product review, resto oh oh, Uncategorized

“A Collage of Unaccounted-For Brush Strokes”


Stockard Channing’s next-to-last lines from Six Degrees of Separation were yesterday feeling distressingly and urgently sympathetic to me, as i hauled my charcoal-dusted and BBQ-soaked carcass out of a tent after 4 hours of sleep in order to catch a plane to Reno so i could interview some scientists, from there to hop on a bus to San Francisco so i could eat a million burritos and drink a million microbrews. less directly concerned with (although no doubt overshadowed by) such existential cramps, my other thoughts for the day as i saw fit to record them were as follow:

1. this Gavino and Weinfeld airport croissant tastes like it was made with movie theatre butter, but unfortunately i can’t say that makes it the worst i’ve ever had. not by a long shot.

these are the things i know about Cleveland:
Bone Thugs N Harmony.
Drew Carey?
in the last episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, after Sunnydale has sunk into an abyss and they’re like, “we’ve closed the Hellmouth now, at least it’s over, right?” Giles is like “well, there’s another on in Cleveland, actually.”

remember when they were talking about doing a spinoff of Buffy where Giles is back in England solving paranormal mysteries aided by the ghost of Miss Calendar, his murdered cyber-pagan-gypsy computer teacher/lover? no? i would have watched that.

3. Cleveland airport seems pretty nice, but 19$ crab cake nice? i think not, but that may just be the hangover thinking. Continue reading


Forced, False, Fraught*

well, that was certainly a New Years Eve of a Nuit Blanche, if ever so ignominious a comparison could be made. given our failure to plan any specific activities/itinerary, it may be tempting to charge us with responsibility for the night being (oblique pun intended) a total washout, but given that my stated standards leaving the house this evening were “go to the old port and see some touristy shit,” and, “eat a sausage,” and that so meagre demands were not met, despite the substantial historical and experiential weight that suggested that if nothing else, those were the precisely, perhaps the only, desires that one might reasonably expect to satisfy on a typical Nuit Blanche, i feel perfectly at ease placing the blame, nay, plopping the blame, squarely in the lap of the city of Montréal.

mind you, and this may not be immediately clear, i say the city of Montréal, and not the City of Montréal, because i mean to implicate not solely the Powers That Be, but The People themselves, for so tamely settling into mediocrity.

perhaps i need to take a step back. the germs, or at least the catalysts, of this discontent, lie in part in my arrival in the Old Port around 2:30am only to find the area cloaked in shadows, fast in the grip of Wrapping Things Up At A Respectable Hour. no sausage cookouts, no ice-rave, no mysterious orb (well, there was a mysterious orb, but it appeared to be closed). in my mind, this represents a fundamental misconstrual of not only the spirit but the “literal” (ie: figurative) meaning of a nuit blanche (ie: all-nighter). at the time, however, i was in inexplicably high spirits, and decided that if i was already out and about, and the metros were running all night, i may as well grab a bowl of pho in order to end things on a hight note. as it turns out, there is not a goddamn pho restaurant to be found open in Chinatown on goddamn Nuit Blanche, night of all nights. Continue reading