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.

I mock middle-aged men for a living.

Waitressing has its highs and lows and yesterday's shift had both. I got busy to the point where a line is crossed between aiming to provide a quality dining experience and aiming to avoid a complaint. At the peak of the frenzy I had a table of Francophones (a departure from the tourist/business tourist clientele) in for happy hour. I went around the table taking drink orders and came to a particularly miserable looking woman.

She was sporting what could only be explained as a drunken, left-handed application of mascara extending far beyond the reach of her eyelashes, an insubordinate mess of badly over bleached hair and a caffeine addled expression of the stale-pot-of-Folgers-at-the office variety: Feral … Approach with caution.

She asked for something pretty basic - A side of fries. The Quebecois tendency to hork and/or effect a mucous-y pronunciation of many words turned frites into something entirely unrecognizable in this case, and threw me for a loop. I politely asked her to repeat herself. She turned 180 degrees in her seat to face me and with as much acid as can possibly be inflicted into a single sentence, spat “In Quebec, we speak French!”

The C word came to mind, but I kept it to myself. She refused to look at me for the duration of her stay, answering my queries as to whether she would like another beer with disdainful snorts. I let off some steam with another server by extolling the virtues of tactics such as drawing penises or writing “fuck you” in sauce under a patron’s dessert, then seething with satisfaction while they take unsuspecting bites of your chocolatey expression of disgust.

When presented with the bills they complained about the price of the Sangria (which I would agree is grossly overpriced, but in accordance with the “tourist tax” that affects prices in most areas of downtown, especially Crescent Street – as a local you should know better, no excuse). Asking for exact change on each of their seven bills, they stared me down with beady eyes as I fumbled for nickels. There is a special place in hell for people like this, and it’s called salmonella poisoning. Or, should I say, salmonelle. Agh.

Things took a turn for the better by the end of the night, however. My last table was a group of pervy business men from Toronto. One of them ordered a Captain Morgan’s and coke, and when I asked him if he’d like dark or spiced he said that he liked ‘em dark and spicy. I said that I regrettably could not help him in that area, but I’d heard that such things can be found in Montreal for the right price. We spent some time debating whether the girl at the next table with two older men was a “rental” (his words, not mine). I got an earful of old man perspective on guage piercings, of which a striking example was being sported by a nearby patron. This guy that they kept calling Dot Com for some unknown reason (maybe he’s bankrupt?) asked me if I knew where they could find some pot. I asked him what his wife would think. They tipped me $40 on a bill for $120. All was suddenly right in the world, Franco lady eat your heart out.

If only all tables were like this. My word of advice to that lady, however misguided her anger may have been, is watch out. Like in the server cult classic “Waiting”, we will have our revenge. And when it comes, it will rain down on you and your frites in a vicious, unrelenting storm. No but really, I’m over it. Really.

Various Follies and Unexpected Awesome

It's a weird adjustment to go from being with someone 23 out of 24 hours a day to living alone. The solitary life has its perks, however. First of all, I've been damn productive. The dishes get washed instantly, the bills get paid early, meals are cooked at home, the to-read pile of books is shrinking and the money is getting made. Second, I get to call all my own shots when it comes to pastimes.

My previous companion was not so big on the genre/indie film watching pastime, so I have been taking advantage of my new-found freedom by seeing as many films as possible at the Fantasia festival. I have absolutely no qualifications to review or recommend anything, music, art, whatever, as I'm not even really sure what I like most of the time. I will, however, say that Love in a Puff by Pang Ho-Cheung is kickass. Unsurprisingly, about love and smoking. Funny, with dialogue that is not contrived in the slightest. Guaranteed to make you want a cigarette desperately for the duration.

Catching up with friends has been a good familiarization with everything from grungy pubs to chauchy (see http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Chauchy) clubs to hipster bars. It seems like the people I know here have absolutely nothing in common, which is actually kind of cool because it gives me a wider perspective on what is good. What's more, it gives me a wider perspective on what is good to drink ... Which in my case this morning, would be less. So much less.

Alas, life is not all leisure. I would like to take this opportunity to disparage my new workplace. I trust that in the unlikely event that any of my coworkers are both literate and adequately motivated to read this blog, they would be one of the good ones, and therefore not offended. Due to the effects of my workplace sucking, I am ashamed to admit that I have become one of those nasal toned, “Well at my last job ...” people that are so very annoying. Some comparisons that come to mind include ...

“At my last job my manager knew my name wasn't Annie ... especially by my 5th shift.”
“At my last job I didn't have to pick cigarette butts and gum out of sidewalk planters after an 11 hour shift with no break.”
“At my last job we didn't staff 10 servers versus two tables.”
“At my last job, the bartender didn't ask what last call was.”
“At my last job, the person who trained me didn't have to ask the MOD how to round to the nearest dollar.”

Can you blame me, really? It helps to gripe.

Speaking of being productive, I should get home and make this evening's difficult decision: Wine in a coffee mug, a plastic bowl, or straight from the bottle? I don't have any of my stuff yet and improvising drinking vessels has become my most recently acquired skill. Onward.

Language Tensions and Hospitals: The Best of Montreal

Just like a true jaded local, my first two weeks in Montreal have been jam packed with spectacles of rage. There are few issues here that get people as hot under the collar as those of language and healthcare, and I have been fortunate enough to have intimate experiences with both in this short time.

Using my first week here to secure an apartment, I ran out of excuses and officially commenced my job search last Monday. I did the Walk of Shame on Crescent Street, up one side and down the other, passing out CVs. One guy was actually waiting for me on the patio of his restaurant with a pen.

I stopped by the notoriously divey Madhatter’s Bar, a black sheep in the yuppy downtown core with its “Golf for liquor” and “All-you-can-eat chili and beer” features. The owner, a big, burly, uninhibited Anglophone woman informed me that although they were currently overstaffed, she would be happy to refer me to some places that were looking for servers. She got to asking where I was from and seemed to identify with me as a non-Quebecker. This triggered a discussion regarding language enforcement laws in the city, which led to her regaling me of tales involving the language police. (For those of you that haven’t heard, there are increasingly active French language enforcers in Montreal who make surprise visits to businesses and evaluate the quality of the service delivered to them in French. If this quality is determined to be unsatisfactory, the business can receive a hefty fine or various other repercussions … http://www.cbc.ca/canada/montreal/story/2008/02/14/qc-olf-0214.html). Not one to mince words, she recalled how she “had to deal with those sons of bitches before”, and that she “told them to get the fuck out of my bar!” Fantastically angry. Fantastically vulgar.

Since then I have done some reading on the plights of idealistic Anglos looking for work on the streets of this city, and gleaned from a variety of opinion pieces (http://www.montrealmirror.com/2008/022108/news3.html) and forums that the options are slim: Telemarketing or escorting - It’s a tough life. Surprisingly, I got a job at the first place I left a CV at. Part luck and part ruthless, self-enhancing lies I guess.

As if job hunting in the heat wasn't enough fun, I was dealing with a minor health concern and had to evaluate my medical options. To visit a clinic before possessing a Quebec health card a fee has to be paid that will be later reimbursed by your province of origin. I’ve gotten this line before and have never received a reimbursement, so I was skeptical. To avoid this process I went to Montreal General’s emergency room. Seven hours later, having had no contact with a doctor, I left. I wasn’t the worst off either, an elderly couple I had spoken to had been there for ten or so hours. Apparently this is par for the course. During my seven hours of alternating naps and coffee drinking, I was visited several times by one of the security guards. We had chats about my “aura and good energy”, his weight loss regimen, and the nutritional value of Starbucks beverages. When his shift was over he stopped to ask if I would like to join him for said Starbucks beverages sometime. I guess being stuck in a hospital emergency room all day can make anyone who isn't saggy or dripping blood look good.

Effort two brought me to Hotel Dieu, the French hospital with reputedly shorter wait times. While waiting, I had a lady sit down beside me and ask if I could speak English. She then proceeded to yell, “Great, there are too many FRENCH people here, so many FRENCH people!” These French people included everyone in the waiting room, and the angry glares commenced. I learned that her husband had hung himself in their garage after losing the use of his legs, and she explained her deep depression following his death. At some point the man beside her turned and started screaming “SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP! I’M TIRED!” Pretty much everyone ignored the exchange, while I contemplated hanging MYself.

I finally made it in, only to find out that the wrong tests had been performed on my blood samples and I would need to give more samples and arrange another appointment. The doctor wrote me a prescription for the meantime, and I chose to skip the follow-up appointment. If and when I return, I will have to be in a bad enough state that my wait time is considerably shorter.

Thus begins week four of life in Montreal. World Cup is over now, so maybe everyone will calm down and simmer in the heat for a while. Not likely, but I look forward to becoming jaded as the best of 'em.

"It's so easy, even an english can do it!"

I've been back in Canada for a week now and have experienced a touch of what I hear is reverse culture shock, but I believe is actually more culture dismay. Things that dismay include ...

People driving around with the bass of their crap music rattling the door handles on their beater cars.

Fat people. So many. I mean, the sidewalks are wider here, but they really don't seem to be.

Pushy guys. Cat calling, ogling, etc.

The number or people who really care about the queen visiting. Like, thousands of them, standing in the rain to watch her look at some boats.

Protestors burning cars at the G20 summit and launching class action lawsuits for unlawful detainment. The controversy that grabbed the most headlines in connection with ECFA protesting in Taipei was that it was a little noisy and might distract students writing exams.

Shit is expensive.

Okay so I guess it's not that bad to be back. Some things are fantastic. Hearing good live music is something that is next to impossible in Taipei, as is walking in to any bar or cafe to watch soccer. As it happens to be jazz festival and world cup season in Montreal, it's actually difficult to not enjoy these things. And man did I miss cheese.