In No Particular Order, a Few Things I Miss About Quebec

I think I've almost acclimatized myself to British Columbia. But in spite of its good halibut and suspiciously fresh air, I do find myself missing Montreal every now and then. And some of the things I miss about that fair city aren't the usual suspects either (poutine.)

-Really stupid "controversies" over language. Does that disco movie, Funkytown, have too much English in it? Surely, somebody thinks so and will write a column about it.

-Lebanese places that stay open late so you can shovel garlic sauce into your gullet while drunk.

-Francophone men, the kind of guys you strongly suspect have more scarf than personality, but you don't mind because they really know how to drape that scarf.

-The days when the brewery near my house would make the whole air smell sweet, probably because they were brewing some kind of Honey Brown Ale.

-A metro system

-Meu Meu, the ice cream place with hibiscus, honey, salted chocolate flavours and more

-Monastiraki, and Billy, the delightful man who runs it.

-The cheap pitchers at Verres Stérilisés

-The sense of unearned victory you feel when you speak French to someone and- glory be- they reply in French!

-Simons, the store where you can lust after some 1,000$ designer skirt, and then actually purchase the 19$ store brand knockoff they're also carrying downstairs.

-Ms. C and Mr. Will, two wonderful friends

-The murals in the train station

That's all I can think of, for now. I would try and come up with a list for Guelph, but fear it would be a rather short one.

More Monty Adventures

Pictured: DAMN YOU, JEFF KOONS.

Right after my stomach had recovered from the grape-cream-ham-chicken shock and awe I visited upon it last Monday, m BFF4Life Katie came up to visit. She was my roommate for 2 1/2 years, so we basically share the same likes, dislikes and sense of humour as one another. Basically, there's one shared brain between us, which is why it's so unfortunate that she's been living in the States for the past 18 or so months. Before she returned, I had been reduced to aimlessly circling my apartment and repeating the same inside jokes we shared to the cat.

But then - she arrived! She came, we saw local attractions, we conquered. Highlights of the past 10 days include:

1. Eating cupcakes at the nut-free bakery, Cho'cola, aka the one baked goods hut that won't kill her.
2. Screening Ip Man 2 at the Fantasia film festival and applauding every fight scene
3. Following that up with dumplings from Qing-Hua equally deserving of applause
4. Being so tired that watching back-to-back episodes of Can-Con-Cop drama Flashpoint ended up being AWESOME
5. Going to Ottawa
6. Getting a personalized tour of Parliament from a friend and avoiding the roving tours of eager cadets
7. Seeing the Pop Life exhibit at the National Art Gallery, then concluding that I despise Jeff Koons
8. Eating burgers at The Works
9. Going to the Dollar Cinema and sweating profusely while watching the Crazies
10. Finding a great used bookstore in NDG, Encore Books
11. Touring the low-budget museum masterpiece that is the Georges Cartier house. They ran out of money to pay real interpreters so now you get recordings. Admission is a low, low $3.00.
12. Seeing the insanely decorated interiors of the Chateau Dufresne. And getting to see it again for 3-odd bucks because half of the house is closed.
13. Discovering that, on Mondays, every store adorable and whimsical in Montreal is CLOSED.
14. Having a mimosa at night. Annoying Katie by singing "I Drink My Mimosas At Night" to the tune of the Cory Hart classic. "So I can... SO I CAN... Get drunk in a classy-like WAY!"
15. In short, spending way, way too much money and having even more fun.

Unfortunately, I did not do the following things in the past 1o days:
1. Laundry
2. Sweep floors
3. Clean living room
So maybe this return to real life is needed.

20 Years After December 6

Hello, friends. Sorry about the absence. Between the mom's visit and an office Christmas party, I was either acting too much like a teen, or drunk like a teen, to do too much blogging. Even the book covers thing didn't get done. I've had a lot of things on my mind lately, from the banal (Christmas presents) to the tragic (the 20th anniversary of the Polytechnique massacre.) A great prof posted this video:

Reframing the Montréal Massacre from Maureen Bradley on Vimeo.

I had started watching it earlier in the day, after reading this Babylon, PQ editorial. I was intrigued by the photo Jamie O'Meara described and the controversy behind it. I wanted to see it for myself, so I could decide whether it was moving or just grotesque. Oddly enough, this video critiquing its placement on the front page the morning after the massacre also appears to be the only place you can see the photo online.

I started watching it, and while I agreed with what she was saying about Barbara Frum's line of questioning, I couldn't agree with her on the McInnis photo. Partly, it's because I'm generally disposed to think that a society should be assaulted with graphic depictions of the violence it's played a part in.

And it's also because, on a human level, it's such a revealing photograph. I doubt taking down the holiday decorations would have helped the police in their investigation. Instead, they probably just couldn't stand the cruel contrast between the banner and the bodies they were dealing with. That's the emotional level, there's also the social one. If this had been a photo of domestic violence instead, they probably would have left them for the cleanup crew to deal with. That they wanted to change the space show just how much this was a public massacre and mourning, from the location in a school to the vigils, and how its interpretation would be negotiated in that area.

So I was annoyed that she kept on going back to the photo, cropping out the newspaper and even the rest of the photo even as she decries its graphic and pointless nature. She's trading on the same visceral, gut reaction that she accuses the paper of exploiting and it's feels, well disingenuous. It also removes the context that most of the people would have been receiving this image as part of a news story. Still, it's an interesting video that reminds us, if a little flatly, how media frames stories and manages our reactions.

Never Forget: Geneviève Bergeron, Hélène Colgan, Nathalie Croteau, Barbara Daigneault, Anne-Marie Edward, Maud Haviernick, Maryse Laganière, Maryse Leclair, Anne-Marie Lemay, Sonia Pelletier, Michèle Richard, Annie St-Arneault, Annie Turcotte, Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz.

Expozine 2009

Yesterday I went to Expozine with Caroline, my pure and good friend. We started out the day with an epic brunch at The Sparrow. Frodo and company had nothing on us as we bravely attacked banana and chocolate doughnuts and then a full English breakfast. From the black pudding to the homemade baked beans and crusty bread, I ate every single thing on my plate. There wasn't a crumb left, because I needed them all to mop up the tomato sauce and bacon grease. By the end, my fingers were shining with butter and my belly was deliciously full as I washed it all down with the best coffee you'll probably get in this town. The grease must have gone straight to my head, however, because I didn't realize I had just dropped all of my cash as well.

To be fair, neither did Caroline. Which is a problem with zinesters. They're not a group traditionally noted for their ability to support all major credit card companies and both swipe and chip debit cards. So we decided to just to check out the tables, make a note of what we liked, and then come back once we got cash. That lasted about one row before I turned to Caroline. "You know what," I said, "let's get money now. I'm tired of seeing things that I want and then walking by them." And since we're young, lady professionals on the way up and out on the town - or rather, postgrads just barely covering our debts and obligations - that's just what we did.

Two prints, one book and four zines later, I'm down a decent chunk of my paycheque and pretty goddamn happy about it. Here's the zine part of the damage:
From left to right, we've got a huge tribute to Roger Corman, old horror comics with re-written captions, a film zine's love letter to cheap horror movies and a wordless comic about a cat's day out.

Trashy movies, trashy comics and cats. I'm not about to surprise you.

One of the best parts of Expozine was running into one of my favorite professors. She's still kicking ass and taking names and it turns out she reads my blog sometimes. So, if she happens to be reading it right now, a big electronic wave to her. Woo!

Links To Entertain and Educate

Originally, I was going to write a long post today about street harassment, male privilege and more. Yes, I had yet another creepy run-in with some guy on the street last night. But after sleeping off my spleen, I just didn't want to. Maybe next week, when my bile is back at fighting levels, I'll get around to it. Until then, enjoy photographic evidence of my Indian adventures (matar paneer - paneer made by me, bitches! - saag and rice) and a few links.

I saw Whip It about two weeks ago, and thought it was a fun but predictable movie about doing what you love. Especially if it involves kicking ass on a roller derby track. But according to some dude in Psychology Today, it's really about being a big, old, clichéd lesbian. Fortunately, there's an awesome, line-by-line critique of why that analysis is a load of privileged crap.

I have a lot of respect for Richard Dawkins. Sure, he can be a little condescending here and there, but the man knows what he's talking about. He's got a new book out that's on my to-read list and an interview in Salon. Proof you can't take the professor out of the pundit: he keeps on correcting the interviewer's terminology.

For all you Montrealers out there: How zoning laws and police crackdowns might be bleeding all the fun out of Mile End. I'm somewhat entertained that there's a "Morality, Alcohol and Drug" squad. It's like they came up with an Anti-Fun Taskforce.

Since it's the season of spooky, here's James Hynes' list of the best Halloween stories. The post itself is funny and there's some interesting-looking stuff on it. I'll cop to only having read two of the things on the list, but that just means I have my reading sewn up until October.

Bonne St.Jean/ Hooray for Baptist Day!: A Quasi Rant.

One of the many, many benefits about living in Quebec is the existence of the St. Jean Baptiste holiday, aka today. Maybe I just like it so much because, as an ex-Ontarian, I tend to forget about it until it's actually upon me, and an unexpected holiday in the middle of the week feels like manna from heaven. Or maybe because it inevitably leads to some kind of franco vs. anglo dramz that entertains.

This year was the English band controversy. If you're not reading this in Quebec, you've probably missed the whole dumb ting, so here's the rundown. A couple of bands slated to play at one of the many SJB shows were English, which meant they sang in English (gasp!) and so were summarily disinvited. This, of course, led to a minor media kerfuffle which led to them being reinstated.

Now, I did see Lake of Stew when they opened for the Sadies and John Doe, and I liked them fine. For the first song. And then I realized that I was in for a whole set of bluegrass songs about NDG, which I really thought only had enough material for half a bottle of Jack Daniel's and maybe a quarter of a bluegrass song, but no matter. So I wasn't particularly invested in seeing their performance as a victory for anglo rights or anything.

But I did think this whole controversy was frigging stupid. Nations like Canada or Quebec are made up piecemeal of a bunch of different cultures and grafted onto the boneyard of colonialism. Trying to govern them so they're monolithic and legislate them so they're monolingual (or at best, bilingual), is a dangerous mix of ignorance and reactionary tribalism. And kind of a losing bid anyway.

So my solution for this bullshit next year is to have a St. Jean Baptiste's day concert where everyone sings in any language but French or English. Portuguese, Yiddish, Swahili, Arabic, Italian, Ukrainian, whatever. Go nuts. It's not going to save the world, or even accomplish much in the way of moving past identity politics. But hopefully it will scramble the brains of folks like the Association Culturel Louis-Hébert so much they won't be able to mount an effective response, and Quebec news can get back to getting worked up over road conditions.

Monty, Je T'Aime

First of all, sweet holy hell it is humid in Montreal. Not only that, but it hasn't been sunny in days. It's like I'm being steamed to death in a pot of sadness. Blergh.

Second, my brother brought his special lady friend to visit Montreal today. Apparently, I was in charge with convincing her that it was an awesome city and she should totally want to move here right now. I hope she forgot all about the little falling out Montreal and I had a few weeks ago, when I was angrily cursing Montreal and planning on leaving it in a big wheel. I'm not certain how well I did, but I hope the combo of delicious honey chocolates and the D&Q store reeled her in.

I always find it strange showing off a city to a visitor. I feel like I should come off as being more cool than I really am, the kind of insider who knows where the best espresso place/venue/sock store is hidden. But, I am only human. I go to McDonald's sometimes, I usually get my coffee from the closest place to work and I'm as often at home watching episodes of Spaced as going to a show. But I do know a few good places and, like my ever-dwindling store of anecdotes, I'll exploit them for all the cred I can. Mwa ha ha.

Secret Life Agent

By the end of last week, I wanted out. The copy writing job had fallen through, JET had fallen through, I had the ticket to contend with, then I lost the ticket to contend with, and then when I phoned up the people I had to contend with, they said the information from the ticket would not be entered for another two weeks. Oh, and I lost my book outside and work was kind of sucking, between douchebaggy lawyers and stressed-out co-workers. I was considering just stealing a Big Wheel from a kid and biking any where else. Even Laval.

Instead, I decided I would move back to Toronto. Now I'm not so sure, but I feel duty-bound to follow through on my word. To that end, I'm trying to shove as much artery-clogging Montreal goodness down my throat as possible in the next two months. And I'm not just talking about poutine this time. First on the list: spontaneous concert-rama, because I really don't go out to enough live music. So I went to the Sadies/John Doe show last night, because it was the only thing on the list I recognized and could still possibly get tickets.

Operation: Enjoy Life got off to a rocky start however, when I misinterpreted the 8:30 door time as an 8:30 start time. But I feel that nothing fills the awkward emptiness of a just-opened venue like cheap beer, which I could of used more of when I missed the encore to catch a metro that had already left. The Sadies are a ridiculously tight band, so go see them if you can. Especially if you check the start time first.

This is the end of Operation: Enjoy Life: The Band Who Loved Me. But Protagitron will return in The Girl With the Shorter Haircut.

Montreal: The Cruelest Lover

So, today I got ticket in the mail. For leaving my recycling out. To the tune of $169.
And before all of you shun me for being a recycling deadbeat, or composes slightly bitchy letters about how cleanliness is my business too, which seems to be the Montreal way, let me say one thing:

I was cited for a place I haven't lived in for about 8 months.

Yes, my old apartment has come back to bite me on the ass, like a particularly feisty ghost. The only explanation I can come up with is that the new tenants, or whomever, got some junk mail addressed to me, and threw it out with the recycling, and when the eager city employees dug through the muck, they saw my name and wrote me a ticket. Charmingly, the official citation arrived with my change of address pasted over it, thanks to the post office which probably missed my mail in the first place. Thanks, institutions. Stay classy.

So, until I resolve the issue (which might even involve a hearing!! Yay.) I'll probably be most negatively deposed towards Montreal. I won't sing the city's praises during the summer, or enjoy its festivals, and I'll eat my poutine in a car parked underneath an overpass, so no one can see my shame. Sorry.

Sign of The End Times

Today on the metro some white douchebag was taking up three seats in a busy car. He had also dressed himself under the mistaken assumption that he was a rapper. In Compton. When I glared at him in all of my passive-aggressive glory, I realized that his shirt had some brand name with the tag line "Manufacturing street credibility" written underneath.

Now, I know I don't much about the street, hailing as I do from the G-Spot (aka Guelph, Nowhere.) But I thought the whole point of street credibility was that it was a noncommercial and nontransferable asset? Please advise, so that I can be hip with the youth of today.

Hemp and Garlic (A Lust Story)

There, see? I do knit! Surrounded by the detritus of the paper I just finished writing, is my new knitting project, the Sleeveless Tuxedo Shirt. My tension, perhaps reflecting my lack of knitting over the past few weeks, is wildly off. Good thing this is in Hempathy, so I can plead the rustic defence. Anyway, if I'm even half as cute as the model in Interweave, it will be an adorable top to toss on when it's hot.

I had dinner with Frances at Boustan today. Boustan is a Lebanese place on Crescent which has a very nice sign, and very surly and indifferent service. Boustan is also rumored to have been a favourite of Trudeau's, the kind of apocryphal legend which is often better than a good review for keeping your business afloat. I eat there when I want Lebanese, but when I want to look like I care more than just a trip to Basha. I have to have my Lebanese fix, you know. If I never move again from the Montreal/Ottawa area, it will be because I can't bear to be away from my pickled turnips and shawarma meat. Sure, the rest of the time I could live in, I don't know, Sweden, on lingonberries and those little wholesome grain crackers, but I need my garlic and spice dose once every two weeks. Montreal just won't drive me off yet with its weather.

Beware My Awesome Powers

A few days ago, my Dad was in town and we were walking along Sherbrooke, right past the Musée des Beaux Arts. The posters for the big Yves St Laurent show had just gone up, which meant I had just found out about them, at which point the following conversation transpired.
Protagitron: Oh. My. God. I have to see that! The clothes.... the draping... WHY ISN'T IT ON NOW?
Dad: Is he still alive?
Protagitron: Who? Yves? Oh God no, I'm sure he died a couple of years ago.
Dad: Oh, I thought he was...
Protagitron: Nah, he's dead.

Then, a few days later, I saw this headline on the Times:

Yves Saint Laurent, Giant of Couture, Dies at 71

...
Oh God, I killed "Yves" with my brain!

Fortunately, I'm seeing the show this Sunday morning with some friends. We'll have to get there early, since the lines have been crazy ever since his death. Sniff. Morbid rubberneckers, all. I'll have you know I'm just going for the DRAPING.

Monty Living

I wrote the exam on Monday. It probably isn't the finest exam I have ever written. By the end, I was so desperate for the warmth and sunshine the open window in the exam room promised, I was barely managing to write a coherent paragraph. The last question may not even have coherent sentences. Some of them may just be sentence fragments. But I had scheduled dollar tacos and beer with my friend Erika, so I didn't really care. There's this slightly gringo Mexican resto and bar on Peel, Carlos and Pépés's, that has loonie nights- cheap pints and cheaper tacos for me. Is there really beef in those tacos? What do you care? It's a dollar!

Furthermore, that was game seven between the Habs and the Bruins. Watching a game in a bar in a real sports town is amazing. The way the bar goes nuts after every goal, even when it's the fifth, everyone dressed in jerseys and Canadiens gear, the general sense of merry, drunken, abandonment. And then, walking along Ste. Catherine after the game, you see traffic backed up for blocks and blocks. Everyone is honking the horn and screaming, waving flags and hanging out of car windows. Because an event hasn't happened until it's been Facebooked, everyone who isn't part of the revelry is taking pictures of it with their cellphone. It's too bad it descended into rioting and vandalism, but it was nice to feel a part of an imagined community for a while.

Tuesday was somewhat less eventful. I had to work, but at least pal Josh called Katie and me up and invited us over, even though I was a little whiffy with sandwich grease. He was going to make us matzo pizza if we brought over a movie (only stipulations: dry, "non-fiction.") I was initially a little wary of the matzo pizza. It sounded... unnatural. But it wasn't so bad. Tasty, even. The boys rejected our choice of documentary, "Gay Sex in the 70s", though. They preferred the crossword puzzle doc, "Wordplay." It wasn't a bad choice, but not nearly enough grinding.

Protagitron's Gymnopedie

Bagels: Serious Business
I spotted this at the gym. Under 'Hamilton's Shame' it says "Sugar-coated baked item sold in Steeltown as a 'Montreal-style bagel.' Montreal's newspapers are all about the hard-hitting news.

This Monday the McGill Fight Band played the men's hockey game against Concordia. Well, I don't play so much as blow on my clarinet and hope for the best, but it's often fun. Unfortunately, this game coincided with the McGill Management Carnival. If you're not in the know, Carnival is the week-long bacchanal the Management Faculty throws every year, and the entire reason McGill was the only Canadian school on Playboy's list of top North American party schools. Take that, Brock. This meant we were swarmed for the entire game by Management students in all the stages of drunkenness, from sober on down to horizontal. You can spot them because they're all wearing jumpsuits with their team name on them. I assume the team names are chosen after the Carnival, and the boozing, have begun, because they're all thinly veiled sexual innuendos. Particular favourites? The Glad-he-ate-'ers.

After the game, I was walking home with my roommate and our friend and percussionist Abby, lecturing on that very same topic. I had just stated my thesis, something along the lines of "However, shame on the ShamCOCKS. That's not even trying," when a tallish bloke walking by yelled "I'd LOVE to double your entendre." Which prompted a few awkward seconds of mortifying silence before he yelled back "That was... just about what you were saying" and I squeaked out "I gathered" like a chipmunk drunk on helium.

On reflection, I really could have played that one better. I should have flipped my hair, raised one eyebrow all come-hither, and purred: "Why, I would adore to in your endo." We would share a good laugh, or two, and then it would seem as if my friends had suddenly disappeared into the night- there would only be the tallish bloke, me, and our sparkling innuendos perfuming the night air. A cup of coffee that night would turn into a lifetime of love and laughter, our children the ones forever giggling in middle school health class, the gravestones on our joint plots reading something like "Here lies a Master Debater", and "Cunning Linguist, Beloved Mother and Wife".

But some things are not meant to be. So, tallish bloke, I will think of you always, and the wind won't howl, but only whisper "ShamCOCK, ShamCOCK, ShamCOCK..."

Curse Bell!

I arrived safely in Montreal on Saturday, to find a suspiciously clean apartment. I'm a little concerned that a single thirty year-old with a bong can keep house better than us, but no matter. All my energy is currently concentrated on wishing Bell a painful and drawn-out death. I even hope that Alexander Graham Bell is being prodded in the ass by Satan, if there's an afterlife. Heck, I'm even thinking of switching to a religion with an afterlife so that I can fervently pray for this event.

Yes, I'm having technical and billing issues... why do you ask? Is it because I've been repeatedly stabbing a stuffed beaver in effigy of the Bell mascots? And I want to dance in their entrails and make a hat out of their little beaver livers? Because I am. National animal, or no national animal, the next beaver I see industriously chewing down a sapling is getting punted into the next field.

But it hasn't been all rage blackouts and psychotic thoughts. La Roomate and I hit up the free movies downtown with friends to see Bon Cop Bad Cop, and we wandered through Lush and ended up buying a few massage bars. I also finished my Bobbi Bear, with Fu Manchu, but sent him back to Guelph. I'll post pictures once I figure out how to transfer them from my new cellphone. Until then, I'll be constructing a small ranch house out of cardboard boxes, and wondering how I ended up with 8 sticks of deodorant.

Back in Guelph

After a last-minute packing extravaganza, and an exhausting car ride, I finally made it back to Guelph yesterday. My Dad came and visited me in Montreal for a day before we left, and even though it was a touch water-logged, we had a good time. I showed him around St. Catherine's, including a detour in Ogilvy's, and then we walked to St. Laurent where we had tasty Portuguese rotisserie chicken at Coco Rico's. I love their sandwiches, just chicken and spiced sauce on a chewy Portuguese bun, and the chicken fat just drips off the back as you eat it. Hardly health food, but oh so delicious. I showed him Les Chocolats de Chloe too, a tiny chocolate store nestled behind a cobalt blue front on Roy. You can see them make the chocolates in the back, and the entire store smells good enough to eat, and looks it too- they use adorable line drawings and wonky set fonts for all their signs. The honey chocolates are particular favorites, followed closely by the almond paste-filled ones. I even converted my Dad to the Fleuvog way- he now has a very un-Dadlike pair of two-tone, buckled shoes. My Mom is convinced he's going through a mid-life crisis, as he was recently spotted wearing denim.

Frankly, I'm still too tired to realize that I'm now back in Guelph for another four months, but I'm sure homesickness for Montreal, and Montreal food, and even the particular rudeness of Montreal transit employees, will set in soon.

Edit: Choco store is on Roy and not Rachel. I apologize for my idiocy.

Photogitron

Tuesday, I decided that I could only hide out in my room playing Online Boggle for so long. For one thing, I was starting to imagine possible Boggle grids in my head. Then coming up with fantasy grids, grids that would allow me to spell seven letter words with ease, or specially themed grids. I had to admit that I was clearly going nutty, and decided to head out with my camera to the Oratoire St-Joseph, as decided by my roommate's boyfriend. Unfortunately, by the time I decided to leave I couldn't find my lens cap. I was not leaving unless I got some pictures from the whole thing, so I took even more pictures of Oliver in between ransacking my room for the tiny little plastic thing. So, not only had I become a Boggle-playing crazy cat lady, but I had become a well-documented Boggle-playing crazy cat lady. Whatever, Oliver is crazy photogenic. Thankfully, I found it eventually, and headed out. For those of you non-Montrealais, the Oratoire was built in honour of Blessed André Besette, at the foot of Mont Royal. It has the largest copper dome beside St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, and it looms above the surrounding Cote des Neige neighbourhood. Pilgrims crawl up its (many, many) steps hoping to be cured of their afflictions, and there's a special chapel lighted by votives and watched by the crutches of those who have been healed. I need to take the tour guide's words for the last bit, because being a non-Catholic I chickened out of actually going in, preferring instead to photograph exteriors and such. I always feel weird being in religious places or events, particularly when I'm not a member of the faith. So, some other time I'll have to drag my Catholic roommate down as my guide. I got some decent, if dull shots of the place. It still feels like winter here, with all the snow we've been getting, so I'm getting a little sick of everything having that grey, muted patina of winter.

My next goal was to get a decent shot of the big cross on Mt. Royal. Here's where things started to go embarrassingly wrong. It's important to remember that, as its name implies, it's a GIANT METAL CROSS ON A HILL. Because, I could not find that big iron cross on a hill. There are signs, with arrows, on the paths that will supposedly direct you to that big cross. I followed the signs. The first one even had distances- 0.8 km, it said. "Well, a bit of a trek," I said, but nothing extreme. Why, I walk that far from my apartment to McGill each day." So I walked. And walked. Avoided joggers. Avoided power walkers. Was nearly trampled by a gang of people pretending to cross country ski with poles but without skis, but I continued walking. I followed the signs, and I followed the arrows, until another sign had a distance marking on it: 1.7 km. Why? Where did I go so terribly wrong? I should have let the faux skiers get me. The cross is visible from St. Urbain, and yet I could not find it. Please send help, and perhaps a compass. However, the day was not a complete write-off. I saw a fox on the hill who came pretty close to me, although none of the other walkers looked as impressed. I'm guessing that foxes are probably like pigeons on that mountain- chummy and used to humans. Here's Rabies Fred the fox, next to his favourite beer.

And then I went to see Grindhouse, since I was damned tired and it was late. I'm the odd person who likes Robert Rodriguez better than Quentin Tarantino. I think Rodriguez does what he does with a little more verve- I never feel dull after watching Desperado or From Dusk 'Til Dawn. I do have to admit, if only grudgingly, that Tarantino has had a profound influence on film, particularly American film, since the early nineties. But so much of that influence is confined to things I'm a little sick of in movies. Crime dialogue that's too clever by half, crime dialogue about pop culture, and shots of people's damn feet, for example. Which is why I ended up liking Planet Terror a lot more than Death Proof, and not just because I'm a zombie freak. Planet Terror is zippy, and has Rose McGowan with a gun leg. Death Proof has some amazing stunt work, and Kurt Russell is well-used, but any part not involving cars is rather dull. Still, three hours of fun, particularly the fake trailers. Please make either Hobo With a Shotgun or Machete real movies, film powers that be. I love Danny Trejo.

And, one of my good friends got herself a boyfriend and is being all cute. It's so nice when good things happen to good people, isn't it? Hopefully there's some of her magic left to spread around.

Knitting Cowboy

Here we have a pile of brown wool, also known as the finished back and sleeves for the 1.50$ Cardigan. Since my last knitting project, Poppy, turned out a little hinky in spite of my best attempts, I'm just winging this. Like the decreases for the sleeves. Sure, I understood part of the instructions, but then again I understand part of Russian, and where did that get me? Making speeches about "easy pens "and "really big shorts". The prof used to dread my speech time. So, I decided to be a knitting cowboy and just do things my way. Yeehaw. It may not work out, but at least it will be an educational experience.
Yesterday, I went on a mini used bookstore crawl. Ever since dropping out of all my courses this semester (oh, the shame), I've had a lot of free time. And you can fill only so much of it by baking before running out of eggs, and starting to think of your now dim future. So, I decided enough was enough, I was going to do something productive, and that something would be trolling the used bookstores. I was hoping that one might have some Graham Greenes in the editions I've been collecting, or dare I hope, one of Elizabeth Zimmerman's knitting books, but no dice. I did find a copy of Rowan #31 for twenty bucks. And while this is not a bad deal, it was a bit more than I wanted to pay for a book whose designs, while lovely, just weren't firing me up. J. Westcott Books, close to my place, finally redeemed the whole thing. Not only do at least three cats live there, and as we all know the mark of a good bookstore is the quantity of cats, but they also had a trove of vintage knitting pamphlets. This Monarch Yarn pamphlet is from the twenties, and it features some truly awesome patterns. They are also very insistent that they are "MADE UP TO A STANDARD AND NOT DOWN TO A PRICE". Suck it, Toronto Dominion Woolens, and your skank-ass yarn, too! Some of the instructions have become hard to decipher with time. No gauge, naturally, and I think "ridges" means either garter or reverse stockinette stitch. But dabbling in some knitting archaeology would be worth it to knit an updated version of that jacket, no? I'm thinking a touch shorter, with buttons all along the button band. Maybe a bit more fitted too, but I love the art nouveau design. The pattern was originally knit in Cherry and White, but I want a different colour scheme.

I'm also fond of the vest in the upper right corner, although I would knit it in worsted, shape the waist and definitely shorten the v-neck. Thank God the colourwork designs are charted. The shawls and hats look interesting too. And there's the rest of my haul. A sock book from the fifties with some interesting patterns, Woolcraft with some nice basic patterns and boffo beehive hairdos, baby pattern book, and Paton's "Astra Easy-Knits For the Family", another artifact from the sixties. My Dad has been angling for a v-neck vest with very specific requirements, and I think this vest fulfills them. Plus, it's from one of his glory decades. I'm thinking Silky Wool, Calmer, or Wool Cotton. He has heat issues.