The Time Grinch Who Stole Christmas

Hey hey hey, ho ho ho, it's Christmas time, and I almost missed it. Actually, if my office party hadn't been last week, I probably would have. I've been busy enough that the first cup of straight-up eggnog has yet to be consumed. 

Okay, there was an eggnog latte somewhere in November, back when I thought I would still have the time to buy a tree and decorate it. Please don't judge me. Occasionally I'll indulge in a ridiculous, expensive whipped cream and flavouring concoction from the 'bucks, like I own an Audi and send my kids to Mandarin class. 

I don't have an Audi. And my kids are really just one cat with boundary issues. 

Anyway, I need some Christmas spirit pronto. Obviously Christmas cards are no longer a possibility, but I think if I can cut some snowflakes while watching Die Hard, I'll be okay. 

The Indignity of Winter Biking

Putting aside the idiotic columnists and angry drivers, getting the Silver Bullet* on the road was one of the better decisions I made this year. As I coasted down hill after hill, free from TTC-induced psychosis, I thought the good times would never end.

And then summer turned to fall, which turned to the fetal winter we're having right now. Snow, slush, ice; all good reasons to stop biking for a bit. I also got a nasty cold in November. With phlegm clogging the bike's engine (ie my lungs) the Silver Bullet was locked up for a week, which stretched into two, and eventually became December. 

And what better month, I thought, to retire my bike for the season and buy a metropass? The city would once again be my oyster, or during rush hour, my sardine can. That lasted for about six days before the card was mysteriously misplaced around Bathurst station. It was kind of like taking $130 and gleefully tossing it out of the back window of the Bathurst bus. 

So it was time to put the saddle back on the steed. The first day wasn't so bad. Sure, my nose ran with rivers of snot, and my legs were as frozen as two fishsticks. My coworker, watching my approach, insisted that a Mercedes almost ran me over, but let's not dwell on that particular indignity. Instead, let's focus on the parade of shame that was this morning's commute. 

I knew it was going to be slushy out there, but I didn't realize how my fender-free tires would liberally spray me with the road's effluvia. Halfway through I regretted my decision to bike, as I opened my mouth to breathe (nose already plugged with cold-induced mucus) and tasted the salty bouquet of fresh road slush. Neither the road conditions, nor tidings of comfort and joy, deterred the drivers from crowding me as I lurched down Spadina. And yet, somehow, I managed to arrive at work (please see "artist"'s rendering, above), only to leave and almost instantaneously go airborne as high winds whipped my bike at the curb, and cardboard boxes and recycling bins at me. 

Which is why I don't understand people who hate cyclists. Save your anger for something else, because eventually the inanimate objects and meteorological events will take us out.

*So named because it is rusty and slow

A 6.0 for Effort

When I was young I decided that I wasn't a very athletic person, and so I decided to resign myself from any and all physical pursuits - volleyball, basketball, tug of war - and pursue a life of the mind.

Unfortunately, the life of the mind has proven as untrustworthy as my own coordination skills, but that's not the point.

No, the point is that yesterday, I strapped on a pair of skates like a good Canadian, and stepped on to the ice at Nathan Phillips square like a good Torontonian.

And then... I stopped.

Skate forward? NO FOR I WOULD SURELY DIE. My mental dialogue was something like "How do you move on skates? How do you MOVE? How how how?" The physics didn't seem to make any sense. Better to stay completely still and not rip a hole in the space/time continuum.

I tried to keep my balance while yelling at my friends that it didn't make any sense. I tried to reconcile the seeming impossibility of my current task (forward movement) with the fact that I used to be able to skate. I could never skate well, mind you, but I used to get around the rinks of Guelph in some way.

Before my brain melted out of my ears and I resolved this paradox by kicking off my skates and wandering to the hot dog cart for a hot dog, Dan held out his hand. I moved forward, like a child learning to walk. And thanks to my trusty personal human post, I ice-walked around the rink. But, damnit, at least I didn't fall.

Weekend Report

I don't know about you guys, but last week felt like a long limp towards an increasingly distant finish line. And so this weekend has been all about recovery, by which of course I mean "doing nothing but watching Scandal, only occasionally venturing forth to drink beer with friends."

Thus, not much to report. I did watch the Saturday night Habs/Leafs game at a Habs bar. I had to get the old Dryden t-shirt out of storage. Last year's strike really burned me on hockey, and I had maybe watched half of a game this season. But I'm glad I went. It might have been the wings, or maybe it was our 4-2 win, or maybe it was even the beer talking (it was totally the beer), but it was a lot of fun.

Now, I'm hoping for a more productive week. Because beer and addictive TV is great and all, but sometimes a girl's got goals.

A Night Out With Protagitron(...'s Overwhelming Stage Fright)

Slide 1 Of My Presentation

Sorry for my sudden disappearance. Duty called. Duty, in the form of a presentation for Toronto's Nerd Nite. Yes, in spite of the crippling stage fright I've struggled against since my childhood, where an annual speech competition meant an annual anxiety attack, I decided I should really get up in front of a roomful of strangers and talk about something. Anything! It could be anything once I got up there, because I would be too nervous to remember what I was actually supposed to be talking about.

However, I had told the organizer I would be talking about comic book films, so I figured I should at least try and give a presentation that was at least 95% about the promised content, and only 5% blank looks and vomiting.

So I dutifully prepared, even through a cold that made me sound like The Thing for a week. Dan made me all of the film clips I requested (awwwww) and I shoved them into Powerpoint (or, rather, Apple's "interpretation" of Powerpoint, Keynote).

Finally, it was go time. But not before ingesting a pint of liquid courage at Tequila Bookworm. Which unfortunately wore off right when I arrived at the venue. Which fortunately was licensed.

The buzz from my gin and tonic was good until I realized I would be following Tyler Irving's excellent and very funny talk on chemophobia. The bar was set high, and guess what was one of my other regular childhood failures - the freaking high jump. Hooray!

Hands shaking, I let the host, Lauren, plug in my laptop, and faced the audience. I opened my mouth. And somehow, magically, most of what I wanted to say tumbled out.

There was applause, and people asked interesting, attentive questions. My one regret was focusing too much on superhero comics with my answers (Stray Bullets would make an excellent TV series! Saga an incredible series of films! And Fatale as well!) but you can't do everything right.

I didn't vomit, and that was enough for me.

If you're in Toronto and have a topic you're passionate about, think about attending a Nerd Nite, and then signing up for a talk. It's not as terrifying as the speech competitions of your youth, and twice as manageable as the high jump. 

Can't Stop Physics: Bobbie Robbie 2014

Sadly, I was unable to score a signed Rob Ford bobblehead doll this morning.

Now, the important thing here isn't that our scandal-scabbed mayor, who's lied about smoking crack, written reference letters for drug dealers, spewed racist, homophobic garbage, and regularly lost battles with inanimate objects, is selling bobbleheads to raise money for the United Way, or that he's doing so on the eve of the first council meeting since he admitted he smoked crack, or that these bobbleheads have lead to long lines outside of City Hall.

Who cares about that anymore? The Rob Ford Experience, I have decided, isn't a municipal political disaster. It's a piece of performance art, forcing viewers to confront the constructs of power and privilege within the fraught sphere of the "public"... OR SOMETHING. Like any good art experience, there is a gift shop with souvenirs. There are these bobble heads.

And so, the really important thing about the Rob Ford bobbleheads is, that I didn't get one.

This is the greatest miscarriage of wobbly-headed justice since I missed out on a "Marty the Marmot" bobblehad giveaway in Victoria, BC. Now I'll never have a physical memento of the Ford Years, just a bunch of incoherent rantings about NFL TIE REALLY and BIKE LANES GIVE THEM BACK.

But what if I never need a physical memento? What if these years never end, and I'm surrounded by Fordliness forever, in a miasma of Russian Prince? Because I think he might win. By coming out about the crack, then stubbornly moving on, he might just pull it off. It doesn't matter that his critics are justified. The less he engages, the more shrill they'll sound. And then he can talk and talk about how much money he's saved as our mayor. The fuzzy truth of that strong claim doesn't really matter. He's said it enough times, that people have started to believe him. "If he smokes and saves me money, I'll vote for him — " one of my fellow citizens recently said, "even if he's a bum."

It's that kind of high quality reasoning that makes me think Rob Ford's bobbleheaded persona could take on the man himself in 2014. Not only will it "save" at least as much money, but voters will love its positive, can-do attitude! That Bobbie Robbie just never stops nodding.

Domestic Friday: Beau's Smokin' Banana Peels

Smokin' Banana Peels was the beer I dreaded most from the Beau's Oktoberfest Mix Pack. It's a smoked Hefeweizen. I imagined it tasting like some sort of unholy charcoal briquette/banana smoothie, like something served up from Satan's Booster Juice.

Hefeweizens do not contain mashed-up bananas, thank Christ. Instead you'll find wheat, barley, and strains of yeast that give a banana-like or clove flavour to the beer as it ferments. Though distinct, it is also subtle, which is exactly what most smoked beers I've had in the past have lacked. Every time I tried one, I felt like I was drinking LiquidSmokeTM with an ABV. 

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that the two flavours, fruit and smoke, were well balanced in this beer. The smoky notes kept the banana from being cloying. The distinctive banana aroma kept the smoke from being choking. Lesson learned: never judge a beer by beers past.

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

Isn't your favourite cultural product from the late 90s/early 00's Sex and the City? No? Well shut up, hater. You're probably a Miranda. I, however, am a Fast Walking Background Extra #3. Fortunately, Justin Trudeau's recent  Toronto event - where, for $250, I could meet the man glowingly described as "Dreamier than Mulchair" and "Not Michael Ignatieff" by Canadians everywhere - meant I could finally live out my SATC fantasies. Get ready for...

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

by Carrie Bloorshaw

When you live in a cracked-out amalgamated metropolis like Toronto, you get your kicks where you can. Maybe you lick the pole on the Spadina streetcar.

Maybe you smoke some actual crack.

Or maybe you try and get on the first wagon headed out of town, to a new city where everything closes at five, dignity matters, and nobody remembers the time you tried to climb the outside of Sneaky Dee's, naked.

I was thinking a move to Ottawa was in order, and I didn't want to do it on the back of a backbencher. I was shooting for Mr. Big Deal - Justin Trudeau himself.

With my eyes on the parliamentary prize, I accepted Justin Trudeau's invitation for a ladies' night. I would get to know him - really know him - in a few hours. Plus there would be booze. A chance to be intimate in all the right ways with our next prime minister, and knock back a few glasses of cab sauv before throwing it all back up in a cab cab's back seat? Madam Speaker, I move to adjourn... to the venue!

I had  maxed out my credit card to buy the right shade of Liberal Red dress. I wanted the Mr. Big of Canadian politics - big name, big hair, big ideas - to notice yours truly. And notice he did.

It was about the time of my sixth Lib-tini of the night. They tasted suspiciously like regular cosmopolitans with little paper Liberal flags stuck in them, but I didn't even want to know what a Paul Martin-i was. It looked old, and sad, and people kept on ordering other drinks after they had one.

And then - there he was. He cut across the room like Stephen Harper cutting through democratic process in order to prorogue parliament. I held myself up with the back of a chair.

"Hello there," Mr. Big Deal said. "What's your favourite virtue?"

Looking into his earnest, desperate eyes, I couldn't help but wonder - What are the dating procedures when the House of Commons Procedure and Practice just won't do?

"Why, Justin" I purred, falling off of the chair and on to the Liberal party leader, "shouldn't you be asking me what my favourite VICE is??"

I shoved another mini-quiche into my mouth.

"Because it's gluttony. Gluttony, and SEX!"

However, Mr. Big Deal was more acrobatic than he looked. Like Jean Chrétien proving a proof, he wriggled out of my grasp.

As I stood up, the Lib-tini caucus in my stomach started to behave in a very unparliamentary manner. Where had it all gone wrong? Why wasn't I one of Justin Trudeau's real life heroes? Was it because he was married, or did he know I had secretly voted NDP last time because Jack Layton's mustache reminded me of my daddy issues?

Only one thing could save this night, and it didn't come from a bottle. I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the number I kept under "300 Pounds of Fun."

"Hello, Rob," I said, "are you up for meeting one of your constituents tonight?"

Well, Ottawa might have been nice for a term. But I can never resign from you, Toronto. And the best part is, you can't make me, either!

The Bung Goes On: Cask Days 2013

My sympathies are always with the lost, with the misfits of life. Those who hope for the best, but have to settle for the least-worst. So my heart beat in time, yesterday, with those poor unfortunate souls who asked if we had any lagers or light beers at Cask Days.

"Try this..." I said, looking desperately around at all of the India pale ales, each probably hoppier than the last. "... Cranberry kolsch? I, uh, think there might also be a brown ale that's not too aggressive." 

Perhaps my suggestions were poured out. Frankly, I was too busy pouring more beer to find out. 

I had volunteered for Cask Days in a fit of cheery can-do optimism, the same optimism which has led me in to such undertakings as attending a knot-tying workshop and building a subpar birdhouse. Unfortunately, I had also decided to try volunteering at Canzine the same weekend. However, I managed to slot Canzine in on Saturday, Cask Days on Sunday, leaving little room for usual weekend activity of high-impact slothing. 

So I reluctantly trundled off to Evergreen Brickworks, knowing that my SmartServe card would put me behind the casks. I was worried that would mean seven hours of making irritation-inducing judgment calls about people's sobriety, but it wasn't that bad. You could get a half-pint of beer for two tokens, or a quarter for one. With hundreds of casks to choose from - I worked in just half of the area dedicated to Ontario beers, and we still had at least fifty - increased quantity means diminished variety. People were forced into pacing themselves.

Not that I was much of a help picking which brews were worth a token. Volunteers got free admission on their day "off," but thanks to my other commitments, I missed my chance to sample the beers. I also missed my chance to have a medium-sized t-shirt, so I ended up working in an official Cask Days muumuu. People kept on asking me, perhaps because of the authority conferred by the muumuu, what I would recommend. And I kept on saying "Ha, well, I don't get to drink until five. But a lot of people seem to like the No Chance with Morana, or the Cream in Your Jeans." The guests were pretty patient with that, and I also leaned heavily on the knowledge of fellow volunteer Mike, whose encyclopedic knowledge of beer made me feel like a dedicated Smirnoff Ice drinker.

Staying sober meant I also had a lot of time to observe what worked and what didn't for breweries at Cask Days. First of all, dial it to eleven on the beer name. Cream in Your Jeans, Fangboner, and, well, Tranny With a Busted Leg - which I found problematic, but nobody asks beer muumuu girl - were my most popular pours. The outrageous names dared people to order them, if only for the pleasure of saying Fangboner in a public place.

If you can't be creative with the names, then try mixing up ingredients. Because it's the fall, pumpkin is king, but everyone's had enough typical pumpkin ales, so smoke it or brew it in a porter. Add fruit, add spices, age it in oak. If people made it all the way to the Brickworks, they're going to want to spend their money on something novel. Unless they're light beer drinkers, in which case they're grateful for anything drinkable.

I'm not complaining. I'm not a Barvarian purist - just an observer, hoping one of these experiments will become the next great beer style.

Still, when I was finally released from bending over the casks, I didn't go for a 10% stout. I didn't drink an APA with an IBU of 80+. There were no skittles in my brau. Instead, I cashed my free chips in on a simple honey pumpkin ale. The day was so nice I didn't feel like it needed anything more.

Domestic Wednesday: Two Weeks Notice

A few weeks ago I bought the Beau's seasonal pack. I left a bottle behind at my friend Paul's house, and he kindly sent me his thoughts for this edition of Domestic Wednesday. Call it... Domestic Wednesday: The Paulening.

On Two Weeks Notice, a German Porter:

It tasted quite different then any porter I had tasted before, I did a little research, and it turns out that those clever Germans adapted the traditional English ale recipe into a lager, which makes it quite fizzy and dry. The Beau's website claims it has a chocolate and coffee aroma, but I couldn't smell either. It was strong, hoppy, and smooth. Interesting taste, but I think I prefer the English variety more.

-Paul 

 

Thanksgiving Turkey

Where I live (Canada, America's toque) this weekend is Thanksgiving weekend. Thus, I am back in Guelph. I have swapped the go-go pace of the big city for the quieter pleasures of petting the dog and avoiding any discussion of the future with my mother.

How's that going? Well, on Saturday I desperately started to talk about my boyfriend to avoid the topic of grad school, and this morning I burst into tears for no reason. Judgment: middling. 

Still, in spite of all future-related anxiety, my family is one of the things I'm most thankful for this weekend. Along with the dog, pumpkin beer, health insurance and texts from Dan. And there's more. I can't list it all here, but it's a long list.

I forget that sometimes. The list of things that bother me is shorter, but it seems bigger. I worry that I'll never have enough money, and that I'll always be disappointed in my life. Of course they're slightly bound up in each other, and it's difficult to know which to attempt to fix first. If I make more money, will I feel like less of a failure monkey? Or if I do something I think is worthwhile, will I stop caring about the bank account? In any case, focusing on what's not happening doesn't make me any likelier to make something happen. 

Furthermore, if I was handed a customer satisfaction survey for my life, I would check off a solid row of 3's for satisfactory. I'm a little directionless and debt-ridden, sure. But so many things are fine, there are so many things I lucked out in, that the small pleasures should be more than enough. It's a happy Thanksgiving - the pumpkin pie is more than enough.

Bike Cavalrywoman Declares War On Lazy Columns

If you need to crap out a column for one of Canada's newspapers, you have some choices. You can take the Wente path, and attack the big money liberal arts complex for the thousands of injustices (critical geography studies!) it perpetrates every day. But if you find yourself too ground down by Big Academia's clog heel to manage that, just write about bicycles.

R: My terror-mobile, temporarily not terrorizing some bipeds

Bicycles! There they are, the rulers of the road, nay, sidewalks even, each one to a man or woman clad in twin vestments of spandex and smugness. Please see this column by Rosie DiManno for proof, or perhaps the accompanying comments section, as there are literally DOZENS of anecdotes of asshole cyclists presented. Clearly, these thugs need to be stopped, or perhaps dispatched by streetcars, so the streets can be safe again. 

If the public safety aspect of these sort of columns doesn't grab you, think of the publicity. Complaining about cyclists is sure to net you many comments and even more page clicks, as the most rabid cyclists and cyclist-haters. So ka-ching, ka-ching, which conveniently rhymes with the ka-clunk, ka-clunk a cyclist's body makes as it is run over.

But let's return to the DiMannofesta: "... those who drive and those who pedal can wipe each other off the face of the city’s streets in this mutual roadkill rush to attrition and Toronto would be better off for it." For, you see, cyclists are "arguably the most sanctimonious breed on the planet: I cycle therefore I am divine." 

But nobody is more "divine" than an "ambulatory biped" like her, who walks everywhere. Everywhere, except when she's in a cab or on a bus. I'm not sure who will drive either of these vehicles once Toronto streets run red with the blood of drivers and cyclists. The roads will belong to the pedestrians then, or more likely, the rickshaws.

DiManno is also not entitled like those awful cyclists when she has to catch a bus on her street. "Public transit users need to either squeeze up against buildings or stand in the bike lane — which will get you a blast of invective from the cyclists." She just thinks she can use a lane designed for a flow of traffic as a bus stop waiting lounge: most certainly not entitled. 

In fact, cyclists are so awful that, DiManno tell us, "They have risen to No. 1 on my list of People Who Should Be Shot." Thanks to my intrepid reporting skills, I have found this very list:

Some might say that using violence for rhetorical impact as cyclists die on the streets is a tad... tasteless. They might even add that calling people who bike "ped-aphiles" - like pedophiles, ya know - isn't all that classy either. DiManno would probably come back and say that you don't know anything about taste, as you are probably a ped-aphile wearing a "stupid aerodynamic helmet." These helmets, by the way, will be the first thing online commentators will ask if you wearing if you do get hit by a car.

I am a sexual predator with a bounty on my head - I mean, a cyclist. I stop at red lights, make (often shaky) hand turning signals, and if I don't feel comfortable making a left hand turn, I get off my bike and walk it through through the crosswalk. According to DiManno and some of her commentators, I do not exist. And yet, I persist, not just in existing, but also in biking to work almost every day. 

I do so in the face of distracted pedestrians who wander into bike lanes or even just out into the road itself. I do so in the face of fellow cyclists, who salmon and shoal, pass suddenly without ringing their bell, and glide through red lights while I wait like a chump, or use the sidewalks while I brave the roads. I do so in the face of drivers who cut me off, open their doors without looking for traffic, barely give me a centimeter when they pass, or yell at me to get to the right when I'm in the left-hand side of the lane to make a left-hand turn.  

Not that I am a bright and pure beacon of perfect cycling myself. 

I have made mistakes on my bike. Turns out taxis can go into the bike lane to pick up passengers, so my apologies, Taxi I Yelled At Once. I tried getting around a bus once when I was impatient, and ended up in the wrong lane with nowhere to go. I have salmoned on small side streets, though if I do ever get an $85 fine for doing so, I'll remember with some bitterness the bike cops I saw going the wrong way down Augusta. And that driver who yelled at me for exercising my right to be in the left-hand side to make a left-hand turn? I probably did fellow cyclists no favours by calling her a jackass and screaming at her that I was making a turn.

Rather, in listing all of the things I have to deal with on the road, I want to show that there are entitled, careless individuals in every transportation class. And yet it's somehow always the cyclists who get put through the columnist grinder. 

Cars hit pedestrians: some people blame pedestrians for wearing dark clothes, or trying to rush the countdown. At the very worst I hear that driver is a problem, and they should never be behind the wheel of the car. But if one careless cyclist runs a stop sign and levels a pedestrian, well, all cyclists are dangerous, entitled terrors who must be checked immediately (perhaps shot on sight.)

What these columns like this miss isn't just a real solution, but the real problem. If we can't share the road safely and efficiently, then something is broken. Let's fix it. Rosie DiManno believes that the place for bicycles "should not be any North American metropolis never designed for bicycle-right-of-way." As if a city is a rigid structure, instead of a dynamic organism that can change and adapt. People can too. Build better infrastructure, apply the law well, change it if it doesn't make sense. Then educate drivers, cyclists and pedestrians on what is expected of them, and what others can do. 

But don't write another useless column like this one. Rosie DiManno: I might not yell GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY A--HOLE! as you stride through the bike lane and towards the cab that, as a 100% biped, you are somehow using. I will grit my teeth, and maybe glare, as I brake. But I will yell at you to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM YOUR KEYBOARD.

Le Thief, C'est Chic

For the past few days, I've been on the cusp of a cold. Maybe a flu. It's not enough to be any one thing (and therefore keep me off work.) Instead it's just enough to make me feel mostly cruddy, even though I've tried to smother it with NeoCitran.

So I am medicating before Muay Thai with tea and a book. Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Thief, a collection of short mysteries by Maurice Leblanc, was purchased on Dan's recommendation. It's the perfect thing for this kind of mood. Lupin appeared in 1905 as a sort of French, deliciously felonious counterpoint to Sherlock Holmes, who so far has made at least one appearance in the stories. Holmes' abruptness - perhaps, to Leblanc, his quintessential Britishness - does not contrast favourably with Lupin's élan. 

I feel like I ought to read these with macarons in hand. Unfortunately the cafe only has muffins. How very Holmes-y of them.

Cats Vs Dogs

I never understood why parents hit their children until my current cat, Marvin, came into my life.

Aww, look at that face, the anime-large eyes, the little pink gumdrop nose... the only thing that's not pictured are his concentration-shattering howls of need. I am paying attention to him: this is awful. I am not paying attention to him: this is WORSE.

Now here's my dog, Smitty, calm and content in the knowledge that his is the best life. EVER. Food, companionship, more food for providing companionship: it's all great. His biggest concern was when the phone would ring, and he would vociferously defend his flock from the cordless menace. But now my parents have cellphones. The threat is over. It is time to rest, and sleep, and occasionally sigh.

My cat would prefer to continue meow-howling - meowling - forever. I bought a spray bottle and now his favourite game is to meow, wait for me to grab the bottle, then see if he can sprint faster than the spray. Guess what: he can.

So it would seem that I have a clear favourite in the eternal battle between cat and dog. Sweet, selfless dog, vs. selfish, possible mentally unstable cat. Dog is god.

Just as I was writing this post though, Marvin hopped up on the end of my bed and quietly watched me type. Every morning I wake up to find him spooning me, content to be dragged into my arms like a bag of cat parts and squeezed like a stuffed bear. His cuddly nature is the one thing that has stopped me from punting him out of the window on oh so many sleepless nights. I'm not a dog person, or a cat person, I'm an animal person. And I'm in desperate need of a really good lint brush.

Domestic Tuesday: Oktobock

I love fall, or at least I do once the fall rush is over. When my customers ebb from complaining that their textbooks or coursepacks aren’t in the store, to complaining to other people that they can’t finish their papers on time, I can finally enjoy the season. Fall colours, wool-wearing weather, and so many exciting new beers on the shelves.

I had my eye on the Beau’s All Natural Oktoberfest Pack for a while. Can you tell why?

No, it’s not because I need an iron. See a few tentacles? Perhaps 24 of them? Unusually intelligent, sometimes poisonous, with two-thirds of their nervous system in their arms instead of their head, the octopus is my favourite animal. The pack’s Oktobock featured a red one on the label (I'm holding it in my left hand.) I had missed the Oktobock last year, but I wouldn’t let it get away this year, and so I picked up a pack for a friend’s board game party.

The Oktobock was the first thing I poured. To be worthy of the octopus, it had to be good, right?

Well, imagine my disappointment when it tasted of… jujubes. Wine and jujubes. But as somebody pointed out, I was pouring it into a wine glass, which had just been drained of red wine.

Yes, I am the least classy glassware user out there.

So I drained that glass and gave it a second shot. It still tasted fruity, and not in a way I appreciated. I love the complexity of beers with fruit notes, but this one ended up somewhere between medicinal and candy-like. With enough glasses (no one wanted to share), the 7% ABV eventually kicked in and my opinion improved marginally. I'm willing to give it a second chance, but I suspect it will never be my favourite Beau's offering.

And so I’ve learned: never judge a beer by its label. No matter how cute it may be.

Code Red: Of Periods and Stupidity

If you’re one of my male relatives, please stop reading now. You know who you are, and you know that you once had to be educated on the differences between a pad and a tampon, so save yourself while you still have the chance.

Other people: DEAR GOD, MENOPAUSE CAN’T COME SOON ENOUGH.

I used to be a pad-only girl, having always been a little wary of the little white torpedoes. Nine out of 10 health food store clerks would have agreed with my stance. Read some of their literature, and I may as well be sticking a lit cigarette up my cooter, cancer-wise. Not that they like pads any more. If tampons are like cigarettes for your vadge to the Diva Cup and Lunapad-ers, then wearing pads is like sitting on top of ultra-absorbant uranium.

 Still, I’ll plug it up before exercise, their advice be damned.

And when a grocery store was inexplicably out of my preferred brand, OB, I ended up with some ridiculous Kotex product, complete with colourful plastic applicators. I guess my vagina has a preference. OB doesn’t even have applicators, but I had used them before. And yet I couldn’t work these. Day 1: FAILURE TO LAUNCH. Day 1, Take 2: FAILURE TO LAUNCH. And on, and on, with me grumbling all the while about the (likely cisgendered male) idiot who had designed these useless plastic monstrosities, when I would just have to nudge the tampon in there with my fingers ANYWAY, so why not just skip the MIDDLE WOMAN, because it's not like my vagina is more of a blue than a green.

And then, as I used the sixth-to-last tampon, it dawned on me. I had to pull one part of the applicator out until it clicked, and then I would finally have a useful product. SUCCESSFUL DEPLOYMENT.

Hopefully this is the last grade 6 sex ed lesson I'll have to learn this year.

Cold Hands, Warm Wool

This year, summer didn't slowly fade to fall. Instead, one night somebody went in and switched the heat off. I went to bed wearing shorts, and woke up searching for my wool socks and flannel pyjamas. 

Productivity has plummeted. The only place I can stand to be in the house is in my bed, as the bean filling in a blanket burrito. I want to keep my hands under the covers at all times, so typing is hard. Saying I'm worried about frostbite is hyperbole, but Christ- you can tell it's cold when the cats huddle with me for warmth, instead of howling outside of my door like the fuzzy little monsters they are. 

And so there hasn't been that much writing happening at my house lately. However, I've finally picked up the knitting needles after a long, long hiatus. What made me put them down for months remains a mystery, but I know what's prompting me to pick them back up: my ice block feet.

Protagitron at 26

I turned 26 on Wednesday, got far too drunk, and decided that my life needed to change in some nebulous, yet major, way.

In other words: a standard birthday when you're in your 20s, life crisis and all.

When I was looking to the future on Wednesday night, I was convinced that this undefined shift would cause my apartments to always be perfectly curated and my wit forever sparkling. Now in the sober light of a Friday night, I'm beginning to think I was wrong to wish for that. Because now I'm thinking about the past. As in the past year, in which I:

• watched two of my friends get married
• moved twice
• switched jobs
• ended up in the hospital for two weeks
• threw myself into dating with all of the frenzied pace of an 80s training montage
• finally slowed that down
• got over my fear of Toronto biking
• had a falling out with one of my best friends

Perhaps it's better that this major shift never happens. Or waits until I'm thirty. Twenty-five felt like all I could handle and more, like a turning point that will mark my life into a "before" and "after" point, no matter how much I tell myself that mine - like anyone's - is just a continuum. And so I hope my apartment continues to be a bit of a sty, and my wit often lacking. Because I hope this year doesn't throw me - too much.

Biking in Toronto: The Much Better Way

A few weeks ago, I started commuting by bike to work on a semi-regular basis. And every time I leave the bike to squeeze myself onto the TTC, I regret it. On my bike, I bike with danger. Cars hate me, pedestrians are indifferent to my presence, and I know so little about my bike I rode three times on an open quick release. The only thing between me and an early death is a charmingly awkward helmet which makes me look I have encephalitis. 

And yet - I love it. Here I am, riding down the hill near Dupont and Bathurst. Riding? I meant flying. I am a flying mushroom in my giant grey helmet, look at me go. And yes, there I am lurching off my bike to walk it up a hill, because my legs stubbornly refuse to do that thing where you stand up and ride for extra power. I don't care. Because there I am not: getting a purse to a face on the streetcar, waiting for a bus that will never come, or peeling myself out of somebody's armpit to disembark at St. Andrew station. I support public transit in the same theoretical way I support open relationships and vegan diets. It's a good thing. But it is also a terribly annoying, smelly good thing, at least as implemented in Toronto. 

That Toronto's public transit is craptacular is not an original thought. And yet, an entire industry of TTC-themed swag exists. T-shirts with streetcars on them! Button pins of the subway walls!! Art with more streetcars on it!!! Bus-themed... well, buses get no love because they're buses. And yet, I'm sure I've spoken too soon, and somewhere someone is crocheting a TTC bus to stuff and sell. I refuse to remind myself of what is often the worst part of my day, and so I am left button-less. Though I also don't buy any of the bike-themed tchotchkes either, because I don't feel like I've earned it yet. I'll get the cruiser-printed skirt when I know how to pump air into my own tires.

I guess that makes me a cyclist, though I'll never change in some ways. A few weeks ago an Audi (of course: it's always an Audi or an Acura) really crowded me on Bathurst. When I caught them at a red light, I did not hit their car with my bike lock, or yell, or do anything except tap politely on their window and say - once the driver had rolled it down: "Um, you kind of really crowded me back there, so if you could give cyclists more space next time, that would be nice. Yeah..." And then I biked away, into the day, the mushroom-headed cycling avenger.

I Love Bloodsport

I introduced Dan to Bloodsport last night, which might just be my favourite movie. I'll say that The Life and Death and Colonel Blimp or Raiders of the Lost Ark on dating profiles and in public, but secretly my heart beats only for Bloodsport, and its amazing montages:

Watching Bloodsport always makes me want to do two things. First, take up muay thai, because even though the muay thai guy (Paco) doesn't win, he looks like he has a lot of fun losing:

I have always been more of a kicker than a lover, or an anything-else-kind of fighter, and so muay thai really appeals to me. Particularly if it offers me the chance to kick JCVD repeatedly in the ribs. Oh, and second: ban all of these briefs so that JCVD can never assault my eyes again:

Yikes. Sadly, my first dream has never come to pass, probably because no invitations to highly secretive underground martial arts competitions seem to be forthcoming. But the second dream lives on.

Pillow Blog: Supposedly Healthy Things I've Done Recently, and their Worrisome Side Effects

In the tradition of the Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book, here's a Pillow Blog: an observational list on some subject or another.

1. Commuter biking: In spite of (hopefully) increased physical health, my mental health has taken a dip as I'm now convinced everyone either hates me (best case scenario) or wants me dead (taxi cab driver scenario)
2. Reducing coffee intake: Productivity down to historic lows; I may, in fact, be sleepworking through the first three hours of my job every day now
3. Meditating before sleep: Oh look, I'm learning to centre myself after a long day at work. Oh look my blood pressure's dropping. Oh look, I'm somewhere else and NOW I CAN'T SLEEP BECAUSE THERE'S NO STRANGER TALKING IN MY EAR

Thoughts on a Wedding

After a busy week, and today's civic holiday, I finally have time to sit down, finish an opened beer leftover from, God knows, Saturday, and tell you all about my best friend's wedding. 

Spoiler: I didn't try and break it up so I could marry the best friend myself. Any similarities between me and Julia Roberts stop at the curly hair. Also, my friend Katie is a great person, and her now-husband Martin is a lovely guy, and they're so perfect together, they finally made me understand why Shakespearean comedies have to end with a wedding. 

I left Canada at 9am in the morning on a Thursday, managing to get on a plane with my bridesmaids dress even though my mother was convinced one, or all of the following things would happen: I would forget to wake up, I would forget my passport, I would forget my dress or I would pack it in my checked luggage and the airline would forget to put it on the plane. None of that happened. The flight was all of ten minutes late, and my greatest concern during the time was why Last Tango in Paris was one of the movies you could choose to watch in your seat - did international flights get the Salo: 120 Days of Sodom option? 

Katie met me at the airport, like the world's most adorable argument against the accuracy of the Bridezilla stereotype. She was excited for the ceremony, because who doesn't like cake and sparkly shit (raw vegans; the Amish.) But she also didn't approach it like we were storming the beaches of Normandy, and one flubbed toast would mean the fascists won. Though I finally appreciated the idea of a wedding rehearsal. Before, I figured they were just for people who had worked dry ice and live doves into proceedings, and you could just stumble up to the altar otherwise. No. At least not with bridesmaids, and not in a church, where hymns are going to be sung. I appreciated knowing when I was supposed to return to my pew, and when I was supposed to march up the aisle, or else there would have been a lot of awkward grinning. 

Though that did come later, at the groom's dinner. Katie and I used to be roommates in university, and our "relationship" was also the most satisfying one I had then, everything else being hilariously, cosmically stunted. Like, crushes-on-profs stunted. I would have gladly been a part of that hookup culture the media is frenzied for, but no one would drunkenly bang me, no matter how much flavoured vodka I drank. The closest I got to anything was with this boy named J, where it was 100% emotional and, now, 100% embarrassing. 

And there he was, next to me and the pasta dishes, asking if I wanted a hug. It came with a gingerly administered back pat, courtesy of yours truly. I laughed about it with Katie later, though there was a bitter taste of nostalgia in my mouth. Years years back, when I was running up my phone bill talking to this guy, I was convinced I would run into him and his girlfriend at Katie's wedding. Except at the time I thought it would be a different groom, and I would still be in love with this guy. And here we were. Some of it had come true, but not the essential parts, and we were older, wiser and so much happier. 

The next day was a blur of hairstyling and photographs, until the ceremony. Katie looked beautiful, wearing a spectacular beaded dress, a veil from her great-grandmother, and her glasses. I'm not religious, and I'm also probably not the marrying kind, but I almost cried when the priest introduced Martin and Katie as a married couple. The ceremony might not be for you, and the political and sociological freight of a wedding is imposing, but the idea of commitment and growth is still there, under everything. And so I smiled instead, and even danced with J at the reception. 

Introducing Dan

If you've been a long-time reader of my blog - that is, if you are my Mom - you'll know that I usually try and keep most of my personal life off of this blog. Not all, of course. A girl's gotta vent, and so you'll get the odd maudlin blog post or loaded list. But, today, I'll make a change.

Because I would like to tell you about Dan. Dan is a nice guy, which isn't that unusual, but he's also a nice guy who likes me - a historical anomaly. Just in the past twelve months I had a disappearing act, a casual thing who ended things for an ex, and the greatest foolishness of all - liking somebody in an open relationship too much. The reasonable conclusion was clear. If it's not them, it's you; if it wasn't my tastes, it was me.

So I wasn't in the best mental state when I first met Dan. I had decided to write to him because he reminded me a little of Aaron Rodgers in his profile photo. And even though he didn't look that much like my favourite quarterback in person, there was something likeable about him. I agreed to a second date, but that day he kept on pushing back our meeting time, and pushed it back so far that my phone died. By this point I was irritably waiting in a bar, depressed by the hummus plate, and completely unaware that he was waiting outside. In the rain. After half an hour, I left, only to run into a soggy Dan by the door. Naturally, a third date was in order, where we walked around for an hour before he neglected to invite me in to his house.

And, honestly, if he hadn't texted me to say he was foolish, I probably would have never seen him again. But he did, and I decided to see a movie at his house, and when we were both awkwardly sitting on his couch I decided that since he wasn't about to kiss me, I would kiss him. And I did. And, four months later, I am very glad I did.

To Minnesota (For Matrimony)

I keep on trying to write a post introducing a particular fellow. But now it's almost midnight on the day before I leave to see one of my best friends get - wait for it. So adulthood is on my mind, and pride and happiness for my friend. Until Sunday!

Book Pile for July 17, 2013

It's too hot for anything but this. A book pile. Red and pink edition:

1. Next Classic Read: Arsene Lupin, Gentleman-Thief by Maurice Leblanc
2. Next Canadian Read (whose cover I may have to hide on the subway): Maidenhead, Tamara Faith Berger
3. Current Classic Read: Demons, Fyodor Dostoevsky
4. Current Remnant of Pride Reading: The Naked Civil Servant, Quentin Crisp

Sometimes National Post Op-Eds Annoy. And That's More Than OK

This week Men's Rights Advocates in Edmonton crawled out from their Reddit subforum, and they brought some posters with them. Following Sexual Assault Voices of Edmonton's "Don't Be that Guy" campaign, they decided the world needed a matching "Don't Be That Girl", even if they didn't need to take any new photos for it. So they took the "Guy" pics, and with a little Photoshop magic, added the following statements: 

• "Just because you regret a one-night stand doesn’t mean it wasn’t consensual. Lying about sexual assault = crime"
• "Women who drink are not responsible for their actions, especially when sex is involved. Double standards"
• "Just because she's easy doesn't mean you shouldn't fear false rape accusations. Lying about sexual assault = an unpunished crime."

Reaction was - as the Men's Rights Advocates probably hoped - quick and loud. The story was picked up by the CBC and The National Post. The latter also found a female voice to speak out for the forgotten ones. For those who had been silenced and misrepresented for so long. For... the Men's Rights Advocates. In a column titled "Sometimes, assault accusations are false. A little awareness is OK," Robyn Urback let the feminists know that "... despite the tactless presentation, the message remains fair: Sometimes, women falsely accuse men of rape." And I would agree with that. Sometimes, that happens. Does that happen often enough to warrant an ad campaign equating false rape accusations with rape itself? An event that's possible, though improbable, compared to a crime of depressing prevalence that's likely to go unreported, according to this StatsCan doc, nine out of ten times? Or is this just another example of rape culture, a campaign which does nothing to support the falsely accused, and everything to tell women they're "responsible" - a word picked directly from one of the posters - for their own drunkenness, for their assault, and for having the audacity to just be women at all?

Now I did it. I used that phrase, "rape culture," which marks me as something more sinister than just a simple feminist, tapping ineffectually away on her keyboard. Because, according to Urback, "there’s also another sort of “rape culture” whereby any sort of critical analysis of an accusation is immediately rejected as “victim blaming.” And it looks like I'm a part of it. 

Pictured: one of two rape cultures from Mad Max III: Beyond Thunderdome. 

Which one? Couldn't tell ya.

I guess Urback thinks we're in some kind of Rape Thunderdome - Two rape cultures enter, one leaves! - but that little joke is not enough for this insulting column. I am pissed the fuck off that anyone can find something to salvage in this offensive campaign. I want Robyn Urback's work broken down to its component parts, and each of those then dismantled one by one.

And yet, that's too much for just one person to handle. Fortunately, an awesome friend of mine, Maggie Gordon, can slice Urback's assertion that "Statistics show that false accusations of sexual assaults occur about as frequently as false accusations of other crimes — somewhere between two and four per cent" to shreds in her excellent blog post, "Conversations about False Rape Allegations are Generally Full of Bullshit." And anyone with a basic grasp of figures should find something shady when Urback says that there are "countless stories of innocent lives being derailed by illegitimate accusations" and then mentions exactly two, neither of which happened in Edmonton, the target of this campaign.

I'll just take a look at Urback's argument that "the new posters around Edmonton inadvertently bring attention to their [people falsely accused of rape's] plight." Because they don't. They just don't. Urback herself does a better job of this. You won't see any victims of false accusations, or figures on imprisonment, in these posters. Just photos of anonymous women, called out for ruining men's lives. At least Urback found two anecdotes for her column. The idea that this isn't about men at all is obvious from the text as well, particularly in the third poster I mentioned. It starts off seemingly directed at at a male reader (Just because she's easy) before returning to tell the now female reader not to "be that girl." The second poster also does a poor job of sharing any sort of message about wrongfully convicted men - whining about double standards doesn't do much, except make you seem petulant. So, Robyn Urback, a little awareness is probably OK, but these posters don't even contain that. Perhaps you could try a little bit of self-awareness, and admit you're just searching for pageviews. 

And I'll do the same, and admit I regret the handful I'll send you through this post.

Domestic Sunday: Tailset Ginger Ale

I don't always regret the choices in my life, and how they've lead me to be paid, except under the following circumstances:

1. Going to the John Fluevog store
2. Contemplating the purchase of original art
3. Admitting that I will probably never be able to afford a living space with air conditioning

It's been the last fact I've felt the most this weekend, as Toronto descended into a puddle of sweat, and I went to Guelph to take refuge. Now I'm back, and typing makes me sweat. However, I may have found a beer that will make the heat and humidity bearable this summer:

It's the Tailset Ginger Ale from Grand River Brewing. Like Canada Dry, but at least 4.5% better. Avid readers (ie my Mom) will remember my love for ginger-flavoured beer. I became addicted to the Phillips version while living out in Victoria, but the Mill Street Ginger Beer I found in Ontario couldn't live up to my idealized brew. And even the bottles of Phillips that made their way eastward couldn't compare to the memories. However, this one was just right, with plenty of ginger flavour. It's the perfect thing to cut your thirst, and to make the humidity almost unnoticeable. I predict it will be a frequent guest in my fridge.

Book, er, Magazine Covers I Have Loved: Lucky Peach #7

What my feelings about Lucky Peach lack in articulation, they make up for in volume. I love food, and writing, so you know I must love food writing - and yet Lucky Peach often seems of a piece with the bro-ified food culture that's developed over the past few years, a culture nourished in a petri dish of social media and an available all-caps key. I have never properly recovered from an early roundtable, which featured Anthony Bourdain and a few other food bros having a dick-swinging contest about "craft." 

But maybe this cover (credit: Christopher Boffoli), and the promise of a feature on curry 'round the world, will bring me back. Nearly white covers are always striking on a crowded newsstand, and the miniature boat in a sea of milk and Lucky Charms is witty and, well, charming. 

Pillow Blog: Stores I Hate Going To, And Why

1. Wal-Mart: Because you can't go one aisle without coming across a crying baby
2. The Goodwill Near My House: There are nice Goodwills, and there are sad Goodwills, and then there's this Goodwill, where there's layer of grime seems to cover everything, even the stainless steel pots. Also, the cashier refuses to speak to me, in spite of my increasingly demented level of cheer.
3. Seduction on Yonge Street: Where couples desperate to save their failing marriages shop for naughty adult board games, shortly before they begin to google divorce lawyers. 
4. Forever 21: Forever Peter Pan collars 

My OCB Week Days 3-6: Farewell, My Liver

Since my last week turned out to be so hectic - I blame the siren call of tall ships and brunch - my week of OCB-themed posts didn't happen in a timely fashion. Instead, enjoy this digest-style edition of the week my liver died.

Day 3: To Routine
On Wednesday, OCB-stamped activities were happening all over the city, but I was sitting next to four taps only. Wednesday night is trivia night at Dave's on St Clair, where the revolving roster of my team, Vegan Summer Camp, puts in a weekly appearance. I love Dave's beyond all reason. The food's good, there's a bunch of kitsch on the walls, the servers are friendly, and Steam Whistle goes on special for trivia night. On a personal note, I have fond memories of Dave's. It's where I cemented my friendship with an old roommate by crying on his shoulder over some guy, and where I went on a first date with another boy, who hasn't made me cry on anyone's shoulder yet. It's good to have a local where you don't have to yell to talk. And there's something to be said for a weekly routine, with a reliable beer - Steam Whistle may not be as exciting as a smoked fruit beer with three kinds of hops, but it makes missing the Four Tops question go down easy.

Day 4: To Change
However, the next day I figured I should take advantage of the festivities. Black Oak (and board games) were supposedly on feature at The Only, one of my favourite east end bars. Unpopular Toronto sentiment: the west is nice, but the east is where it's at. It's less... you know... scene-tastic. There are places where you can mail a letter, and not just bars that will sell you a fourteen-dollar cocktail. Also, there was a Popeye's within walking distance of my house. Go biscuits! Anyway, I started off the night with a Black Oak brew, their marmelade saison. I thought it too fruity and a little flat, but I really liked the Cameron's Obsidian Imperial Porter I used to chase it. Cameron's makes perfect "dad" beer, bottles that are balanced and not too showy. The Obsidian is probably one of their more extreme offerings, aged in rum barrels and with strong coffee notes. It's also 9.2%, which really helped take the sting off my Ticket to Ride defeat.

Day 5: Back to the Neighbourhood
Feeling tired, broke, and possibly a little gassy, I desperately wanted to be housebound on Friday. But I still wanted to have beer. So I went local at the LCBO, and bought cans of the Kensington Brewing Company's Augusta Ale and Hockley Valley's 100 to bring over to the suitor's house. He lives mere blocks away from Kensington, so the Augusta seemed appropriate. And the presence of a new beer from the mysterious Hockley Valley, not a member of the *official* Ontario Craft Brewers, rarely spotted at a beer show, was intriguing. Hockley is uncommonly common on LCBO shelves, but not on social media, when the reverse seems to be the rule in the craft beer world. For a while I thought the brewery had actually folded, leaving a store of beer that was being slowly liquidated. Well, here's the 100 to prove me wrong. The beer isn't scoring well on Rate Beer at the moment, but either we got a good can or we've both gone insane, because the suitor and I thought it was pretty drinkable. And since he had the notion of putting curry mayo on our BLTs, I feel like he's at least on the ball.

Day 6: Finale
"I am full of food and high alcohol Indie Ale House beer. I feel great." - Me, to my brother

My OCB Week, Day 2: Some Thoughts on Craft Beer Marketing

I made a silly decision today. In spite of the frugal scribblings of yesterday, I went to Grapefruit Moon after work. Flying Monkeys was taking over the taps, and so I justified it to myself as follows. I have never been to Grapefruit Moon (reason #1) even though its name comes from my favourite Tom Waits album, which just happens to contain the best song with my name in the title (reasons #2 and #3) ever written, and really, I don't drink enough Flying Monkeys anyway (reason #4).

I've mostly neglected Flying Monkeys during my craft beer adventures, having decided they were a hop-heavy brewer with overwhelming package design, good for washing down pad thai, but too much for a full night. To address the first issue: yes, they still make some very bitter beers. The one-off pictured above, Rickety Crickets Amber Wheat, made me think they had accidentally poured me some of their Smashbomb instead. Only the cloudiness of the pint made me think it was truly a wheat beer. However, some of the other brews are a little more balanced. Both Stereovision and Hoptical Illusion are quite tasty, with the second having a lemongrass flavour I rather like. As to my second issue, label design - their style is starting to grow on me. The aesthetics of craft beer has homogenized as the industry has grown, and now most of the packaging looks like it came from a gig poster in Nashville. It's woodcut, or all type, with vaguely vintage colourways and graphics. In a sea of that much tastefulness, Flying Monkeys' psychedelia porridge stands out. And so, future brewers of Canada, remember that as nice as you want your branding to look, try to make sure it's still a little different.

Even if that means it's not as pretty.

My OCB Week, Day 1: Home(drunk) Brew

We're in the middle of what should be the best of all weeks - Ontario Craft Beer Week, like Christmas but seven days long and less of an eggnog hangover - and I am at home. At bars around the city, there are tap takeovers, pilsner faceoffs, beer-soaked taster menus, and ale trails. And I am at home. I am at home because I want to be responsible, for once, and have money for groceries and clean laundry.

So I will keep OCB Week in my way (well, with at least one outing.) I'll enjoy craft beer at home. Thanks to its growth in popularity, even the closet-like footage of my local LCBO contains some craft beers, like the Beau's Sticke Alt seen here, a beer which tastes like molasses on toast. And the Beer Store has its share of craft as well. But better to go right to the source, if you can, and buy your beer where it was made. Several breweries are offering growler programs, the staff is often friendly, and you don't have to support the creepy provincial monopoly of the LCBO. You can ever tip yourself when your pour your purchase, if that makes you feel better. 

St. Protagitron Among the Felines

The biblical downpour currently lashing Toronto - though probably a delicate sunshower by Vancouver standards - has turned my thoughts to religion. Like how things would go if, like Noah, your faithful correspondent was chosen to survive this flood.

Instead of two of every animal, I would have three neutered cats. And instead of a watertight ark, an inflatable bath pillow.

Oh wait, here's an update: there is no bath pillow. Mankind is doomed.

Yes, I make light of one of the foundational narratives of three major world religions. My atheism may not burn bright, but it burns true. And so, when I'm not seeing myself as a sort of Noah Lite, I wonder what could make me cash in my skeptical chips for faith. Would it be love? Or at least lust, and a promise of a KitchenAid stand mixer from the wedding registry? Let's say some future suitor asked me to convert. Could I do it? No, and not even for a stand mixer. Even if I loved somebody, I couldn't go from something I didn't believe in to something else I didn't believe in, and exchange one flavour of polite disbelief for another. I don't deny that religion can mean something. And perhaps I'm jealous, and impressed, because it takes such a level of trust to believe. But it's trust that I do not have, and can not fake. Even as a flood seems imminent, the interaction between condensation and evaporation causing all this rain is beautiful enough for me.

Pillow Blog: Parental Advisory

In the tradition of the Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book, here's a Pillow Blog: an observational list on some subject or another. 

Movies I've Seen With My Parents That I Wish I Hadn't, and Why

1. Summer of Sam: Violence, sex, in particular an orgy featuring lesbian sex which made my mother stare at me hoping that at least this movie would force me to confirm or deny my homosexuality
2. Chinatown: Incest, despair
3. I Am Love: Despair, boredom
4. Take This Waltz: Boredom, Torontocest

Domestic Thursday: GLB's RoboHop

A mobile post today, since I'm at Tall Boys and my Internet is acting squirrelly at home anyway. Here's Great Lakes Brewery's RoboHop, a can which may have only existed in my dreams before today. I LOVE Robocop. It's part of my 80s movie trifecta, along with Bloodsport and Die Hard. I may have seen the new Trek just to see Peter Weller. I don't think I like this beer as much as its filmic namesake though. It's truly hoppy, a bitter mix of citrus and flower to start, and frankly a little metallic on the aftertaste. I will smuggle that can out of the bar though, and I will turn it into something crafty (tiny cactus holder?) though. I am weak, and Peter Weller's jawline is strong.

Domestic Sunday: Return to the Womb Edition

Back when I was choosing which university to go to, my two criteria were 1. it couldn't be on the West Coast, but 2. had to be far enough away that my Mom couldn't just casually drop in to see me. Don't worry I do love that woman (as my last minute purchase of grocery store flowers this Mother's Day proves!) but I really needed my space back then. And yet,  I now actually enjoy the occasional weekend in Guelph. Maybe it's my Mom's garden:

Or the dog:

Or maybe... THESE MUST BE MY HEINEKEN YEARS. Actually, these years I drink far better beer than Heineken:

This Sunday was brought to you by one of the last bottles from the Niagara College trip. My Dad and I went there a few weeks ago, so I could write a blog post about their brewmaster program for the Toronto Beer Week. To learn more about the program, you can read my finished post here. Or you can drink the results, as I did this afternoon. As expected for a strong ale, this one was very malty, to the point where it tasted of chocolate. Don't expect anything too bitter, and watch out for that 7.5% ABV. It will hit you eventually.

My Brilliant Semi-Career

Sometimes I worry that the only work I am fit for is running a secondhand bookstore. And the only business partner I could handle would be my cat.

This current state of work-related anxiety is brought to you by my recent career shift. I hinted before that I had handed in my notice at my old job, and found another. Now, I have some feelings about my old place of employment - good, so-so (SOMEBODY MUST BUY THE UNIVERSITY MAP SILK SCARVES, BUT WHO??), etc - and I probably won't write about it without the benefit of time, distance and alcohol. My new job doesn't look like it would give me any more raw material to write about, though it does at least have a window in the office. I'm moving on up. Right out of the basement.

The fact I'm excited about a daily dose of Vitamin D makes me reflect on how swiftly my career expectations changed after graduation, and how drastically. I wasn't joking before when I said that I entered McGill convinced I was four years away from becoming a Russian-speaking economist. I knew that dream died the moment I switch my major from economics to cultural studies, but by then I was equally convinced something grand and culturally significant lay in my path. I would have also settled for interning at a publishing house and making adorable dinners for my even more adorable boyfriend in the evening. And then I graduated, spent a year in the trenches of porn, and acquired an amusing career anecdote at a cost of nothing less than my soul. You think I kid, but no - hentai. Look it up.

It's the same story of exchanging dreams of cake for the reality of bread, a narrative my generation seems stuck in, one personal essay on Jezebel at a time. I'm trying to embrace it now, I suppose. Even if this is all there is, at least there's a window now.

Domestic Friday: Dogstalker April Bock

There was a time when I had the time to do something domestic every week, whether that meant knitting, sewing or cooking. Unsurprisingly that time also coincided with the time I was unemployed. Now my dinner was ramen noodles with a (slightly expired) egg thrown in. Then a handful of baby kale because I didn't want to eat a simple bowl of sadness. I wanted eat a bowl of sadness with carotenoids and Vitamin K as well.

However, I managed to find time this week to drink some more Ontario beer. Yes, spring's here, along with crocuses, guides to restaurant patios, and bocks in beer fridges across the land. The Dogstalker April Bock from Grand River Brewing seems particularly sweet, even for a style that's normally so. I did like that it was low on the carbonation though. And as a sweeter, stronger beer (6%) beer, it seemed like the perfect drink for spring, before the hoppy ales and sometimes sour wheat beers of summer crowd my table.

From April to May

Oh, what a month. I handed in my notice at one job, found another... got rid of some problems and found some others. Generally, the balance has been on the side of good, so expect more from me in the future.

Until then - don't waste your money on The Great Gatsby, and stay classy.

Pillow Blog: My Top 10 Criterion Collection Films

The Criterion Collection hosts a series of Top 10 lists on its site, so notables can tell you all about their favourite films in the collection. I'm not famous. I'm not even ambitious. But here are mine anyway:

• The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp
• Mystery Train
• Beauty and the Beast
• Amarcord
• The Third Man
• The Last Days of Disco
• Crumb
• Ivan the Terrible Pt. I and II (cheating? perhaps.)
• My Man Godfrey
• Ran

Feel free to clip and save for the next time you're lost at the video store!

Book Covers I Have Loved: Algoma, Dani Couture

I have a mad crush on Invisible Publishing and their covers. It's a smaller Canadian publishing house, but I think their design work can easily stand with anything the big guys are putting out these days. For example, this lovely, stark cover for Dani Couture's Algoma. In spite of the unity of its colour palette, there's something unsettling about the whole. Maybe it's the shakiness of the font. All I know is that I want to order this. And Jonah Campbell's Food and Trembling. Actually, why not throw in this sinister cover for kevin mcpherson eckhoff's Forge and make it a triad? Judging from this Chronicle Herald story (worth reading just to have Invisible's founder, Robbie MacGregor, make you feel really lazy), design credit should go to Megan Fildes.

3D Printing and Winning

Greetings from bed, dear readers. One of the many ways I fail as a woman (blow dryers? how do they work?) is that I cannot handle one day - one fully day - of wearing heels without having to take a recovery day the next. This is how I imagine you better-disciplined folks feel after a spin class or a half-marathon. I feel your pain in pursuit or outfit consistency. In spite of my aching limbs, I did manage to make it to Autodesk this morning (a Saturday morning, for Christ's sake) for 10 am to take part in the Ladies Learning Code 3D Printing Workshop.

I had unfinished business with 3D printers. Back when I lived in Victoria, I went to the Makerspace's 3D printing workshop. I was the only girl. I tried to print a cube. And I somehow managed to break the Makerbot printing a cube in such a way that a piece of it went flying across the room, to punctuate my incompetence. I had to make things up to myself and my gender.

Success! An important step in equality has been made. It's hard to see - and I really should have held out for a printer loaded up with coloured plastic - but that's an octopus on a pendant. No machines were harmed in its production. The people at the workshop, particularly Matt Compeau and Bi-Ying Miao of Hot Pop Factory, were great and I couldn't have successfully made this without them. So sign up for a workshop and learn something new. Or even just to get even with the past.