Téléphone de Jésus

Subway...err...Metro Couture

(NOTE: Updated the earlier "Shamrock Shake" entry via the comments.)



By the ridiculous number of times I've referenced "Montreal" in previous blog entries, no doubt my not-so-secret love affair with that fine, fine city is now widely known. I could go on for hours ad nauseum (and I have - to the eye rolling of many a friend), chanter-ing its praises.

Of course, this wasn't always so. It's really been one of those cases of "you don't know what you got till it's gone". And well...I live in Toronto now...enough said.

So this entry unabashedly has "Montreal" written all over it. Well, at least a map of its metro system. Yes, I said "metro" - NOT subway. Yes, I'm one of THOSE snobs. The type that has a constant hang-up about people calling Montreal's underground transportation the "subway". I will politely (or not so politely - depending how belligerent a mood I'm in) correct you. I'm also one of THOSE who will travel to another city that has an underground transportation system and mistakenly (*snicker*) call it the "metro" even if they call it the subway there.

For a good year and change after moving to Toronto, I would still find myself calling Toronto's subway system "the metro". Suck on it, T-dot.

Okay, enough evilness. Back on track (so to speak).

I truly do love riding the underground rails of every city I visit which has such a transit system. Be it Montreal, Toronto, Boston, D.C., NYC....*memory flash*...uhh, oh right, the NYC subway. I actually have a somewhat disturbing story about my first experience on the NYC subway (some of you may've actually even been there)...

Back in '97, when I was still living in Montreal, a few friends from work along with my brother and I took a long weekend trip down to New York. One of our adventures that weekend took us from Canal Street towards uptown Manhattan on the subway. The 5 or 6 of us happened to get a subway car all to ourselves. And I, as usual, was annoying my travel mates with my camera - taking uninvited snapshots of them as they'd put up their hands to my lens, trying to block me from stealing their souls.

Being in my belligerent mode, I persisted. And since no one was letting me get in their face and take nice close-up shots of them, I decided to back up away from the group and get a nice wide picture instead. So I peered through the viewfinder and shuffled backwards to fit everyone in. But I wanted to frame it nicely too, so I had to back up a little more to get some of the background in the shot. Then I decided I'd have to back up even further, right into the corner of the subway car to get the most awesome angle, and so I did.

*squish!*

What the fuck was that?! My friends looked over at me as I looked down at my feet. My shoe was slipping in something. OH MY GOD. I jumped out of the corner, lunging towards my friends, who correspondingly jumped back away from me. I frantically started wiping the sole of my shoe along the floor vigorously...leaving streaks of what can only be described as fecal graffiti on the subway floor. My friends and bro were now cackling at my horrid dilemma. They moved further away from me as the stench worked its way deeper into the subway car.

(The actual resulting photo)

I was in an utter panic. I prayed that it was at least the "business" of some pet animal -- perhaps a friendly seeing-eye dog who innocently let nature's call get the better of him. Moreover, I absolutely refused to allow myself to believe it was more likely to have been of the human variety. PLEASE GOD NO.

Regardless, for the rest of that evening, no matter how much I scraped the sole of my shoe on pavement or grass or in water puddles, the smell clung to me like dollar store perfume on a cheap hooker (okay, I probably heard that line in some movie before). But I was shunned by my friends. Nobody wanted to ride in the car with me. I was the dung-shoed pariah for the rest of that trip.

Okay, back on track...again.

So what better way to celebrate one's visit to a big city than a souvenir t-shirt! But forget those "I [Heart] So-and-So" shirts and those "My uncle went to So-and-So and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" shirts. Why not get something that really shows off a city's mighty indicator of urban sprawl and industrialization: a t-shirt with the map of the city's metro/subway on it! Booyah!


Truth is, I don't even know if all qualifying city's have such a souvenir t-shirt available for purchase. All I know is I was able to pick up one of these "Montreal Metro" t-shirts in touristy Old Montreal back in the late-90's. There's certainly no shortage of souvenir t-shirt shops in that area, and at least a couple of them had t-shirts that featured the metro system map. I'm so proud of mine.

And truthfully I'm not one for novelty t-shirts at all. Hate them for the most part. Especially the faux-witty, ironic kind. But this one is all class, baby! It's the frickin' metro map!

I'll wear mine on set or just out in the streets (as long as I'm not actually in Montreal...that's tacky). It sometimes even brings a smile to other people's faces who recognize what the map on my chest is all about. It's almost like a secret club: no words needed...just a slight, knowing nod from the person who notices my t-shirt; followed by a slight, agreeing nod in return from me. It's all cool and the gang.


Dent in your pay cheque:
my memory's a bit rusty, but I'm guessing around $8-$10

Ideal for:
tourists with discriminating souvenir tastes; cultured Montreal expats; nieces and nephews deserving of fashionable coolness; those who want to be part of the hush-hush, ultra-hip "I'm down with Montreal too" club

Look for it at:
select souvenir t-shirt shops in the Old Montreal district

Winona & The Rialto

(Indulge me...this entry is encased in a flashback story, so...um...it's kinda epic.)

1992

It was sometime during the fall of 1992. It must've been almost three months into my first semester of university in Montreal - and my first time away from home. I was still green to the big city scene, not quite having brushed all the prairie dust off my Doc Martens.

But the freedom I now found myself with had been unbeknownst to me up to that point. I could eat whatever I wanted (which I did), I could sleep whenever I wanted (which I did - usually between classes in the library), and I could go anywhere I wanted...which I DIDN'T DARE.

For many, this was supposed to be a time of great change, a time of self-discovery, a time of experimentation -- but for me, my life existed within the 3-block radius bubble between my dorm and the university's business building. Anything beyond that perimeter was fair ground for possible muggings, abductions, and general big city mayhem. Or so I thought.

But I eventually realized that there was one thing - one person, actually - who would become the forbidden fruit that would tempt me and lure me out of my self-imposed quarantine zone. And that person would be none other than Ms. Winona Ryder.


(NOTE: You must keep in mind this was pre-notorious, snatch'n'grab Winona. Oh what do I care, she's still very yummy...)


Now, I may have related a tongue-in-cheek story to some of you in the past about how the highlight of my entire decade in Montreal occurred during my first week of being there. I had just arrived in Montreal and was still settling in when I learned of a tribute to the movie director Tim Burton that was taking place at the Montreal International Film Festival.

So, upon first ensuring that the location where the tribute was being held was comfortably within my self-preservation area, I decided to go check it out. And who happened to be there sitting just two rows in front of me? Winona! My first ever celebrity sighting. And believe you me, I was smitten to the gills! Definitely twitterpated. *sigh*


Now cut to a few months later when I learned that a new independent movie featuring beloved Winona was showing in town. Problem was, this little indie flick was playing at some far off rep cinema called The Rialto - way up north on the Montreal Plateau - way the hell out the critical comfort zone of my 'hood. We're talking about potentially French speaking-only territory! To make matters worse, this perilous trek into hostile regions (or so I thought) would require a bus ride, then a subway ride, then another bus ride, plus some additional walking to get there! Would I need to hitchhike too?

So I was faced with this serious mega-dilemma: personal safety vs. love & devotion

After hours and hours of psyching myself up in front of a mirror, I finally decided to man up and grow a pair for once, and risk life and limb - venturing out into the big, bad Francophone world - all in the name of spending two hours with my starlet queen on the big screen.


Oh, but it was such a dark and lonesome road. Admittedly though, I probably had my eyes closed through most of the journey. I know I refused to make eye contact with anyone. The first bus ride was okay at best, the subway was barely tolerable, but the transfer to the second bus was highly anxiety-ridden. Had I boarded the right bus? What if I get off at the wrong stop? I REALLY didn't want to have to walk those sinister French-ified streets any longer than I really needed to. So I held my breath the entire ride.

Then, like stepping off the plank of a pirate ship, I disembarked...

...right in front of the movie theatre. Which was brightly lit. On a street bustling with happy Francophone shoppers and strollers. In a neighborhood that even looked a helluva lot safer than where my dorm was situated. Hmmm.

And you know what? My lion-like courageousness was rewarded that night; not only with a wonderfully quirky, Winona-laced cinematic experience (the movie was "Night on Earth" by Jim Jarmusch), but - more impressively - I inadvertently got to watch the movie at The Rialto - which I quickly learned was one of the premiere, historical movie theatres in eastern Canada. I had never been in an original, early-20th century movie palace before.

Originally built in 1924, it wasn't like it had been restored or refurbished in recent years. In the white-tiled lobby, the ceiling plaster was cracking; inside the main auditorium, portions of textured walls were torn; and in several places, the red carpet was worn down to the cement underneath. Yet, this decaying venue still managed to retain a grand sense of nobility and importance (kind of like Sean Connery.) Even when throughout the movie screening, you would occasionally hear audience members dropping like flies in the dark as their rickety red velvet seats would come off their worn hinges and crash to the floor.

Still, this was living history. Movie history. It was glam 1930's Hollywood. The gold leaf was still there, adorning the original moldings. The red curtain still draped in front of the actual silver-embedded movie screen, which parted in the middle just as the show was to begin. The musty smell of the aged palace gave way to the buttery aroma of popcorn in the lobby concession, wafting through the rest of the theatre. It was an aging, rundown palace to be sure, but it was the most glorious feeling to be sitting inside there, shrouded in magical darkness for a couple hours, hearing the faint clacketing from movie projector above, staring at the flickering images across the screen. It wasn't 1992 anymore. It wasn't Montreal either. For two hours, it was out of this world.



I would return to The Rialto at least a couple more times during my stint at McGill - lapping up all of its decrepit glory. Before it closed down in the mid-90's.

Like virtually all movie palaces of the era, it became too expensive to maintain and run. With the ubiquity of 24-screen megaplexes complete with stadium seating and food courts, landmarks like The Rialto never stood a chance.

So WHY on earth am I telling you all this?

Well, after some researching on these omniscient internets, I've learned that The Rialto has opened its doors once again! Well, sort of.

For better or for worse, the Rialto has been converted into a pricey, mid-end dining establishment. I'm just thankful it didn't suffer the demolished fate that so many other movie palaces of yore have succumbed to in recent decades. The current owners have sunk sufficient money into a complete overhauled refurbishment, bringing back all the grandeur aesthetics that The Rialto once proudly displayed to its patrons during its heydey. Of course, all of the theatre seating has been removed to make way for the dining room. It's unclear if the movie screen even still exists, but the stage in front of where it once hovered over is now home to a grand piano that gets tickled now and again for the pleasure of dinner guests.

Truthfully, I've got mixed feelings about wanting to go back to The Rialto at this point in time, not wanting to risk the upheaval of good memories I have of the place. But perhaps I will one day when I find myself back in that city, wandering around my former haunts.

The face of the lovely Winona may no longer be projected on to the silver screen of The Rialto anymore, but for what it's worth, a well-trimmed 16-ounce Angus porterhouse steak can be had for $32.

Yeah, I still much prefer Winona.


Dent in your pay cheque:
an average entrée looks to set you back around $30 (plus the cost of a trip to Montreal, unless you're one of the extremely lucky few who get to live there)

Ideal for:
historical landmark junkies; strollers down memory lane; the famished (with deep pockets) who just happen to find themselves in the Montreal Plateau neighborhood

Look for it:
5723 Avenue du Parc, Montréal
www.rialtoparadise.com

It's all in the gory details...

(Contributor-in-waiting Stacy just shot out her bambino numero duo, and so I thought I'd kind of dedicate this particular entry to her and the wee one. I realize what I'm talking about here today may not be the most suitable baby shower gift, but perhaps a few years down the road -- provided the kid has a mentally stable upbringing. You'll see what I'm talking about...)


So ya know, I don't really fancy myself much of an illustrator. Not at all, actually. Unlike the mega-talented friends and relatives that I grew up with who unknowingly induced feelings of crooked jealousy and inadequacy in me with their drawing capabilities, I was forever relegated to my stickmen renditions of Spider-Man and (waif-like) Martians.

And even nowadays, I grit my teeth with dreading incompetency whenever I have to storyboard my various projects.

"Umm, Benjie, how come in this scene this character has a protruding tumour?" my director of photography would often ask me.

"It's not a tumour! That's his fancy cowboy hat," I'd have to explain.

So I can somewhat appreciate the talent it takes to draw exceptionally well. And some of my favourite illustrative works have been by an illustrator by the name of Edward Gorey (who looks to have been separated at birth from fellow author Farley Mowat in his picture below).

I don't know if there's a particular category or name for his style, so I'd like to offer up my own made-up classification of "the macabre jeunesse". Why? Well, aside from sounding French enough to be a real style, his illustrations (which are primarily black & white) are certainly darkly sombre in tone, even hedging on the mildly grotesque at times. Furthermore, he tends to favour drawing children, depicting them in fairly harrowing circumstances. His subject matter is usually quite simple and to the point, even if those points tend to slant towards the bizarre. You see, the late Mr. Gorey (1925-2000) had quite the twisted sense of black humour as his drawings would indicate.

For example, take a look at these following excerpts from one of his (supposed) children's books, The Gashlycrumb Tinies...






A tad gruesome? Yes. Appropriate bedtime material for young tykes? Probably not. But damn if that man didn't have a wicked wit!

If you enjoy the films of Tim Burton (in particular his earlier movies from the 80's) or Burton's own illustrated books, Gorey's stuff will be right up your alley. Think of him as a more macabre Dr. Seuss. And with humour even darker than those Lemony Snicket books. In fact, Gorey's sensibilities are probably even better targeted at older audiences than younger. It's always filled with daring whimsy, albeit of the morbid kind.

Or sometimes his work is just wonderfully odd and peculiar. Like this Edward Gorey calendar that a friend of mine in Montréal sent me a couple years back. Each month brought another chapter in the odd misadventures of rascally siblings, Embley and Yewbert, from the story of The Epiplectic Bicycle. It made for a delightful year!

So go ahead and google more of his work...maybe you'll be a Gorey fan too!


Dent in your pay cheque:
around $15-20 for a Gorey book; around $12 for a Gorey calendar

Ideal for:
illustration junkies; gothy types; morbid humour fetishists;
children NOT preoccupied with the bogeyman that's underneath their bed

Look for it at:
Amazon.ca or many a fine local bookstore

A little bubbly, anyone?

As much of a foodie as I pretend to be, rarely do I attempt to be a Chris Columbus or Magellan in the kitchen. While I'm all for the latest in innovative food trends such as essence infusions, two & three-way dishes, or tower-style plating - I'll leave it up to the gastronomical adventurers of the restaurant world to invent the next evolution in cuisine.

However, there is ONE particular culinary innovation that I can proudly call my very own. Something I created partly by accident one snowy December evening when I was racking my brain to come up with a way to add that special "ooo-la-la!" to a certain Asian fusion dish. After toiling away in my kitchen into the wee hours of the night, it was around 4 in the a.m. when I finally stumbled upon my ultimate savoury discovery.

And, oh my, what a discovery it was!

Now keep in mind, never before have I shared the keys to this fantastical food secret with anyone - until right now! And trust me, it will literally cause you to foam at the mouth. Yes, LITERALLY.

You see, while some chefs have taken to the recent trend of creating frothy flavoured foams to enhance their dishes - I, on the other hand, have created a particular kind of foam that actually forms and grows IN your mouth! Through a combination of very specific ingredients and chemical reactions, the most astounding texture and flavour can be achieved with my recipe for mouth foam.


"But, good sir, what might this mouth foam of yours taste like?"

The truth? Heaven. Pure prosciutto heaven - with even the slightest hint of wild sage!

Now, to be fair, probably because of all the chemical intermingling going on, it may actually cause wooziness in certain people, but not usually to the point of blacking out. But a small price to pay for taste bud nirvana!

"Oh, good sir, do tell us how this can be made possible! Do tell!"

Actually, my friends, you'll be glad to know it's relatively uncomplicated...

2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
3 1/2 tablespoons alum powder
1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
5 or 6 drops of ham extract

Combine all ingredients in a chilled metallic bowl. Cover with parchment paper and let rest in a draft-free area for at least 45 minutes.

Serve with almost any Asian meat dishes. With each bite, take no more than a spoonful of the mouth foam mixture. Simply wait for the exciting reaction and enjoy!

NOTE: Do not eat with bok choy, as its higher-than-usual chlorophyll content tends to interact poorly with mouth foam.


Dent in your pay cheque:
no more than $14 for mouth foam ingredients (plus the cost of Asian meat)

Ideal for:
Asians (& non-Asians)

Look for it at:
Fu Yao Supermarket or most Giant Tigers

(Michael Scott and Dwight Schrute are peeping through the window blinds of Michael's office, observing the rest of the office employees...)

Michael Scott: "I need to know who else is gay. I don't want to offend anyone else."

Dwight Schrute: "You could assume everyone is, and not say anything offensive."

Michael Scott (rolling his eyes): "Yeah. I'm sure everyone would appreciate me treating them like they were gay."



This is just one of the many golden nuggets of hilarity from "The Office: An American Workplace".

Good Lord, this TV show is funny.

Are you already an avid watcher? (HINT: There is only one "good" answer to this question.)

If not, why not?

Don't you want to be cool too?

Then you and I can call each other up the next day and wax lyrically about how many times during the previous night's episode we peed a little in our pants because of how hysterically socially inept Michael Scott (the boss) is, how uproariously power hungry Dwight Schrute (the fascist assistant manager) is, or how poignantly star-crossed Jim and Pam (the would-be office lovebirds) are. (JAM fans, anyone?)

A couple weeks ago, it was such an exciting revelation when I learned that my good friend in New York was also a loyal Officemate. It was like we now got to gossip about these new "weekly" friends of ours behind their backs. It, like, totally renewed our friendship on a higher level! (Plus I can't help but giggle a little because one of the kooky Office characters - the Valley Girl-esque "Kelly Kapoor" - reminds me of my NYC friend! Hehe.)

Anyway, back to the show:
This is not your father's comedy. This isn't your tried-and-true (read: *yawn*), old school sitcom. And this really isn't the typical "set up then punch line"/"Charlie Sheen chasing skirts as the precocious little nephew wags his finger at him"-type humour. The Office predicates itself in those awfully awkward, cringe-worthy, painfully funny moments when others around you are oblivious to their own embarrassing, unfiltered, un-PC behaviour. Trust me, we all know people like these in our day-to-day lives.

Okay, I don't know how I can continue on with this entry without further coming off as a pathetic shill. It's not like the show needs me to recruit more pairs of eyes to save it. It's actually doing just fine.

I guess I'm just trying to do my (non-Semitic) mitzvah for the week and spread the gift of laughter with you all!

And for all of you fans of the original Brit version of The Office, you'll have to take my word for it that once you get past the first few episodes of the American version, you'll start to realize just how wonderfully different a comedic beast this one is. Give it a chance. You'll love it too.

But this American version really began to hit its stride in its second season (after an abbreviated 6-episode first season). So what I recommend to all you American Office neophytes is that you purchase/rent/Netflix/five-finger-discount a copy of Season Two as your foray into the series. Then once you are (guaranteed) hooked on the show after those 22 episodes, you can go get Season One and watch the original six. And then you can also catch up to the current Season Three this upcoming summer when it goes into repeats on TV.

Wow, WHAT AN AWESOME PLAN I just laid out for you! You can send me a tin of "thank you" cookies later. (HINT: I'm partial to oatmeal raisin.)


Dent in your pay cheque:
around $25 for Season One; around $40 for Season Two; currently FREE for Season Three!

Ideal for:
anybody who loves having their funny bone fondled; snooty fans of smart, non-patronizing television; people who work in an office and want to watch a weekly, half-hour version of their autobiography

Look for it at...
the DVDs: Best Buy (but maybe you can find it cheaper elsewhere)
the weekly TV broadcast: NBC, Thursdays at 8:30 PM!

Grimacing for my fix

(Initially I thought I'd give y'all a timely treat with this entry. But, as you'll realize, my tardiness in posting this makes it the furthest thing from being timely. Ah well.)

I debated whether I should even include this item in this blog. I mean, yes, I have purchased it in the past, and - technically - it is still available for purchase. You just might have a really tough time finding it - and will have to wait, oh, about a year for your next opportunity.

But in the end I decided, why the hell not. Because I really love Shamrock Shakes!

Yes, I am indeed talking about those nuclear green McDonald's milkshakes that appear only once a year in the weeks leading up to March 17th. At least they used to appear once a year - quite ubiquitously in fact - back in the 80's and early 90's. But nowadays, you may be hard-pressed to find these viridescent gloopy treats at your local McDick's. Not unlike those commercials that used to feature Ronald McDonald & friends, the Shamrock Shake has all but disappeared from our cultural menu board. So sad!

However, internet rumours report sporadic SS sightings throughout the northeastern U.S., as well as parts of California, and there's even been an unconfirmed Canadian appearance in Coquitlam(?), British Columbia. The interest in this elusive triple-thick delight has become rampant enough to warrant a website solely dedicated to tracking these Shamrock sightings. So true!

But perhaps equally sad to this vanishing milkshake is the phasing out of the aforementioned McDonald's characters, in particular Uncle O'Grimacey, the Gaelic emerald cousin (uncle?) of everybody's beloved purple glob, Grimace.


Okay, so maybe my love of this minty bever-essert has more to do with nostalgia than delectable taste (don't get me wrong though, it is a whole bunch of yum). But like Christmas or my birthday, this is an annual event with cause for celebration. Give me a super-sized Shamrock Shake over a stein of green beer any St. Patrick's day!


Dent in your pay cheque:
$2.50-$3.50 (the price of a regular McDonald's milkshake!)

Ideal for:
milkshake fiends bored with chocolate, strawberry and vanilla; cultural connoisseurs of 80's kitsch; the (underaged) Irish

Look for it at:
unfortunately only very select McDonald's restos just prior to St. Patrick's Day -- but to aid you in your quest: www.shamrockshake.com

(In times of desperation, you can also try making your own knock-off Shamrock Shake with this recipe.)


* * *

P.S. Hey hey! I know there are a few of you lurkers out there who have yet to sign up as materialistic contributors to this blog. If you've "lost" the invitation I sent out a few weeks back, e-mail me and I'll send you out a new one. Don't be creepy...join us!