EDIT: Group 013 of The Cereal Prize Project has been posted.
Finally home. Toronto was great — the city is insanely clean compared to what I’m used to, and the people I was working with refused to believe that it wasn’t uncommon for people here to go to a drive-thru fast food joint and just throw their garbage out the window when they were finished scarfing. Seriously, there wasn’t a single piece of trash on the ground anywhere, even at the coveted corners where streets met sidewalks. Pretty amazing for such a busy city, but maybe I’m just bias, my hometown being a reeking filthhole and all. A couple of things I learned about Toronto…
1) 10% of the population have at one time starred on Degrassi.
2) All that stuff about “aye” and “oot” isn’t a myth.
3) Clamato is very, very well liked.
4) It ain’t soda. It’s “pop.”
5) You can’t buy Marlboro Lights.
The hotel I stayed at was really purdy — the kind of purdy that can only be attained on a business trip where you’re not paying. When I checked in, the front desk lady insisted that one of the hired hands give me a tour of my hotel room. My basic instincts were crying out for me to tell them that I was in a rush, but they looked so happy about this damn room tour…I had no choice. So began a fifteen minute exploration of my hotel room — a room that was certainly nice, but in no way, shape or form needing fifteen minutes worth of explanation. “And here’s the switch that opens and closes your curtains.” “And here’s the switch that turns on the floor heaters in the bathroom, though those only work in the winter.” “And here’s your phone. And there’s your other phone.” “And that’s your bed.” “And these are your sheets and blankets. On top of the bed.” It was endless, and if I’m being honest, I’d drank about fourteen cups of coffee before boarding the plane, and by this point, getting those fourteen cups out of my dick tube before it exploded seemed a lot more important than floor heaters. I hung in there for as long as I could, finally succumbing and shoving a cash tip in the guy’s hand as a very polite way of saying, “GET THE FUCK OUT I NEED TO PISS RIGHT NOW.” He took the hint, but not before reminding me that the room’s included mini-bar worked on the “honor system.”
Oh, those foolishly trusting Canucks. I emptied that bitch out and didn’t tell a soul. We’ll see how this is reflected on my next credit card bill.
On the final night there, I couldn’t help plunging into the hotel’s own personal version of LodgeNet, and ended up seeing House of Wax. You know what? That’s a pretty decent little horror flick, there. Paris Hilton’s role was more for the press releases than the flick; she’s a total background character and her role could’ve been handled by any moderately attractive blonde. If you’re avoiding it for Paris-related reasons, you’re cheating yourself. Granted, I’m prone to like films like this more than the general public, but there wasn’t a thing about House of Wax that I really hated. It goes fast (but not too fast), has a good amount of gore (but not so much that it’s reliant on it), and yes, it’s actually creepy. Hell, anything that’s based on a Vincent Price classic is hard to fuck up on that front. Totally worth your time no matter what you’ve heard.
This is your all-day Saturday thread. Use it wisely.
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I just keep drinkin’ the memory cells away!