagel. New York bagel shops will customize your bagel however you fancy it. New York bagels are softer though I'd imagine a Montreal bagel is easier to tolerate once it has staled. A stale New York bagel is a brick with more practicality as an implement of violence than nutrition. Still, based solely on deliciousness, value and quality, the New York bagel is better in my subjective, Brooklynite mind. A valiant effort by Montreal Jews is not, however, to be ignored. They are delicious and both the main bagel bakers are 24 hour establishments. I've only ever been to Bagelsmith in Williamsburg for a bagel at 3am (but they are an ill representation of the New York bagel as they are overpriced and, frankly, not all that delicious).

It must be noted that I bought better bagels at the supermarket just a couple blocks away from me, but still they are a half notch below a good New York bagel (even a New York supermarket bagel). They're less tough and a slight bit bigger. They're still sweeter (which is nice) and very delicious but probably less edible when not toasted.

It should also be noted that I tend to only eat toasted bagels with stuff on them. I have been able to eat really good New York bagels without any toasting or stuff. I'm afraid to try it with the Montreal bagels as they are much tougher than New York bagels.

While eating my 2am Fairmount Bagel bagels it occured to me what my mother would say. She'd quip that I left New York and drove hours to the Great White Franco for tiny, hard bagels with huge holes. I'd be embarrassed. They're delicious, but certainly no New York bagel.

Growing pairs...

I wish I truly had a pair. A golden opportunity showed its delightful, glittery face to me today.

I got a bike for free yesterday, but it needed work. So I run to the free bike cooperative at McGill University to look about fixing up my fixer-upper.

I get there and sign in. The volunteer on duty is a little awkward, but I'm one to talk. What with my outward, outgoing personality, I sequester his aid. He helps me and at first seemed to know EVERYTHING. Then, slowly but surely it became evident that he knew lots, but was filling in the blanks as he went. But that's perfect at a do-it-yourself bike cooperative. He gets you started and you get handy and fix your stuff yourself, because the blanks always far outnumber the stuff empirical evidence can support.

The best part, folks... the ladies! They come in droves and they're all hot. And the best part, they're all using tools and have greasy hands and are fixing the hell out of their bikes. Damn, they're so hot. One had an amazing tattoo of musical notes on the back of her hand. Another must've been about 6'2". Then there's the girl from the Scooby Doo cartoons. Well, she shares a name with a character from the Scooby Doo cartoons.

Right, so I notice her working on something. She's there just trying to wrench her heart out, but the bolt isn't budging. I know exactly what that's like. Sometimes elbow grease just does not cut it. So I suggest to her my favorite mechanic's pastime; the cheater rod. That's when you throw a longer bar over your ratchet/wrench and pull! It usually double the amount of torque you apply, depending on the length and in no time we were twisting bolts like no tomorrow on her bike. Thing was, it wasn't benefiting. Nothing was coming apart. Turns out, we were wrenching to the right. "Righty tighty, lefty loosey." Mr. Awkward said I'm wrong, so I go about my business. Scooby Doo comes back over and we exchange quick notes. Turns out, Mr. Awkward was wrong. But I was already too embarrassed to assert myself anymore in that place. I'd already broken the chain on my bike with a half broken tool. Then I broke the tool that broke my bike (accidents). And that was the only such bike chain remove clamp doohickey in the place.

So I opted to courteously remove myself from the premises before being killed. THEN! Ohhhhhh, then... Then the Scooby Doo girl informs me that I owe her a hug upon my departure. Me, sans a pair, was too shy/embarrassed and what have you to get her number. Ouch.

Sick and tired... of being sick and tired

Wow, it sucks to be ill. This weekend, Montreal found me with physical illness. For one, I've been stricken with plantar fasciitis. Seriously, it hurts to walk and I find myself walking from the Plateau to Verdun every night (because the Metro closes). For those not in the know, that's a trek that often takes a hair under 2 hours and I don't lallygag while I traipse.

Then there is the fever that kept me in bed all day today. It was rough. The sore throat made things none too easy either. Crap! I also went out yesterday (with a sore throat but not too feverish) and played flag football. It was my first athletic contact since arriving in the land of the maple leaf. The first play had me on the floor. I fell and skinned my knee. It hurts. I think the skinned section of knee is infected. But it was also the most fun I've had all month. It's probably been two decades since I fell and skinned my knee. I hope it leaves a scar.

My hand is also swollen from awkwardly trying to intercept a wayward pass. And I get a text from someone who confesses she's at the end of her rope. I refused to give her the time of day.

Back to MY life...

We threw a bar-b-que here at chez Verdun. It was amazing. The roommate cooked up tandoori chicken (all dark meat), and the guests raved and raved. I cooked up burgers which went over well too. The qualifier, however, was the huge-ass Frito pie (a la the Levee) that I cooked up. It beat poutine a lot to none in our very unscientific poll done on the spot with lots of pressure on respondents to nod in agreement.

Oh man, the developments are happening faster than a Parkinsons patient can shake a stick at
'em. ALL the women at the bar-b-que were HOT. And they were so awesome. Except, they were so young and full of promise. And I'm old and crotchety.

Last night, sick, drunk and attempting to wait for the "night bus", I got to talking with another phantom bus awaiter. We spoke of the delightful women here. But in such a way as you'd probably expect from a Canadian. Very cordial, yet altogether engrossing. The word "eh" was bandied about. He once remarked about the "big juicy asses" of the city's Black girls. Long, boring story short, we came to the agreement that the francophone Asian girls were clearly hot in an exotic, anomaly sort of way.

Another night of a thousand footsteps

The Metro closes well before 2am. Last call is at 2:45am. The incongruousness is evident. Anytime I even half-heartedly attempt night time debauchery, I end up taking a thousand steps... home. Last night was no different.

So one girl invites me to sleep on her couch. I suppose I probably wouldn't mind sleeping on her. But, she was going to take a taxi home. Before I take a taxi to hers, wouldn't I just take one to my BED as opposed to her couch? Yeah, and after footstep number 1, there are only 999 left. That decision was easy.

Monday evenings is Arts & Crafts night at the Cock and Bull. And across the street somewhere is karaoke night, every night. I wound up doing both. Made a Quebecois flag, with two marijuana leaves and two fleur de lys.

Speaking of fleur de lys... I can imagine THAT being my first tattoo.

The weather is making me feel menopausal. One day I'm mowing grass and watching my breath in the air, the next I feel over dressed in... anything. The day after is supposed to be a combination of overcast rainy-ness and bullshit!

So my boss' woman-friend/pseudo wife IS smoking back-to-back whilst nourishing a bun in the oven. And she's already got a disabled child. If ever there were a more apparent case for the woman's right to choose movement, I'd be impressed. At least Philip Morris is guaranteed another generation of customers (if anyone still has any worries about the state of our prospective economy here in North America).

Shows! Right, so marijuana is pervasive. About half of the shows I've been to here in Montreal in May have involved the herb. In fact, I walked down Ste. Catherine which is THE strip for tourists and downtowners alike and caught a lung full of the natural mystic. Right out in the open.

At the Piknic Electronik, the folks were out puffing their brains free. In fact, Ms. Yoga teacher and I asked the event security for a light. He smiled and we had his lighter in our hands BEFORE we even finished asking.

Tired of reading about ME yet? I'm tired of writing about me. I sure am.

(Free time)

Had a less than great day... the other day. I got "paid" (In Canada, nearly everything gets quotations). Apparently, I make less than minimum. That, friends and obscene blog voyeurs, is an oxymoron.

I had a massive craving for MSG-er-Chinese fried rice. In New York, you just look for the bullet proof glass and a store front with luncheon specials listed. At such greasy spork establishments, you can easily score a pint of salty, yummy vegetable or beef fried rice for under $4. I figured Montreal is full of Chinese (come on, there ARE billions of them running around, right?), so I should be able to find something analogous, within reason. I query my mate Cody who directs me to Marc and Ste. Catherine. There I find Cafe Wok (or was it Wok Cafe?) which had the cheapest prices of the several restaurants of Asian persuasion in the area.

I walk in, find a seat, grab a menu and peruse. Dudes (and dudettes, where applicable), fried rice in Montreal starts at $6.95. I know, it's play money (what's a Canadian Dollar??) but money nonetheless. Alright, so they've got a special on the General Tso's chicken. Comes with a spring roll, rice and... uhm, chicken. I ask the waiter if the chicken was white meat. "Yes" came his reply. Fuck that, I'll have one. Even agreed to chip in an extra $1.50 to make the steamed rice, fried (which only means they sprinkle soy sauce on it to brown it, and crack an ostrich egg or something into it). Well, I'll never eat there again, and I might only never try Chinese in Montreal again. The "white meat" was all skin and fat and dark. The fried rice was all egg (hence the ostrich crack, if you didn't get it). I ate around the chicken and egg, and was still hungry. Waste of $10 (came up to $8.45 and didn't stick around for my change).

Upon walking away from the worst restaurant experience in my life, I nearly cried. The rain was pouring something fierce and I am poor and starving. And no one in Canada is reliable (like waiters) so I had no one to call up and get to come to a good, cheap place with me. Alone. Me.

But I didn't cry. I've too many testicles, apparently.

In the end, Cody found an art vernissage with free cheese, veggies and wine, it stopped raining, and the yoga teacher rang with the most illest idea; a free concert (K-OS) at the Olympic where weed was smoked out in the open while 30 or so burly, strapping security guards stood and inhaled very, very deeply.

Then Friday pops up, the weather is splendid, I worked for ALL of it and the new boss man with the pregnant-pack-a-day-smoker-girlfriend buys me lunch and pays me more for two days work than the other job did for about 4 or 5 days.

St. Hubert has a half sandwhich and soup for $5.55. Got to try that. Maybe that'll be lunch on Sunday.

Basically, my life has devolved into hunting and gathering (beer and food).

Quotation Marcs

I caught myself giggling ferociously to myself only moments ago. I work for Canadians now. That means instead of working at 7:30am SHARP, I work at "10am". Which means, show up at 10am if you'd like to hang out for a few, first. So I aerate lawns for this chap named Marc. Endearing fellow, really, but quite obnoxious is what he all boils down to. You have to be. See, Marc sells his craft door to door. Porte a porte. Door-to-door sales is a bitch and only the most immune and obnoxious persevere and excel. That's Marc. Anyway, Marc is young and lazy by American standards. So he says I have to be there at 10am, but we never start doing ANYthing until 10:25am at the earliest.

So I went looking for a new gig. And I got one. I got a landscaping gig. The lady calls me bright and early one morning and asks me to come down. I wipe the cold out of my eye and say "ppffftttt, no." So she calls back and got me to come in today. 7:30am she said in the email. I get there at 7:15am. She had this dust-up with the previous help because the guy showed an hour or so late. I'm thinking "that's appropriate, no?" I mean, for Montreal, anyways. Right, so I get there early and shit, only to lallygag until 7:45. Fuckers! I'm there and they're back-to-back chain smoking, Ron and Anika. Funny thing, at 7:40, just before Ron and I take to the road, Anika tells me she doesn't drink, partly because she's pregnant. I now know why Canadians are so flaky and late.

Ron must've burned through 2 or 3 packs of nicotine sticks the nine hours we spent today. My chest is burning. 1 more day. 1 more day.

Why are you doing this to me, O'Canada? And your ladies, hot as they are...? Are they flakers too? This one lady I know is soooooooo lazy. And the yoga teacher, is on a different speed altogether. By right, she gets high praise for not canceling on me. We hung out two or three times. But that's where Canadian reliability ends. Maybe her folks just never smoked while pregnant with her?

'Cause EVERYONE else here does (smoke). They really could use a couple of those New York State Smokers' Quitline commercials. Actually, I'm certain these folks sit around all day and watch television.

Anyway, I'm down on Canadian people, but not yet down on Canada. Besides the flaking and the smoking this place has amazing potential. Unfortunately, I just may have to debride the losers surrounding me.

And I haven't gone crazy...

The people here... are FLAKY! Maybe it's just that I need people? It could all just be me.

I think I'm making good progress. But then I get flaked on. People are so nonchalant in Canada about doing or not doing things. Which I can almost understand. I think I may be a bit much for people sometimes, especially the Canadians. Eh.

But yesterday I went to Brewtopia. They've got excellent beers and such. So I run for the strongest thing they've got. The Belgium. The bartender lady looks me square in the eye and says "it's strong!" Apparently she's never had a Blithering Idiot. Or a QUAD. Or a Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA. In fact, when/if I get back to the States, I've got to find a 120 and pound it.

Right, so I sit on the Brewtopia terrace and I sip on my half pint of 9% Belgium (by the fucking way, it's the only beer that wasn't a dollar off; it was all day happy hour Monday) and I notice one of the two lesbians looking at me. I really thought I was mistaken. But then from down below two other girls called up to me and asked if I'd seen a girl with short jean shorts walk pass. The lesbians got very keen on me now and started whispering to one another. Baffled, they called to me about 8 minutes later to ask if the girls were asking about a short girl going into the bar. Without giving them the mind-your-own-business-bitches face, I humored them and told them they were wrong-ola. But they started to chat me up, I invited myself over to their table and we made a good hour out of it. We exchanged numbers and had a mega cool Montreal conversation. This sort of shit is exactly why I came here. And one of them was really searing hot. But a lesbian.

Sooooo. I'm pretty sure I'll never see them again. That's how these folkses work.

WAIT! As I'm typing, a Canadian has rung me. Yoga teacher. Wants to go to some sort of improv. Says she's tired or something. BUT, I've got something to do. So I'll ship off now. I'll add a pic to this post upon my return.

Joie de Vivre

The Canadian Centre for Architecture (Centre Canadien d'Architecture) had a massive fete! They opened at 11am Samedi and closed at 7am Dimanche. Yeah, I took part. Yeah, I made a huge piece in the build your own museum workplace. I called it La File and had anyone who took part, and who wanted to, sign it. It was a hit. So naturally I became an instant ladies magnet.

I've also discovered that if the Francophones (women) see that an Anglo (me) is trying to learn French, they like him. So I've got a strategy. And a couple friends. And a beer-a-day in the park habit. And pictures. They'll be on MySpace soon. And a link will exist to the right... eventually.

The picture is from my walk home. At 5:30 am on Sundays, the Metro opens. Which means that after I got breakfast and wanted to retreat to my humble abode, I needed to walk. So I hiked it. I had to cross this canal (La Chine Canal, I believe) at maybe 5am. I saw it and I immediately felt like I live here. Fuck, it's going to be hard to have to leave.

Je habite le Montreal

It's been forEVER folks, hasn't it?

Every so often, I high tail it to somewhere with some sort of obscure allure. This time I took directly to the Great White North in search of... meh, I wish I knew what I came in search of (other than French Canadian women) or why.

Alls I know is that I've embarked on a new adventure and among my most frivolous goals are learning "le langue" and meeting and slaying the many French Canadian "femmes". Slaying may be going a wee bit too far, eh? Okay, maybe embarking on a few... if you know what I mean. You know what I mean? You know what I mean!

Alright bitches! Here we go.

So I get here on a Tuesday. It's Friday and already I've had a night where I drank about 8 glasses of wine and peddle home on a BMX that's far too small in a torrential downpour, and drank beer in the park. Pictures to follow. Sooner rather than later.