I know you guys are out there, but the term “lurker” is so perjorative. I’ve been a lurker so many times, but who wants to be suspected as some kind of Peeping Tom, someone who reads, digests, and goes away with opinions but never lets you know? It’s kind of like eavsedropping on the Party Line of yore. Ethel’s fucked up, she’s totally ignoring Jack, and I think Dan’s seeing her in the evenings. Okay, Ellie, so what do you want me to do about it?
I guess I’ll have to come to terms with the word “lurking,” though it always makes me uneasy, and also the word “blog,” which seems to have been forced on all of us by some shithead with access to a typewriter.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Risk
What is it about risk that bothers me? One look at ClimbRocker's Blog reminds me that riding a bike is risky. Why would any sane person mount a bike in this city? But that’s me. I’m averse to risk but fascinated by people who take risks. I’m the first to latch onto a program like “I Shouldn’t be Alive.”
No, you shouldn’t be alive, you asshole, because you wandered up into some wilderness not telling anyone where you were going, and furthermore brought your ten-year-old son.
But people still bungie-jump, parachute from airplanes and climb mountains, seemingly totally oblivious to one fact: when you die, it’s all gone; no more swimming in the Great Barrier Reef patting manta rays — just the great chasm of death.
Risk. Yes. Risk. But the eternal gamble, against the ultimate price: is it truly worth it? For you? Guess what, everyone around you is affected when you plunge down the rock face and get severe head injuries. You’re just the poor apologising schmuck in the hospital bed going through months of rehabilitation.
Same goes for the idiot that gets in a car and drag races someone, or rides a motorcycle without a helmet.
Come to think of it, every time I see a daredevil crash his plane at an air show, I think, wow, kid, you finally did good.
No, you shouldn’t be alive, you asshole, because you wandered up into some wilderness not telling anyone where you were going, and furthermore brought your ten-year-old son.
But people still bungie-jump, parachute from airplanes and climb mountains, seemingly totally oblivious to one fact: when you die, it’s all gone; no more swimming in the Great Barrier Reef patting manta rays — just the great chasm of death.
Risk. Yes. Risk. But the eternal gamble, against the ultimate price: is it truly worth it? For you? Guess what, everyone around you is affected when you plunge down the rock face and get severe head injuries. You’re just the poor apologising schmuck in the hospital bed going through months of rehabilitation.
Same goes for the idiot that gets in a car and drag races someone, or rides a motorcycle without a helmet.
Come to think of it, every time I see a daredevil crash his plane at an air show, I think, wow, kid, you finally did good.
Get this man some air
When I lived in Osaka on the 11th floor of an apartment building smack downtown, there would often be a brown haze over everything. Okay, well, duh. But this brown haze translated into this weird, dusty film that would affix itself to everything. Plus, you’d sometimes be sitting in your apartment and take a breath — on the 11th floor — and be astonished to breathe in a whelp of unmistakable car exhaust.
When I went back to my birthplace, Calcutta, India, in 1997, I was astonished by the brown cloud, hour after hour, visible from my plane as I approached the city.
And now I live on the 8th floor of an apartment building in downtown Montreal.
I like to read books on the balcony on good days, and I leave them outside. But every time I pick them up the next day they’ve got that ugly, slightly sticky grime on them, and I say to myself, this is what I’m sitting on the balcony for? To get a breath of fresh air?
When I went back to my birthplace, Calcutta, India, in 1997, I was astonished by the brown cloud, hour after hour, visible from my plane as I approached the city.
And now I live on the 8th floor of an apartment building in downtown Montreal.
I like to read books on the balcony on good days, and I leave them outside. But every time I pick them up the next day they’ve got that ugly, slightly sticky grime on them, and I say to myself, this is what I’m sitting on the balcony for? To get a breath of fresh air?
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Trivial Pursuit at home
When I started montrealfood.com I just kind of thought of it as a miscellaneous food resource — obviously the focus being on restaurants at which we spend our hard-earned cash, but also as a resource to just find out about food. Food in Montreal, of course, but also any food anywhere else.
It’s been seven years, and now I’m discovering that the food reviews need to be not necessarily at restaurants, but people’s homes. Like, I review the dinner I had at Bob and Marie’s. Because restaurants are artificial creations; kind of like going to the theater instead of playing Trivial Pursuit at home. Home-made creations are always humble and proud at the same time; as the cook, you never want to be seen as being overly pretentious but the object is to satisfy everyone, often with the most common comfort food, not fussy piles of ingredients and flavors that will have little impact on the average diner.
Restaurants definitely have their place, but a dinner at Joe Beef will never equal a dinner at my place.
And that’s a rock-solid guarantee.
It’s been seven years, and now I’m discovering that the food reviews need to be not necessarily at restaurants, but people’s homes. Like, I review the dinner I had at Bob and Marie’s. Because restaurants are artificial creations; kind of like going to the theater instead of playing Trivial Pursuit at home. Home-made creations are always humble and proud at the same time; as the cook, you never want to be seen as being overly pretentious but the object is to satisfy everyone, often with the most common comfort food, not fussy piles of ingredients and flavors that will have little impact on the average diner.
Restaurants definitely have their place, but a dinner at Joe Beef will never equal a dinner at my place.
And that’s a rock-solid guarantee.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Montreal
I’ve been listening to the decidedly old-fashioned music of Gino Vannelli—specifically, the album “Live in Montreal.” More specifically, the song that goes “When I think about my nights in Montreal . . . “
Well, I do think about my nights in Montreal. We in Montreal should always think about our nights in Montreal, because they’re good ones. I’m not Canadian, but I am a glommer and I recognise a good place when I find one. That would be Montreal.
People don’t bother me. No, that would be California, where in the shop they say “Howya doin’?” Not here. They just say “Merci, m’sieu”, even though they’ve seen you shop there 10,000 times. I like to be left alone, even after 10,000 times.
But Gino Vannelli brought back to me why I’ve always been drawn to this city. People, our city is quite possibly the coolest in the world.
Well, I do think about my nights in Montreal. We in Montreal should always think about our nights in Montreal, because they’re good ones. I’m not Canadian, but I am a glommer and I recognise a good place when I find one. That would be Montreal.
People don’t bother me. No, that would be California, where in the shop they say “Howya doin’?” Not here. They just say “Merci, m’sieu”, even though they’ve seen you shop there 10,000 times. I like to be left alone, even after 10,000 times.
But Gino Vannelli brought back to me why I’ve always been drawn to this city. People, our city is quite possibly the coolest in the world.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Cuy and books
Okay, I have a cat, but he probably wouldn’t taste very good. He’s old (14) and scrawny and a bit stinky because he’s neurotic and spends a lot of time visiting his box.
No, Iggy probably wouldn’t taste very good if I slaughtered him, skinned him and roasted him in a 400-degree oven slathered in red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too, but maybe some cuy would.
In case you didn’t know, cuy are popular treats in South America. They’re what we call guinea pigs, though according to the book I’m reading, they can be as big as small dogs; imagine a guinea pig the size of a Yorkshire Terrier. And apparently, they’re delicious — somewhere between a rabbit and a chicken.
The book is Hungry Planet, and it’s one of two I’ve been recently reading with fascination.
When I lived in Zaire, Africa, we had several guinea pigs. We named one Adolf, because he was the biggest and a bully, lording it over the other pigs. Then one day we came home from school to find them all gone, and it was only years later that we found out that my mother, tiring of their mess, had given them to the help, no doubt to be cooked up in a nice sauce of red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too. But I digress.
Hungry Planet is a book with great writing (think National Geographic meets Cook’s Illustrated) and great photos of what families worldwide purchase and eat in a week. It’s a real eye-opener.
The other book that has occupied at least a month in daily reading is A Mediterranean Feast, which is an amazing compendium of history and recipe book that I’d had sitting on my shelf for years until I decided to read it. If you’re at all interested in history and food, this one will keep you glued to every page, and Clifford Wright doesn’t mess around — his recipes can be really tough (but never too tough — you’ll never be asked to roast “Deboned breast of camel”).
On his Amazon blog I pleaded for him to write “An Asian Feast” but he replied: “Sadly, I don't believe either I or anyone else will be able to write a book such as "An Asian Feast" in these times of dumbed-down cookbooks and lowest-common-denominator cooking. Publishers seem particularly uninterested as they increasingly watch their bottom line. On top of which, it's an enormous commitment on the writers' part to undertake such a task. Every time I flip through Mediterranean Feast I think ‘was I nuts.’”
Yes, he was nuts, and you will be the beneficiary.
No, Iggy probably wouldn’t taste very good if I slaughtered him, skinned him and roasted him in a 400-degree oven slathered in red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too, but maybe some cuy would.
In case you didn’t know, cuy are popular treats in South America. They’re what we call guinea pigs, though according to the book I’m reading, they can be as big as small dogs; imagine a guinea pig the size of a Yorkshire Terrier. And apparently, they’re delicious — somewhere between a rabbit and a chicken.
The book is Hungry Planet, and it’s one of two I’ve been recently reading with fascination.
When I lived in Zaire, Africa, we had several guinea pigs. We named one Adolf, because he was the biggest and a bully, lording it over the other pigs. Then one day we came home from school to find them all gone, and it was only years later that we found out that my mother, tiring of their mess, had given them to the help, no doubt to be cooked up in a nice sauce of red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too. But I digress.
Hungry Planet is a book with great writing (think National Geographic meets Cook’s Illustrated) and great photos of what families worldwide purchase and eat in a week. It’s a real eye-opener.
The other book that has occupied at least a month in daily reading is A Mediterranean Feast, which is an amazing compendium of history and recipe book that I’d had sitting on my shelf for years until I decided to read it. If you’re at all interested in history and food, this one will keep you glued to every page, and Clifford Wright doesn’t mess around — his recipes can be really tough (but never too tough — you’ll never be asked to roast “Deboned breast of camel”).
On his Amazon blog I pleaded for him to write “An Asian Feast” but he replied: “Sadly, I don't believe either I or anyone else will be able to write a book such as "An Asian Feast" in these times of dumbed-down cookbooks and lowest-common-denominator cooking. Publishers seem particularly uninterested as they increasingly watch their bottom line. On top of which, it's an enormous commitment on the writers' part to undertake such a task. Every time I flip through Mediterranean Feast I think ‘was I nuts.’”
Yes, he was nuts, and you will be the beneficiary.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Music
I don’t know about you, but to me, music ain’t what it used to be. I may just be jaded and naive, but popular music, at least what I get to hear — believe me, I don’t go out of my way — is scarcely distinguishable from the stuff you hear on car commercials.
I’m not sure, but I would imagine 50 Cent’s oeuvre is not going to live very long in the Hall of Legendary Rock Music. Or Eminem. God, don’t let me get underway: Blink 182? Is that their name?
There is a word: music. It involves people qualified to actually deserve a name of “musician.” Sure, there were the Sex Pistols, who actually sought to defy the conventional term of music, but even they, despite their no-doubt eternal protestations, were good, even great musicians. Too bad we can’t say the same thing of the current, even twenty-year old crop.
If you want true musicianship — even though it might be of the fuddy-duddy generation, you can download a true masterpiece, Kansas’s Leftoverture, on my server. Be sure to delete it afterward and do yourselves a favor and get the CD — it’s more than worth it. And don't spend more than 50 cents on 50 Cent.
I’m not sure, but I would imagine 50 Cent’s oeuvre is not going to live very long in the Hall of Legendary Rock Music. Or Eminem. God, don’t let me get underway: Blink 182? Is that their name?
There is a word: music. It involves people qualified to actually deserve a name of “musician.” Sure, there were the Sex Pistols, who actually sought to defy the conventional term of music, but even they, despite their no-doubt eternal protestations, were good, even great musicians. Too bad we can’t say the same thing of the current, even twenty-year old crop.
If you want true musicianship — even though it might be of the fuddy-duddy generation, you can download a true masterpiece, Kansas’s Leftoverture, on my server. Be sure to delete it afterward and do yourselves a favor and get the CD — it’s more than worth it. And don't spend more than 50 cents on 50 Cent.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Ingredient Conundrum
I was thinking of making this recipe this weekend, but was having some trouble finding some of the ingredients. My dad worked for the International Civil Aviation Organisation on Sherbrooke in the 70s and 80s (right opposite McGill) and it seems they put out a book of recipes, called “The Flying Gourmet.” It’s not much — made by toiling employees and bound by a copy-store ring binder, but I thought you might help me find some of these ingredients. Maybe at Jean-Talon or Atwater Market.
Stuffed Camel
1 whole camel, medium size
1 whole lamb, large size
20 whole chickens, medium size
60 eggs
12 kilos rice
2 kilos pine nuts
2 kilos almonds
1 kilo pistachio nuts (de-shelled)
110 gallons water
5 lbs. black pepper (or to taste)
2 lbs kosher salt (or to taste)
Method:
Skin, clean and trim the camel, lamb and chickens. Boil until tender. Cook rice until fluffy. Fry nuts until brown and mix with rice. Hard boil and peel the eggs. Stuff the chickens with half the eggs and rice/nut mixture. Stuff the lamb with five chickens and some more rice mixture. Stuff the camel with the lamb and more rice. Broil in a large oven or near a gas flame until brown. Spread the remaining rice/nut mixture on a tray and place the camel on top. Place remaining stuffed chickens around the camel. Decorate with boiled eggs and nuts. Serves a friendly crowd of 200. You’d better make two, so your guests won’t fight over the hump.
Stuffed Camel
1 whole camel, medium size
1 whole lamb, large size
20 whole chickens, medium size
60 eggs
12 kilos rice
2 kilos pine nuts
2 kilos almonds
1 kilo pistachio nuts (de-shelled)
110 gallons water
5 lbs. black pepper (or to taste)
2 lbs kosher salt (or to taste)
Method:
Skin, clean and trim the camel, lamb and chickens. Boil until tender. Cook rice until fluffy. Fry nuts until brown and mix with rice. Hard boil and peel the eggs. Stuff the chickens with half the eggs and rice/nut mixture. Stuff the lamb with five chickens and some more rice mixture. Stuff the camel with the lamb and more rice. Broil in a large oven or near a gas flame until brown. Spread the remaining rice/nut mixture on a tray and place the camel on top. Place remaining stuffed chickens around the camel. Decorate with boiled eggs and nuts. Serves a friendly crowd of 200. You’d better make two, so your guests won’t fight over the hump.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Spring rolls at home
The spring rolls (egg rolls, harumaki) that one gets at Asian restaurants can be really awful: tired, greasy, limp and old.
But you can make them yourself. It really is not very hard. One tends to become intimidated by the long list of ingredients and the prospect of deep frying, but in reality, it’s not such a long list and the deep frying involves maybe two cups of oil and a small saucepan. The frying is over in five minutes, at most.
The most tedious aspect of making homemade spring rolls is the chopping of the ingredients, but again, a lazy afternoon in front of the kitchen TV or conversation with a friend can take care of this.
You can put pretty much anything you want in a spring roll. The only thing you have to remember is that you want a nice crunch of fresh vegetables to contrast the crispiness of the wrapper and the softness of the other fillings.
Here’s a recipe for chicken spring rolls, but you can substitute pork or shrimp or even leave it vegetarian.
A couple of things I consider essential to a good spring roll are:
Bean sprouts
Carrots
Garlic
Green onions (scallions)
All the rest is just gravy.
So, let’s assemble the ingredients:
Bean sprouts, washed
Carrots, julienned as finely as you can make them
Garlic, diced very finely
Grated ginger (freeze and then Microplane)
Green onions (scallions) sliced in thin rings
Snow peas/mangetouts, washed, with spine thread and both ends removed, then julienned
Red serrano chiles, julienned (optional)
Shredded cabbage (optional)
Shiitake or other non-supermarket mushroom, julienned
Boneless skinless chicken
Salt to taste
Spring roll wrappers
Peanut oil
The reason I haven’t given quantities is because it’s totally up to you — it’s like making a pizza. You can omit or add as you like.
In a nonstick frying pan, sauté ingredients in sesame or peanut oil in a rough order of which takes longest to cook, ie. chilies, carrots first, followed by mushrooms and snow peas. You basically just want them to fry for about 4-5 minutes total. The bean sprouts, green onions, cabbage and ginger can literally be thrown in last for about a minute just to warm them over. They’ll get cooked further during the deep fry.
Sauté the meat in sesame or peanut oil, if you’re using, separately until done. With chicken, brown all over and cook through. Same with pork. Cook shrimp (completely shelled) all the way through. Then fine-chop all.
Mix all the ingredients together and let cool to room temperature.
Your spring roll wrappers (they should be about 6” square) will be frozen. Bring the whole package up to room temperature. It will take about 30 minutes.
Put on the oil. To save oil, use a smallish pot, not a wok or a saucepan. I suggest a two-quart pot. Use enough oil to cover one spring roll, and preheat to upper medium-low — about 7 o’clock on your stove dial. It will take about ten minutes to get up to temperature, so now get to work making the rolls.
In a small bowl, mix a teaspoon of flour with about a couple of tablespoons of water. You want to make a runny paste. Have a pastry brush at hand. You can also use an egg, beaten slightly.
Peel off a spring roll wrapper. They will be quite sticky and hard to peel off, but if you have the right wrappers, they will be remarkably resilient and won’t tear, provided you do it very slowly.
Arrange the wrapper so it’s a diamond. Place some filling, perhaps half a cup to 3/4 cup, in the rough middle. Now fold the bottom corner over the filling and slightly tuck it in on the other side. Now fold in the sides as if you’re making an envelope. When they’re folded in, brush the top of the wrapper triangle with some flour-water, and roll the whole package like a cigar over the top.
You just made a spring roll.
With tongs, drop the roll into the oil. Chances are that the first one will cook very quickly — maybe only 30 seconds. But then the oil temperature will come down and the others will be easier to control.
If you want, cook them partially and then refrigerate. They’ll reheat well in a toaster oven. Serve with soy or garlic-chili sauce. They’ll be the best spring rolls you ever tasted — and you made them yourself.
Things you can add to a spring roll:
Bamboo shoots (thanks for reminding me, Naoko)
Asian noodles (glass or rice)
Mint
Cilantro
Parsley
Ham
Beef
Squash
Tofu
Salmon
Tuna
Crab
Lobster
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Latest painting from photo
Okay, this is the latest from the folks at Europic art, the outfit in Xiamen, China, that produces these spectacular oil painting from your photos for only $110 US for a 20 x 24” canvas.
They took a low res photo that I sent them, one that was flash-lit, badly exposed but hell of cute, and produced this painting. You’ll notice in the original, my son’s foot was cut off—they put it back.
Apologies for the quality of both photos—the flash reflected horribly—but I think you can get the drift. Look at the detail in the wood floor! (Click on the picture for a larger version)
They took a low res photo that I sent them, one that was flash-lit, badly exposed but hell of cute, and produced this painting. You’ll notice in the original, my son’s foot was cut off—they put it back.
Apologies for the quality of both photos—the flash reflected horribly—but I think you can get the drift. Look at the detail in the wood floor! (Click on the picture for a larger version)
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Who Knew II
“Gawwwwwddddd soiiiive thaaaah Queeeeeeen!!!!!!!!”
Betcha don’t remember that. Most of you blogging punks were in diapers when the Sex Pistols changed the face of music, and, ultimately, the world.
I was in a heavy metal band at the time, 1977, and I rebelled at the suggestion of the drummer that we cover that song. Absolute crap, I said, was punk, in all its forms. Rabid, three-chord, noisy, mindless crap. I was into Santana, Yes, Chick Corea, Pink Floyd.
See where that got me.
Sid Vicious died in a nasty spiral of death that involved his girlfriend. Vomiting on audiences became something that was no longer fashionable. Johnny Rotten, the lead singer, the hate-spewing, vitriolic maniac, faded away.
So imagine my surprise when I turn on the TV and come across John Lydon's MegaBugs.
The funny thing is, he’s good. He’s really, really good.
Betcha don’t remember that. Most of you blogging punks were in diapers when the Sex Pistols changed the face of music, and, ultimately, the world.
I was in a heavy metal band at the time, 1977, and I rebelled at the suggestion of the drummer that we cover that song. Absolute crap, I said, was punk, in all its forms. Rabid, three-chord, noisy, mindless crap. I was into Santana, Yes, Chick Corea, Pink Floyd.
See where that got me.
Sid Vicious died in a nasty spiral of death that involved his girlfriend. Vomiting on audiences became something that was no longer fashionable. Johnny Rotten, the lead singer, the hate-spewing, vitriolic maniac, faded away.
So imagine my surprise when I turn on the TV and come across John Lydon's MegaBugs.
The funny thing is, he’s good. He’s really, really good.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Chicken Jalfrezi
This is a great and dependably consistent dish that can be made scorchingly hot or mild as Butter Chicken. Its name means “dry fry.” This recipe, due to the long ingredient list, looks more complicated than it actually is.
Stage 1
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3-6 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 T ginger, grated (this is easiest to do if frozen and grated with a Microplane)
3-5 serrano chiles, chopped (optional)
8 skinless, boneless chicken thighs, brined if possible
3 T turmeric
1 T chile powder
1 T salt
Ghee (clarified butter. It’s really the best, but if you can’t find it use peanut oil.)
Stage 2
28 oz. can diced tomatoes
3 T ground coriander
3 T ground cumin
2 T tandoori powder (optional)
1 T garam masala
1/2 C chopped cilantro (fresh coriander)
Method
In a large saucepan (nonstick is fine) melt about a tablespoon of ghee and fry the onions, chilies and ginger on medium heat until onions are translucent, about 6 minutes. Add the garlic and fry 2 minutes more.
Remove from pan and add another tablespoon of ghee, bring up to temperature and add the chicken. Brown on both sides for about 3 minutes, then add the turmeric, chile powder and salt. It will look like a powdery mess, but this is normal. Stir the chicken around to coat thoroughly with the mixture and fry on medium heat for ten minutes. Add back the onion mixture.
Now add the tomatoes, mix thoroughly and cook covered at a medium simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Uncover and simmer 10 minutes more.
Now add the coriander, cumin, tandoori powder (if using), garam masala and garlic salt and cook at a medium simmer for another 20 minutes or so. If the sauce becomes too thick, add chicken broth to thin. It shouldn’t be a soup, but it shouldn’t be a paste.
Stir in the cilantro and mix well.
At this stage you can turn off the heat and go on to other things until ready to serve (reheat gently before serving) or serve immediately on basmati rice with sprigs of cilantro for garnish.
Monday, June 4, 2007
A River Runs Through it
At 14, I lived in Kinshasa, Zaïre, a two-minute walk from the Congo river, at its mightiest point. The other shore, Brazzaville, in the then communist (and permanently troubled) Congo, was so far away that only on very clear days could you see it. But when the rains came, the sky across the river dimmed to almost black, the winds picked up, and you knew it was coming.
The rain would fall almost in sheets, as in a washing machine, not drop-by-drop like in Montreal. The river, being pounded by the rain, would also turn black.
Although there wasn’t what you would call a winter in Zaïre, it cooled somewhat in the middle of the year (the opposite from here) but the river never changed. There would be rafts of water hyacinths that would inundate the river, stretching as far as the eye could see, and the fishermen in their impossibly tiny pirogues could be seen at all times, navigating through the green sea.
But upon approaching the river, down at the shore, a slight hike down a small hill, one truly appreciated the immensity of the river and its awesome power. So many dragonflies flew that you could almost catch them with your hand. Tiny fish could clearly be seen nuzzling at the banks. Incredibly colorful butterflies fluttered back and forth in front of you.
Crocodiles swam here, and further up, where the river narrowed, were “The Rapids.” These were a fearsome stretch that will be familiar to any viewers of “extreme boating” programs, but to me they were amazing. And I swam in them, only later learning the danger from water-borne parasites such as Schistosomiasis and other nasties. How I came out of Africa unscathed is a mystery to me, but the massive Congo river will always be in my dreams as a huge, moving beast of nature until my dying day.
The rain would fall almost in sheets, as in a washing machine, not drop-by-drop like in Montreal. The river, being pounded by the rain, would also turn black.
Although there wasn’t what you would call a winter in Zaïre, it cooled somewhat in the middle of the year (the opposite from here) but the river never changed. There would be rafts of water hyacinths that would inundate the river, stretching as far as the eye could see, and the fishermen in their impossibly tiny pirogues could be seen at all times, navigating through the green sea.
But upon approaching the river, down at the shore, a slight hike down a small hill, one truly appreciated the immensity of the river and its awesome power. So many dragonflies flew that you could almost catch them with your hand. Tiny fish could clearly be seen nuzzling at the banks. Incredibly colorful butterflies fluttered back and forth in front of you.
Crocodiles swam here, and further up, where the river narrowed, were “The Rapids.” These were a fearsome stretch that will be familiar to any viewers of “extreme boating” programs, but to me they were amazing. And I swam in them, only later learning the danger from water-borne parasites such as Schistosomiasis and other nasties. How I came out of Africa unscathed is a mystery to me, but the massive Congo river will always be in my dreams as a huge, moving beast of nature until my dying day.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Gang theory and Iraq
Okay, so I was wrong. Democracy ain’t the best thing at certain times in certain places. Sometimes an unruly, mixed population needs — even wants — some asshole to detain, torture and kill for the sake of stability.
Yes, believe it or not, some cultures actually want to be ruled with an iron fist. This actually makes absolute sense when you’re trying to juggle the needs and necessary “requirements” (can you say “Reasonable accommodation”?) of many tribes forced to live together in one area, often within an arbitrarily-created borderline.
I call it “gang.” Just: “gang.” What is religion? A gang in fancy dress. Some remote master figure who calls all the shots. You’re fucked if you fuck up (Hell) or, if you're good, you get the fifty virgins (Heaven.)
This can be broken down very easily. Human beings tend to assemble into groups. It’s natural. You live in Montreal, and you happen to be Armenian. You give the Montreal Armenia society a call. You go to a couple of tea gatherings, and all is well, unless you gather to curse the Turks.
And therein lies the problem: the treehouse mentality. “It’s mine and I built it and if you don’t join the club you can’t come in.” This is not to mention the toy mentality, writ large: “You have something that will make my life better and I want it.”
Which brings us back to gangs. According to my theory, we form gangs (you can also interpret this as “tribes” for the less aggressive) that encompass groups from three individuals (two can’t be a gang) to billions, in order to evolutionarily prevail.
Thus, Christianity is just a huge gang. Look: it has all the gang hallmarks; the rituals, the mumbo-jumbo that will keep you hooked and pay to support the blood-sucking entrepreneur/con men who used to be a bit more useful at marketing Oil of Snake. Let’s not put into the mix the rampant sexual abuse which is tolerated, even protected, in the Catholic branch of the gang. (Tribe mentality 101).
Compare it to the ‘hood dude who signs you up and requests that you prove your faith by going through some ongoing weird hazing process. This isn't much different from Confession, which is just a gang ritual meant to intimidate but be salacious at the same time. It's one of many hallmarks of the Catholic faith, among them being ceremoniously dressed for sexual favors as an Altar Boy, or any number of mechanisms to oppress the victims with threats (Hell) enticements (Heaven) and always, always the threat of the wrath of God. Threats, benificences; it’s always the Church’s MO.
The gang theory, at least in my thinking, can be illustrated by the extrapolation of tiny gangs (three dudes about to rob a convenience store) all the way up to the Pope, head of one of the largest gangs in the world, pontificating on abortion. But I digress.
There is a more understandable way of examining the concept of the “gang” being the least common denominator of humanity and also its greatest if we look at a mandlebrotian situation; one in which the part of the tiniest is just a mere enabler of endlessly growing repetitions of the initial module, the initial module in this case being the most compact form of the “tribe” or the “gang” — that non-divisible number being three.
Gangs, large or small, are a recurring aspect of humanity. I fear they will never disappear. The Star Trek fantasy will never take place. The benign ruler will prosper, but only in a society that tolerates him. Otherwise, you have to just oppress. Oppression is the weapon of the rulers of the people who can only operate by being oppressed. Saddam ruled with an iron fist, Uday just went nuts, Stalin went even more nuts, but some people still pine for the old days.
Go figure.
Yes, believe it or not, some cultures actually want to be ruled with an iron fist. This actually makes absolute sense when you’re trying to juggle the needs and necessary “requirements” (can you say “Reasonable accommodation”?) of many tribes forced to live together in one area, often within an arbitrarily-created borderline.
I call it “gang.” Just: “gang.” What is religion? A gang in fancy dress. Some remote master figure who calls all the shots. You’re fucked if you fuck up (Hell) or, if you're good, you get the fifty virgins (Heaven.)
This can be broken down very easily. Human beings tend to assemble into groups. It’s natural. You live in Montreal, and you happen to be Armenian. You give the Montreal Armenia society a call. You go to a couple of tea gatherings, and all is well, unless you gather to curse the Turks.
And therein lies the problem: the treehouse mentality. “It’s mine and I built it and if you don’t join the club you can’t come in.” This is not to mention the toy mentality, writ large: “You have something that will make my life better and I want it.”
Which brings us back to gangs. According to my theory, we form gangs (you can also interpret this as “tribes” for the less aggressive) that encompass groups from three individuals (two can’t be a gang) to billions, in order to evolutionarily prevail.
Thus, Christianity is just a huge gang. Look: it has all the gang hallmarks; the rituals, the mumbo-jumbo that will keep you hooked and pay to support the blood-sucking entrepreneur/con men who used to be a bit more useful at marketing Oil of Snake. Let’s not put into the mix the rampant sexual abuse which is tolerated, even protected, in the Catholic branch of the gang. (Tribe mentality 101).
Compare it to the ‘hood dude who signs you up and requests that you prove your faith by going through some ongoing weird hazing process. This isn't much different from Confession, which is just a gang ritual meant to intimidate but be salacious at the same time. It's one of many hallmarks of the Catholic faith, among them being ceremoniously dressed for sexual favors as an Altar Boy, or any number of mechanisms to oppress the victims with threats (Hell) enticements (Heaven) and always, always the threat of the wrath of God. Threats, benificences; it’s always the Church’s MO.
The gang theory, at least in my thinking, can be illustrated by the extrapolation of tiny gangs (three dudes about to rob a convenience store) all the way up to the Pope, head of one of the largest gangs in the world, pontificating on abortion. But I digress.
There is a more understandable way of examining the concept of the “gang” being the least common denominator of humanity and also its greatest if we look at a mandlebrotian situation; one in which the part of the tiniest is just a mere enabler of endlessly growing repetitions of the initial module, the initial module in this case being the most compact form of the “tribe” or the “gang” — that non-divisible number being three.
Gangs, large or small, are a recurring aspect of humanity. I fear they will never disappear. The Star Trek fantasy will never take place. The benign ruler will prosper, but only in a society that tolerates him. Otherwise, you have to just oppress. Oppression is the weapon of the rulers of the people who can only operate by being oppressed. Saddam ruled with an iron fist, Uday just went nuts, Stalin went even more nuts, but some people still pine for the old days.
Go figure.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Bugs
Insects are the bane of my existence. I absolutely despise every single one of them, except for butterflies and moths.
This is completely aberrational, as I was born in India and lived there for ten years surrounded by every hopping, flying, crawling, biting thing known to man. And to top it all off, I followed with three years in Zaire (now the Congo) with moths as big as sparrows, spiders the size of dinner plates, things in the yard that stung you anonymously so that all you could do was scream and run, and just bugs — bloody bugs everywhere, all day, all night, in your room, in your bed, on your wall, in your face. Rats, snakes — bring ‘em on! Just keep away the fucking bugs.
Well, I and my siblings fought back. There were ant trains the width of four inches that would march onto the terrace and try to invade the house. They were the small type of red ants, but it didn’t make it any less pleasurable to take a spray can — I can’t remember what was in it — and lift a Zippo lighter to it and flay them all to tiny shriveled hulks in seconds. Fun, but very dangerous. I don’t know how we survived, but I’m glad they didn’t.
And then there were the cockroaches. You’d be blown away by coming into your bedroom and seeing one on the wall — sometimes up to four inches long, so old and almost blond that we dubbed them "Grandaddies."
But they could fly, they could crawl up a perpendicular wall and even on the ceiling. Not a good recipe for a sound night’s sleep.
We had a small pantry area where the cook kept the potatoes in bags. Dark, dank, just the place cockroaches like.
I had an air gun that I’d bought in England. I’d run out of the BB pellets, so we rolled tin foil very very tightly into balls, and got ready. We’d swing open the door and the fuckers would begin scuttling from the potato sacks and then we’d shoot them. I was a good shot, but they just weren’t in a hurry to die. It was a mess.
Then there was the summer that the Things came. I still don’t know what they were but they were about half an inch long and flew and were black or red, always a bad sign. They would land on you and if somehow you tried to brush them off they would leave some kind of acid on you that wouldn’t go away — they’d land on your forearm and you’d brush them off and then touch your upper arm with your forearm and there would develop two identical screaming, burning rashes. I was lucky that I never got attacked but there were hundreds of cases that I later heard were near fatal.
One day we somehow managed to rescue a chameleon from a snake park (zoo) in Kenya, and we flew him home. We named him Ollie. He was none too happy being flown to Zaire, turned positively black, but once we got there he was in chameleon heaven (and turned bright green.) And so were we. We staged daily fly raids, where we’d hold him up to some asshole fly on a wall and he’d blast it with his tongue. He never missed. Hundreds of flies went down. Sadly, he was so slow-moving that he wandered off someone’s arm on the terrace and into the garden, unnoticed. I will have to say that without question, he was best pet I ever had. How many of yours work for a living?
Flash: Montreal, tonight. I’m settling down in my 8th floor apartment with the A/C on and I feel a tiny crawl on my arm. A fucking ant.
Then I look in horror at the ghastly scene: there’s a huge swarm of the little assholes on the tatami around a bag of corn chips I was just eating from ten minutes ago, with Dave's Gourmet Insanity Salsa, which is one of the hottest in the world. I was wondering why it tasted particularly good tonight and now I know. I must have gone back to the salsa jar and refilled and kept munching at least twelve times in the dark. Those little fuckers were mixing with the salsa and stinging my tongue.
Fucking bugs make my skin crawl. But they taste good. That’s my sweetest revenge.
This is completely aberrational, as I was born in India and lived there for ten years surrounded by every hopping, flying, crawling, biting thing known to man. And to top it all off, I followed with three years in Zaire (now the Congo) with moths as big as sparrows, spiders the size of dinner plates, things in the yard that stung you anonymously so that all you could do was scream and run, and just bugs — bloody bugs everywhere, all day, all night, in your room, in your bed, on your wall, in your face. Rats, snakes — bring ‘em on! Just keep away the fucking bugs.
Well, I and my siblings fought back. There were ant trains the width of four inches that would march onto the terrace and try to invade the house. They were the small type of red ants, but it didn’t make it any less pleasurable to take a spray can — I can’t remember what was in it — and lift a Zippo lighter to it and flay them all to tiny shriveled hulks in seconds. Fun, but very dangerous. I don’t know how we survived, but I’m glad they didn’t.
And then there were the cockroaches. You’d be blown away by coming into your bedroom and seeing one on the wall — sometimes up to four inches long, so old and almost blond that we dubbed them "Grandaddies."
But they could fly, they could crawl up a perpendicular wall and even on the ceiling. Not a good recipe for a sound night’s sleep.
We had a small pantry area where the cook kept the potatoes in bags. Dark, dank, just the place cockroaches like.
I had an air gun that I’d bought in England. I’d run out of the BB pellets, so we rolled tin foil very very tightly into balls, and got ready. We’d swing open the door and the fuckers would begin scuttling from the potato sacks and then we’d shoot them. I was a good shot, but they just weren’t in a hurry to die. It was a mess.
Then there was the summer that the Things came. I still don’t know what they were but they were about half an inch long and flew and were black or red, always a bad sign. They would land on you and if somehow you tried to brush them off they would leave some kind of acid on you that wouldn’t go away — they’d land on your forearm and you’d brush them off and then touch your upper arm with your forearm and there would develop two identical screaming, burning rashes. I was lucky that I never got attacked but there were hundreds of cases that I later heard were near fatal.
One day we somehow managed to rescue a chameleon from a snake park (zoo) in Kenya, and we flew him home. We named him Ollie. He was none too happy being flown to Zaire, turned positively black, but once we got there he was in chameleon heaven (and turned bright green.) And so were we. We staged daily fly raids, where we’d hold him up to some asshole fly on a wall and he’d blast it with his tongue. He never missed. Hundreds of flies went down. Sadly, he was so slow-moving that he wandered off someone’s arm on the terrace and into the garden, unnoticed. I will have to say that without question, he was best pet I ever had. How many of yours work for a living?
Flash: Montreal, tonight. I’m settling down in my 8th floor apartment with the A/C on and I feel a tiny crawl on my arm. A fucking ant.
Then I look in horror at the ghastly scene: there’s a huge swarm of the little assholes on the tatami around a bag of corn chips I was just eating from ten minutes ago, with Dave's Gourmet Insanity Salsa, which is one of the hottest in the world. I was wondering why it tasted particularly good tonight and now I know. I must have gone back to the salsa jar and refilled and kept munching at least twelve times in the dark. Those little fuckers were mixing with the salsa and stinging my tongue.
Fucking bugs make my skin crawl. But they taste good. That’s my sweetest revenge.
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