Things that really grind my gears....

          It's been a long time coming but I believe I have enough ammunition now to be allowed to whine about things that just aren't right. This is not opinion, but fact. I'm not so arrogant as to think my opinion is gold-encrusted and worthy of the moniker "fact", but rather, these things I'm about to kick and scream about are so one-sided I challenge you to find a valid counter argument. If you can, I'll shut this blog down and move every 6 months, forever wallowing in the fact that my distorted view of what is right and wrong in no way aligned with the people I called peers. Readers that do in fact subscribe to the notion that my written words are The Written Word..... you're sick, get out. I don't want to be your prophet.

          I almost called this one "Starbucks" for the simple reason that I get pissed off on about 90% of my visits there. Keep in mind I live in a college town, I study at the same library every day, and they %^&*ing put one AT THE FRONT FUCKING DOOR. (Sorry, I lose the ability to censor myself when I get like, really mad.) It goes without saying I visit Starbucks a lot. It got so bad, one week they gave me a t-shirt that said "Starbucks Stud" and they said I'd get 20% off every time I bought something while wearing it. 

(That didn't happen. Nobody actually cares.)

But seriously, did Mr. Starbucks knock up an administrator to get exclusive rights to my bank account? Double-yew tee eff, mate.

         Whatever, I've come to accept I'm a slave to the machine; that's not what I'm mad at. It's really more the people. No, it's the behavior of the people. (For all you hair-split-haters out there, I'm gonna go ahead and split this hair: there's a difference. And the simple difference is I don't want to punch a vanilla latte through the cashier's head when they don't behave this way.) 

          By now you're dying to know what behavior so pisses me off. Let me ask you this: when you pay at a cash, how is your change handed back to you? Is it coins then bills? Bills then coins? Receiptbillscoins? Receipt to the left hand, bills to the right, coins volleyball-spiked into your breast pocket? Simmer on this while I recount my tale.

          For the first week I spent in Gainesville, I encountered only a couple iterations. I was amazed that I was consistently handed back my change in only one of two ways. And both maddening. The first begins with them placing the coins ON the horizontal bill(s), forming an origami-esque money-ship with little metal sailors and sailing that bitch all the way into your hand totally oblivious to how many fine metal men get lost during the voyage. Seriously, every time this happens, time slows down. The cashier and I make eye contact. I see the innocent furrow of their brow. I notice the quiver of their lip as if to say, "oh my God, I don't know if I'll make it." And the little money boat makes its way through the air. Their hand shakes, quivers, sailors getting tossed to and fro. Sometimes, if they're really dumb, they haven't formed the Origami Money Ship, but left it flat, to resemble a Cash Raft, even more precarious for our seaman. Halfway through the journey they quietly realize, "Damn! Should have opted for the the Origami Money Ship. Whatever, can't do anything about it now. Gotta MacGyver this shit," at which point they squeeze their hand, folding the bills into a "V", reverse-engineering a Currency Canoe! Fuck, even I start to sweat. I don't know if all my sailors are going to make it. 75% of the distance covered, only a quarter journey to go! At this point I realize the risk is too great. By the time they reach 90%, I usually decide to go Hitch on their asses and cover the remaining 10%. I reach out and before any of my sailors go overboard, I extend my hand, fingers stretched to dock the ship/canoe/raft. In desperate times, I whip my other hand around as an insurance policy and form a little bowl where our enlightened cashier can just dump this shipwreck and get it over with. 

Gimme a minute. I'm sweating a little. I'm also marveling at the fact "gimme" and "gonna" don't have little red squigglies under them. Fuck everything.

          

          If that wasn't harrowing enough and you don't need to change your underwear, read on. The second one is similar but worse, believe it or not. In this version the cashier keeps the coins in one hand and the bills in the other. Unsure, I extend my hand first at which point their coin-hand starts to move. I'm thinking, "ok, this is good." The coin hand comes at me, fingers down, pinched together like The Claw from Toy Story, grasping my coinage like a bunch of wrecked, computer-animated Pixar cars. As it approaches, I start to open my hand, palm up, to receive the goods. But before said coinage touches down, out of butt-fucking nowhere, BOOM LIKE BABYLON comes their other hand with the bills. Right before the coins land, the other hand slips the bills into my palm and almost instantaneously the coins hit right after. Yep, you guessed it, I've got a goddamn Cash Raft on my hands. Not only that, but none of the distance has been covered, remember? I extended MY hand. We still have to journey home! The cashier has this relieved look like, "whew, at least I don't have to deal with this shit anymore," and now sits back to see what I was about to do. But I'm no bitch. I know my only hope is the Origami Money Ship. I suitably clench, forming said ship. My experience prevails and I can usually get my sailors to shore safely.

          So what's the lesson from this harrowing tale? Simple: LEARN HOW TO GIVE GODDAMN CHANGE BACK YOU MORONS. It's so simple it hurts my medulla. You have two hands, and you have two types of change, bills and coins. No coincidence. Grasp bills with one hand, coins with the other. It's not string theory. Reach coin-hand out first, depositing payload in upturned palm of customer. Reach with other hand and hold bills just high enough above customer's hand so customer can grasp bill(s) with fingerTIPS. Release payload. Retract in satisfaction knowing today, you're not an idiot.

Simple.

Clean.

Worthy of an Apple product launch.

And on to the next one.

-Mtl Gator

(Oh, disclaimer: this whole post only applies if your change is in fact bills AND coins. If it isn't, ever, you're a freak and your concern at this moment shouldn't be this blog but why you're so goddamn neurotic.)

(Sorry, second disclaimer: I may have given the impression with the words "enough ammunition" that other things piss me off. Do not fear, they do. I just want to keep this short and sweet. Not sure the masses can handle more idiocy. We'll talk more later.)

Is Jordan Staal the most underrated player in the NHL?

The title of this is surely going to scare some readers away, but I'm too proud to make it catchy and I like to think I'm rewarding a hockey non-fan who decides to keep reading with something that's slightly interesting. I'm not a sell-out. As for the hockey fans who only read this because there's hockeyesque in the title, I'm flattered you're even toying with the idea I might be able to contribute something meaningful to the grand pool of hockey knowledge on the interweb (of which most is less interesting and far less useful than a pool of liquid shit).

Sidney Crosby.
Yes, Sidney Crosby.
He of World Junior gold, NHL captaincy, Stanley Cup fame, Olympic gold, and what no one wants to talk about: he of "If I play at least 70 games, I'll score 100 points. Seriously, look at my stats."
He of two concussions in a week, he of ten months on injured reserve, and last but not least, he of seemingly perfect health on Monday November 21st, 2011.

Let me tell you one thing, the hype is real. Sid the Kid might just be the best player of all time. Not if he retired today, but simply if he keeps any semblance of the numbers he's put up since he came to the league. He shoots as well as anybody, literally. Fantastic vision. He might be the best player anyone's ever seen along the boards. Soft hands. Leadership (yah yah, shoot me, he's a leader). Faceoffs, shootouts, penalty minutes, shots; name it, he owns it.
Again, the hype is real. And not only is it real, it's merited. Not one of the reports, newspapers, magazines, or any of the millions of online posts could overstate how important it was that Sidney Crosby get back to playing as soon as possible. So then why is his return to the game NOT the most important part of him returning to the game? It's simple.
Concussions.

Is it any wonder Crosby had four points in his first game in ten months? If it is, stop it. Is it any wonder that before five minutes were played, you could see him streaking up center-ice, taking a deft pass in full stride, cutting to the right circle holding off an opponent, and mercilessly roofing it for a how-she-doin' top cheeser? If it is, stop it. And I'll tell you why it's no wonder. The Pittsburgh Penguins have the best medical staff in the NHL. Or if they don't, they're the first organization to show that the NHL is the most forward thinking league in pro sports.

It wasn't long ago all head trauma in a sporting context was ubiquitously called "getting your bell rung," or "seeing stars", both of which implied that, given enough time and some water, the bell would stop ringing, and the stars would stop shining. Progress was made, but players were still being unceremoniously chucked back into games when they shouldn't have been. And the worst part? Most of them wanted to keep playing. Whether it was an oppressive machoism-dominated culture, the need for a paycheck, or just a burning desire not to stop, something pushed athletes in way too soon. The best review of this issue, also maybe being the single piece of literature that signifies a shift in how athletics view concussions, was written by Malcolm Gladwell (Blink, Tipping Point, Outliers) for the New Yorker. It's long but well worth the read:

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/10/19/091019fa_fact_gladwell

This is why the Pittsburgh Penguins are different. Sure it was partially motivated by Sid (maybe) being the greatest hockey player of all time, but it doesn't matter. They still needed to be absolutely safe. And not safe in the "oh let's wait a couple more weeks" kind of way, but safe to the point of almost overdoing. For the first time in the history of sport, there was no compeititive pressure, macho pressure, management pressure, or even coaching pressure (well, maybe there was, but if so, it didn't work!). Sid was cleared for full contact at practice a MONTH before he started playing again. Sid fielded questions whenever they were volleyed at him. Sid sought out contact at practice to MAKE SURE he was okay. Sid returned home on road trips to be more closely monitored by doctors. Caution isn't even the word....

Granted, the Penguins didn't need to rush him back; they sat in first place for most of this season. But the posterboy of the NHL only came back when he was READY. And is there any doubt anymore that he was, in fact, ready? Four points monday night against the Islanders, three points friday night against the Sens. On a team where no one really plays more than 20 minutes, Sid's averaging about 17. All this to say that if you yanked someone out from under the darkest, deepest rock and FORCED them to love the NHL, they would have absolutely no idea Crosby suffered from head trauma for ten months.

So why are the Penguins the greatest team in the NHL today? Is it because they dominated the league without Crosby, Malkin, or Staal the first couple of weeks? Mmmm, maybe. Is it because they draft, develop, and trade so perfectly they're always Stanley cup contenders despite their best two players being in and out of the game for the last 18 months? Mmmmmm, closer. Or is it because for the first time an organization had the resources to properly treat a player with post-concussion syndrome and have him immediately produce to prove it?
Bingo
(keep in mind, "resources" here means a perfect storm of events converging to yield this particular result: 
1. Crosby being the injured one, and not, say, Zach Bogosian (no offense).
2. The miles-deep talent of the Penguins allowing them to succeed without Crosby and thus reduce his pressure to return. 
3. Some level-headed team doctors educating themselves on head trauma. 
4. The deaths of Derek Boogaard, Rick Rypien and Wade Belak this year alerting fans that getting punched in the head may have deeper, unseen consequences (whether in fact this is true or not).
5. Timing: concussions have been put under the microscope in hockey and football since the Gladwell's article (above). Only now do we understand the dangers head trauma present.)


To keep it short: the Pittsburgh Penguins may be the first step towards a cure for the disease that is concussions in sport.

So why the title? Why Jordan Staal? Maybe I'd like to shed light on someone who deserves to be shed on... (ok, the flow of that sentence is a lot nicer than what the words actually mean) During a season so focused on Sidney Crosby it would cause some fans to ask "what's an Evgeni?", there's no hope in hell a third line center would get even a whiff of attention. Except, Jordan Staal isn't really a third line center. On a team the likes of the Penguins, this third liner is fifth in scoring, and second in ice time among forwards. What's more, in a league with sixty centers who play on higher lines than his (30 teams x (1 top line center + 1 2nd line center) = 60 centers in the top two lines), he is 18th among scoring in centers. Granted, much of this season has been played on higher lines with Crosby's injury, but now, this is their third center! When a player like Malkin gets overshadowed for the first twenty games by someone on injured reserve, what hope is there for Staal? Well, no one on the Penguins really gives a shit, and neither does he. He's a consummate professional, and he'll be the deciding factor if the Penguins bring home the cup this year. Don't believe me? Add to this list the fact he's among the top 3 in ice time among centers (right around 20 minutes), and that among those centers who actually contribute, he's second in shooting percentage (23.5). So I ask agian, no wait, I'm telling you this time.
Jordan Staal is the most underrated player in the NHL.

rant on rant on rant

I've done it again, I've waited millions of seconds since my last post, and it's costing me dearly. I'm gonna cut to the chase on this one:
1. back home
2. the ineptitude that is Starbucks
3. the Tebow phenomenon.

1. Two weekends ago I snuck home for a buddy's engagement party. Without addressing the partying, and the wine chugging, and the blowjobs (the shot, it's the shot, relax people), let me first say it was weird. Good, but weird (yes it's possible to be both). I live in Gainesville. I FEEL like I live in Gainesville. From the start, the apartment has felt like home (nod to mom and dad), so going back home to Montreal and being in THAT home is a sensation I've never experienced. I was somewhere that most definitely was my home, but wasn't my current residence, a residence which as stated, was very homey. Anyway, I got over it all. It's not difficult when reverting back to the shisha-brew combo within two hours of landing. And then bed at 7am. And then wake up at 10. And then breakfast. And then lunch withe the future groom. Some more beer. And then dinner with the future groom and wine and desert and wine and the bar and shots and beers and shots, all with the future groom.... and then when the perfect shisha-brew nightcap was within reach, passing out on my kitchen floor with three compatriots. Before ranting onto the next rant, let me just say this. In a delirium, one of my Kitchen Floor Compatriots got up, went to relieve himself, and proceeded to crawl into bed with my parents. That's it, that's the summary of my weekend. When someone you grew up with crawls into bed with your parents, and they barely bat an eyelash, you know your work is complete.

Side note: I flipped on the TV when I sat down to do this and Twilight was on. I'm amazed at the quality of writing and at some point later tonight, I'll ponder how I didn't think the acting was even better. I can't get enough of hte stuttering, droopy eyelids, and throaty whispers of "Bella, you need to stay away from me," and, "but Edward, I just need..." *eyelid flutter* "... answers."

2. Ok... I go into Starbucks maybe 10 times a week. It's not even fair, they put one IN the library. Not the "library" they have in Chapters, but like, the school library. A place that probably sees five to ten thousand unique students walk through its front door every day. It's not even fair.
OMG, Bella is the first one to notice there's something weird about Edward. SOMEONE GET THIS GIRL A SCHOLARSHIP TO DETECTIVE SCHOOL.
Ok, back to the important stuff. Suffice to say I'm in Starbucks a lot and I get to observe them A LOT. I've noticed a few problems....
First, I get it, Starbucks is for hipsters. Granted, non-hipsters go there (nod to the West Island), but that fricken place was designed by someone from The Plateau (nod to my Montrealers). But even so, that doesn't give them the right to change the names of the sizes of drinks; Tall, Grande, Venti.
Now this guy http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20071217051431AAwi31y
has the best technical answer. And I'd like to echo what he's saying in a more irate way.
The sophistication.... I DON'T NEED IT. I only overpay for coffee cause there's nothing else around. (Omg, Edward just told Bella she's his own personal brand of Heroin. Somebody get me a fucking valium). And to borrow a term from Bill Simmons, the seemingly limited intellectual capital of those working the cash is taxed to the maximum when I ask for a medium coffee (I refuse to speak Italian).
Here's a sample conversation when I order a medium, including my, and their thoughts:
Me: Hi, I'd like a medium coffee, please.
Cashier: Uhhhhh *quizzical look* wuh... medium... Medium (dammit, 1... 2... 3... no that's not it.... A....B....shit, that's not it either.... small, medium, large, yes, YES. Ok so small is the smallest, so that's like our smallest too, cause they're both the smallest. So small is like.... TALL. YES. ok. no. he didn't want a small, wait. Tall? shit. Ok he said medium, so that's next. after small that is. Shit, I can't even THINK with proper punctuation. Ok so medium is next, so that's ourrrrr.....COME ON..... grande.yes.grande is medium..... Wait, grande means large. I know fucking Italian. So what's medium. Well Grande seems bigger than Tall. K, so he probably ordered a tall).
Great! Medium coffee, that'll be $2.25
Me: thanks *smile* (what, the, hell.....)
Invariably, I get served a small coffee.

omg omg omg omg, Bella just "met the parents" for the first time. They just cooked and used their kitchen for the first time JUST FOR HER. And they have a tree growing out of the floor. THIS IS THE BEST MOVIE EVER.

Second, the limited intellectual capital of the managers, or whoever invented the strategy for dealing with rush times. It obviously gets busy quite often, so they need a strategy operated by a well-oiled machine to deal with it, day in, day out. Right?

omgomgomg.
Bella: *looking up at his CD collection numbering in the tens? maybe twenties* oh my God, you have, like, so much music. LOLOLOLOLOLOL. Cue the .mp3 player and 2010. Thank you

Anyway, well-oiled machine. Right. So, typically they have anywhere from 2 to 8 people working at once. That's one problem. When it gets REALLY busy, they try to be cute and "streamline" the operation. You know, do something clever to make it go faster. So there's one person at the cash, great. One person making hot drinks (remember this, at a coffee shop, O-N-E person making hot drinks), one person putting whipped cream on cold drinks, and one cake-getter/surface wiper. Now, the best part. They have someone walk through the line that's constantly snaking out the front door asking people what they want. Once they get this "advanced order" they walkie-talkie that shit back to someone standing between the cashier and the hot-drink-maker who writes the order on the cup. On the surface, seems legit. NOT.
The person maybe radios in 5 drinks for every 1 the hot drink maker can make.
EDWARD'S ABOUT TO KISS BELLA.
.......

Anyway, this leads to the inevitable pile-up of unmade drinks at the hot-drink maker station, and the scrum of people crowding around that little fake window drink-outlet aperture; as if to say "this is like a fast food window but we're not fastfood, we serve ventis, bitch."
This never works since I think they take the worst candidate from every round of hiring and stick them on as the hot-drink maker. Anyway, fiasco every time I want my Tall Soy Skinny Caramel Macchiato with extra whip cream. Ok I don't order that shit (much), but I have to hear them call out every drink title every time they finish making one (like it's some sort of achievement proclamation to the world) along with miss-pronouncing all the foreign names that pass through.

HA! Edward is meeting Papa Bella. WHATCHU KNOW ABOUT TAKIN IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL.

Finally, last problem. But this is something I'm working on and I think I've made progress. If I pay, and my change comes in the form of coins AND bills, please don't make a little origami boat with the dollar bill and put the coins in it like little sailors. Coins go in the and first, then hand the bills to me. I don't want surfing nickels riding the George Board in my palm. I give you money, you give me coins, then bills. No monkey business.

3. The Tebow thing. I don't have the energy for this. Saving it for tomorrow.

-The Mtl Gator

P.S. I wish I could stay here and play-by-play the rest of Twilight. They just played Vampire Baseball, Edward saved a home run. Some bad vampies showed up. Bella's running away and is hurting her father to protect him from the bad vampies. You couldn't even make this shit up.

oh, another one?

If someone were to write a biography about me right this minute and began working backwards from the present day only to get board after two weeks worth of material, the book would be titled "Farid Medleg: Social Glutton." Not for any excess in partying, texting or phone calls, but simply because every second thing I do seems to be tied to some social network. Some would say, "duh, asshole, half the world is on Facebook or Twitter pretty much the entire day."

But that's not it (granted, I don't so much "sign on" to Facebook as I leave it open so that my 15-minute wall-check is that much easier).... I just feel like in an age dominated by a select few social networks, I seem bombarded with new ones every day. I guess I'm not helping my case; I've watched The Social Network four times in two months, I'm reading a book about Facebook (with one about Google waiting on the shelf), I have a Facebook account, a Twitter account, a Google+ account, and most recently a Geekli.st account. The worst part? I feel like each has their purpose, and yet the only one I use with any real consistency is Facebook.
So what gives?
What's the purpose of a social network if you have four of them?

Well, upon not-so-close inspection, I've come to quickly realize it's because they're all awesome. Well, the ones that get popular anyway. And not awesome in the a-lightsaber-can-cut-through-anything kind of way, but awesome in that genuinely chest thumping, somewhat awe inspiring kind of way. Now before anyone eye-rolls so much they can see their brain, I ask you this: how often does something come around that so profoundly aligns so many millions of people at the same time. Aside form social networks, I challenge you to find more than 5 things created in the last century that can get a billion people to do the same thing within 24 hours. I'm having difficulties.

And the best part, I think save a few Silicon Valley denizens, none of us know exactly what social networks are capable of. Sure they can do so much now; message, comment, post pictures/videos/websites, program, play games, sign onto Xbox, even online shop. But I can't help but think that's just the beginning. When PCs hit the market, did you expect to be able to play interactive games with people all around the world? When you got your first email account way back when, did you think that a company called Google would create Gmail where you could send files bigger than your entire hard drive at the time? When you got your first cell phone, did you think one day you'd be able to surf the internet simply by touching the glass surface of a telephone? When you first learned about the internet, did you think one day you'd be able to do groceries, shop for clothes, and find a husband or wife using it? To this question and the ones before, I say "no". I don't even think Mark Zuckerberg totally conceived of what Facebook is doing today when he launched it seven years ago.

So to all the new social networks I say "Welcome. If you're not useful now it's only a matter of time before someone makes you useful."

-Montreal Gator

A little bit of "look at me now"

It's amazing what monotony does to the mind. One second you're skipping off to start your routine for the day (and by "routine" I mean those quirky schedule-like things you did for the first time last week) and the next second it's week 6 of the semester, you're downing a steady diet of Ramen Noodles, and you're the proud wearer of a playoff beard that would be worthy of Eric Cole himself. The beard part refers exclusively to male readers, of course, but you get the point. I won't say I've suffered such a moment, but the last 5 weeks have FLOWN by, and I haven't done much else but truck to the library, then truck it to class, then shuffle back home.
Then all of a sudden, events started to happen. Not Minority Report stuff like "THE UNIVERSITY IS CONVERTING EVERYTHING TO TOUCH SCREENS" or anything epic like that, just a bunch of random and not so random things proximal enough to make one stop and say "hmmm, cool."

Saturday I was blessed with my first dance workshop of the year (note: there isn't enough of that in Gainesville). Needless to say I'm still in pain, but that's the beauty of it right?

Monday night I was blessed with the enigma that is Tiesto (see facebook for relevant media).

On three separate occasions three days in a row I have by chance arrived at my bus stop at the EXACT moment the bus arrived.

Publix, the grocery store I frequent (and the establishment that will be furnishing me with potentially thousands of dollars in savings coupons (if I haven't been the target of fraud)) sells THREE types of Alexander Keith's AND Moosehead.
BLAAMO, bitches.

Columbian food arrived with a magical fairy from Miami as well as the biggest avocado you've ever seen (from which I concocted some devastatingly delicious guacamole).

I obtained 10th row tickets to Gators v. Alabama this weekend (the most epic match of the season so far seeing as Alabama is ranked third in the country and victory here would put us back into the conversation for National League Champions).

And my best friend of over 21 years got engaged this past weekend and officially knighted me as best mate for the big day. I don't think I could be more honored and I can't wait for all the activities that go along with weddings and engagement parties and all that flowery stuff.

So what does all this mean? It means that school is not associated with fun. Sure things at school and things related to school are tons of fun, but no matter how much you enjoy it, no matter how passionate you are, there's nothing that can bring your head back above water like something distinctly NON-SCHOOL.
Sure I'm a tad behind in my work, sure I manage to sometimes get chocolate on the lower back part of my shirt incidentally making it look like a poo stain (wait, that has nothing to do with what I'm trying to say.... backspace, I need backspace..... BACKSPACE)....... sure I'm not as comfortable with the proximity of my deadlines, but who the hell cares; if dancing, music, and sports put me under a bit of pressure, bring it on. In fact, bring it on twice. Bring it on so many times that if I had the choice to rewind and do it again, I would do it again.

And if all that fails, get one of your friends to propose and enjoy the subsequent celebrations. I love contingency plans.


I won't lie, I'm in class, so posting pictures and making this post look handsome is impossible as I can barely chew gum and do quantum physics at the same time.
Until next time, faithful readers
I bid ya'll adieu,

-Mtl Gator

PS. I apologize if I offended any women with healthy beards or readers with poo stains on the lower back parts of their shirt.

lest we forget

As is so often the case with momentous occasions, distance from them diminishes not their importance, but their impact on our emotions. It is as if the farther one is away from such an event, the denser the film between it and their eyes. Physical and temporal distance seem to drape an ever thicker veil over the mind's comprehension. Like a television flattening out the world for all to watch, separation flattens these events onto another plane of existence. 

For the majority of the world, such were the events of 9/11/01. Terrific, yet far away. Important, yet not real. Relevant, yet incomprehensible. A hundred million dualities were created that day; the working memories seared into minds not able to grasp their magnitude. Apocalypse.

Despite the seeming incomprehensibility, the import of the situation had its day. There is not a soul who doesn't remember the moment they heard the news. I know where I was, what class I was in, what row and what seat. 

High school.

Grade nine math.

Second row.

Middle seat. 

The principal entered, and with a tone that much more deliberate, that much more sombre, he broke the news. To a handful of fourteen-year-olds, it was a tragic action movie, playing back as slowly as the principal spoke it. Had he left right then and there, we as a class might have turned back to the board half expecting to get on with polynomials. But that split second pause, that moment where he seemed to make eye contact with everyone at once, gave his words the gravitas to make us waver. The silent concussion of comprehension emanating from the teacher hit us with terrible force. I remember, as a group, looking outside half expecting to see an airplane headed straight for our insignificant building. I remember expecting dozens of phone calls calling children home to safety. I remember thinking, maybe school will be cancelled. I remember wondering if this was some twisted version of war. There was an action movie happening just next door, but the actors were real, and there were no second takes.

Within six hours, there wasn't a soul who didn't watch the twin towers crumble to the ground like a house of cards. There wasn't a person alive who didn't watch endless replays of billowing dust, explosions, and seemingly toy-like planes flying into miniature TV buildings. There also wasn't a soul left who wasn't confronted with blood and tears and an estimated death toll that just didn't seem to slow down.

What is one to do at a time like this? Too late to do anything really, and too soon to want to do anything. There was really only one option: keep one eye on the TV screen, and one eye on the rest of your life. Watch the victims and the families of victims grasp the moment while also watching the timer on the oven. Do nothing but stare at the carnage, and do your homework. 

Ask yourself how while also asking why.

With a sickening lack of emotion, life moved inexorably on. No matter how hard one dug their heels in, they got dragged through the mud. With a certainty devoid of affect, days went by. One was left to wonder what the point was. What's your roll if you have no roll, no import, no impact? If people die, and life doesn't care, then who cares?

The answer is simple. We care.

Whether one minute removed from the crushing weight of a building collapse, or a thousand miles removed from Ground Zero, the single duty of every human being is to care. And to care one must remember. That is it.

3,051 children lost a parent.

2,977 lives were taken.

1,609 lost a husband or wife.

623 police and firemen did not go home. 

It is our responsibility to remember them, and remember that one day can change the world. Whether it be for vigilance, for respect, or sense of duty, remember. Whether it be for a family member or members of a family you no nothing about, remember. A decade after a tragedy, we must revitalize the somewhat distant memory of an event that still seems like a dark fairy tale. Color it in again like an old tattoo. To not remember is to erase, and that would be the greatest fallacy of all. 

We must remember lest we forget.

a few things....

Remember when I said I wouldn't wait too long between posts..... well I totally lied. At the time of that magnanimous statement, I forgot one critical variable: school work. The main difference between moving into an apartment and school work? When you're done school work, you have NO desire to sit in front of a computer screen and start typing away. Even when I do my work early, even when I start it days ahead, it only seems to get done JUST on time. I even have to study just to be able to study, what's up with THAT.
Anyway, I'm not here to make excuses, but rather, to finally throw something onto this blog to make myself feel better. No pictures, short and sweet, in and out. What to put in the shortest post ever? The highlights of course. What have been the highlights since my last post the day before school?
1. I have friends (celebrate)
2. People here love socks and sandals (so do I btw, but people here REALLY love it)
3. oh yah... THE BOYZ CAME!!!!!

So, here's how it happened. That fateful Tuesday morning I left the apartment and I decided to take the umbrella with me; I was all adult like and checked the weather that morning. I was prepared. On my way home, 23 seconds before stepping off the bus, it started to pour. People in the bus started nervously glancing around like it was time to pick partners for umbrella sharing. Naturally, I puffed my chest out; I was prepared. About 7.5 seconds before stepping off the bus, it REALLY started to rain. Like, not just heavy rain, but I-need-a-rubberized-jumpsuit-to-get-home-dry rain. I got a little nervous. I mean, I was wearing my new shoes. So who steps out of the bus next to me? Captain Unprepared hugging his school bag cause his laptop had no chance of getting home unless he used himself as a human shield. Yah, I helped him; we shared the umbrella (which really means, his bag stayed dry while the both of us bathed and walked). AND I walked him home which was an adventure I'd rather not talk about at the moment. Suffice to say I reached the apartment a little uplifted, a little soaked, and a little panicky (the shoes!).

I proceeded with my post class ritual of snack (Kraft Dinner), entertainment (Modern Family), and procrastination (more Modern Family). Just as I was entering my stage 2 procrastination ("organizing" and printing notes), I was presented with a violent knock at the door. I could honestly say I was confused..... no one comes to see me. With my mind still whirling, I opened the door to an assault of

AAA BBOONNNJJJOOUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!

*#&^$#@^&$%!^!#(*&^@%)!!)&*^%!!!

bahahhaha these clowns flew from Montreal and surprised me at the door! ARE YOU KIDDING ME. Let's just say I didn't get any work done and thank goodness it was labor day weekend. Whether it was shisha under blacklight, talking about catching grouper at a local bar, or line dancing at a western club, we did it all Gainesville style. A few comments regarding wisdom I gained during this time:
1. I need to acquire cowboy boots and a cowboy hat
2. My Montreal peoples have to move to Gainesville
3. The number one quality of an eligible bachelor in Gainesville is the ability to catch and kill a fish with your bare hands
4. When you ride around campus in a convertible Camaro blasting Sean Paul, people stare
5. Crosswalks matter, and the police care that they matter... and they don't care who's driving, even if you're Christopher Roberston

Obviously my knowledge has expanded beyond these points, but these are definitely the most important ones. I need to cut this post short mostly because I said I wanted to keep it that way, but also cause this Mac keeps notifying me I need to shut down firefox to enable and update. Ahhhh, how she always looks out for me.
Until next time (with a longer post and pictures), I bid you farewell.

-Montreal Gator

Ps. Took my baby out for the first time today, bought her a Neoprene sleeve and everything. She's growing up so fast.....

Day 11: Stoopids

It wasn't hard to come up with stuff to write about tonight. The title says it all; Stoopids. The last couple of days have been filled with dumb things that have made me smile, shake my head, and/or count my lucky stars. It's fitting therefore that tonight is my last night as a non-studying member of society. Tomorrow at 12:50 p.m. I set foot again into the classroom in the hopes of avoiding the Stoopid Category as often as possible.

First and foremost, Dude at Lowe's is probably my favorite, mostly because he'll never learn. On one of 17 trips to the hardware store, Lowe's, I witnessed a gentlman attempt to leave through the entrance door. If that was it, I would have forgotten him before I even saw him try. But oh, it wasn't. Not only did he walk right by the greeter at the entrance, not only did he inevitably walk right up to the sign that says "Entrance Only", not only did he pass under the area a motion sensor WOULD HAVE been had it in fact been an entrance, when the sliding AUTOMATIC door did not open for him, he actually attempted, with his hand, to push them open himself (sorry for the long and unwieldy sentence). And you know what the worst part is?? At the EXACT moment that he set his palm on one of the sliding doors to push, someone outside walked up to the entrance, tripped the sensor and away they slid. If you still haven't hopped onto the wild ride that is my train of thought, get this: THAT MAN NOW THINKS THAT HE OPENED THE DOOR WITH HIS HAND. That man, in a world where every department store, every grocery store, every hardware store, and every airport requires you to simply walk up to a door to open it, that man thinks he slid an 800 pound wall of glass by simply touching and leaning on it with his palm. If you're asking, the answer is no, I'm not giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Stoopid.

Second and less foremost (but still stoopid) is Girl at Walmart. While in the refrigerated section, I was confronted with one of those "before and after" shots in a youth regeneration commercial for lotion. Up walked a college girl, and right behind her, a frighteningly similar image (face and dress) was her mother but looking 40 years older. Here's the conversation:
Mom: ...but don't you already have orange juice?
Girl: Yah but we drink it so fast we should get another. (picks up bottle)
Mom: Hmmm, check the experiation date just to be safe.
Girl: October 25th.... (looks at mom) is that far away??

Nuff said.

Stoopid.


And I'm afraid I occupy the third spot. I did laundry today for the first time and I was so busy trying to keep track of my keys to not lock myself out of my apartment and the laundry room (there's the first excuse), and too occupied trying to hold keys, phone, money, detergent, and hamper (there's the second) that I threw the clothes in the machine, turned it on, and left without adding detergent. Only after getting back to the apartment and realizing I hadn't opened the new bottle of detergent, did I head back. On my leisurely walk I was swinging the bottle around in amusement. Because detergent is viscous, it didn't all fall back to into the bottle when I set it on the machine. As soon as I removed the cap, out it poured on my hands, the floor, and I'm sure on my toes.

Stoopid.

Thank goodness for school.

At least my washing machine is from space and this particular side-loader has special little flaps on top to add detergent and softener.

And finally for the fourth instance of stoopid, check out that picture. Those are my spices, Rosemary (cute right?), Basil (like in Austin Powers), and Tarragon (bad ass). I named them myself.
They're just so cute they're stoopid.
Stoopid.







Anyway, that concludes my indulgence in Stoopidness before I begin spending time in a place that is one of the farthest things from stoopid. Tomorrow I take the proverbial plunge, and the parents leave as well (sad face). I'm excited, but nervous. Hopefully someone farts really early in the first class to release all that inevitable tension (in the classroom and their rectum, of course).
I bid you farewell, kind friends and family.
I love you all.
Stay classy San Diego,

-Montreal Gator

living room - picture to be hung on far wall

living room - other side facing desk and front door

bedroom - view from door, most decorations in this area, wall to left still to be worked on

other side of room, view from door - work still to be done

bathroom - two sinks, bitches

kitchen

kitchen - walls still to be dressed

The First Week: never doing this again?

So I needed to figure out a way of starting this thing tonight, because there's too much swirling through my mind. (I also need to find another word to begin my sentences with; there's got to be a grammar book out there somewhere that disagrees with "so").
I thought an appropriate way would be to begin with something that totally disagrees with my theme of the week: something I'll definitely repeat in the future --> cheerios with a wooden spoon. You see, you need to keep the O's at the front of the spoon because your oral cavity (ew) is not deep enough (ew) to fit the whole thing in (that's what she said). That challenge alone is enough to merit another experience. Also, the identical color of the spoon and the cheerios makes it so that, if you cross your eyes, you think you're eating cheerios with a spoon made of cheerios! (Or that you're eating a bowl full of wooden spoons with said wooden spoon.)
Seconds please!

Anyway, I digress. Back to more important things like the apartment. I'd like to introduce you all to Furniture Piece #2: Floor Lamp. Floor Lamp was purchased as a compliment to the dark furniture I planned on..... DAMMIT.

Ok. Theme of the week: "never doing this again" There are many things I don't think I'll ever repeat. Let's start with not blogging for 5 days after moving to a new city. When you lack human contact beyond curt nods, even the monotonous waiter who doesn't know the difference between a gluten free meal and one that's low in calories seems like Steve Irwin; eating fish for dinner feels like you're LIVING an episode of Shark Week; even taking the bus feels like a Disney adventure. My standards have definitely been lowered. That being said, I feel like I have too much to write about. I hope I meet some REALLY exciting people to readjust my metric for awesomeness.

Next thing I'll never do again: move into a second floor apartment and buy a 6000 pound couch. Nope, never again, not ever. Not even if you paid me in over-inflated gold. "Just rent a Uhaul," they said. "We'll hold it for 30 days," they assured me.
Oh. My. Gosh. How gracious of them to let me transport my own couch!
I'll remember them forever.
Here are the thoughts that went through my head, you tell me if they make sense:
1. Purchase the couch, have the store hold it.
2. Rent a Uhaul with the parents, pick it up ourselves.
3. Rent an appliance dolly (extended handles). Allllll goood right?
4. Roll it up the stairs on the dolly, and then just get mom and dad to help me turn it sideways to get it through the door.
Airtight.
Foolproof.
Guaranteed.
No worries, mate.
Right?





WRONG. More wrong than Christopher Walken at an elementary school.
(just kidding, I love that guy).

Idea #1 was fine, and so was idea #2. It's at idea #3 things started to go wrong. The dolly sucked. Oh look, a perfect segway into idea #4: you know what also sucks? The stairs and railing outside my door. The only way to get the couch at an angle able to go through the door was to suspend it 18 feet in the air over the railing (under which REAL humans walk every day!). Not to mention having to do so with arms extended, ligaments tearing, and heart exploding.

Don't worry, enthralled readers. I was spared this agony, and the eventual death it would have led to, by an angel. A guardian angel. A Peruvian guardian angel. A Peruvian guardian angel sporting six-pack abs, a barrel chest, and biceps for days. Not only did he walk by at the EXACT moment we opened up the Uhaul and offer to help move EVERYTHING, he did so wearing only pyjama pants. Now don't get the wrong impression ladies, he's unavailable because of a relationship and a child, not because I have a crush on him (although it may sound like it). But I will have you know, walking around flashing your guns automatically signs you up for "Team Help-Farid-Move-The-Couch". And move the couch we did! However, let's get one thing clear: it was NOT all butterflies and puppies and Aladdin coloring books. We did so with blood, sweat, and a few tears. The couch did, for a moment, hang over that spot where people walk, I now have carpal tunnel syndrome, and I believe The Angel has leather burns on his palms. But the couch now sits comfortably behind me none the worse for wear, INSIDE the apartment. I sincerely believe that if an angel hadn't descended from apartment 84 at that exact moment, the focal point of my living room would be sitting on the grass outside for all to enjoy.

You may have noticed I've metioned my parents a few times as if they're close by. THEY ARE. They got here Monday!!! WOOOOOOOOHHOOOO!
BRAP!
BRAP!
BRAP!
That leads me to another thing I'll never do again: move away from home without immediately bringing them with me. The obvious question you're all thinking right now: Farid, what the hell are you talking about? Let me explain.
I flew to Gainesville Wednesday, August 10th. They arrived Monday, August 15th. In the five days before they got here, what did I accomplish? I bought a shower curtain with frogs on it; I bought a bendable hamper and got hit in the face with it; I bought a wooden spoon as my first utensil.
What's been done since they got here? The entire apartment is now fully furnished (including assembly), the kitchen is fully stocked (cupboards and fridge), bank/phone/internet have all been set up.
Conclusion: I make a better tourist than I do resident/I'm a wandering space cadet and my parents are Houston, Ground Control.

In other news: It was Papa Saad's birthday yesterday! What did we do to celebrate, you ask?
We assembled furniture.

Perfect.

But seriously, having them down here is a blessing. After the novelty of living out of a hotel room off bar food wore off, the bare walls in my apartment and a serious lack of friends started to suck. Not having to leave all of home behind all at once is probably my salvation at this point. If it wasn't for them, this apartment would have never fixed itself and this place wouldn't feel like a home. Let's just say they're making this transition logistically, and more important, emotionally bearable.
Mom, Dad, you're welcome to sleep on my couch anytime.

That being said, check out this cool restaurant we went to tonight. It's a better version of the failed Zyng on Sources.




On a very serious note, I apologize for the formatting of this page, photos and all. These pictures are more stubborn than an Amish on the threshold of a Best Buy.

What else have I done this week? About four or five orientations, all of them boring (but I must admit, quite informative). I've accumulated a Dwight Howard-size stack of paper made up of bank statements, warranties, pamphlets, and receipts from every furniture and hardware store in Gainesville. (Nice reference, I know) Git'r'done. Ummmmmm..... I've sweat a lot? Yah, until the storms yesterday, the humidex pushed the mercury up to 44 celsius. I'm glad I'm here for school during a time when it gets "cold". Speaking of cold, the International Student website advises all students that winter clothing is appropriate as temperatures have been known to drop to 5 or 10 degrees celsius in winter. Brrrrrr.
Fuck off.
Look for me in Bermudas on the 9th hole in January.

That being said, goodnight to you all. I'll probably post some melancholic, philosophically insightful piece Sunday night. It'll only be fitting as I start class Monday morning and that sort of thing just seems appropriate. In the meantime, check out these dope-ass pictures of my campus. Whenever it gets too cold this winter, just scroll back and pretend you're here.

-Montreal Gator

Fountain behind J. Wayne Reitz Union building

Bell Tower - the bell rings every 15 minutes and chimes tunes in line with the weather. More on that later.

Booya. That is all.

Florida Gym - College of Health and Human Performance, my home for the next 2 years.

THE SWAMP - home of the Gators, and importantly, next door to my department.

There are people scattered throughout this picture, can you figure out which ones are real? Not all of them are.

The first ever tablet PC. And you thought the iPad was revolutionary.

This wasn't on campus. It was actually taken behind a Target. Less glamorous, but still pretty.

Day 3: you just gotta talk to people

It was tough naming today's post because this fine Gainesville day had a theme to it, but it ended with an experience so traumatic it was almost worthy of "title" status. Alas, "almost" is the operative word. But more about that later...

I set out from the Holiday Inn knowing it was gonna be a long one, so I fueled up with some water and an apple. From that point on it was, in order, sign in with the International Student Center, get my Gator1 card from the library, run by the registrar (dumb word, btw, who agrees?), eat lunch at Steak'n'Shake, zoome (that's French for "zoom") back to the apartment for bed reception, renew the car rental, sign up and pick up internet service equipment, pharmacy run, furniture run, grocery run. Gimme a sec, I'm out of breath..... (in the meantime, how the fuck is "gimme" not underlined in red right now? #internetage).

Here's something to look at so you don't get bored.... you know, lotta writing.

That's my humble abode. No, no, not the WHOLE thing. Check second floor, first door to the left of the pillar --> BOOYA.

Ok, so what did I learn today? Well, it's that you just gotta TALK to people.... Gainesville is considered a small town (100,000-150,000 people) and therefore exhibits stereotypical small town behavior, "hellos" in the streets to strangers and such. Off the bat, however, people aren't that talkative. But whether it's the near-retirement gentlemen at the parking booth who promised me his post-work hobby was going to be the gym, the internet clerk who's a 70-30 mix of Jack Black and Zack Galafanakis, or the grocery cashier complaining about what must have been menstrual cramps, all it took was a little conversation initiation and they lit right up. So much so that our talks often extended past whatever business I had standing there. What's more, they often went out of their way, whether a little or a lot, to help me out. Mr. Parking Booth told me I could park all weekend without paying, Jack Galafanakis showed me how to install my router and modem so I wouldn't have to pay for the service, and Ms. Menstrual gave me membership discounts when I didn't have a card! That isn't to say you chat people up to get shit from 'em (there were many conversations at many of my stops without said tangible "rewards"), but a little goodwill going out brings a little, or a lot of it, back to you. It's obvious you've heard this disguised version of "what goes around comes around" before. But did you know all it took was a smile, a "can you help me out, I'm new here", or a "how you doin' today, sir?"? That's it!
Granted, this is Gainesville, not New York, but I believe the lesson still stands, no matter how obvious it may seem. I just think we take the little pleasant gestures for granted. And consequently, we stop doing them.

I need to talk about Steak'n'Shake for a second. I like food, THAT'S simple. I like good food even better. But I also love gorging on garbage food (who doesn't?). I was apprehensive about restaurant selections coming here; Montreal is a foodie's paradise and the U.S., I've heard, is a ton of fast food. I don't want to take away from restaurants in this country, there is clearly an overwhelming selection of great ones here. BUT, Montreal is filled with quality middle ground spots, some higher end than others, that are neither fast food, nor fine cuisine. Think Madison's, Baton Rouge, Scarolie's, Del Frisco's, Jack Astor's, any affordable sushi place, or all of St-Denis. There is definitely less of that here. My first fast food experience here was therefore a big step for me. At any rate, there's the meal, and it was pretty good! Guacamole burger with cheese and the usual fixings with some funky southern sauce. A salad with no-fat ranch dressing, and my favorite, unsweetened iced tea. The bread was fresh, almost to the point you'd think they stuck it in the steamer, the salad was meh as they all have been, and the guacamole on the burger was a pleasant surprise. The food arrived quickly and the servers were attentive. I must say, for a first time experience this trip, I'm happy. And then the bill, heheh. I knew what it would be, but just seeing these pictures in order still amazes me. I can't believe this country.








It was then time to dress the apartment, partially at least. The bed arrived with some bookshelves, and like a boss home owner, I was prepared. As you can see FANTASTIC pillowcases. I know, I was quite impressed with myself as well. As for the foreground, just a little bit of new love there, as well as some old. BUT, that wasn't the first piece of furniture in the apartment, no no no. Take a look at the next photo. That right there, is the first piece of furniture.... if you can't see it, don't worry. Just locate the shit stain on the carpet on the right lower portion of the photo and move left about a foot or two. See it? Good. That hamper has the honor of first piece in the apartment. And it came at no small price. This hell spawned contraption is made of bendable plastic supports that coil up in the packaging. Upon opening it, the little bastard went all jack-in-the-box on me and punched me in the head. Yah, NO WARNING ON THE PACKAGE. Whatever Wal-Mart, whatever.















Ahhhhhh my next favorite stop on the tour, my beloved shower curtain. If you're wondering, yes I named the frogs: John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Thank goodness the Beatles were British, and not French, or I wouldn't be able to name them like that... frankly, it would be racist. On another note, I'm thanking my lucky stars I don't do drugs, because taking a dump with these bad boys staring at me might be something a human heart couldn't take.

The picture of the router, well it's nothing really, but as soon as I saw the sticker I thought: "if they had only replaced the words 'insert CD and run wizard first' with 'HAMMERTIME', it might just be the best router ever."

 So after all was said and done, I started moving the kitchen and bathroom supplies in, and it was nearing right around 9 PM. Here comes that trauma I was talking about. For some reason I walked into the bedroom and opened up the closet, and away ran this BEHEMOTH of a cockroach. It reminded me of my amazement every time I watch a linebacker rush the line: "how the hell does something so big move so fast?!" I won't say my life flashed before my eyes, but this thing had to die. When they told me I could have a roommate under special circumstances, this is NOT what I had in mind. He tried to run between the carpet and the door, but like a teen who doesn't know their own size, he forgot how big he was and got stuck there. A shoe? A broom? (Fuck, I don't have a broom yet.) A bookshelf, knife, elastic band?? What in Satan's name could I use to kill this thing??? My logic here had to include collateral damage: this thing had guts....no literally, it was huge and had high visceral volume! I didn't want to use something I'd have to peel a 3-foot intestine off of. So I settled on my empty modem box. I approached the door and wiggled it, and out he came again, like an idiot, running in no apparent direction. I SMASHED AND I SMASHED AND I SMASHED. Three smashes, the fucker was still good as new. SO I SMASHED AND SMASHED AND SMASHED AGAIN. Another three swings.
Immobile.
Victory.
I retrieved a plastic bag to slide him into (yah, this bastard needed a body bag). I used the bag to nudge him in AND HE MOVED.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME????????????????????????????????????????????????????
At this point I'm wondering if I'm going to get any sleep tonight. So this time I pinned him down with the box and ground him into the carpet. The fact the carpet has some bounce to it probably didn't help my case. Eventually he stopped moving and I finally slid him into this bag. But now on his back, his legs were still kicking! There was no way I was going to let this turn into some twisted cockroach version of Dawn of the Dead; this asshole was NOT coming back to get me. I used the box to lop his head off in the bag. I then managed to rip a few legs off and pop his body. The carnage can be viewed in the picture. Quick Kids Game: try to identify which piece is which!
I think I still saw an antenna on the decapitated head moving, but I'll attribute that to residual neural signals and sleep soundly.
Whew. Not gonna lie, (are you kidding?? "gonna" is also a valid English word??) I was a little shaken after the encounter. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right??

Anyway, this post has gone on long enough. I am le tired and so probably, are you. Hopefully I'll make a friend tomorrow so my next post can have something other than food and creatures in it. For now, I bid you good farewell and good morning.
**Cue "Fix You" by Coldplay

-Montreal Gator

Ps. That's my ride. Booya.

Day 1 --> 2: Gainesville and such

So where did I leave everything offfffffff. GAINESVILLE! So I woke up in the most fantastic seat on the most fantastic bus watching the Bourne Identity. I thought "meh, not bad for 40 bucks." AND THEN I MADE MY FIRST FRIEND! His name is Luis and he's a chemical engineer from Columbia. The irony didn't escape me but I kept it under wraps. He was really nice and got me the numbers for some cabs I would need once we got dropped off. Needless to say he saved me, the parking lot was massive and nothing was around. The cab ride, was however, better. Scraggly old van rolls up with one headlight broken. The old guy from Back to the Future hops out, punches the headlight (it turns on) and shakes my hand saying "my name is Jodi, like Jodi Foster, welcome to Gainesville." Needless to say, the car ride was adventurous; we listened to Kesha, exchanged phone numbers (that's how it works down here, I swear), and exchanged pleasantries.

Picking up the car was uneventful, and getting to the hotel even more so (which is a good thing!). My hotel room is nice which was a RELIEF. So nice in fact, it had little bands around the first two pillows with "firm" and "soft" written on them. HOW CONSIDERATE IS THAT?! Anyway, there's a bar next door called Beef 'O'Brady's, and that's where I ate upon arrival last night, this afternoon, and it's where I'm headed after I finish this. The fact I'm living on bar food right now doesn't bode well for the waistline (not to mention the 12 Heinekens for $10.97).

I also got my apartment today! woot woot! It's bloody empty though so I went and shopped for a bunch of bright colorful things that I think may look good in there. If they in fact don't look good, well I'll just have to live with it for 2 years. Getting to my apartment was interesting though: as I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, 4 cop cars zoomed by causing a ruckus. Little did I know I'd meet them JUST down the road at my very own apartment village. oh wow..... well to say nothing of first impressions, I skittered over to my apartment trying not to draw attention to myself, all the while asking myself why my first encounter with my home of the next 2 years involved police. Oh well, right?

 

Day 1: Mtl --> Orlando --> Gainesville

I think the word "incompetence" can adequately describe the opening hours to this trek. Not only did the service desk at the airport in Mtl tell me "nah you don't need that essential paper, the system changed", but the custom's officer said "yes you need that paper, I don't know who told you that." Aaaaaalllllsssoooo, my cab in Orlando took me 10 minutes in the wrong direction, because apparently "Jetport drive" sounds like "Tradeport drive". And the kicker: Rogers sold me a roaming plan while simultaneously blocking my roaming capabilities, after which they tried to prevent us from changing to a plan worthy of normal intellect.

So, after this little adventure, I ended up at RedCoach Travel bus depot, which is pretty much equal distance from Orlando as Montreal is (I'm questioning my itinerary at this point).
Aaaaand the only thing near it is this lovely gas station. So it's internet time! But I've been sitting here for 3 hours now and I'm getting just a taaaad fed up. So fed up I got hungry. So hungry I ate this!


At any rate, exorbitant amounts of sugar, caffeine, and social networking have gotten me through this trying time. Next leg: Orlando --> Gainesville bus ride. Stay tuned for possible stories about smelly patrons sitting next to me, or a flat tire *knock on wood*
Peace & Love
MtlG