It’s not like fire doesn’t cut down on humidity.

I’m a huge fan of garage sales. Even if everyone else here seems to pronounce them “guh-raj sales” instead of the obviously correct “garridge sales”. I love finding affordable (dirt cheap) pre-loved (used) goods that hopefully still work. Hell, free shit is some of my top tier favourite stuff in the multiverse. It doesn’t always pan out (the broken microwave I carried about a kilometre that had a working light, but no heat, comes to mind), but sometimes it pans out entirely literally (the curbside cast iron frying pan for instance. Spent some time scrubbing off the rust and now it’s A+. Not even a nuke could ruin one of those babies). Throwing a few bucks on top of that can come with massive rewards. I had a $2 backpack that I used for about a year, some $4 pants that got a couple of years’ use. I mean, our bedside lamp, blender, large pan and food processor (to back up the blender’s blind spots) collectively cost us under $50. So much value I was in total Rapture.

Yesterday I found a great buy at a local (in direct line of sight from our place) garage sale. I mean, the place was swarming with neat stuff. There was a preserved scorpion paperweight, tons of old cameras and camera technology, clothes and books, etc. Then I saw an item I’d been thinking about for some time: A dehumidifier. We always grew up with one. It was a sturdy machine with a computerised display on the top. My favourite feature hands down of this old dehumidifier was the whale on the computerised display. A goddamn whale. This animated whale was an indicator of the humidity levels of the surroundings. If it was too humid, the whale made a frowny face with “x” eyes. If it was neutral, it had dot eyes and its mouth was pulled into a tight line (like thus: “-“). If the area was at low humidity, the whale would be stoked, mouth pulled into a huge smile with big smiley eyes. PLUS A BIG FUCKEN SPOUT OF WATER ON ITS BACK. I loved this whale possibly more than I loved the dehumidifier itself, even if the logic of it was pretty peculiar. Shouldn’t the whale be stoked with humidity? It lives in the ocean, basically the most humid place there is. I don’t know if this is one of those great white voluntary sand whales I’ve often heard tale of. Whatever it was, it liked its atmosphere like I like my gingerale: dry. Also maybe with whiskey, I’m not sure. It was a two dimensional whale, whatever its liquor preferences were, it was tight lipped.

This garridge sale didn’t have a whaleriffic dehumidifier, but it did have a $10 one. A bargain by any other name wouldn’t smell as cheap. Metaphorically. This thing had no particular odour. Frankly with a dehumidifier I’d take that as a warning sign. I asked the guy holding fat stacks of cash in his hand (I assumed he was one of the people running the sale) if there was anything wrong with it. According to him (and who wouldn’t trust a white male flashing large quantities of dollars?) it worked fine, they just upgraded to a bigger model for the family home. He said he was so sure that it worked that if I took it home and it didn’t work, I could bring it back and he’d swap it for his other one. Sounded completely un-suspicious. I bought it and carried it the 20 metres or so to our front door.

It worked. I plugged it in and it happily (I can only assume. No whale, remember?) did its thing. Within an hour or two, the humidity was down to the requisite level. Soothing. Later that evening I looked up the manual online to see if there was anything I needed to know about the unit. Googling the model number, the first couple of results were the same. PRODUCT RECALL. The model number was one of the many models recalled for potential fire risk. They’d apparently had some cases of the dehumidifier super-heating and exploding. DOUBLE PLUS UNGOOD. I wondered to myself, was it worth still running it? I asked my girlfriend, who was fine with taking a chance (humidity being the moral enemy of virtue, of course). I also thought, how much would they pay for a recalled unit? I had no proof of purchase and the recall was a few years ago. Still, could I get more than the $10 I paid for it? Would this be one of my many lucrative get rich quick schemes that didn’t pan out (curbside cast iron pan notwithstanding)? Or was the best option to keep using my cheap dehumidifier and turning it off once nobody was in the house? Thus preventing it from overheating after, I dunno, 24 hour use or something? Would you dice with the devil? Or go for the Faustian recall deal? The devil you know or the one you don’t?

Sounds like what we bought was really… a dehumidifire.

A brush with coat-dependence.

I’m an everyday illusionist. I wrap myself in layers of mystique set to misdirect and confuse those who cross my path. I carry with me a halo of competency that causes many to assume I’m a capable, competent individual. If they were to look closer they’d discover how very wrong their assumptions were. I run on a fake it till you make it platform. In truth, I don’t have a great many practical skills. If I were to find myself stuck in a forest alone I’d likely just wander around for a short while until I died, moaning about the lack of local pho restaurants. If anything goes wrong in the house, my default response is to wonder who I could convince through friendship or money to fix it. I’ve never had to do much in the way of manual labour, so the sight of me trying to accomplish anything constructive is laughable at best.

Which is why it was so odd for me to offer my services to friends with an overwhelming amount of home reno work to do. They’re moving soon and need all the help they can get making it look spiffy for potential buyers.

Truly I meant best, blindly flinging myself into their home before thinking of the havoc I could wreak. When my girlfriend and I arrived, I offered explicit instructions as to my use:

  • I don’t know how to do many things.
  • I will ask silly questions.
  • I will be incredibly slow at first.
  • By the time I’ve finished I will have gained some competency.
  • You will seriously wonder how I’ve survived life thus far.

My girlfriend is not an incompetent person. She’s done a ton of stuff before, so she was a lot easier to manage. They had a ton of projects for her, like sanding down a door, dusting its grooves and spray painting it. Useful stuff. Me on the other hand, they dumped on the floor and set to work. They were gonna paint the base boards/quarter rounds and needed it taped off. I also learned what base boards and quarter rounds were. Looking around my house now, I can see that they’re everywhere. I set to work right away applying masking tape to the floor and walls. At first it was significantly slow going. I was so set on getting everything tight up against the base boards/quarter rounds that I was taking an age to set anything down. I’d do small bits at a time, afraid of having even a speck exposed to potential paint. Or what if I left a smidgen of the baseboard covered? It’d never get painted and I’d no longer be trusted to help with anything, banished from their friendship for all eternity. THE WORST PUNISHMENT.

I got faster. After I’d done one corner I realised I’d need to start moving things out to get access. Their TV cabinet? Right in the middle of the floor. All those carefully wired speaker cords? GONE. I pulled out the nails they’d used to keep the cords in place, undoing all their hard work. In my head I told myself all this stuff needed to get done eventually, but it was hard to shake the idea that I was committing minor vandalism at a friend’s place. I moved around the living room putting tape down at the top and bottom of the baseboards/quarter rounds. My friend started following my work around the room, painting as she went. Eventually I finished up my taping and wanted more work to do. She instructed me to remove these box shelves on the wall then pull out the plastic screw covers drilled into the wall. There I was, balanced on a chair holding this shelf with one arm, cordless drill between my neck and left shoulder, holding a plastic zip lock bag in my left hand while carefully trying to drop the loose screw into the bag. As I said, I’m not a competent person. Though I did manage to pick up the drill between my big and index toe. That should count for something.

She had to leave to have lunch with her boyfriend, so told me to take over the painting that she’d started. Painting her house? She was trusting me? The only painting I’d done was as a child in school. I painted many shit things, the only highlights being a taniwha and myself as a werewolf. I reluctantly took up the call to adventure as she assuaged my fears. It was only the first coating, I couldn’t fuck up too bad. Had she met me? To be honest though, it wasn’t too difficult. I’m sure I wasn’t doing an amazing job, crawling on my side, but as a first attempt I think it was only slightly shabby.

Riding high on my relative success, I taped off another window alcove and set to painting. I tried to make sure I got all the corners, then got in there with a paint roller. After the handheld brush, the roller was a revelation. I made sure not to lay the paint on too thick and aimed for an even spread. By the time I’d finished, exhausted as I was, I had no concept of whether or not I’d done a good job. Then I thought hey wait a minute, this morning I didn’t know how to do any of this. The fact that I’ve done a job at all is progress enough. By the time I’d left, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and pride.

So maybe there’s something lurking behind my illusion of competence after all.

How did I write this whole thing without one dick joke?

Do you ever look around and feel inquisitive about the size of things? In parallel universai (sticking with it), what size might they be? How would this affect the world around them? Could our existence improve from resizing them? What sized objects/living things do we take for granted? I’m not sure how often I ponder this, but I’m sure as fuck going to now.

  • Corn. If an ear of corn was the size of your arm, would we still be able to eat them in the same way? How tall would fields of maize have to be in order to cater to the larger crop? I’d wager that we’d see a lot more individual kernels used than ears. How big would that make each kernel? The same as a thumb joint? Or maybe similar to a single popcorn piece. On that note, would each piece of popcorn be like an apple? That sounds like a world I’d like to live in. Though a solid RIP to typewriter style consumption.
  • I would have a dog sized giraffe as a pet. No qualms about it. How fucking adorable would that be? LOOK HOW CUTE A NEWBORN GIRAFFE IS. Imagine that even more compact. Plus with a little leash for walkies. Their necks would be double plus huggable. Plus they’d be so good at frisbee. If I ever learn to travel universes, I’m bringing back a giraffe dog.
  • Insects are considered nightmarish to most people already. I admit I’d freak out interacting with any larger than my hand. At the same time I think they’re really fucking cool. What is it about insects that freak us out so much? Is it their bulbous/kaleidoscopic eyes? Their overabundance of legs? The venomous barbs/stingers/mandibles? Dense hairs covering their body? Is it even that we’re comparatively such simply laid out creatures and insects are nigh universally complex? Oh fuck, imagine a mosquito wielding a proboscis the size of your head. Now try sleeping ever again.
  • If bananas were the size of prawns, would they be worth the effort? I’d ask the alternative, but Morton Bay Bugs are already a thing.
  • If dandelions were larger, would there be fewer of them? Part of their ability to disperse is how they float in the air and that feels like a feature of their lightness. If they were larger their spread would likely be stymied by obstacles and hopefully that’d cut down on their proliferation.
  • Shark sized tartigrades and jellyfish would rule the oceans/world. Tartigrades are basically indestructible and jellyfish can revert to the polyp stage at any time, meaning they don’t die from old age. Imagine seas full of large translucent blobs. You’d think they were wave crests, but then your entire body would be enveloped in their all consuming sting. I can imagine urolagnia rapidly gaining in popularity.
  • How large would rabbits need to be before they’d become farmed en masse? Goose sized? Pig sized? I mean, they fuck like… well… them. If they weren’t harvested for meat, they’d no doubt be slaughtered as pests.
  • I wonder how larger coconuts would’ve influenced island society. Let’s say a metre in diameter. They’d be really durable for some building materials (roofing perhaps?) and are pretty buoyant. Could they have made some kind of coconut pontoon crafts?
  • One last thought: Apple. Sized. Blueberries.

I’m not sure how this world came to pass, but it tends to fit together pretty damn well. Three cheers to the architect, elsewise we’d all have perished from horse sized rats long ago.

Okay, so I looked up the word “irascible”. Get off my back. And lawn.

I’ve spent enough days staring at this blank page blankly to know that the best way to steer out of it is to merely start. I know that addressing a central theme is the easiest way to burst out of the gates exuding chutzpah, but when all else fails, simply taking the lead until an idea forms can suffice. By this point, four years in, I expected that daily writing would’ve gotten easier. Half the point of this exercise was to stimulate that forebrain and jog my front of mind-ed-ness. Given the past sentence, you can see that it hasn’t been a total success. Yes, I’ve written each day, but I’d hoped by now I would’ve found more improvement with the 1400+ entries I’ve committed to the page. That’s a lot of words, though how many of those are unique is another question entirely. I’ve written a lot, but my skills haven’t risen with the word count quite like I’d expected.

Of course, I’ve always fallen into the trap of expectations. As a kid I rarely had to struggle through work, which in turn failed to develop a backbone of discipline and effort in order to overcome tricky situations. Things kind of came naturally to me and even if I didn’t put in a heap of hard work, I’d usually do okay. As the years progressed life got more challenging and as a recurring theme, I stopped putting in effort. If I couldn’t simply roll up and do it, was it actually something I wanted to do? I’m not saying that I’m lazy in every aspect, but often when the going gets tough, I go elsewhere.

At the moment I feel like I’m stuck in some form of rut. This ain’t a unique moment. Rather, it seems like this vague ennui rolls around multiple times per year. My mindset right now is creatively, professionally, interpersonally and motivationally mired. While my job isn’t a shitshow, it’s very unfulfilling and easy to phone in because I’ve been doing it for so long. This results in a slog of a workday that feels like it’s chipping away at something inside. How long before I give up, buy a TV and watch reruns of Last Man Standing (too soon?)? Work bumming me out overflows insidiously into other areas of my life. The lack of creativity in what I do affects how I see myself represented. This digs at my self-confidence, skimming away at my seminal (screw me, I was looking for a synonym for “creative”) energy (plus “seminal energy” is fun to say. This is my circus and I’ll let it run rampant as I see fit). If I’m feeling shitty about how others may see me, I’m not raring to put myself out there for others to see. I withdraw from social obligations and turn into a irascible old hermit. I GET OLD SOMEHOW, YOU GUISE.

I always surface from this rut, but through distraction rather than progression. I’ve been trying to move into other avenues of work, potentially more fulfilling jobs. These attempts have come with multiple disheartening rejections. While my mind is screaming that I’m at an impasse, I’m sure this isn’t the case. I am however unsure of what to do. The answer is most likely to dig in and upskill, or put myself out there in my own time. The problem though is that these ideas smack of good honest hard work and that makes my brain crave familiar and safe spaces. Effort is difficult and failure is terrifying. Improvement doesn’t come easily, but continuing to go through the motions isn’t sending me anywhere help. Is this why people get life coaches? So someone else can do the hard yards of telling them what to do?

OH WAIT GUISE. WHAT IF I BECAME A LIFE COACH? THEN I COULD FEEL FULFILLED TELLING OTHER PEOPLE WHAT TO DO WHILE NOT HAVING TO MAKE ANY PROGRESS MYSELF.

A signal change at track level.

I’m wracking my brain at this second to bring forth anything that isn’t bitching about work, because it wouldn’t be the first or last time. Also nobody wants to hear that. Today’s entry is gonna pull on the true nature of stream of consciousness in the hopes that the flow will steer me towards something more productive, provocative or produce. Do we need fruit and veggies at home?

I’m on the train and everyone is on their phones. Naturally. It feels so commonplace for people to grumble about a generation glued to their phones, but this has always felt a little odd to me. It’s not like everything a phone does is a waste of time. I’m sure some passengers are playing games, scrolling through Instagram or visiting a Tumblr that posts nothing but the same picture of Dave Coulier every day. That’s fine, right? Strangers can use their time as they see fit. What gives us the right to police or judge that? I often hear the argument that it creates a barrier between you and others. Isn’t that the point? How is it not justifiable that when you’re en route from location A to B that you’d rather be in your head than engaging with others? Social energy isn’t a limitless resource for everyone. What if you spend your days dealing with entitled pricks or judgemental bigots and just want to escape into a world where you can mindlessly crush candy/jelly/soda with a cutesy soundtrack and imagery? Also what is this supposed alternative to intentional isolation? Should we all be engaging in meaningful dialogue with random bystanders? I do that every so often and occasionally it results in people asking if they can light my beard on fire. Is that the goal? I mean, I’ve certainly had interesting conversations but not always fulfilling. It’s not communication we’re being spurred towards by putting down the phone, is there some other purpose? Or is it for the sake of some outmoded notion of manners? Being polite to others by not intentionally ignoring them? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure travelers have been sucked away into fantasy worlds for many years now. Discmans? Gameboys? Crossword puzzles? Books? Pencils and paper? We’ve long sought distraction from the time transit takes. At what age did passengers on public transportation amuse themselves with polite conversation or a simple admiration of their surroundings? Most likely longer ago than anyone complaining about excessive phone use has been alive.

Then again, this is all straw man supposition about whispers I may have heard on the wind. I can’t cite specific examples of times I’ve heard people complain about this behaviour. I’m pretty sure it happens on the regular, but I’ve got no way to log it in APA style. I’m not even saying there’s no issue with how often we’re absorbed by our screens. As a heavy user (I mean, right now for instance), I often feel like there are many occasions in which I could be more present. Are there people who I’ve missed meeting because I’ve been too engaged in gifs of kids falling over or videos of shiba inu underscored by the intro of The Smith’s’ “This Charming Man”? On the other hand, I could be learning about world news or local events. I could be engaging in meaningful online dialogue or connecting with friends. I could even be writing about rampant smart phone use on my phone itself.

I don’t think there’s a point to any of this little treatise, if but to say that like Transformers there’s often a lot more going on in any scenario than meets the eye. We’re all multi-faceted beings that are all too quick to judge others for their actions while excusing our own. It’s easy enough to show self-compassion, but empathy is all too rare. Maybe next time you’re throwing a stranger some stink eye, think about the best case scenario of their intentions instead of instantly labelling them as a buttmunch. Or don’t, I’m not your dad.

Then ironically on our trip home, we paid a laissez fare.

Sometimes on holiday everything clicks. Your plans all slot together like a jigsaw puzzle and you flow through an endless series of perfect experiences. When it comes to holidays, I prefer to be a lot more laissez-faire (which seems on theme here in Montreal), so my days instead are disjointed like someone’s taken to them with a jigsaw power tool. For me it’s a release. In my quotidian existence back home there’s endless structure. I get up at a certain time, start work at a certain time, leave work at five on the dot. Yadda yadda yadda, badda bing badda boom, yabba dabba doo. So when I vacation, it’s not just my city I like to leave behind, it’s my habitual lifestyle. On holidays, I go with the flow. If things happen, great. Getting everything done can be for someone else. I instead prefer to enjoy what I happen to do.

It’s a nice way of saying that fuckups do happen.

Yesterday we were prepared to try brunch at Le Passé Composé. A friend had raved about it (and the Fois Grois eggs benny in particular). I was intrigued to get amongst a sophisticate French take on common brunch (and try fois grois for probably the one time). When we got there, the line stretched out the door. Obviously its splendor was well known. My girlfriend put our name on the list and they informed her it’d be at least half an hour. We chatted to some people in line who mentioned it’d be closing at 2:30pm. It was 1:30pm at the time. I did the math and figured that if it took half an hour at least to get inside, we’d be rushed through our meal in order to turn over service. It seemed less than optimal. I suggested to my girlfriend that perhaps we’d have an easier, quicker and less stressful time going somewhere else. Besides, we were by the gay village. I was sure we could find a cute little brunch spot there.

As it happened, the village was kind of a tourist trap (though a very pretty one) and most of the restaurants looked simultaneously cheap and overpriced, if you catch my drift. After roaming for nigh on 40 minutes, we ended up going to one of the few places that looked marginally okay, but more expensive than it should’ve been. We underestimated it on both accounts. The food was phenomenally mediocre and the prices were equivalent to an upscale Toronto brunch place. We were informed that food would take at least half an hour from our time of order. We very quickly realised we should’ve just stayed put. The service was atrocious, enough that we’d both independently considered a dine and dash approach. With that being villainy slightly beyond our reach, we settled for leaving a 10% tip. What can I say? We’re softies.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty great though. We roamed Le Plateau-Mont-Royal, stopping in at a bunch of cute stores and boutiques. One spot had printed Space Jam socks, which truly tempted me. If not for the $24 price tag (steep for socks) I would’ve been all up in them. My girlfriend had a specific Montreal boutique she’d ordered from online that she was raring to check out in person. It was packed, so I left her there to geek out over pretty dresses, rather than stay there myself to be permanently in the way of customers. I further explored Le Plateau-Mont-Royal. My kind of borough, it had a few vintage stores, higher end places and a ton of bars/restos. I saw the lines at Schwartz’s and thought better of it. I kept walking. I discovered that some depanneurs stocked the original 11.9% Four Loko and almost shit myself. Instead, I went to a President’s Choice supermarket and shit there. Almost as embarrassing as the mediocre brunch was the fact that the shit of that same mediocre brunch clogged the President’s Choice toilet. Thanks Obama.

After my girlfriend’s new favourite boutique closed, we hung out at a cute ‘lil resto lounge and had a drink or two. We grabbed some chips in the park and wandered the neighbourhood. There was a cat cafe and gorgeous French Canadian architecture. Wrought iron stairs and all that jazz. Not to mention the mindblowing street art. Montreal, you certainly are a pretty one. We met up with friends and grabbed a deli dinner at Main’s across the road from Schwartz’s. Don’t worry, it was equally Jewy, but without the huge line up. My ribs even came with sides of liver steak, a hot dog, coleslaw and a kosher dill pickle. I’m surprised the waitress didn’t come over to tell us we were nothing but skin and bones and hadn’t eaten enough.

Our friends had recommended Majestique, a cocktail/oyster lounge. It was only a couple of minutes up the road, so we figured why not stop in for a digestif? The four of us came in and the server let us know there’d be a little bit of a wait, but he’d try and grab us a good table. He had his eye on a table of four ladies who seemed as though they were about to settle up. So we waited. And waited. Eventually one of our friends left and we let the server know we were down to three people. In the meanwhile, groups of two and three were being seated before us. Three, four, five groups got seating while we stood like unnecessary dildos at the front of the bar. My girlfriend had a word with the server, irritated that all these people had been let in while we’d been waiting. He apologised, saying that he’d been saving the good table for us. He came over a few minutes later with glasses of champagne on the house. We got seated ten or so minutes later (after perhaps half an hour of blocking the front entrance). We ordered cocktails and desserts, which were surprisingly intricate. We lounged about chatting, staring at the bizarre collection of junk lining the walls. It was like walking into your weird uncle’s basement, but with better booze.

After saying goodbye to our friend (who had an early morning) around midnight, my girlfriend and I were left to our own devices. We wandered the neighbourhood potentially looking for another place to drop by. As we walked, the streets became increasingly littered with club detritus. Twenty year olds lining up outside an assortment of generic establishment promising loud music and readily available booze. We both decided that five years ago we’d already been way tired of clubbing, but weren’t opposed to finding a quiet little nook to grab a nightcap. Then we saw it: Bootlegger l’Authentique. A whiskey, beer and cocktail bar with a prohibition theme. Bullseye. I’ll put it this way, it was a bar that served strong cocktails in ginormous glass boots. I don’t know if I’m ever going home. It was a fun, chilled atmosphere with neat mis en scène. The stage, while filled with instruments and old school mics, was devoid of musicians. Two well-dressed gents behind the bar slung glass boots and an assortment of liquors. The whiskey menu seemed nigh endless and the prices were crazy reasonable. We sipped away at our tasty cocktails (mine was a combo of Jack Daniels, peach schnapps, cranberry juice and what seemed like an entire mint plant), had a lot of laughs, danced a little and walked off into the night.

Then, having missed subway service, had an ordeal and a half going home. A combination of night bus-ing, wandering through weird byways and underneath a dodgy looking bridge at 3am, then dealing with a dysfunctional uber trip. We slipped into bed sometime around 3:30am, happy to be home.

More like Megabutts. Because of that fecal thing I mentioned below? Oh wait, you haven’t read that bit yet?

We’re trapped in a moving metal oblong. A three dimensional one, that is. It seems to be hurtling along the road at a moderate pace. The scenery seems to be of a rustic countryside arrangement. So if we’re imprisoned, at least our captors are showing mercy. Half mercy. Like John Stamos when he’s unwilling to fully commit. We’ve run out of things to drink. I forgot to fill up my bottle before getting on, so all that was left at the bottom was a solitary drop of water, tainted by encrusted crystals from past pre-workout concoctions. It tasted noxious, because of course I went there. We’re resorting to harvesting the few oranges we brought for their moisture. Also pre-emptive scurvy protection.

More accurately we’re on a bus en route to Montreal. We left at 7.30am and we’re on hour five of our six hour trip. In order to keep to our tight schedule, the bus driver has refused to let anyone get off the bus temporarily. If you step off the bus you’ve stepped out of line and you’re out of luck. Okay, she didn’t say it as sassily as that, but she outright refused my request to refill our water bottle with tap water. The sass was imaginary. Mostly. I had one good shit earlier in the trip, but the bathroom has since run out of toilet paper. Supposedly two rolls was supposed to be enough for upwards of 100+ people on a six hour trip. Or suppoosedly, I should say. The toilet is cramped, preventing me from doing my usual poo maneuver. Or manpoover, as I should never say (or think) again. There’s a door where my head would usually be and it’s impo(o)ssible for me to reach my ankles. What’s a guy to do? Moreover, how’s a guy to poo?

After such an early morning (for me, anyway) departure, we were unsurprisingly some of the few passengers conscious throughout the trip. This was our design. I’d been chomping at the bit to watch the Master of None season finale and, after bugging my girlfriend for days, we finally had a spare half hour (or twelve) to watch. After finishing, we still had at least ten half hours to go, so we jumped back into a show we’d abandoned some time back: The Good Place. It’s a show most everyone seems to have slept on. We’re screening it at work and it recently got picked up for another season, so at least we’re not shit out of luck. The basic premise is that Kristen Bell’s character died and was mistakenly sent to The Good Place (heaven) instead of The Bad Place. She’s ended up with someone else’s soulmate and they’re trying to figure out how to teach her to be a good person (in an effort to keep her from being jettisoned downstairs). It sounds dry, I know, but the writing is shit hot. It’s quick and clever with fun plot lines. The concept of The Good Place as a large computational engine capable of creating anything is a fun world to play around in. In addition to Bell, Ted Danson shines as the architect trying to keep the Place running, despite Bell’s creating large scale catastrophe with her mere presence. The whole cast is rock solid and, in easily digestible 22 minute chunks with cliffhanger endings, we’ve watched eight episodes in the past few hours. Go out and get some.

The ride is almost over and (aside from dehydration) it’s been mostly clear of catastrophes. The real exception being when country music begun randomly playing out over the personal intercoms. Panicked passengers began looking around for a solution, with many jamming the emergency stop button above their seat. It stopped shortly after. If we can survive that, we can survive anything. Even dehydration while holding in a shit.

Montreal: It only goes up from here.