Doing the United States

Road Trip.

This timeline is being recorded for consumption.

Friday, May 15, 2009
9:16 AM
Day 8,452 Alive

The trip is off to an intriguing start. In line to buy juice to equalize my hangover I see an alien. She was wearing a large brimmed hat and used an outdated lexicon, "by golly!" She had trouble understanding the operations necessary to both pump and then pay for gas. Clearly she has intercepted old tv emissions (the waves taking years to reach her planet). I take this as a good omen; also as a sign that this section of my journal may be a false memory created to cover up an abduction. Either way I'm pretty excited.

9:33 AM

Passed a hitch hiker. Did not pick him up, alas. He was a looker.

11:08 AM

Revelation: Music is meant to be experienced, live and on drugs.

1:23 PM

Lunch in New Hampshire. I ordered a pastramy sub for authenticity. A sign reads "Customers taking more than three minutes to order two pizzas or less will be shot." I ask the cashier if any veggies come on the sub. She tells me no. I ask for lettuce and tomato. It is clearly a rare order. Authenticity ruined. Outside I eat in the 24 degree heat and watch a woman buy icecream and feed it to her dog.

3:56 PM

Last stop before the lodge. Supermarket for mix. The old couple behind me has in their cart a pie, a head of cabbage and over a dozen, perhaps almost twenty cans of things like 'sweet corn' and 'sweet peas.' Also a twenty-four case of Samuel Adams Summer Ale. The old man's lower lip folds neatly over his upper lip, almost covering it.

5:50 PM

We've just passed a store called Fashion Bug. Wares unknown.

10:28 PM

We arrived at The Lodge. It is literally a lodge, over a dozen bedrooms on an island in Maine that this weekend will house twenty people. We put in a dock, we drink. There is a clutch of stereotypical geeks here. The two brothers have red hair, one with a pony tail, one without. Both with receding hair lines. No one says it, but I think they are twins. They talk about literature, computers and sci-fi, all with the vague condesention that comes with the mastery of your chosen domain. Dinner is chicken. I have named this weekend 'Majesty.' From the bed I sit on while I write I can hear loons crying.

Monday, May 18th, 2009
2:03 PM
Day 8,455 Alive

Heading back home, we stop at a state liquor store shaped like a barn. I buy whiskey at an incredibly low price. In the bathroom I wait for the only stall in a line of three men. The man in front of me is old, with high high waisted pants and glasses. In my mind's eye now I see him with suspenders, but already this could be a trcik of memory. He comes out of the stall after some timeand I'm leaning with my butt on a heat register. He apologizes for this prostate problem and I assure him that it's all right, of course. In the stall someone has written on the toilet paper dispenser with a sharpie. CRAP O' MATIC. TURD DISPENSER.

TPC

I would like to try my hand at making a food blog, which seems to be quite the rage these days. Here’s a little recipe that I wiped up when I was somewhere between the ages of six to ten. It is fast, simple, and easy!

Trailer Park Caviar

You Need:
• A box of Crackers
• A fully stocked mouth (lips, tongue, saliva)
• Hands (Three fingers at least. Thumbs are helpful but not required.)

Instructions:
1. Take a cracker and put it in your mouth. My personal favourite crackers for this recipe are ‘Ritz’, ‘Cheese Ritz’ or ‘Saltines’, but get creative!

2. Chew that cracker up good, but don’t overdo it. You want a nice thick paste, not too runny with saliva.

3. Now, take another cracker. You’re going to spit the chewed up first cracker on top of it. Try to spread it out nice and evening with your lips and tongue.

4. Let it set for fifteen seconds. Now it’s chow time. Bon appetite!

Final Notes: This can be a really fun, quick way to spice up your snack food. The same principle can be applied to other foods, such as potato chips. For an additional treat, you can repeat the cycle of chewing and spreading. Each subsequent cracker-covered-cracker can be the ingredient for your next cracker spread. Eventually you’ve got a single cracker covered in four, five, even a dozen crackers worth of delicious Trailer Park Caviar. Give it a try!

Fun Facts: The term ‘Trailer Park Caviar’ was coined by the kids at school who made fun of me for spitting my food out and eating it again.

Pictures coming soon!

On seeking validation in random, meaningless French

Ever since I moved to Montreal two years ago, my personal worth has been inexorably tied to my French-life. It’s not a new story. The early 20s move to a new city, the people, the opportunity, the allure of a life with as much French as all the dubbed college movies you watched in your awkward teens, (Le Van Wilder, Maison Animaux, etc), when you were lucky to get any French at all. There’s a glamour to all the French. You grow up believing that how much you French is the benchmark of success for a young adult. More than that though, there’s a sense that these are the Frenchiest years of your life. That after you move away and grow up you aren’t going to have the chance to French with someone you meet in the library.

There’s a pressure to French. I look around and see everyone Frenching and no matter how many times I French it feels like everyone is Frenching more than me, better than me. Hardest of all is dealing with the failures. I meet her eyes and force what I hope is a confident ease into my ‘bonjour’. She smiles and asks me something, but I’m nervous, staring at her lips and everything seems to run together. I hesitate, mouth open, scrambling, and it’s over. The interest that flit behind her eyes a moment ago gone. She asks me again, but this time it’s “do you need a bag for that?” and it is so hollow. I walk away clutching the good cheese I splurged on. My mouth is dry, and tastes vaguely of sap. The man behind me, six inches taller, dark haired, olive skinned and sporting a manly three day stubble devoid of the bald patches that earned me the unoriginal nickname of “patches”, begins to speak to the cashier. His voice is like whole-kernel pepper being slow cracked over mom’s steaming baked casserole, like a Franco-FDR delivering a personal fireside chat. I don’t even notice when the plastic wrap bursts in my left hand; they’re Frenching the shit out of each other. Hours later I lay my head down to rest, but even after washing again and again I can smell the brie through my pillow and I remember and remember and remember.