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.

Two Bits Of News

Sorry Bangles, but your Manic Mondays have nothing on my ... Torrid... Tuesdays. Somebody get on finding a better alliteration than that. Anyhow, yesterday two big things happened in the life of Marty.

1. My brother got engaged!
2. And I quit my job!

Now, this isn't necessarily quite the yin/yang of life events it seems. Although my brother's engagement is certainly on the crest of things, my quitting isn't all bad. Sure, it seems likely that I'll never find another job in this city. But on the other hand, I had been unhappy for a while and needed to stop bitching and do something about it.

So, whether I end up back in Toronto, or turning tricks on the street in a few months, at least I can always think back on this week and remember that I was happy. And flush with tax refunds.

On Watching Your Team Lose

Today, I did something I had spent the past couple of weeks bitching people out for doing. I walked out of a hockey game early, just because my team was losing, and I knew they were going to lose the game entirely, and I just couldn't watch it happen.

So, I'm a hypocrite. However, I'm a sympathetic hypocrite. Getting into hockey over the past few weeks has been a lesson in transference. Once you start caring about the sport, the guys on the screen aren't just a random collection of guys with skills and high salaries. They're a representative of you! They play well, and you have hope for your future. They play poorly, and suddenly your streak of bad luck stretches all the way to the TV screen and you have to turn it off.

However, you've already started to behave in completely irrational ways. You start bargaining. "Let them win this game and it will make up for the crappy interview and terrible day I just had. Let them lose and I'll realize that I'm cursed."However, this makes no sense. First of all, there are dozens of fans on the other side doing the exact same thing. Are you praying in Montreal? Then somebody in Philly probably did the same thing. And, judging from tonight's score, it seems like they did a better job than you.

Clearly, it's mostly up to the people on the ice, as well as people behind the bench whether your team wins or loses, no matter how much you hope, pray and wear the hell out of your jersey. So why bother? Why should I have bothered to stay for the rest of the game?

First of all, there are the standard reasons. Sports end up connecting you, just like the shoe commercials predict. Trite, but true. I watched Montreal beat Washington, eating pickled eggs in a tavern, yelling just as loudly as the rest of the people there even though I was English* and under 45 years old. It's also good conversation fodder when you're on breaks at work. And there's something heartwarming about seeing entire metro cars turned red because everyone has their Habs gear on after a win.

Then there's the other reason. It's about perseverance. No matter how much they're sucking, teams can't just go home before the final buzzer sounds. And even once it does, they'll just be back next year. It's Sisyphean - and, since we're going that far - a lesson in existentialism.

Unless, of course, someone sells your team and then they end up moving. In which case, maybe you really are cursed.

Texts From Last Period

Don't worry, there will be a Post of Substance tomorrow, but for tonight I wanted to share perhaps the most Canadian communication I have ever taken part in. My friend Jo couldn't watch Game 7 tonight (and thus missed out on its blessed result), so I was put on text duty to keep her informed of the score. Between things like "4-0. I don't even know. 4-0." and "They did it! 5-2 final score." There was this little nugget of maple-flavoured goodness:

"Don cherry's suit is purple velour [sic] with satin trim tonight."

Mumble, Grumble, Go Habs Go

Events have conspired to turn me, a person who hated all sports except for college football, into someone who's avidly watching the Montreal Canadiens' run in the NHL playoffs. I thought for sure that the charmingly gap-toothed Ovechkin would get them, but they beat the Caps. And then I thought the Penguins and Sidney Crosby's questionable facial hair would do it, but goddamn it, they sent it to game 7. Now I'll proudly suffer those maudlin Tim Horton's ads, Don Cherry's suits and the terrible new Hockey Night in Canada theme just to watch a game.

I would like to say that I have a certain sympathy for Jaroslav Halak, because I often feel like the 200th-odd pick in life, but the truth is I lack his hand/eye coordination, so I'll just say I enjoy seeing this diverse and annoyingly abrasive city come together, as one... so that it can likely destroy a small part of itself in celebration of a win.

The Book Pile

I haven't done one of these in a while, eh? Alright, let's see what today's Diagram of Reading has in store.

1. Yes, That's A Harlequin Romance Novel: An Honorable Man, Darlene Gardner. I'm reading this as a favor to a friend. I am saddened by the lack of raised, metallic lettering and shirtless Fabio on the cover.
2. Just Finished: Riotous Assembly, Tom Sharpe. Someone from work loaned this to me and I'm indebted, because it's hilarious.
3. Non-Fiction For Edumakayshun: What's The Matter With Kansas, Thomas Frank. I read this in the (possibly doomed) hope of understanding the genesis of Tea Partiers.
4. Easy Reading, Not Listening: 33 1/3, Pet Sounds: Jim Fusilli. This book will be the reason I give Brian Wilson a hug, if I ever run into him.
5. Contemporary Classic: Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie. First, let me just say that Salman Rushdie is an extremely talented writer. But second, this book is a slog, at least personally. Anyone else might enjoy this, but it seems like Rushdie and I are simply incompatible, maybe even on the level of syntax. Sadly, I've already concluded this and I'm only 100 pages in to a 530 page book.

Tuning Out

We might be in a Golden Age of TV, but I'm missing most of it. I used to download and stream certain shows religiously, but now my TV-watching only happens when I'm drained from work and need a mindless police procedural to dull my aching brain. Anything in the CSI/Criminal Minds/ Law And Order camp works well, I find.

When it comes to decent stuff though, or at least shows that keep the punnage to normal levels, I'm way behind. Some people don't read books. I find that weird, but I shouldn't. I'm the same person. It's just that instead of putting down Anna Karenina after a few pages because it's so long and heavy to lift, I never watch the Wire because it looks complicated and takes so long to download.

In fact, I think my TV-watching has become a victim of that medium's development over the past years. Now that nearly every series has ace writing and intricate story arcs, TV has started to compete for the mental consumption I'm used to pledging to movies and books. And it can't be relied on to fulfill its old function of shoveling enjoyable, untaxing fluff into my brain. I feel like all the series have polarized into two camps: unwatchably mindless or exhaustingly engaging. And when the choice is between Two And A Half Men or another dreary series about a drug-addicted nurse or teacher or whatever, I'm taking the third path of watching neither more and more often.

But, as the husband said to his soon-to-be ex, I can change! I think this is just a matter of re-training my brain to like the delayed gratification of decent TV. Just don't expect that to be The Wire, at least any time soon.

Can You Spot the Real Trailer?

Sorry, a longer post should be in the offing, but I am dead tired. So, instead, an observation. I was checking out the schedule for the Israeli film festival Cinema du Parc is having. Nothing really caught my eye, but I decided to give them all a second chance and YouTube the trailers. That's when I noticed that this movie:

Eyes Wide Open

... is just the Hasidic version of this movie:

... but apparently in all seriousness.

In Defense Of Sam Worthington

Max Rambles has thrown down the Worthington-hating gauntlet, and I am ready to pick it up. Someone has to defend our cement-mugged hero, so here goes.

I TOLERATE SAM WORTHINGTON

Why do people hate Sam Worthington for the sins of his directors (and screenwriters?) He's a competent actor, who had the misfortune of being saddled with some of the worst dialogue committed to screen since Lucas stopped making prequels. Take his work in Terminator, particularly the Lifetime Terminators for Women scene by the campfire. You could try replacing him with any great actor from past to present, Olivier to Day Lewis and even they would look ridiculous trying to emote with a former Lakers girl snuggled in their armpit.

Or Avatar. He's so barely on screen with his real face, that hating on him in the movie is kind of like hating on the various voice actors in Disney movies. Now, I don't remember much of the movie because I was too busy fighting Imax and 3D-derived nausea to follow the plot (such as it was,) but I remember being impressed by Worthington's earlier scenes conveying wonder at being able to float weightlessly in space and bitterness at being earth and chair-bound the rest of the time. It even broke through the thin veneer of CGI that covered everything in that movie.

I haven't seen Clash of the Titans yet, because I just don't have the constitution for another 3D "experience." But it seems like he's the least of that movie's problems, considering the supposedly god-awful 3D conversion it has suffered. At least he's no Harry Hamlin. Thanks to his bricklaying background, Worthington at least looks like he can lift a sword. And thanks to his buzz cut, I'm not concerned he's rent a small tear in the ozone layer, like a certain Hamlin bouffant.

I find Worthington to be a good compromise between the 'roided-up dude stars of yesteryear and the current crop of baby-faced actors I'm supposed to take seriously as men of action. I am a 5"1-inch person who loses daily battles against jar lids, but I still think I can take on Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire. Possibly at the same time. I'm not so eager to cross Sam Worthington though. In short, he's Bruce Willis with a soul graft.

Even if your personal feelings differ though, I think we can all agree that judging based on three movies that, shall we say, offer little material for the actor's craft is a little harsh. Let him appear in something that wasn't filmed in front of the green screen and let's see what he can do. If not that, maybe we can least find him an action film that hasn't had a lobotomy, so we can see whether he's the next Harrison Ford - or just another Mark Hamill.

Cupcaking It Up At Petits Gateaux

About two years ago, I talked about the cupcakes from Itsi Bitsi. At some point, I thought about trying all the cupcake places in Montreal and blogging about it. Sadly, that idea was resigned to the dustbin of my mind, to make time with my many knitting pattern ideas and dreams of opening a shop.

By this point though, I think I have actually tried them all by accident. I've had chocolate, vanilla and red velvet. I've eaten them at craft fairs, I've feasted on them with milk, I've carried them home in tiny little boxes. The last is the hardest thing to do, as I found out yesterday.

I happened to be by Petits Gateaux, a place I've tried before, buying tea. Since the day couldn't reach maximum twee-ness without a cup of cake or two, I decided to stop in and see how they were holding up.The Choco-something avec Fruits de la Passion caught my eye and I got it to go, figuring I could snap a photo and post it here. I realized what a terrible idea that was five minutes into my 55-minute walk back home. With each painful step, I mourned the fact that the cupcake was in its really cute little box and not my mouth. About 25 minutes in, and I started hallucinating that the street signs were shaped like cupcakes.

Somehow, I had the willpower to make it home though.

The Review: This one offered a macaroon-like base topped with simple chocolate cake. I thought the cake part was a little on the dry side, but the icing was divine. That's where the passion fruit came in and it's an inspired idea. It was so bright and smooth I attempted to nibble all the cake away so I could just focus on the icing.
Conclusion: A solid B for the cupcake, but an A+ for that beyond-adorable box. I felt like I produced twice as much estrogen just carrying the damn thing.