Thoughts On A(n Unsturdy) Clothesline

The apartment dryer has died. I would mourn the passing, but really it's just meant my clothes are now full-on wet instead of a little damp, because the damn thing never really worked anyway. Unfortunately, I do need clothes. So, I've been taking advantage of one of the many benefits Point Saint Charles offers, besides an unparalleled collection of abandoned factories: CLOTHESLINES. Look, I know I'm getting a little weird and house-proud, but I love my clothesline. It makes me feel like a competent person to hang up laundry, although I have often forgotten it on the line and lost a few good towels that way. The clothes smell so good when they come off the line. Oh, and it's free and better for the environment.

Which, I feel conflicted about. I know that I should be more ecologically sound, part of a shift that our society should be making. Hell, I even listened to a frightening TVO lecture this morning about global warming, and how to current estimates we're working with are actually grossly optimistic. But it also annoys me that the steps shown and sold to us are so small, and so evasive of the real problems. This was part of the reason why I abandoned my Greening project, because I realized half of the steps involved buying new crap anyway. And the rest somehow led to a life without cheeseburgers, so no. It makes me want to slap every smug person carrying a reusable bag, especially when their bags loudly advertise that fact. Not because of the bag, necessarily, but because they probably didn't need what was in it anyway.

And then, I would have to deal with my own hypocrisy, because if my assault charge comes on a day like today, I would have shuffled over to my dep for overpriced ice cream and canned soup, probably sealed with the tears of Guatemalan orphans. And then carried my shame home in a reusable bag.

Grading the Schools

You might not know who Booker T and the MG's are, but you've probably heard this song on the soundtrack of any movie that needs an aural shortcut to "cool."

That's Green Onions, their first big hit. Even if you don't know that song, you've probably heard them on others; they were essentially the Stax Records house players, a label responsible for Otis Redding, Mavis Staples, and Isaac Hayes. So even when you don't think you're hearing them, you just might be. The Onion AV Club has a really interesting interview with the front man, Booker T. Jones. He has a new album coming out with Neil Young and the Drive-By Truckers, and I think analogheads should read why Jones is embracing new tech so thoroughly. However, what I found most interesting- and upsetting- wasn't anything about the production of the album, but Jones on the sad state of music education in the States:

"Musically, the opportunities for new bands are shrinking somewhat because as far as kids growing up who want to learn music, the opportunities are less than they were for me. I’m gonna donate some of my old instruments to the Tipitina’s Instrument Program in New Orleans, ’cause the schools are not financed well enough nowadays to provide band instruments like they were when I was in school. States are not financing music education like they used to. Opportunities for new bands and new musicians are not as good now."

Jones isn't talking about rich private schools, or even the feeder schools that masquerade as public, because those kids will be kept in horns and bassoons until the end of time. It's just the poor kids who'll get screwed over, and the new music tech won't save them either. With the equally shitty state of school funding in low-income areas for computers, they're equally screwed. Arts funding, or the lack of it, might not seem like much with school violence and outdated textbooks on the grounds. But reading Jones shows how much we're going lose this way, if we lose out on people like him.

Protagitron/Protagitronne

Day 2 of Operation: Enjoy Life got off to a semi-successful start. On the plus column, my hair is shorter and makes me look like Shirley Temple cross-bred with Valerie Solanas. In a bad-ass way. Unfortunately, there was a run-in with an abrasive French customer, which has sent me on a melancholy spin. I was going to write a long post about my reflections on language and cultural identity, anxiety and belonging, but then I realized that I did not know enough to do it. I certainly don't know enough about the French experience in Quebec or in Canada. Which becomes clear enough whenever I speak it. But I don't even know enough about the English identity in Quebec either. Even when I'm in Montreal, and even after four years, I feel like a tourist. I think part of me has always known that I'm a little unmoored here; that whatever pass I'm on will expire soon. So, I'll leave it to the true natives and lovers of Montreal (wherever they may have come from, however they got there) to sort it all out. Until then I should try listening to a french TV station or two.

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.

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.

Schoolday the Thirteenth XII

Sorry about my absence. You know how in horror movies, there's always a moment when the hero/ine thinks the danger is past, and the monster is killed? And they turn around to breathe a sigh of relief, but over their shoulder we see the ghoul sit right back up and make a grab at them, and we know this will be the worst battle. School was kind of like that two weeks ago. I was getting all cocky, thinking I was just about graduated, when I got mired deep into finals. Last week, for example, I had two exams, one take-home exam, and two papers. Friday alone I had one of those exams and one of those papers, and then I foolishly decided to work from one to seven. I went to bed at ten that night.

But all this is in the past. And is boring. Although I had a funny moment Thrusday at school. I was working on my paper on Altman (Short Cuts, bless) in the screening room. I had made a mental note that the headphones weren't plugged in, and that I should do that before playing the movie. Which is why it was super embarassing when, fifteen minutes later, a girl taps me on the shoulder to ask me if I realize they aren't plugged in. This is while I have the TV on at max volume, with the headphones on my ears. And then, to make matters worse, I leave, and then the same girl came out to ask if the cell phone she found was mine. It was. I was tired.

But I have some fun stuff coming up, hopefully. Time for more knitting, reading, assorted cultural activities that keep me from being a hermit. Oh, and I have Twitter now- username Protagitron. I heard that John McCain had it, and I wasn't going to be less plugged-in than someone who's older than Israel. And now I'm not sure what it offers that Facebook doesn't. But I beat Oprah to it, so at least I feel cooler than someone. Suck it, O. (Please don't kill me with all of your money.)

Unspeakaby Sad Thing That Happened Today

So, I bounced into work today in a good mood, because the sun was out, the birds were singing, the torture of my Japanese Culture class was almost at an end, and so on. And then I hear my boss hang up the phone with an "Oh no!" I asked her what was the matter. It couldn't be that bad. Nothing could be that bad on this wonderful, glorious day. But, oh. Oh, how I was wrong.

It seems that a little while ago, a nice old man had phoned the bookstore to order his granddaughter a hoodie. She had just received her acceptance letter in the mail. He didn't have a credit card though, but we could do a special money order for him. The money order never came, and we forgot all about it. Until we got the message that he had passed away. And his family wanted to finish the order, so his granddaughter could get the last thing her grandfather had ever wanted for her. And, since I was the minion, it was up to me to phone the grieving family and get the ordering info without blurting out "THIS IS THE SADDEST THING I HAVE HEARD ALL WEEK. SERIOUSLY." over and over again. I did it, but it was horrifying.

Oh, and the reason we never got the money order was because he had mailed the envelope without a stamp on it. Oh dear. My life has become an Onion article, in some abstract way.

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.