wha? . . . is that pink floyd?

The theatre, as theatres of this sort often are, was tucked in a labrynthial corner of some mall hinged on odd angles, hidden behind a fortress of stores that survive but without any apparent reason: the bead bins, the Nancy's Fabrics, the Vietnamese-named salons that radiate the smell of chemicals used to preserve dead bodies.

They'd raised their prices from $1 to $2 in December.

"The Popcorn and Soda is still $1," said the too casual box office attendant, dressed in pedestrian garb--without the branded polo, and becacuse of his Bazaar-style bargaining tactics ("pay what you got. for you, $1 is enough"), he seemed like a fraud.

A brown bag of popcorn waiting on the warmer. A coke with two straws.

This frames the viewing experience. We sit, O and I, in front of a group of young anglophones, splayed out over two rows. we leave some distance, but hear their laughter and "this is the worst G.D. film ever" commentary throughout. Their stoner response hints at the strangely juxtaposed audience the film hoped to target--not just the small-minded "12 and under" subgroup that could not care less about the dreadful acting and story turns (and who incidentally still probably pay only $1 per film), but the baked and burned out Dead Heads that might like the message of peace, and the scene where Mimzy the stuffed rabbit communicates news from the future to a young, sheltered suburbanite.

"The Last Mimzy." Mimzy and borogroves, or some other Carroll-esque nonsense. That's all it is. Nonsense under the guise of morally-sophisticated hippy manifesto. [And we kind of love it. Even though we laugh when the whole business is tied to Homeland Security.] The children find a box. The stuffed animal speaks in demonic rattles, and the young girl listens. The boy summons power from the rocks, and learns to manipulate the movement of spiders simply by alternating the tone of his voice. Humans shed alien suits. Tibetan symbols find their way in dreams, and purity is discovered on the lines of childrens' hands. What? . . . wait, this is for the whole family? If you're lost, it's only because I am as well, and I saw the bloody film. The film ends with white-robed children sitting cross-legged in a field of flowers, learning about peace from a sage teacher. They float up into the sky when she dismisses them. But where do they fly? The credits roll and one of Pink Floyd's ex-member's sings a song, referencing the moon (the dark side), and givin' peace a chance. I think that was the moral of the story, the psychadellic and dark story intended for children, but mediated by horrible child actors and unfortunate quasi-famous accomplices.

What just happened?

At least we got the cute girl discount.

a blog without jodi

With Jodi gone, I thought I'd lost all motivation to blog. No chiding; no inspiration; no collaboration. But Montreal has exhibited manic weather moodswings this week, and as a good Midwesterner, I know this gives me at least the outline for bare bones small talk. Apparently spring has arrived, and after the snowstorm of last sunday, 80 degrees feels obscenely unnatural. Or maybe it's the tamtam circles, and the hordes of people that have suddenly left their basements and have decided it's now safe to hang out on the streets.

On Sunday, with weather in the 70s, I sat on a rock off the beaten path on the mountain with Julia and Thibaut. From here, like a rooftop summer, we saw the city from a new angle, detached from its pulsing systems. Its sirens and dance circles and markets and languages hurled out became white noise--reminiscent of a tide turning in and out. When we returned to street level, we added our own bar to the soundtrack by singing traditional folk songs and old Dylan in the park--Julia on the guitar, me on the harmony, Thibaut trying to keep up with the lyrics.

I actually have nothing else to share. But at least this small talk probably got us through the grocery aisle line.

what should this title be?

jodi: i don't know, we've said so many wonderful things? i don't know. make me sound funny. are you just putting that on the blog now?
jordan: are you just talking so that you can have quotes on the blog?
jodi: [shakes head no.] i'm not yawning to be on the blog. DON'T TYPE THAT.
[intermission]
[cut to: picture of jordan on christmas morn']

jordan woke up to puddles. she also didn't get a pony. she also didn't buy any paints to design christmas tree cards. jodi woke her up with kenny g's christmas album. she keeps it on her ipod. jordan dressed up like ronald mcdonald to walk next door. jordan and jodi ate pain (pronounced pane) au chocolat while watching a strange couple talking about purses and philosophy and being alone.
[scene 2: hot chocolate, not at the same place]

look at the abnormally large hands. note also how all of our pictures are of us and our food.

this is emo shot #2. $399.
[scene 3: st. laurent. the "metro series." on display at gallery awesome]

jordan: let's have a dialogue about this.
jodi: about what?
jordan: ummmm..
jodi: you didn't say anything for me to respond to.
omnipresent narrator: this is a powerhouse shot of ms. thr-ckm-rt-n.

we are at war. we'se gots to ration.
[scene 4: at the ostrich-head bar]
we meet a sugardaddy.

thank you for joining us on our adventure. the end.

epilogual#1:
dont cha wish your girlfriend was awesome like me ... us!
dont cha wish your girlfriend was a multidimensional francophile like us!
[whispered: dont cha]
[whispered: freakay]
dont cha wish your girlfriend was meta like us!
Dont cha wish your girlfriend was . . . pretentious(?).

epiglottis#2:
this is why i'm H-t
this is why i'm H-t
This is why, this is why, this is why
i'm H-t
this is why i'm H-t
this is why i'm H-t
This is why, this is why, this is why
i'm H-t
I'm H-t cause i'm fliiii
You ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why
i'm H-t

This is why I'm H-t, I repr'sent Montreal
I got it on my back.
Frenchies says we lost it so I'm bringing it back.
When I need hiphy I take it to da Bay, Jodi in San Francisco, I like it that way.
And when I hit big N-E, they say i smell like brie. Mot à ta mère.

trust me, i know fashion. it looks good.

i tell this to jodi when she sports the bomber. taking on the unexpected storm like a good soviet. i'm relegated to the red wellies and the thrift store purchased hat. i ain't no scientist, but my feeble estimations would tell you that we received seven inches in two hours. i find this brilliant.

the day began with an act of uncompromised gluttony--of the almond croissant variety. this is best experienced with coffee and a good attitude. maybe i only write that now because jodi is mocking me, and taunting me with her blanky. here's the picture, as promised, highlighting our beauty. is the image followed by the words "we are beautiful" a redundancy?

then we ate cow flesh in a hebrew charcuterie. jodi asked if it was pork. it tasted like pure liquid joy on a stick.


we went to see the music. the bluegrass. we meet marie and thibaut and patrick, and dance only occasionally.


stay tuned for our christmas special. blessings x 2.

Christmastime! with Jodi!

Just to let all you in the blogosphere know, you will have at least two more illuminating blogs coming your way as Jodi's preempted the winterstorm in Montreal and the flooding in New York. We're celebrating by going to the Dollar Store to buy tableaux and paints and christmas decorations. We will be creative. And you will get to join us on the enlightening journey.

Blessings to you all in this holiday season.

don' cha wish your girlfriend made crepes like me...

don' cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like . . . us. freaky blanky and jodi are here. jodi's freakiness (for all those men interested) can be confirmed by the fact that she came here with blanky, whose been looking a little rough these days. jodi keeps waking up to find blanky's ligaments strewn around her bed.

today we went downtown and made fun of neon light animations on sex shops (conveniently located across from the Gap). we took pictures of ourselves in front of the sign. people are awkward when you take a picture downtown. they stop and pretend to do the limbo, or hold their children back. then when they look over and see that you're taking a picture of a sex shop, they seem to care less. except more. wait, what? jodi just made a very scholarly comparison between the sex[y] shops and the exhibition on w-lt d-sn-y we stumbled upon. [jodi says that i should mention here that we are "jazzed up" on sugar and (fake) lemons.] some guy tried to steal our identities. here's a pictorial description of what we just tried to describe in words:



notice the guy in the background with the camera. he thought we were losers for taking pictures of the sexy animations. but then he stole our idea to take a picture of a chapel tower reflected in a skyscraper. now who's the loser? [this is the best blog ever!]

we saw a movie tonight.

don' cha wish your girlfriend was fat like us.



epilogue1:[jodi just told me to take a picture of her tomorrow after she's showered and looks pretty so we can put it on "the blog." are you all waiting with bated breath?]
epilogue2: we should have done this as a dialogue. it would have been more creative.
epilogue3: are the pictures and then the statement "we look ugly" a redundancy?
epilogue4: hey justin, you're probably the only one reading this.

Easter with Mussolini and More(!)

If I were to sum up the weekend, I might try to do it with a little ditty. Something in the vein of "Holy Cannoli! Mussolini on a Pony!" This could be explained by the pilgrimmage I took with Julia, Zoe, and Savann to the church I'd teased you with way back in the early days of my blog that boasts a fresco of Mussolini (on a pony) over the high altar. And what better day to feign Roman Catholicism than Easter Sunday! I needed to get a photo of that bad boy. With my ultra sly LCD viewfinder, and an ultra elderly pew of churchgoers, I was able to subtly capture this infamous image.

Here's where the cannolis come in. We purchased them at an unassuming Patisserie that was written up in the New York Times Style Magazine. I appreciate the store's imperialization of the Slain Lamb, impaling his back with that flag like one would do on Everest's summit. I respect this. Mark your territory! After all, I'm a bleeding heart imperalist (and dog lover).

Like a good heathen, I co-hosted an Easter party with Julia. There was dancing, a fine spread of desserts, and the French language. I ate three deviled eggs. I looked at a map with a man from Benin. We both traced our trajectories to Montreal (via Nebraska, France, Madison; via Benin, Paris). Later, everyone circled 'round and did The Wave.

I invited Benito, but I guess he had other plans.

will work for food [or cotton swabs]

at the hospital. the one on the southwest corner of the montreal peninsula. the psycho ward. i've been left alone in a lab room with good light and fifteen bottles of cotton swabs that I'm to use every ten minutes to sample my saliva. a measure of cortisol. it's a stress study.

...it's clockwork orange. i walk into a dark room that V opens with a blue plastic glove. lit ominously with one lamp in the corner. a man and a woman in lab coats sit behind a table. "stand there on the tape and say your study number into the camera." "now?" i ask. when she nods, I look into the camera and say "Two." I look at the interviewers who stare back but initiate nothing. so i began selling myself for the fake job. V hands me two arrow-shaped swabs which I place under my tongue and continue to speak, cotton-mouthed, about my conflict resolution skills.

and then i'm to count backwards. 2023 as point of departure, moving backwards in increments of 17. and the swabs under my tongue shift about.

rewind two days. syrup season in the eastern townships. this was not my reason for travel. but the thought of being a participant in the sap's cycle of tapping and boiling and bubbling enticed me to remain. but before: three times on stage presenting films in french. a snowstorm pick up in front of the granada theatre in a CAA rental car, her parents. paul takes me down to the basement to describe the process, and talk about organic farming. ellie sends me upstairs with nighttime reading on martyrs. and the next day we haul wood from one shed to another, and conclude with leek soup and syrup-drenched muffins.

poverty breeds creativity

i've put myself on a budget. ten canadian dollars a day (which amounts to about 50 cents american). fortunately i can afford poverty, as i've got not much else to do with my day but shop around for deals. yesterday I went to the Jean Talon market and spent three dollars on: a bucket of tomatoes (on their way out), a basket of strawberries, a fresh pineapple flayed in front of me and packaged for immediate consumption. i spent two dollars on specialty egg noodles from a supermarket in little italy, and another two on a perfect cappuccino. a portion of today's budget went toward parmesan cheese and basil.

and so my afternoon was spent experimenting in the kitchen. the tomatoes i purchased, wilted and sunken, like an old woman's liver-spotted arms, needed immediate attention. i decided they would be perfect in the creation of my first (and excellent) fresh pasta sauce. subjecting them to a similar punishment as the pineapple, i removed the skin in a dark kitchen. malicious, but private, and not paraded about for all of montreal to see. here is the process i took. this is mostly for my own reference:
*dice tomatoes and let them soak in olive oil, salt and pepper (of the freshly ground variety), rosemary and thyme (sorry parsley and sage)
*sautee garlic and onions
*add the tomatoes to the sautee, topped off with basil before serving
*rock the casbah
*pat myself on the back

i'm enjoying this culinary experimentation. and poverty, in its own way. it's civilized at some level. and i couldn't be happier with the day's budget-inspired treasure hunts.

a dirty room and a clean sheets candle

there are a pair of greek men in my bathtub. one of them looks straight out of the 80s, with a matching leather pant-jacket suit. the shoulders are squared and military; they make me think of the good times. except the good times usually don't involve broken faucets in both the kitchen and the bathroom. i need a shower, whether or not it's "national don't take a shower day," according to facebook. he's yelling now about having to get us a new lock. he's neglecting the mold on the bathroom ceiling.

it is 52 degrees today, and feels like 52. the congruity is a major shift, and it, much like the nicer weather, is a significant change. the mystery of winter escapes us--the false advertising of televised temperatures.

i'm trying to write macros for a screenplay template on my computer. this confuses me, and i suppose it's a good way of avoiding the actual writing. sarai and i used to play barbies, but would probably spend the bulk of the time dressing and brushing the dolls, and organizing the barbie furniture in the barbie closet, and prepping the dolls for the scenario that we would never actually play out. i think we used to sleep in the closet, too, just to be close to them.

a few more months in montreal. i'm feeling a bit reclusive, as we millikens often do. thursday i walked north into the sun and little italy. i dove into a little cafe and read a magazine in french and ate a subpar pain au chocolat.

my room needs to be cleaned. i brought to montreal only clothes that i wanted to get rid of, the thrift store destined objects from my wardrobe. i still have too much and am anxious, in a way, for these months to finish so i can throw out all my things in a redemptive act. they've been led on, in a way, these items, and i should have been more honest with them from the getgo.