24 Hours in the Arms of Delta

Derek Blasberg, stylist and frenemy to the stars, advises women aspiring to classiness that the only time is is acceptable for a lady to sit next to a stranger for several hours without saying a word is on an air plane. If only it were so simple – Clearly, Derek's experiences are with flying first class.

At the moment I am watching the sunset at Tokyo Narita airport, feeling very much like it is 2AM. Overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotional stimuli (yup, that one's for you) over the past month, I have recessed into a semi-catatonic, grunting, boarding pass brandishing shell of my former self. Faced with six hours of limbo between my old life and my new one, I obviously cannot think of a better way to spend it than regaling you with my woefully standard travel complaints.

On the Montreal-Detroit leg of the flight, I was seated with an ordinary and inoffensive (Read: Of average weight and bathed) man. Behind us, however, was this mean old Southern woman with a hate-on for the lone flight attendant. Before we had even started taxiing, the woman had started in on the attendant about the imagined imminence of missing her connecting flight. We couldn't even make it through the safety demonstration without her chiding remarks and audible sighs, which increased in their audacity to the point where any time the flight attendant spoke, even a request to fasten a seat belt was followed by an “Oh for the good lord's sake, lets get going!” She somehow conned the guy across the aisle into being her fetch-it bitch for the storage compartments - “Hey, grab me ma purse now, would ya?” A demeaning duty to which he was puzzlingly amenable for the duration of the flight. Before the seat belt light was turned off, she was pushing mothers and babies out of the way to be at the front of the plane, bullying the attendant into lowering the ramp faster and demanding an escort.

As I walked the 20 minutes (actually) to my next gate, the only-present-when-in-reference-to-The-States bile of Canadian Nationalism rose in my throat. How many burger shops can realistically be sustained in a 100 metre stretch? Five, apparently. Sorry, I was raised in granola and folk music country, I can't help my nature. This pathological disdain only prepared me for my next seatmate.

By virtue of something akin to bad karma I was in the middle seat, sandwiched between a nondescript yet polite man and a lard-laden, Coca-Cola swilling, snorting, putrid abomination - And that's being generous. He introduced himself with a tactful, “The window seat's mine, can ya move?” And proceeded to plant his generously portioned self at the aisle exit, as if he expected me to levitate out of the way. His in-flight behaviour was nothing less than one would expect from the poster boy for fat assholes everywhere. A relentless barrage of horking and coughing, very circa 2009 Swine Flu. Needing to use the bathroom suddenly and often, screaming, “Gotta get out!” In my ear any time I encountered the briefest moment of sleep. Occupying 1.3 seats, which is a 0.3 seat succession I should clearly make due to the conspicuous lack of Cola and wieners in my diet. And oh, the stench. If the angel and devil on his respective shoulders were waging a battle between showering and fried chicken, it must have been Two-Dollar Tuesdays at Church's.

Unfortunately I could go on, but my battery is dying and it's pre-boarding ... Next time I complain it will be from Taipei, and will most likely involve cockroaches. Here's hoping.

snarkyblogging: Letters of Discontent

Dear Provigo Cart-ee,

Although this may come as a surprise to you, there is still a foot attached to my leg much the same as there was the last time you ran over it with your cart and I gave you a dirty look.

Firstly, you do not need a full-fledged shopping cart for your bag of chips and can of soda. Secondly, ramming into me while there are still two people ahead of us in line will not result in you shoving fistfuls of Lays into your mouth any faster.

Consider yourself warned. Next time, despite the classlessness of such behaviour, I will start a checkout lane brawl with you right then and there, and the cashier will be asking, "Vous voulez un sac?" so that you may have something with which to bandage your bloody appendages.

Warmly,

Provigo Cart-ed



Dear Self Pitying Final Exam Writing Students,

Exams are not an excuse to be flouncing about in public sporting a sweatsuit. In fact, there is no excuse to be flouncing about in a sweatsuit. Hell, its hardly excusable to OWN a sweatsuit. Leave that shit at home, you are tarnishing Montreal's reputation.

*Please note: Ironic facial hair combined with ironic sweatsuit sporting is DEMOLISHING Montreal's reputation. Yeah, I've seen it.

It's bad enough that I have to “consider” functions more than usual this week. Do not make it worse by forcing me to ponder the rate of change of the visible area of thong protruding from your Spaldings. Ach.

Sincerely,

Self Pitying Final Exam Writing Student



I had a third letter in mind but have consumed too much gin since writing the first to remember why I was snarky to begin with. I blame the gin consumption on your sweatpants.




... Ah, I remember now.


Dear Neighbours,

Write another letter to the regie, I dare you. I can't wait to hear you render the painful memories of waking up at 9 AM to the faint sound of CBC or a bloody coffee grinder, or the excruciating memories of the time I had friends over to BAKE COOKIES.

Yes, I had one loud party. And for that I have apologized profusely. That does not, however, justify trying to have me evicted for closing a dresser drawer after 10 PM on a Thursday.

If you want to talk about "frequent late night guests", perhaps I can match your woes with those of my own. Tell your creepy hall wandering boyfriend to get his own goddamn key, I'm sick of hearing you buzz him in at all hours of the night. And yeah, I can hear your music too. The only difference is, yours is CRAP. Oh, and if you're going to leave your stuff in the dryer for three hours after it's finished, clean out the fucking lint trap when you're done. What do you dry in there anyway, because the lint trap is always BRIGHT PINK! Do you have a pink pair of Uggs to match the shitty brown ones that you leave melting pools of dirty snow onto my mat?

The reason I don't report you to the building management or the regie is because when I signed a lease to live on SAINTE CATHERINE STREET above a BAR and beside a WHORE HOUSE, I realized that maybe there would be some dirt, some noise, and some questionable characters in the hallway. DUH. If this isn't for you, you are clearly too fucking boring to live here. MOVE TO LAVAL.


Kindest Regards,

#304

... you'll find it at the Y.M.C.A.

There's some stuff the Village People didn't mention about the YMCA.

It is certainly true that it is a place you can go when you're short on your dough (relatively short, compared to the new young men in town who can afford memberships at private gyms) and it is by all means a place where you can hang out with all the boys (having either a hetero or homosexual agenda), who are in turn being enjoyed by the men (this is not a lyrical misinterpretation). Most importantly, there ARE many ways to have a good time. Observed first hand, these are some of the ways that good times can be had at the downtown Montreal YMCA.



Be nude, station yourself just inside the women's locker room, and start chattin' about arthritis.

Load the thigh machine with the minimum 50lbs, position yourself in the machine correctly ... And take a nap for upwards of 20 minutes.

Place towel and/or water bottle on the only hamstring machine. This is now your personal bench for relaxation and all other desired purposes throughout the duration of your gym session. Gaze at yourself in the mirror, flex occasionally. Pick up the skipping rope and appear as if you intend to use it. Don't. Sit back down on the bench. NEVER use machine for intended purpose.

Hang out with all the boys ... Whether or not you would like to. You grab a medicine ball ... So does the boy. You find a place on the mats to stretch, and the boy finds a place beside you. You book treadmill number 6, the boy books treadmill number 7 and so on.

Have excessive, extensive cellulite? Wear brightly coloured lycra with loud patterns and use the stair master.

“Stretch” on the mats facing the glass-walled yoga studio (only applies to lurking men 50+).

Misread treadmill booking chart. Approach heavily sweating, heavily breathing user on treadmill of choice, and insist that their booking is up. Persist until they stop the machine and get off to show you that they actually still have 8 minutes left. Slouch off. Repeat.

You're a man? You have long, luscious locks? Said locks are grey beyond the point of denoting sexual prowess? Let them flow free and lope around the indoor running track, ogling the women on the stair masters and flexing as you pass. You are Fabio. You are Don Juan. You are the Harlequin hero of the everywoman.

Wash your gym clothes in the shower and dry them with a blow dryer. Create a locker room lake and wet the socks of those changing nearby.

Be the lone man in a posse of no less than 8 women on the elliptical trainers. Wear short jean shorts, pull socks up to knees.



Times have changed a great deal since that song was released. Firstly, the YMCA that the Village People wrote about was not a gym. Secondly, it was not co-ed. Finally, it was run for and organized by Christians. Despite this much of the same youthful optimism remains – You can still have a good time and, apparently, do whatever you feel. Sensibilities of other patrons aside.

Rue Richler

I watched "A Film Unfinished" tonight and definitely would not recommend it to anyone who isn't either Jewish or in possession of a whopping dose of self-loathing. The documentary is comprised of footage from an unreleased Nazi propaganda film that was shot in Warsaw’s Jewish ghetto over a one month period in May 1942, survivors' reaction to the footage and an interview with one of the German officers behind the filming. My notion going in was that it would be an average heartwarming Nazi shit-talker of a film, but it was more of an excruciating-series-of-still-frames-featuring-emaciated-corpses kind of film.

With the aid of a couple glasses of wine to soften the blow of non-Jewish guilt, I’m going to enhance my emotional well being by declaring my support for a Rue Richler. As some of you may have heard, some shit-disturbing city councillors have been stirring the French-Canadian pot in the interest of having a street named after one of Montreal’s most prolific authors, Mordecai Richler. Opponents to the proposition echo Richler’s many critics in their accusations that he was racist and anti-Quebecker, and therefore undeserving of a sign with his name on it. Uh, what about Lionel-Groulx station? What about Henri Bourassa?

Obviously being a racist has not been a barrier to having a public place in one's namesake before – What's stopping us now? If we can have a metro station named after an anti-Semitic Quebec Nationalist, we can have a street named after someone who was tarred and feathered by Quebec Nationalists for making accusations of antisemitism. It's a nice balance.

Do it for Dov/Everyone ends up as a fat mess.

Dear readers, please assist me with my moral quandaries.

Someone suggested I be an American Apparel model for Halloween, which would entail wearing stupid glasses and gold lamé, and tying off my arm with rubber tubing - We thought tract marks would be excessive. The only catch is that to get the right look I may have to actually purchase something from said store, which would effectively negate my non-Dov-Charney-panderer cred. It just doesn't seem likely that I will find that token, over-the-top badge of hipster identity anywhere else in a timely manner. So please, channel your heartfelt advice into the poll that outlines my plausible options.

What do hipsters and my next topic have in common? Ray-Bans and waning sex appeal.

I watched Carlos, the heavily fictionalized film on the life of Ilich Ramirez Sanchez last night. Gangster stuff is right up my alley so I was pretty satisfied with the first 2 1/2 hours of Edgar Ramirez looking pensive, shooting people, and being, overall, dead sexy. Sadly, all it took was 5 minutes of dozing off in the final stretches of the film for Carlos to go from being the chain smoking, leather jacket wearing definition of cool to being a sweaty lipo patient with a kid and a swollen testicle, the definition of washed up.

He is currently serving a life sentence in France. Conclusion? Even the sexiest hipsters end up as fat, desperate alcoholics.

Cocaine is one helluva drug ... When you're 16.

When I was 14 I lived, indulgently unsupervised, at a friend's house for the summer. We ran the gamut of house egging, cop car defacing, car theft and dumpster fire lighting, among other admirably cool pastimes. At some point during those feverish months of gleeful rebellion I ended up sneaking into the only bar in my hometown - And by sneaking, I mean I walked really fast through the front door flanked on either side by some seedy 20 year old guys, this association aiming to dispel any doubts in the bar staff's mind of my age. It worked, and in my mind was a surefire testament to my sophistication. A greasy old cowboy showed me how to play pool while I got an earful about the Saturday night stripper, and how the bar manager reused the same pink pleather outfit for every stripper that did a stint there. In all, it was a pretty unglamorous affair, but that didn’t stop the story from being told and retold, in grandiose fashion, to all of my friends.

When I was 17 I used the ID of one Natanya Caroline Funk (yeah, Nat Funk), who was 25, blonde, and 5"10 to get into clubs and buy liquor. I was offended any time that I was actually asked for ID, and gave as much attitude as I could muster to dubious looks from bouncers. When I was finally old enough to show my own ID, it just wasn’t fun anymore. Entitlement ruined the thrill of feeling like I had one up on everybody.

Now I'm 21 and ... I'm a total fogey. In a line up at the SAQ the girls ahead of and behind me got checked for ID but I didn't. In a departure from my old smugness I just felt left out. The other night, faced with deciding between a Bad Religion show and a free ticket to see Joan Baez, I passed on the mosh pit for the concert hall. My 16 year old self would have been appalled, I thought as I stood in an orderly queue for the adult
beverage counter. Where 4 years ago I was jumping up and down, covered in GWAR style fake blood and semen at the Cobalt after a particularly rowdy show, I was now sitting cross legged, politely applauding, in a room filled with people of whom the median age was likely 55.

(As a side note Joan Baez was incredible, and my prior notions of her being a bleeding-heart pseudo-leftist with a dope hangover are dispelled. With a decade on my parents she can still rock a Bob Dylan song with sincerity. Even more respectably, she won a deserved standing ovation for her rending of "Un quebecois errant", changed from Un canadien errant ... To which I should add, I learned that she re-released the song, "We Shall Overcome", always associated with the civil rights movement with lyrics in Farsi to show support for Iranian protestors after the 2009 elections ... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVCqPAzI-JY)

But I digress. My realization that I really am becoming “too old for this shit” came a few nights ago at a club. Disenchanted and feeling rather like a pedophile, I left my friends dancing and went to the bathroom. On the way, I got felt up by a guy who was probably my little brother’s age. Picking my way through the hordes of sloppy teens with wardrobe malfunctions I made it, and behind the door of stall number one found two high school-aged girls doing blow off the toilet paper dispenser. I laughed awkwardly and, giggling, they asked if I wanted some. In true fogey fashion, I replied “Nah, I’m too old for that shit”, and used another stall. While washing my hands I watched the bouncer haul them out the front door, one of them missing a shoe.

So I guess that makes me boring, but I’m starting to see the perks. At least I left with both of my shoes.

A tardy ode to the season.

It's October already and autumn is old news. I've been meaning to give praise to my favourite season for weeks but have been too caught up in the hectic pace to do any justice to an entry. Alas here I am, and in the words of an exhausted manager patiently fixing my cash out last night, “Stop making excuses, it's just bloody annoying.”

What's not to love about nature's transition from vibrant, temperate life to desolate sub-zero death? Aside from the obvious stuff – pretty leaves and crisp days – these months still bring a lot to the table. Life settles into a predictable keel and finds some semblance of normalcy - travelling, moving, changing jobs, eating salad, all of these things that seem to make more sense in the warmer months are either resolved or put on the back burner until spring. Having a relatively clear picture of what the next 8 months will look like is comforting.

Consider Halloween, which is by far my favourite ... holiday? Is it a holiday? It is certainly not a holy day, but possibly fits the more widely accepted idea of the word as a time for celebrating. In fact, Halloween's lack of religious back-story (no one cares about pagans) is what carries most of the appeal for me. Who can resist the concept? Play dress up, get scared, get candy, get drunk. If you've ever been to a really good costume party you know what I mean. When else could you find yourself in a room with Waldo, Alex from A Clockwork Orange, Dr. Fu Manchu, a giant inflatable penis, a giant inflatable sumo wrestler, and the Jolly Green Giant? Well, I suppose there ARE ways, but I can't afford the membership fees for those clubs.

Then there are less obvious reasons to celebrate the season, such as the return of the masterful Jian Ghomeshi to Q. Starting the season off by taking gold at the International Broadcast Awards for his grand slam interview with Leonard Cohen, the man is clearly on top of his game. When fawning over his brilliance to a friend I was told matter-of-factly that he is intolerably pretentious and that most reasonable people would never voluntarily endure the sound of his “more-cultured-than-thou” musings. Maybe she was right, or maybe she's just more of a Billy Bob Thornton fan. This will not, however, deter me from listening to his velvety smooth navigation of each inspired interview, even if that means accepting the CBC's interpretation of domestic arts and culture now and again.

With September comes a return to school as well. It feels good to restrict my availability at work for reasons as lofty as the pursuit of an education, and this explanation seems to sell better to management than arguing that mornings are for nursing hangovers. Naturally, I have been making the most efficient use of my time behind a desk. While sitting in the back row of my calculus class, entirely disengaged from the lecture, I observed familiar surroundings. Taking stock of students' commonalities, it struck me that most of the similarities were in the strange shit students do during lectures when they think no one is watching them. Neuroses is universal. Your guard is down, you assume everyone behind you is either on Facebook or dozing ... Not always the case. Here is an amateur anthropological profile of a typical college class.

Mutters: Sits to my right. Answers rhetorical questions and praises the lecturer in a barely audible voice. Engages in dialogue with ... Himself. Makes it impossible to focus because I can't help but want to hear what he's on about.

OCD Notes: Forever rifling through her pencil case (and who has a pencil case anyway?) for various coloured pens, rulers, erasers, white out, etc. Takes obscenely meticulous notes, colour codes headings and sub headings, uses a special green pen for bullets ... Often the same person who is found frantically flipping through her notes before an exam because she was too busy re-writing two pages worth of superfluous junk to an acceptable level of perfection to absorb any of the material.

Dirty Texter: Sits to my left. Holding cell phone level to the desk for maximum stealth, this Blackberry Romeo indulges his Juliet with such titillating prose as, “hey babez jst in class now thinkin bout yo hot ass cant wait see u tonite”. He thinks no one notices that his pocket is vibrating at 15 second intervals. If that wasn't so irritating I might find it amusing that he doesn't realize his phone is at the perfect angle, directly in my line of sight, for me to know practically as much as he does about his post-calculus conquests.

Hopeless Highlighter: Flips through textbook at warp speed in a nonsensical pattern, highlighting insignificant, unrelated words and phrases. Not only is he ruining the book's potential resale value, but could you imagine trying to study the text version of Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat? Often seen borrowing fluorescent shades from OCD Notes' pencil case.

Hairlot: Sits in front of me. Puts her hair in a ponytail. Takes it out. Puts it in a ponytail again. Inspects her handiwork, checking to see that it is perfectly smooth. It's not. Takes the elastic out, leans way back on her chair and shakes her hair around. Dye-tortured strands fall on my calculator. Hair up again. Hair down after 2 minutes. Attempts to replicate a Finesse commercial. No one notices, except me.

Fidget: Disassembles mechanical pencil, dumping lead on the table. Sorts through it, peers in through the opening at the top of the lead encasing. Reassembles. Finds it necessary to repeat, sometimes dropping lead on the floor and squirming around in his seat trying to locate it. This person can also be, or is friends with ...

800813SS: Can't put his calculator down. We've been doing theory all class but he is furiously punching numbers into his calculator, textbook closed. Either a closet genius who is working on a groundbreaking equation, or the guy who came up with the grade school 80081355 calculator trick. Anyone remember BOOBLESS?

Not that I am without fault, we all have our own neurotic behaviour to contend with.

Beverages: I have a psychological hangup when it comes to caffeinated drinks. Coffee, tea, GoFast. Rested or not, learning cannot be accomplished without caffeine. For some reason I am always sitting next to someone who is fasting in September and whether or not they actually give a shit I still feel guilty about my hedonistic consumption of non-water beverages. They yawn, I slurp GoFast. This guilt does not weigh heavily enough to have a consequence on my drinking, unfortunately.

This is by no means a complete list, so please share your own observations.

Welcome autumn; welcome colourful leaves, radio programming, costume wearing, desk sitting, compulsive caffeine consumption and exposure to homey classroom weirdness.