Extra points to anyone who knows why I've entitled this bloggie the way I have...less points if you're Canadian and/or born before 1975 (which I definitely was).

Well, I'm not sure how Snobby feels about being an International Canadian Symbol (see yesterday's comments). I am, however, greatly flattered to receive comments from people as far flung (from me) across the world as the UK, Sweden, and Pakistan (who else is out there? Show yourselves, even if you think you're not from anywhere all that exciting). That the parts of my little bubble I choose to write about – in a modified form, of course – should prove interesting to anyone other than Snobby is greatly gratifying. Unemployment can be very tough and this is one of my many strategies for remaining upbeat (maybe in a couple of years you'll all get a chance to purchase one of my other ways of remaining upbeat). Groovy, daddio!

And now I should stop contemplating this before I grow one of those humble ego heads, as in: "Gosh golly! Please! Not another compliment! I couldn't bear it! I beg of you! Don't say one more nice thing about me! Hush!" Heehee...

So, I think Ice Queen was complimenting me (or at least not insulting me) when she said I'm not typically Canadian. Unsure of what she meant exactly, I toyed with the idea of asking her to write a guest spot on my blog. But then, as I do take the occasional request, I decided to tackle the issue myself. Ice Queen, feel free to add or subtract.

Why Snobby Isn't a Typical Canadian:

• Snobby's parents are American.


• Snobby loathes hockey (and most other sports – they pre-empt "The Simpsons"!).


• Snobby cannot ice skate.


• Snobby cannot ski.


• Snobby understands and agrees in part with many of the reasons for Quebec separation, even if he doesn't believe it to be the correct course of action.


• Snobby tells those who annoy him that they annoy him, and not always with a smile on his face.


• Snobby tells those he likes that he likes them.


• Snobby does not make stupid American jokes while talking about how much fun he had in New York, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, etc, while using his American computer, American TV, American movies, American music, American cell phone, American clothing (made in sweat houses in India, the Philippines, etc) because he finds that hypocritical - although he hates the current administration and their foreign policy.


• Snobby actually is bilingual, not the pretend bilingual they teach in school.

Why Snobby is a Typical Canadian:

• Snobby was born and raised in Canada and has lived nowhere else except for one year in Rhode Island, one year in Poland...and several years in Quebec, as some already consider that "somewhere else" ;-)


• Snobby doesn't think –20C is such a big deal; he's experienced –45 several times.


• Snobby prefers beer to all other forms of alcohol.


• Snobby was caught in the confusion of Canada's conversion to metric and therefore measures his height in feet and inches and his weight in pounds. However, he measures distance in kilometres, food in grams, liquid in litres, and temperature in centigrade (except for when he's cooking when he uses farenheit to set the temperature on the oven).


• Snobby writes with a mix of British spelling (colour, centre, programme) and American spelling (tire, memorize) but knows both systems and therefore scoffs at British versions of American books and American versions of British books (like those loathsome Harry Potter "translations". The Magician's Stone? Gimme a break.)


• Snobby owns several toques, although none with a pompom.


• Snobby is pretty lefty in his political leanings, in comparison to our average neighbour to the south, although not as much as I was when I was younger.


• Snobby automatically compares everything Canada does to the States to see how we measure up. C'mon admit it. We all do it. Especially when we can show ourselves to be supposedly superior. Why else do we fly into such a tizzy of Canadian pride when our pop stars make it big down there?


• Although Snobby would like to have the opportunity of living abroad again, I would always return to Canada because this is where I'm from and I'm happy to have grown up here.

Tomorrow I'll try to be funnier. Now I get to do my taxes that are due in a few short hours! Yay Canada!

How many of you knew that pot pourri means "rotten pot" in French?

I just stepped out of the Horrifying Shower of Agony and Lava and am therefore still a little cranky, plus my throat hurts a little from screaming at my neighbours to let me take a shower in peace, ferchrissake! Cleanliness may be a virtue, but it comes at a high, high price in Snobby's apartment. Yes. A high, high price ...

Let me say that you people are no help at all! 50% say I should go to my stupid interview this afternoon and 50% say I shouldn't? Good thing I can think for myself. I had to tip the balance myself after receiving an email from someone I'd never met before that basically said "You go girl!" on the subject of Snobby's unemployment. I extrapolated and voted on her behalf against the Inane Interview of Wasting Life Force, and then replied to her email informing her of my action. Well, she wrote back admitting that she had been drinking heavily at the time and that I must never, never write her again lest her family discover she'd been communicating with an odd Jewish pansy from the Colonies (I am of course exaggerating, Anonymous Email Lady; you must always take with half a grain of salt whatever you read on Snobby's blog).

(PS - Anonymous Email Lady, I did go to your blog and yes indeed you are an odd little duckie, but I don't think you're as far gone as you think you are...you want me to link to your site or do you prefer anonymity? And since you like badgers so much, check this out - turn your computer's speakers on.)

Now, let me state that I do not want the job I am interviewing for this afternoon, no matter how dire my finances are getting. So put that in your engine and rev it!

Finally, to all you book lovers out there...check the link to the right called "Award-winning Chandra". Then read this review. Now go out and buy the book. And if any of my hundreds of thousands of loyal readers in the GTA are looking for something cultural to do on Tuesday, May 4, come to the Cameron House (408 Queen West) at 7:30 for her book launch. I've known Chandra for almost half my life and I'm immensely proud of her.

Plus, I need to stay on her good side so I can have a t least one good contact for whenever my snaggin fraggin novel is baggin maggin ready! ;-)

Be well and think of me conversing with the Sucker of Souls this afternoon.

I want everyone who reads this to ask me 3 questions, no more no less. Ask me anything you want and I will answer it. Then, I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste this allowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything.

Via Super Rad Woman

This is how I procrastinate from preparing for the interview for the job I don't have the slightest interest in.

This is why around 50% of Canadians and even more in the States think marriage is a sacrosanct institution into which only they and Barbie & Ken should be permitted to enter? A hilarious and apparently true rebuttal to the overrated sanctity issue. Enjoy.

What's the best way to prepare for an interview for a job you really don't want? Write your cover letter for a job you really do want in which you remind yourself how great you are and why everyone should be clamouring to have you in their employ. Since I don't want the job I'm interviewing for tomorrow, all I have to do is show up at the interview with some references and some set speeches on how great I am, and the absolutely worst thing that can happen is that I get an offer. Right?

If I move away I will miss my beautiful, spacious apartment that was built in 1917. However, I will not miss the plumbing of my beautiful, spacious apartment, which was also built in 1917 that drenches me with no warning with scalding water whilst I shower every time someone, anyone in the building turns a tap or flushes a toilet...or even contemplates turning a tap or using the can. It is not good to start one's day by howling in pain and swearing.

Even my cat likes me better only after I've had my coffee. He doesn't come out of one of his many hidey-holes (so far, I estimate I've found about half of them) in the morning after I've fed him until I'm about half-way through the first cup. He's very intuitive.

I think the universe is really trying to get something important across to me. In my state of Montreal confuzled befuddlement, my friend Hyper-Educated Muscle Man, who is as yet unaware of recent events in my life, sends me this article from today's New York Times on poutine. Snobby is not afraid to admit that poutine is his most favouritest food of all time and that the best is still to be had in Quebec...

By CLIFFORD KRAUSS

MONTREAL, April 21 - Poutine, Quebec's favorite fatty fast-food concoction, is like a voluptuous mistress. It is loved passionately in a province where eating is virtually an art form, but in public it is often acknowledged only with embarrassment. Recently, however, the shame has been ebbing.

Quebec's signature dish, made of fried potatoes covered with melted cheddar cheese curds and gravy, is slowly spreading beyond Canada and winning fans as far away as New York City and Florida. But the really big culinary news is that poutine is becoming haute cuisine.

Martin Picard, the owner of the popular bistro Au Pied de Cochon, known by local critics as the enfant terrible of the Montreal food scene, has begun adding foie gras to the dish. He has also reinvented poutine sauce with a blend of pork stock, egg yolks, still more foie gras and a touch of cream for texture.

For Mr. Picard, poutine is a cultural statement whose time has come for the proud people of Quebec. Their history had been marked by cultural disruptions, including an 18th-century British conquest, various protests against church and state and, most recently, an elaborate struggle to carve out and preserve their cultural identity within the confines of English-dominant Canada.

"People are just beginning to be proud to eat poutine and understand it is about becoming more confident in ourselves," said Mr. Picard, an ebullient 37-year-old chef whose specialty is southern French cooking. "We've had this inferiority complex, but we have grown up the last 10 or 20 years."

Mr. Picard's wild head of hair and scruffy beard mark him as an iconoclast. But his nouvelle poutine is what is really revolutionary. Before he reinvented it, poutine was the mainstay of bowling alleys, greasy spoons and late-night bars.

Still, chefs at some of Montreal's finest restaurants are known to prepare it, but only behind the closed doors of their kitchens to feed their staff members. They would not be caught dead putting the dish on their menus. Intellectuals swear they have never tried it, though some have been known to be too embarrassed to admit they eat it.

A few years ago, chefs here started experimenting to make the dish socially acceptable by introducing duck stock into the sauce and replacing the fries with baked potatoes. But that effort never caught on.

"People were ashamed to say, 'I want to go to a restaurant to eat poutine,' " said Mr. Picard recently in an interview at his restaurant. "You'd eat it at 3 in the morning when you are drunk or after a party. I didn't like the hypocrisy."

But since Mr. Picard first put it on his menu along with standards like confit de canard and crème brûlée in November 2001, popular demand has spiraled to the point where he now sells 30 to 40 plates of poutine a night.

Montreal food critics have embraced the experiment, if somewhat fitfully.

"Did you know a foie gras poutine exists and that the plate is delicious?" wrote a critic in the Montreal daily La Presse. "We met that weird creature recently at Au Pied de Cochon."

Québécois food is French, of course, although many dishes have sprung up here that are firmly rooted in Canada. There is tourtière, a spicy layered meat pie popular at Christmas, and ragout de pattes de cochon, a stew of pigs' feet, pork meatballs and potatoes, also popular in winter. But nothing matches poutine in popularity, particularly among the working class.

The origin of poutine is the subject of debate. But food commentators say the dish was probably invented in 1957 in the Quebec dairy town of Warwick.

As Warwick residents tell it, poutine was first cooked by Fernand Lachance, a quiet churchgoing man who with his wife ran a restaurant called Le Lutin Qui Rit, or the Laughing Elf. Mr. Lachance was actually not much of a cook, his friends say, but he successfully sold fried potatoes and cheese curds separately in paper bags. One day, a man came in and asked that he mix the potatoes and cheese in one bag.

Mr. Lachance prepared the concoction and shook the bag up until the warmth of the fries melted the cheese. When he opened the bag, as legend goes, he exclaimed, "this is a poutine," roughly translated in local slang as "a mess." A local cheese-factory owner came by the restaurant soon after, and when he tasted the dish, he immediately recognized it as a way to increase his sales. He spread the word to restaurants across southeastern Quebec.

The dish began appearing across the province, and today is even served in Burger King and McDonald's restaurants in Quebec. Numerous variations of the dish have emerged, including an Italian version, using ketchup or spaghetti sauce.

People in Quebec concede that the high fat content of poutine could be a health hazard, but Mr. Lachance's family and friends note that he ate the dish at least once a week until he died in February at the age of 86.

"He looked good and he was fit till the end," noted Claude Desrochers, the mayor of Warwick, who is now considering an appropriate way for the town to memorialize Mr. Lachance and his creation.

As for Mr. Picard, he has bigger thoughts about poutine than its calorie count.

"When you go to a restaurant for a salad, you have a problem," he said with a stern look. "I just love foie gras. I think I was born with a foie gras in place of a liver. And when you eat poutine, it makes you happy.

The universe will never cease to amaze me with the little twists it throws about to make life so very mysterious and wonderfully astonishing.

I got a job offer in Montreal today. It's a very good job.

Nothing is definite, but Snobby may be employed and a born-again Montréalais by autumn.

eep!

Off I go! The wondrous palace of Host Who Prefers Anonymity in drizzly Montréal awaits! I will get my fill of poutine, bagels, and Boréale and then I will return.

I will write a mopy bloggie or two about the good ol' days, and then I will begin to write again about my cat, my large, gorgeous, sunny, downtown Toronto apartment, some cute guys maybe, my wonderful multi-faceted Toronto friends, and maybe even a job interview or two *knock on wood*

And to that silly person who asked me why I don't move back to Montreal if I love it so much (what is this, 1950s McCarthy-terrorized USA?), I promise to write something nice about Toronto when I get back. Geez! Lighten up and enjoy the comedy!

Toronto has two big chips on its shoulder: 1) not being perceived as A Real World Class City, 2) ex-Montrealers who still love Montreal even though they don't want to live there anymore.

Montreal has one big chip on its shoulder: Toronto (although it is lightening up at a rapid pace on that one). And, despite what people may think, language issues are not shoulder chips for Montrealers; they are a way of life.

And for fun, just use the words "small", "provincial", "sleepy", "boring" about that other great Canadian metropolis I know well and love, Winnipeg, and watch the dander fly! You'll hear all about ballet, music, art, two big lakes named after the city, various festivals, and the Crash Test Dummies. In fact, I went to the very high school from which Neil Young had been expelled a couple of decades earlier. Am I now not so much cooler in your eyes?

I'm just goofing around. I wrote a chapter in the novel I'm working on comparing the provinces to teen-aged siblings with Ottawa as the bumbling, ineffective single parent. This imagery could just as easily be expanded to intercity relations as well. I eventually took the chapter out because it didn't fit well with what was around it, but I've kept it on my hard drive, waiting for a rainy day. Maybe I'll post it here one day if I expand the scope of this blog and of Snobby's persona. What do you think?

All packed, almost fully caffeinated, and in full guilt mode for leaving kitty alone (worry not! Cigar And Leather Sex Man will be coming to feed him) for a few days. I'm sorry cute kitty!

Bonne fin de semaine à tous!

I had planned to spend the entire day in seclusion, alone in my apartment with the cat, the tv, the computer, the internet, and A Fine Balance, which I have decided to read for the fifth time, and maybe finish a section of the world's next literary masterpiece. This is partly because even by this tender Wednesday, Snobby has so far had an unusually active week. It's also partly in preparation for a rambunctious weekend à la québécoise.

But my Evil Imperialist Landowners have decided to redo the floors of the place below me. My apartment is awash with woozy fumes on my "day off" and I'm beginning to get a little high. My reality is beginning to get warped to such an extent that I actually believed for a few minutes that my cat was trying to communicate with me. This is, of course, ridiculous since cats don't care whether or not humans can actually speak, as long as the food is delivered, the water changed, and the poop scooped.

The backs of my eyeballs are vibrating.

*WARNING! THIS BLOGGIE IS RATED NOT SUITABLE FOR PARENTS*

It's Slut Week for Snobby! Snobby has a series of dates this week and all of the gentlemen have made it clear in one way or another that they have certain...hopes for the evening. I love being a fag!

And then I'm off to Montreal for a few days and that is certain to be fun!

So, blogging may be spotty this week. Maybe I'll squeeze a few out between the fun, frolicking, and fatigue. And I'm sure there'll be one inspiré de la belle province. But if there are none, know that it's for a good cause.

And I just in case my very cool, opening-minded mother is still reading this blog, I would just like to make it clear that by "slut", I mean a chaste individual who has milk and cookies with his gentlemen callers and is home and in bed alone by 10PM.


4/21/2004 Toutes les belles préparations
I am in a flurry of preparation for the impending voyage to Montreal. I have spent the morning sending emails back and forth. Ô, the socializing! Ô, the expressions of affection and nostalgia! Ô, the massive quantities of alcohol Snobby will have set in his path! Snobby isn't as young as he once was and is slightly apprehensive about this aspect of the trip. But how many times do I go to Montreal? Not enough times.

I am slowly getting over the guilt of not contacting every person I know, once knew, or once wanted to know in that wonderful city. After having lived there for 14 years, there are a lot of people who fit into these categories. Snobby is egocentric enough to believe that some of these people will be mortally wounded at the knowledge that I was in town and *gasp* did not call! This time, however, instead of endeavouring not to hurt theoretically hurtable feelings, I am only contacting the people I really want to see...although I am sort of hoping that Maître ExBoyfriend – who contacts me sometimes when he comes to this town, but mostly not – will be vexed and concerned when he hears I didn't contact him (which is what I say ever time I go there and every time I end up calling him...but not this time!) Exes...can't live with them, can't feed them to ravenous piranhas.

And the French is just flying out my email-typing fingers! I so rarely get an opportunity to speak it here in the Queen's City and I fear for it's very existence in my head. I need to set up a little personal Office de la langue française in my brain to monitor the amount of English I use and to switch me over to French once I've gone over a certain anlgolimit...

...or maybe not. This could prove detrimental to my socializing and "job hunting" (did you note the Quotation Marks of Sarcasm?) since so very few people in this city are capable of carrying on a decent conversation in the language. And I end up speaking a lot of Franglais with Francophones due to the overwhelming English influence on day-to-day life. The only person here with whom I speak pure French is my friend SuperCoolWoman, but she's from Algeria and so speaks that snooty French from France and not the chaotic, melodic Québécois French that Snobby speaks, misses, and loves. Je m'ennuie de la langue française!

And the other aspects of my week are going splendidly too, by the way.

My cat just sat down beside me and started purring spontaneously without his usual demands for affection and attention. That makes me feel a little better about the state of the world (see below).

I need a new morning routine. Some of you already know about the stumbling around, fumbling with coffee grains and percolators until something resembling humanity enters my demeanour.

I also read the news. I read the Globe & Mail. Then I read the BBC. Following that, I move on to Haaretz, which is immediately followed by Al-Jazeera. I read them in a state of intra-caffeination and I don't think I can do it anymore.

Knowing what's going on in the world is a terrible way to start the day.

It was rainy all day today and when I got bored of writing serious stuff, I turned to the Internet for pep and vigour. Now as we all now, the net is great for pep and vigour, but I didn't go to my usual vigorous sites. For some reason, I went to a dictionary site (stop laughing!) to see what sorts of entertaining amusements I could find there.

Well, please allow me to inform you of the fun of online translators! I translated the letter at the end of yesterday's bloggie into all the languages I could where I didn't have to install new fonts, and then translated them back into English.

Fun toys, but never ever use these things for important documents. I can tell you that the translation into French was pretty poor, but I figured that meant that the translations back would be even better.

And I wasn't disappointed! Here are some highlights, and the full Russian translation. It's the most coherent and sounds eerily like a cover letter written by Boris and Natasha.

Here's the original:

Tremble, mortal!

Bow down before the might of Snobby [I actually used my real name, duh]. I am perfect. My knowledge spans the countless millennia from before your puny ancestors were nothing but organic muck on an infant world. My powers are boundless and my ire will be terrible should you give this employment opportunity to a lesser being. Risk my wrath and suffer the terrible consequences. An eternity of pain...an eternity of torture...an eternity of agony!

Please contact me at your earliest convenience should you have any questions or to set up an interview.

Sincerely,

Snobby

And the retranslated:

German
I am perfect. My knowledge spans innumerable thousands of years of, before your miserable ancestors were nothing however organic dirt in a baby world. My energies are boundless and my Irish are terrible.

Yeah well, MY Irish are worse!

Dutch
My knowledge overstrains the innumerable millennia of before your puny ancestors nothing then organic manure on zuigelingswereld was...Satisfy me at your earliest freedom contact.

What an interview THAT would be

Greek
... despite organic wastes in a world of infants. ... Risk my rage and suffer the horrible consequences. one eternity of pain... one eternity of tortures... one eternity of distress!

Well, if it's only ONE eternity...

French
Arc to the bottom before the force of Snobby

I love it when someone arcs to the bottom before me ;-)

Italian
It shakes, died them!

Portuguese
Diaresis, mortal!

Spanish
Shake, mortal!

Russian
Shudder, it is mortal! Bow downward before power Snobby [I is actual used my nastoyashchayaa surname, duh]. sovershenn. My knowledge spans countless millenia from before your puny ancestors were nothing but organic muck on the infantile peace. My forces are boundless and my ire will be terrible if you you give this presence of work sites to work sites. Risk my wrath and you will endure terrible consequences. Eternity of pain...eternity of torture...eternity of agony! If you please be connected by 4 as soon as you will be able if you you have any questions or to establish upward interview. Is sincere, Snobby

Why do I do these things? Today I applied for another job. I read and reread the job description and tweaked my CV accordingly to highlight those skills and experience relevant to the position. I then spent an agonizing four hours of my life I'll never get back writing and rewriting my cover letter. As I have mentioned in previous blogs, I am a terrible typist and have to be very careful to read and reread and reread reread reread reread...I learned this lesson years ago when I accidentally applied for a job at the Canadian Heart and Storke Foundation. sigh

So I read and reread, managing to avoid telling my potential boss that I managed a "dwatabass" (although it does sound like a fun thing to manage!) and that I "supervised a staff of twenty-five employs". It was perfect, I say. Perfect.

So then I wrote my three-sentence email to cover the cover letter and blissfully hit "send" instead of "spell", sending the cover letter-less, CV-less, typo-full job application – and my future – spinning off into the void.

Why do I do these things?

I may as well have sent them this cover letter that I wrote to clear my mind when I couldn't find the perfect way of phrasing something while writing the real one:

Tremble, mortal!

Bow down before the might of Snobby [I actually used my real name, duh]. I am perfect. My knowledge spans the countless millennia from before your puny ancestors were nothing but organic muck on an infant world. My powers are boundless and my ire will be terrible should you give this employment opportunity to a lesser being. Risk my wrath and suffer the terrible consequences. An eternity of pain...an eternity of torture...an eternity of agony!

Please contact me at your earliest convenience should you have any questions or to set up an interview.

Sincerely,

Snobby

AAAAARRRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When I was busy purchasing caffeine, the Elixir of Life, yesterday I forgot to buy deodourant, the Substance of Good Relations! And now I have to go be a fake librarian. This is gonna be a fun day.

The Internet is a wondrous thing. You can find just about anything. Anybody who has a weird successful google story to tell, I'd love to hear it.

Anyways, after yesterday's horrendous caffeine-free morning (the horror still lingers), I am in greater awe of the Powers of Coffee than ever before. In this honour, a simple search for the words "ode to coffee" brought up literally thousands of results. What a society are we! No one has to bomb us. Just cut off our coffee supply and half the world's population will be brought to its knees in withdrawal stupor, simply sitting on their couches gazing out into boundless nothingness. How easy it would be.

But this view of coffee drinkers being somewhat dim-witted, addicted simpletons in contradicted by this little blurby I found here:

Coffee is the beverage of the people of God, and the cordial of his servants who thirst for wisdom. When coffee is infused into the bowl, it exhales the odor of musk, and is of the color of ink. The truth is not known except to the wise, who drink it from the foaming coffee cup. God has deprived fools of coffee, who with invincible obstinacy condemn it as injurious. In it will we drown our adversities, and in its fire our sorrows. – Transylvanian Medical Society, ca. 1850

The Transylvanian Medical Society? Whatever.

In any case, here we find clear proof that coffee drinkers are the obvious superior life form. Like all great gifts of genius, it comes at a great price: addiction. Ô, the burden of distinction...the burden...

My friend and neighbour Cigar and Leather Sex Boy claims to have never once had even a sip of coffee. Snobby is astonished, but open & accepting. Now, Cigar and Leather Sex Boy does all sorts of things that Snobby would never do in a zillion years (don't ask), and yet he's a pretty great guy. So I guess it's all a matter of perspective. I remain dubious of his claim, however.

On the other end of the scale is my friend Alef Alef who, the very first time we met, imparted to me the following words that struck the Bell of Truth with such force (now there's a metaphor I should never, ever use again!) that it rings through my head until I consume my first blessed drops: "The is no life before coffee". There is no life before coffee. How true. And I have seen Alef Alef in a pre-caffeinated state and it ain't a pretty sight to behold.

And now that I've consumed enough coffee to animate a bull African elephant, off I got to Organization #1 to be a fake librarian. Cheerio!

I forgot to buy coffee yesterday and now I have none. No blog today.

The Internet is a great way to evaluate one's popularity. A little over half my life ago when I was in high school there were ways to judge, such as who said "hi" to you in the hallways, who you sat with in the cafeteria, etc. They were all manners of judging one's relative worth in relation to others while bolstering or lowering theirs in the process. As one of the "artsy" popular kids Snobby considered himself above such mundane concerns, but you can bet that I was acutely aware of it at all times and guided my actions accordingly. I'm not Snobby for no reason (although despite the persona I'm creating here, I also liked people for how they talked and what they talked about, which meant that some snobbier then I were merely tolerated and I also had friends outside the big cliques too).

That was a fun stroll through memory lane for me. I won't bore you with anecdotes, but suffice it to say that I remember liking high school much more than I actually did like it. This is why I become so frustrated when adults who should really know better act like children who were educated at caveman finishing school.

But suffice it to say that those were very unsophisticated methods of judging relative popularity in comparison to what all the gadgetry on the World Wide Web offers us. The most obvious form of popularity judgment is Google. I googled "snobby'n'unemployed" and found, not too surprisingly, that I am the first entry listed. I was also provided with a list of all the other sites that link to me. This is important for me to know since I'm the new kid in this school. A few blog search engines link to me, this one (it offers a section for readers reviews and I was very relieved that no one has reviewed it), this one, this one, and this one.

There are some other blog engines and personal blogs I submitted to that haven't linked to me. This shows that I'm still the kid who rushes up the popular kids wanting to know like what they're doing, what's going on, and I was like thinking of having a party but my parent's are such assholes were all like no, y'know? The popular blogs just rolls their eyes and apply their make-up. It's lonely being the new kid in school.

Next I googled "snobby" and was amazed to find that of all that snobs in the net, I am second best! People will even see me before they look of the definition of "snobby" in a dictionary. I'm like oh my gawd!

Now, Google judges its links by how many sites link to you, how many link to them, how many link to those etc. This means that it's all about who likes you and who likes them, and who likes them, and them, end them, and so forth. The similarity to high school sends me spinning in a desire to listen to New Wave and dye parts of my hair shocking colours.

But the real test of popularity is the online dating service. I'm on two of them and I can tell you that there is little that reduces one to a miniscule inhuman thumbnail than these things. Pages and pages of objectification and superficiality. However (BIG however), Snobby does not mind in the least if he's objectified, as long as he has fun in the process. One of the sites (the one that leans a little bit more towards the...um...sensual side of gay male encounters) informs you how many times your profile has been viewed; I have to say that for someone who didn't put up a profile until very recently, my "viewings to message received" ratio is pretty good. There's gold, or somethingorother, in them thar hills! Oui!

It's fun to turn one's brain off occasionally – and this is definitely a brainless day – but you have to remember when to turn it back on again. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be deep.

Ugh. Last night went to see them and had a great time. Then I had too many of these and now I feel like this. Brains!

I am so not a morning person. I am not one of those people who can simply spring out of bed, their day's itinerary already fully-formed in a brain that is already firing off precision neurons without the aid of caffeine, a shower, and several minutes of staring blankly at whatever takes the least amount of effort to stare at. "Hello, beautiful day!" they sing to the world, even when it's grey out or four feet of snow has appeared on the ground since the last time they were conscious, "What adventures do you have in store for me today?" You can just hear the chipper, 1960s-inspired soundtrack as they skip through their sun-dappled day.

In contrast, my mornings involve a lot of waiting for the perfect moment to fall out of bed, fumblings for coffee grounds, tripping over mewing cats who confuse movement for affection, and wondering how many of those things I swore yesterday I'd do today can be put off until tomorrow. There is no life before one coffee. There is no brainpower before two coffees. There is no leaving the apartment until three coffees.

I have briefly considered trying to emulate these happy glowing sunshine sun children. For a while when I was working, I would go through periods of thinking I should be leading a certain kind of "lifestyle". I would spring out of bed without hitting the snooze once and fall flat on my face as my feet got tangled in the bedding. I would eat healthy bran and roughage encrusted rabbit food for breakfast and make a list of all the things I was going to get done that day - buy arugula, donate old clothes, clean gunk between bathroom tiles, paint living room, cure cancer, etc. - and set off on my merry quest for perfection for the day. My downfall would usually occur when I would get overconfident and think that I would be able to function by drinking tea instead of coffee. No, I'm serious. I really tried it. After one day of grumpiness and headaches, my coworkers would usually tie me down and force coffee down my throat until I was just as stunned and jumpy as they. And the old, more regular habits would begin to resurrect themselves one by one.

As you can see, it just doesn't work for me. But I no longer feel jealous of these mutants. I was taught never to covet my neighbour's ass (although there's this one gorgeous ray on sunshine on my floor, speaking of neighbour's asses! When I time it right, we do laundry at the same time...but he's straight, the sadist). Now I just hate them, as one should do. They set the bar so high in terms of expectations of what is humanly possible - I have even considered that they're not really human I but haven't got around to proving it yet...tomorrow - that the rest of us, those of us who are normal, spend our lives in a haze of inadequacy and disillusionment: "I once thought I was a good person, but I just can't get up in the morning."

So here is my plan. First, I will become evil and devoid of morals or compassion for my fellow man. Then I will sit back, relaxed and sipping on my morning coffee, while my morning people colleagues rush about and accomplish things in a state of heightened hypertension. Then, once they've collapsed from exhaustion I will step in, finish whatever they started, and take all the credit. It's the natural order of things. (If you're a potential boss reading this, it's just a JOKE! Hee hee hee hee hee!)

But don't worry. I'll go visit them when they are "strongly encouraged" to take a few personal days for health reasons...if I get around to it that day.

I went to see a disappointing movie yesterday. Dogville is one of the more self-important pieces of claptrap I've seen in a while. My normal reaction when I see a von Trier movie, such as Breaking the Waves or the very distressing Dancer in the Dark is to leave swearing that I'll never see another von Trier movie again simply because they are so intense and depressing. And I always go back to see how he's torturing some new leading lady and the audience. After Dogville, however, I have made this promise to myself because the movie is depressing and just not very good.

How can you go wrong in a movie with both Nicole Kidman and Patricia Clarkson? It must difficult since they both turn in their usual magnificent performances, but it was successfully mishandled nevertheless. The movie's fatal flaw is that von Trier seems to have a message to get across, but what was it exactly? I thought at first that maybe it was a commentary on the treatment of new arrivals to the West. Then I thought maybe it was a more general comment on how the strong treat the weak. And then recalling the wispy lady martyrs in his other movies, I thought maybe this was his ham handed stab at feminist commentary.

Well, I was wrong. All my attempts to find a message in this potentially fascinating movie were blown apart at the closing credits. Literally at the credits. It's just a plain ol' rant about how evil American society. Well, geez Lars. I live in Canada. All I have to do is walk down the street and I'm bound to hear something anti-American, but thanks for accepting my money to be permitted the privilege of hearing your informed views on the matter.

What's that? Informed views? Von Trier is very proud of how has never set foot in the States and how he has no plans to do so? Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but if you're going to make some sort of grand statement, shouldn't you really get a feel for what you're commenting on? I dimly remember from my university days that primary sources carry much more weight than anecdotal evidence. Maybe von Trier should go take a look before he begins to comment on the internal workings of a country that isn't his. Well, because we all know how awful the States is anyways. It's just a given, right? It is just and right to comment on the States, but it falls flat when backed up by nothing but rhetoric and self-importance. If the movie had been about American imperialism, that would be one thing. But it was simply a hypocritical rehash that we've all seen before despite it's original packaging.

Now, why is it that we are very politically correctly abhor ethnocentrism, except for as it applies to Americans. I have actually heard people who would not accept this abut any other group of people, justify that they can make all the generalizations because they have American friends who are "different from that", so that somehow means they know what they're talking about. That's the oldest and most flawed argument in cultural debate, no one would say, "I have Jewish/Muslim/Black etc friends so..." without being thoroughly castigated. But if it's Americans, feel free to make as many generalizations and be as rude as you like.

I am no fan of the current American government. Their internal policy is disgusting and their foreign policy is terrifying. I wholeheartedly hope that they are voted out in November. I have also experienced American arrogance (as well as French, British, Swedish, and especially Canadian arrogance, by the way) but this does not give me leave to vilify an entire population when half of them were misled and the other half do not support the current administration. But, you're allowed to do so when it comes to Americans, and only Americans. This politically correct hypocrisy is fascinating to observe.

Now please don't talk to me about evil American foreign policy and tell me stories about stupid Americans who've come up to Canada in July expecting to ski. I am against the current foreign policies too. I also used to work with tourists, so I know that there are stupid ones from everywhere and smart ones from everywhere as well. People should just think a little before they open their mouth, that's all.

What a rant. All because of that silly movie too. The good news is that the heat broke in the theatre, transforming it into a sauna, so we all got free passes. Yay! I got my money back after paying to see this drivel. Then Sexy Librarian (not the author of the link somewhere to the right of these words) and I went and drank martinis and tried to get something out of the movie, and failed. The conversation then understandably turned to boys, as all good conversations over martinis should.

And now I have a hangover and have to clean my messy apartment as I have a friend from Montreal staying here for the long weekend. I like my life.

I just got back from a meeting with the woman at Organization #2 who is doing the hiring for that position I mentioned in "Lord Snobby" on a matter unrelated to employment (I do admin support for her once a week), and out from her mouth slipped, "Well, of course you won't have time to do all this stuff once you get the job here." I haven't even had the interview yet.

Of course, now that I've sent this little tidbit of information out into the Universe, I've jinxed myself and am in the process of spitting on the ground three times to remove the curse. I will now commence talking about how I won't get the job. This will ensure the karmic balance of the way of things.

Snobby is away for the day. He is meeting with distributors and creditors to explore the possibility of opening a green pea soup, goulash, and yak milk boutique in the trendy Distillery District. Wouldn't that be a stunningly successful venture?

So stop sitting in front of your computer and go enjoy spring, fer chrisake!

This message brought to you by the Mothering Green Pea Soup Distributors, Ltd. "Don't buy our soup. We don't care. It's not like we slaved for hours and hours to make it just the way you like it. Don't worry about us. We'll just sit alone in a cold, dark corner of the basement and think about other things you might like better than our soup, of which there are apparently millions."

Today my creativity is blocked. Perhaps my mind is making up for today what it couldn't control in my body yesterday – thanks to the truly delicious Indian food – so I am unable to come up with anything of interest to write here, in my novel (which continues to receive rave reviews although I haven't even finished it yet), or in the various short stories I am unable to finish these days. Or any other day for that matter.

I like what this cartoonist does when she's blocked. I wish I could do the same and have it be as effective:

Some guy was walking somewhere and he thought something. Then he went into a store.

"Hello," said the shopkeeper.

"Hello," said the man. "I'd like to buy some green pea soup. Is yours good?"

"Our soup is good."

"Good."

The man paid for the soup and left. And then something else happened.

Cartoonists have it easy.

Anybody have any good way for me to unblock myself? I accept all suggestions, even the ones that have nothing to do with actual writing. I may even try the funner ones.

I'm still not used the time change and allowed myself to sleep in all the way until 8:00 this morning. This makes me feel decadent and dangerous. Such a rebel!

Pop Quiz
Test you grammar skills. Snobby is, of course, a Grammar God (their words, not mine)!
Feel inadequate now!

Arts and Crafts
On the other end of the spectrum, have fun with this. I made one that looks exactly like me, but I couldn't figure out how to upload it onto here (I can hear all the other bloggers snickering behind my back – stop snickering & tell me how to do it!). Waste some valuable time!

I nabbed the quiz and the South Park thing from here.

What the Hell is my Cat Thinking?
My cat's name is Noudnic, which is the French spelling of the Yiddish (and now Hebrew) for...well Yiddish is hard to translate sometimes; it's difficult to get across the entire meaning of a word in a language that has 100 words for "idiot". Let's just say that "nudnik" means something like "pain in the butt". This isn't always a fair name for him, because he's happy, cute, and sweet (like Snobby), but he has no way to complain about his name. He can't talk! He does, after all, have a brain the size of a brussels sprout.

Right now, he is galloping from one end of the apartment to the other, jumping over furniture 5 times his height. Now, is he thinking this?:

Gawd, it is so nice to stretch my legs for once. This place is so boring and I'm like totally crawling out of my skin. I'd go outside, but it's weird and smelly out there. And would it be too much to get the crap scooped out of my litter once in a while?!

Or, is he thinking this?:

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I'm totally gonna jump on that thing! WOO-HOO!

When he first joined my household, he discovered that bookshelves can be climbed like trees and that books make a really cool sound when you knock them off. So I would often hear a lot of scratch scratch thump thump scratch thumpthumpthump thumpthump thump and see him standing on the stop of my now empty shelves with his tail up in the air, which is the feline version of "Wow! This place is like totally cool!"

Since then, he's discovered that sharpening his claws in my tatami carpet provokes a much better reaction from me. Hence the name.

Mother Nature, Bitch Goddess
Had Indian food for last night. I love Indian food, but it often has a little war with certain parts of my body when these certain parts attempt to break it down and turn it into nutrition, if you understand what I'm getting at. So, nature calls.

Can you believe that someone actually wrote me to tell me to write funnier bloggies? Neither could I.

Funny...funny...I can be quite funny, but never on command ...

OK, how's this? I could tell you the story about how as a teenager at one memorable family reunion I smoked so much of my cousin's pot that I went blind. That's pretty funny, at least it is now, but what was even funnier was how I tried to make it through the meal without anyone noticing my difficulties.

I could also tell you the story about how once at a Jay-Jay Johanson concert in Montreal I smoked so much pot that I went blind. My boyfriend at the time had to lead me out of the crowd (and away from one of his coworker & her boyfriend who we'd gone with – how embarrassing) and I sat out the rest of the show on the sidelines where my sight gradually came back to me. So did the boyfriend, the sweetheart. I felt bad for him because every time I stood up I went blind again, so he missed the show. I didn't feel too bad for myself, however, because I liked my sight better than the music (which I still really liked – Jay-Jay Johanson is a fabulous Swedish singer who is only known in Quebec, France, and Portugal (or Greece) for some reason, not even in his native Sweden). One must have priorities.

And then there was the time I was at a Christmas staff party and I smoked too much pot and went blind. I had to stand on the back porch for I have no idea how long until I regained my sight. I had just recently been promoted to boss and was still a little insecure about my stature with my colleagues, and this ungraceful, unbosslike predicament did nothing to help me relax and rejoin the seeing world.

After all that, some people still look at me like they do when I say I'm not entirely opposed to Quebec sovereignty (I'm not entirely for it either - but I do understand it) when I tell them I don't smoke pot. I try to soften the blow for them by telling them that I used to smoke a lot when I was younger, but that now I don't get much out of it. Unfortunately, some people who hear this take it to mean that I think I've outgrown it and that I therefore consider myself superior. I must admit that this might be the case. However, my diverse snobberies take on so many different forms that it's hard to separate one from the other.

But seriously folks, are we still in high school? I am not in my early mid-30s? Do I really have to explain exactly why I don't smoke pot? You who like it: smoke it. Be happy. Legalize it too, for all I care. Spend your evenings discussing why the world is like an oreo or why the music you're listening to right now is the most profound work of awesome genius you have heard in a really really really long...time...y'know?

But I shouldn't be too surprised that high school attitudes permeate adult life. After all, I am a gay man and the gay world is so much like being stuck back in high school. Everybody can be judged on a sliding scale depending on who they know, where they go, and what they look like when they get there. Evidence for this is the little sneer I sometimes elicit from some muscle maries - many of whom, by the way, still have the same Tintin cut they were sporting ten years ago - when they spy Snobby's shaggy, early 70s, bedhead look. But I already went through high school and I was popular then, so I have little need to go through it again. So sneer away. Besides, in ten years when the muscles have turned to flab and the Tintin cut is still on the head (through the magic of transplant and plug-in), I will still look fantastic! Yes, it's a god thing high school is over.

Ooo! Ooooo! I just thought of another funny pot story! This one is way worse than the other three! One time I smoked so much pot and drank so much beer at a friend's house while watching videos that we both were very, very moved by a particular video and decided we would both buy the album the next day. The next morning, it didn't seem like such a good idea anymore to buy a Debbie Gibson album. I don't remember whether my friend bought it or not.

So that's why I just say no.

First in my oh-so-exciting "Fits of Nostalgia" series

Some things I miss about Montreal, in no particular order:

I miss my friends.

I miss my gorgeous and cheap apartment on the Plateau.

I miss my roommate from my gorgeous and cheap apartment on the Plateau (best roommate ever).

I miss the hot (very straight) landlord who lived on the first floor of my gorgeous and cheap apartment on the Plateau.

I miss standing on my balcony and seeing Mt-Royal peeking up above the houses.

I miss my favourite sausage place on St-Laurent, and my empanada place on de Bullion, and my noodle place on Jean-Talon.

I miss le Marché Jean-Talon, and la Fromagerie Hamel.

I miss REAL poutine.

I miss the best video store ever.

I miss the really cute guy who worked at the best video store ever who thought I was cute but I ruined it by being in a happy long term, monogamous relationship; he wasn't interested after the relationship had broken up about a year later.

I miss flipping through fugues.

I miss drinking way too much at Parking, Sky, Sud Sud Est (which doesn't even exist anymore), Drugstore, Biftek, Laïka, etc. etc. etc.

I miss my Second Cup on Mt-Royal.

I miss being surrounded by people whose last names are Moreau, Tremblay, Boutin, L'Heureaux, Morin, Séguin, Boulay, Hamel, Lachance, Laporte, Girard, Gagnon, etc. etc. etc. and who think my last name, which sounds nothing like those, is kinda funny but also kinda cool.

I miss French.

I miss the Québécois and their four hundred years of tradition and history.

I miss language debates (really!).

I miss the woman at the buanderie who washed my clothes and and always gave me a little discount because she said my accent was so "charmant".

I miss going for days on end without speaking a word of English.

I miss happy, laughing Montrealers (as opposed to snobby, self-conscious Torontonians).

I miss being a little exotic to people when they realized my last name wasn't Moreau, Tremblay, Boutin etc. It was never too important...just a little different.

I miss walking and up and down the gorgeous streets of my spectacular neighbourhood, le Plateau, and being stimulated and relaxed at the same time by the beautiful buildings with their spiral staircases and by the trees and by all the parks that are spaced every few blocks or so.

I miss Montreal.

Meh, I don't feel like it today. Instead, check out this.

A couple of days ago when I was in my shambling hungover state, I accompanied my mother to a mindblowing exhibit on ancient Egypt. There is nothing like standing in front of a beautiful wood figurine that was carved by a master artist approximately 5 500 years ago to make you realize how small and insignificant your life is. The person who carved was a master of their time. The person who was carved was an important noble or courtier. Both very important in their time and both largely forgotten. These were important people who did important things 5 500 years ago and now nothing is left of them and their deeds except a 30 cm figurine in a museum on the other side of the world. No matter what you do in this life, nothing will remain except, if you're lucky (if you call this luck), a picture of you may be in display in some future museum on one of Jupiter's moons or something.

Now, before you rush and call me depressed (as one of you did yesterday – tu sais qui t'es :-P niaiseux), this isn't such a bad thing. If you don't worry about a legacy, you are free to do anything you want, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone. Once you allow yourself the choice of ceasing to make vast efforts to prove that your existence is justified and worth something, you'll do something that you're truly passionate about and probably wind up making a larger mark by the very virtue of the honesty behind your actions. I mean, if I quit worrying about what I'm supposed to be doing, I can run off to the Himalayas and become a distributor of Nepali yak milk if I want.

So, this was my meditative trip as I stared at sculptures that Ramesses himself actually posed for. It was partially the semi-hallucinatory trip brought about by the after-effects of a night of ale and good cheer. It was partially the power of artifacts that are too old for me to truly comprehend. It was partially the fact that I was the youngest person at the exhibit (apparently only seniors, unemployed snobs, and their mothers (whom I refuse to acknowledge as a senior) go to museums during the week). My mind was struggling to take me to some other form of consciousness.

It could also have been in anticipation of some New Age, crystal-impregnated aspect of the lecture on health promotion I would attend that evening at Organization #1. These things are usually interesting, occasionally informative, and usually make me titter or jeer inwardly as we inevitably are forced to do somethingorother to get us in touch with some sort of inner core or light or child or something. In fact, Snobby was even shamed into participating in the hippy-dippy portion of the evening. The facilitator actually chided me, saying, "I see someone's eyes are open...you're not sharing with us" as I sat there contemplating the deep fact that I was missing Enterprise at that very moment. In the interest of welcoming diversity with an open and sharing attitude and in not creating barriers with my speech, I kept my mouth shut and contemplated Enterprise and Trip's pecs and Mayweather's butt with my eyes shut.

I am happy for those who practice such techniques that they get so much out of it. It's often difficult to maintain happiness, so we all do what we can. However, is it too much to expect that, when I attend what is supposed to be a lecture on various strategies in HIV/AIDS prevention ad campaigns, I actually get a lecture on various strategies in HIV/AIDS prevention ad campaigns? Should I have expected to be scolded for not wanting to sit for 5 minutes listening to air rushing in and out of my lungs? Is it fair that THAT was the facilitator's sole defining criterion for the level of my participation in the entire evening?

I felt so much more in touch with myself trying to comprehend the life of someone who existed five and a half millennia ago than listening as someone stumbling through a fumbling and inappropriate attempt at access to self-awareness. Why do people think we need to be told how to be ourselves?

Moving on past that innanity, check out the wacky new wing on the ROM that should be done in a couple of years. Between that, the new AGO building, this thing, and all the glass towers sprouting up everywhere like wild flowers, this city is going to have one odd looking skyline in a few years. And say what you like about tall buildings, I like ‘em. The taller ones are more of a challenge to leap in a single bound. Plus, they won't exist in five and a half millennia, so enjoy!

PS - did anybody else get a little sniffly when Jerri was kicked off Survivor? I don't understand why people hate her so much. I think she's kinda cool.

I don't know what to write today. I actually got a few emails from people asking where I was, so I guess I must satisfy my public. You guys are so demanding :-P But I have writer's block today so bear with me for a chunky, clunky entry. I will be smooth and philosophical tomorrow, I promise.

First, I may have to change my name. No, I am not entering the witness protection programme; it's much less glamorous than that. One of the reasons it's taken me so long to become Snobby today (as opposed to just plain ol' snobby, which I always am), is that I spent the day volunteering at my two HIV/AIDS organizations). This morning was being a librarian at organization #1. It's very quiet and very contemplative and it's very much like working in a library. I sign some people onto the computers. Then I organize some journals. And then I tell some other people that it's time to get off their computers. Then I make up a list of overdue books. Nothing too challenging nor too tedious.

I think I scare the real librarian (she libraries for pay, whereas I merely library for free – my lack of money makes me fake, I guess) with my rather brash sense of humour. Apparently my humour can sometimes be sarcastic? Who knew? My preferred view is that I have a talent for pointing out the foibles and quirks of the universe in a myriad of creative and thought-provoking ways. Anyways, I will have to devise ways to get her to laugh, not stop mid-conversation trying to figure out if she's offended me.

This afternoon was tedious data entry time for some pledge drive at organization #2. Sitting still through data entry is bad enough, but the programme is run by a very exuberant guy who borders on condescending with his hearty good cheer. For example, today I made a typo. I can input data but when it comes to words, I am ironically one of the world's worst typists. I usually catch mistakes before they're irretrievably sent out into the universe to fester and moulder. Today, however, I typed "receopt" instead of "receipt". When he caught it he went into a little fit trying to convince me not to fret, he also has been known to misspell words, apparently, and I have to know that all he really asks of me is that I continue to try my best.

Now, would I really be Snobby if I let a speech like that go without recoiling in offence? I mean, does he really think I believe you spell the word "receopt"? He has no clue of all the magnificent accomplishments I've done with my life, both personal and professional. The mountains of diversity over which I have clambered to arrive where I am today. But I decided not to enlighten him at that particular time. He'll learn...he'll learn...

Instead, I'll get my revenge by getting the job I applied for at organization #2 and slash his budget by 50%. Then he'll rue the day he patronized me.

Yes, Snobby has applied for a job. Apparently, organization #2 is looking for someone to do the type of job I was doing in Montreal, except this one is in English and it pays better. One of the people who decides who gets the job is one of the directors for whom I provide admin support once a week, and she was the one who strongly encouraged me to apply. So, like, what the hell? I should get a job, but I'm ok without one for now. So what harm could it do?

Does "Snobby'n'Employed" have the same ring as "Snobby'n'Unemployed"? Is this the end of life as we know it? An employed Snobby seems to go against the Way of Nature, so I may actually rip a hole in the very fabric of space and time by accepting employ. Or maybe I'd just be able to buy a new pair of jeans. The latter is probably more likely.

Off I go to rip a whole in the very fabric of space and time. And eat some green pea soup. Enjoy your doom.