bum!

It is F1 weekend in Montreal.

&*$%#^&%^*. This is how I feel.

F1 weekend is the most utterly chaotic, rediculous show of consumerism and excess you will ever see in your life. Truly. All week, the traffic flows into town like molasses. Ferraris, Porsches, Mazerattis (which I can't even spell), and the occasional T-Rex clog the bridges. You can't ride your bike anywhere because you can't breathe the air (and if you could, you'd probably get run over by a disoriented tourist anyway). There are big-haired tire chasers from down south, and businessmen with so much money they don't know what to do with it. There are gold-digging women in slinky dresses. Streets are shut down. Beer companies are dying to get a piece. The whole thing just makes me sick.
My original plan was to trek down to Maine for the weekend and go biking. Rolling, paved roads and less pollution. But that fell through at the last minute and now I'm stuck, like a gerbil wrestlying a porcupine. Perhaps tomorrow I'll go camping, but for tonight I'll be in the city for sure. However, there is an upside to this. There is a plan! There is action. The main money-soaked street of clubs in Montreal, Crescent St, is closed to traffic this week. The bars set up outdoor terraces and the whole place is just clogged with people. Jacques Villeneuve owns a bar there (NewTown) and most of the race teams set up tents. The place is full of wannabe high-rollers trying to show off. I am going to go tonight. I am going to not shower, I'm going to wear my dirtiest clothes, and I am going to beg for money. (Side story, I was planning this yesterday with a friend, and he was sad that he'd be less convincing, as he'd just shaved and had a haircut. "Don't worry," I reassured him "I've seen plenty of shaved bums.") I'm sure if I go late enough at night that I can hoarde a few hundred dollars at least. Whether I'll use it to pay off my Visa bill, or donate to an environmental charity, I don't know, but I'm going to go, damnit. I think. Or I'll just stay out of the way. But the concept of going out and begging on Crescent St really amuses me.

In other news, I've been tagged. TAGGED, I say! Oh, the humanity! Fine. I will humour your tagging because I am having a lazy St Jean Baptiste Friday and am feeling mellow. But don't think you're not marked, DO YOU HEAR ME???

5 Items in my Fridge
Peanut sauce, stir fry from about two weeks ago, various curry pastes, a few blocks of tofu, and a few bottles of J's home brew that, I admit, I'm scared to drink.

5 Items in my Closet
Camping gear, 2 giant rubbermaid tubs of a random collection of bike parts, my (magnetic bike) trainer, boxes that I honestly don't know what they contain because I'm storing them for a friend, and an immigrant family who cleans my kitchen and does my laundry. It's a big closet.

5 Items in my Car
At least 10 bottles that I haven't taken out of my car because gas stations never have recycling, rubber floor mats with flames on them, a bag of greasy bike rags and three types of lube (don't be dirty-minded now), a pair of heavy boots, and the O Brother Where Art Thou CD.

5 Items in my Purse
Purse?

I will not tag, as I'm not a regular enough blogger to be taggin', but, you know, tag yourself.

avian ex-lax

*edit, long stupid post deleted*
My brother has been ragging on me for two weeks now, because I called him two weeks to tell him a joke. It goes like this....
Q: What's the difference between a poor marksman and a constipated owl?
A: A poor marksman shoots but can't hit, and a constipated owl...
*editing continues*

One of my coworkers has really got me thinking lately. I met him on the bus in February probably (I take the bus to work in the winter because I hate driving in Quebec in the winter and it's better for the environment) . I didn't see him again until April, when we met up on our bikes on the F1 track. We've been riding a few times since and we've really hit it off. Part of it is I have so much respect for how he lives his life. What 31-year-old do you know that makes good money and doesn't own a car? Nor a TV? Nor a cell phone? If you ask him why, he shurgs and says he doesn't need it. His girlfriend works in sustainable urban development. She is a badass chick who's tough as nails and I can't get enough of. She warmed my heart when she went on a 45 minute rant about people climbing Everest "for charity." What the hell is that, she raved, you need to go do some freakin' $50,000 hike to raise $2,000 for an orphanage? A true hero would just give the whole $52, 000 to charity and walk to the grocery store!
Last night, I met up with them and two other friends who didn't really know each other before. It was odd, all my separate worlds colliding on the rooftop terrace of a trendy gay bar (complete with jacuzzi and pool... which I wouldn't go in if you paid me). As we were trickling out, I asked W what he thought of C (the girlfriend), and he said "I LOVE her. She's enough to turn me straight." C was laughing so hard a W at one point that she drooled. And MK (the guy from work) was deeply into conversation with CB (another university friend) about her thesis and its frustrations. It all flowed. It was good shit. And good shit, as we all know, is the reason I get up in the morning.

excuse me, do you have a mint? or perhaps some binaca?

Email from me to a coworker today: "I hate this thing with every fiber of my being. In fact, I hate it so much I'm going to eat a tapestry so I have more fiber in my being to hate it with."
But I'm not going to whine about work. Work is work, and that is all. Who wants to read about work? I'm playing frisbee at lunch now. That helps.

I appreciate all your kind words of concern about my ass. It's looking a lot better these days, although since I last posted it got considerably worse for a while. I went to the doctor. I got to moon an MD! That was fun. I've had these big nasty calcified bruises before, but this one, thankfully, wasn't at risk of generating a blood clot that was going to creep into my brain and kill me because, hey, your ass doesn't have any major arteries in it! Who knew? I also cut my fingernails down to the very shortest they could go so that I couldn't inadvertantly scratch my itchy mosquito-bitten arse during the course of the night. I think my buddy J said it best... "he who go to bed with itchy bum wake up with stinky finger."

Indeed.

So yes, my ass is better. Thanks for asking!