The Caviar Fridge

Greetings from beautiful, overwhelming Forest Hill. 

Where the local grocery store has a tiny caviar fridge for all of your fresh caviar needs. 

And my caviar needs are great. 

Anyway, sorry for the lack of posting. Moving took up most of my time of course. There was also some professional disappointment mixed in there too, so as irritating as moving is, creating order out of chaos, packing box after box, had a therapeutic effect.

Of course, eventually the last box is broken down and the last piece of Ikea furniture (shakily) assembled. At that point I had to make some kind of accounting of myself, and my future in my current industry. And so the answers I arrived at were: "B for effort", "outlook poor", and (to an unasked question) "Why yes, it's time to open another beer."

Which means one thing... tomorrow Domestic (Beer) Thursday returns!

Odd Questions My Dad Has Asked Me

Grand news! I am moving to Victoria, BC, for a job! I'll be there for at least 44 weeks (well, unless I'm a total washout, but let's not think of that now - instead, let's great ready for the THUNDER of EMPLOYMENT and the THRILLS of LEARNING.) So, I am busy readying my supply of polar fleece and bulk food containers for the trip.

Sadly, this means I will soon be a 6-8 hour flight away from my family. I will miss them all terribly, although my kind, understanding father has one odd habit that has left me feeling I was living in a Quiz Bowl for the past two weeks. He asks questions. Lots of questions.

Most of which I do not know the answer to.

For your and my amusement, here's a list of five random questions he asked me today, to which my answer was either "I don't know" or "I'm not sure, but..."

1. A list of all the cookies offered at the cookie bakery I visited in New York, almost 18 months ago.

2. What the Russian people thought of Dostoevsky.

3. If there were any real Jewish restaurants left in Montreal, besides the delis.

4. Why k-os would write a song about Natalie Portman.

5. If there was any great writer or thinker no one had ever made a great documentary about... yet.

Dispatches From the Job Hunt

Looking for jobs, applying for jobs and going for interviews are three of the things I dislike most in life. Sure, I probably hate Glenn Beck and ebola more, but I don't have to actually encounter those things in my daily life. Yet. Job hunting, on the other hand, has become my new hobby, now that the weather's cooled down enough that I can't say "sweating."

Sadly, however, I'm an English-speaking Cultural Studies major in a bilingual city where all the job postings seem to be ridiculously qualified. Today, I've found postings for a plant assistant, an assistant hockey coach, and a "science and innovation officer." Come and gaze with me, if you will, into my cover letter for the first position:

"Although I may not have the expected qualifications of a degree in horticulture, I do have a degree in Cultural Studies. As you can see, both degrees involve culture of some kind. I know it's not much, but it's a start. And as Dorothy Parker once said, you can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think. I am no whore. Please hire me."

I am expecting a call back at any moment.

The Dark Side of Plumbing

I'm back from the country and I've brought with me a sunburn, some insect bites and some entertaining memories. Of course it wasn't the whole "Abandon Game" button I was hoping to hit, but eh. In the cold, hard vision of hindsight (where the lighting is a lot like a J-horror film) I now realize that I was putting too much pressure on the weekend.

Of course, coming back meant the weekend was over, which means that I was back at work today. Now, I don't talk about my new job all that much. I think it's smart blogging policy, it's actually a part of my contract and since I deal with the adult industry a lot- and no, not as the onscreen talent, thanks- I don't want to offend any of my parents' friends who might stumble across this blog. But today, I'll share.

Why? Because today I came across a site that used the term "sperm pipe" in reference to a penis. Now, is this the blorst of the blorst when it comes to cock euphemisms, or are you all hoarding something even worse? Come on, don't fear my sperm pipe. Share.

Oh Great Googly Moogly.

Sorry about the silence, guys. I got back from New York and right into a week plus of old job, new job, and convocation. The good news is that I have one very expensive piece of paper (to be nailed on a wall in its paper envelope) and by association a shiny new undergraduate degree. The bad news is that I've managed to screw up the rest of my life in an unimaginable fashion. But enough about that, because there's tea to soothe the emotional wounds. I'll try to write more soon, when I'm not sleeping in between a half finished book and the pile of folded clothes I've been too lazy to move. Which is better than where I slept last night, which was on a sofa with my head on the armrest. At this rate, I'm going to have to sell off a kidney to hire a chiropractor and a therapist.

The Random Bits

Well, I think I waited too long to get back to the porn guys after they liked my write-up. D'oh.

In other mildly annoying news, I have cookies that need to be squirreled away for two whole days, TWO DAYS people, before I can eat them. This is after I had to brown butter, mix dough, chill everything for a few hours, shape dough in teaspoons, bake, heat preserves, strain preserves, and then assemble sandwich cookies. I have spent less time studying for some of my exams than I have making these cookies. When they've finished maturing, I'm going to post a picture. Not only as a monument to my blinkered dedication, but for educational purposes. To illustrate how graceful little sandwiches of wit and elegance on the recipe site can become lumpen oozing messes in the right hands. Not that I would care, as long as they come out delicious.

(Oh, and I wrote my last undergraduate exam on Friday. I hope. I do not want to be too noisy in my celebrations just yet, lest ye Administration gods smite me.)

The Things I Get Myself In To (WARNING: ALMOST NAUGHTY CONTENT)

I am the man. Make what you will of the beaver.

So, like most of my friends, I am frantically trying to find a job in the midst of a recession, armed with naught but an English degree (god willing) and a helluva lot of hope. To that end, I replied to a copywriting job I found on Craig's List. The job mentioned that the candidate had to be comfortable with adult content. Which made me a little bit skeptical, but I am comfortable, so I did anyway. I don't care what people do in their bedrooms. Or the dark recesses of the Internet, for that matter.

As soon as I sent off the e-mail plus attached resumé, I regretted it. They would laugh at me! I had accidentally sent it from the e-mail address that sounds like a sex term anyway! What the hell would I have to do, anyway? Find more and more synonyms for "penis" until every word in the English dictionary begins to look like a dirty joke? "Stupid sexy Websters," I thought, "no." And I hid from the computer screen for the rest of the night, lest they magically be able to see from it. And judge me. This morning, I got an e-mail from them saying they were intrigued by my background, but that they wanted to run a little test first. I had to read someone else's review of an adult website, one for connoisseurs of "hairy" women, and then rewrite it, using the same facts but with my own wording.

I felt another period of philosophical questioning coming on, as I scrolled through the galleries of ladies in their untrimmed glory. Did I want to be doing this for the rest of my life? Not that there's too much wrong with that, but I fell my Mom's judgment coming on. But then I thought of the following sentence:

"The only thing you might have to worry about... is getting lost in the bushes."

And, reader, I sent it in. Because that right there's a load-bearing sentence.

Coming To a Street Corner Near You

I kind of feel like Montreal's become a convection oven. Even my sweat? Is sweating. I tried to do some statistics homework last night. It's an assignment that counts, sadly, as I'm sure it doesn't make any sense at all. Stats homework in the middle of a heat wave? New torture in Hades, yo. I also choked down some Forster for my 20th Century Lit class. I'm not a big fan of Forster- his philosophy seems so fuzzy, like he's trying to articulate something that he just can't reach. And his characters could succinctly be described as nutbars. But I get to read Mrs. Dalloway next, which is... better.

The job situation is also wilting in the heat. I am, by nature, incredibly shy when it comes to handing in my résumé, which means that I manage to hit one or two stores before scurrying off to home. Yesterday, I tried a card place in the mall, in spite of my horrific availability. I was foiled in my attempts to scuttle away so they could interrogate me on my hours. Then they asked me why I wanted to work in a card shop. After babbling something about how it looked like fun (lie!) and then something incoherent about how people are usually buying cards for happy occasions, but sometimes they are buying cards for sad occasions, and it would be nice to help people (you're doing it wrong, brain!), I then proceeded to spit out the lamest thing in the history of lameness: "Cards... bring people together."

Gah, well, if I can't get a job working at a card shop I could probably get a job writing them. The person interviewing me then complained that men were the worst interviews, because they always say something like "Derrr, 'cause I need a job." I didn't tell her that I admired the honesty of boys in this instance. Today I'm hitting up at least three cafés, and if all else fails, I'll become the most practically dressed hooker in history.

Sunday Evening Blather

I would like to write that a bunch of exciting things happened in my whirlwind week without blogging, but the sad truth is that it was just work. There was my regular job as book bitch chez board office, and then my extracurricular activity of feeding the neighbour's cats and taking care of the house. One of the cats, Jade, is obese and toothless. She's my favorite, since we both have a thing for Bill Kurtis, and she'll cuddle up on the couch with me whenever American Justice is on. The other cat, Higgins, hates me. He has to be kept indoors when I'm cat-sitting, and blames me for this state. So, he pretty much just sits in front of the door, angrily meowing and plotting my death. That's right, my week was full of death threats from cats, and books.

Saturday was dull. The monthly summer vacation verbal throw down with the parents occurred like clockwork. I finished The Contract With God Trilogy, and thought about cleaning my room. One skein of Manos was wound into a ball, and I decided that was enough cleaning as I kicked a pile of books and magazines out of my way to the bed and the abandoned book on Canadian History I had checked out of the library.

By Sunday, I decided I had enough of the humdrum, and went to see the new Crystal building at the Royal Ontario Museum. I went with my design-keen buddy Ginger, so I could have a professional opinion, when mine are more of the "it's purdy" strain. The project has been somewhat controversial since Liebeskind won the design competition, with many people worrying that it wouldn't be practical, or wouldn't work with the charming old buildings of the ROM. The first projections I saw were a little shocking- it kind of looked like the ROM was being by integrated by the alien Crystlaaar, from Delta X-9. But I remembered all the times when a reviled sketch becomes a beloved icon on the skyline, and decided to shut up until I saw the thing in person. Well, I did. And I can report that I like it... initially. The interplay between the old building and the new is well-done, and the union between the two is much more harmonious than it is in pictures. Some parts, like cheap-looking plywood boards and noisy metal grates, looked worn or unfinished, but maybe there's still some work to be done. The silhouette on street level is stunning. However, I have a few reservations. I'm worried that the building will overwhelm the contents of the museum, since it's so distinctive- but with only one real exhibit installed it's hard to call right now. I'd also like to know how easy it is to work around the space (as the tour guide said, there are no right angles), when displaying collections, especially as accumulation inevitably occurs. And finally, I want to wait and see how the building will weather. I know they've probably spent millions testing it, and coming up with solutions for making a building that's 25% glass survive cranky Toronto winters, but the real proof comes in the middle of January ten years from now. Otherwise, shine on, you crazy crystal.

4 More Days of Stupidity: The Stupid Plague

Somewhere, I believe some supreme being looked up, and thought: "What Protagitron really needs right now is a case of mysterious hives."

I'm beginning to think that yesterday's enigmatic bruise and today's hives are the first few salvos in a series of signs designed to make me into a 21st century prophet. Tomorrow my nose will fall off, the next day Guelph will be consumed in a storm of brimstone and ash, and after that... three more terrible things will come to pass.

And I say unto this supreme being: I am not worthy. I can barely analyze the neo-conservative undertones of Rambo: First Blood Pt. 2. These things are just making me confused and irritable. Pick some one else, O Being, you won't regret it.

The mysterious hives came after my first day of work. I'm back at the same place I'm at every summer. Today, I was weeding books from libraries. It's not a terribly difficult job. The books titled "The Indian Children of North America", or "African Conquests" with a bunch of white dudes shooting an elephant from a boat, are tossed, for example. The worst part of the job is the dust. When you handle old, unused books for a while, your hands turn black with grime and dry out, leaving one looking like a wee Cockney street urchin. Of course, these days instead of being paid a tuppence a bun, you're more likely to be beaten into submission by frenzied parents wielding a bottle of Purell.