Horrorshow, Droogies

Why do I torture myself like this? I’m reading (not for the first time) a book called Dangerous Beauty and it so horrific. Worse that the worst slasher film you will ever see, and I am not a fan of slasher-cum-horror films.

But the horror in real life is far worse than what writers can dream up.

The most horrific film I have ever seen is Roman Polanski’s The Pianist. I had nightmares for months. I will never watch that film again because it was so horrific. It made Schindler’s List look like a Teletoon cartoon.

God, the nightmares are all around us and we just keep perpetuating them . . . most definitely more horrorful than any Grimm’s fairy tale about being eaten by wolves.

Seems the Grimm bros. suffered from writer’s cramp when it called for telling a real horror story . . .

Rock Star

Well, I was, kinda. This is a picture I drew of a photo of my band when I was well, younger than I am now. I'm actually quite amazed at the talent I had at pencil drawing at such a young age, in art school. (I'm third from the left). The guy on the far left, Michael Giri, went on to really achieve rock star status with Stephen Duffy and the Lilac Time. Plus, all the girls loved Mikey . . .

Bob Coons, the second guy from the left, went on to create a Jerry Garcia tribute band (fantastic guitar player).

Then it's li'l ol' me and then yet another Mikey, who would very shortly ditch the hair, become a punk rocker and now is a rather wealthy dude in California (this was in California) is number four.

I'm so damn handsome, if I say so myself! And so rock-starrish, with that fake serious look and square jaw.

God, to be young again . . .

(Mikey II, who was an amazing artist in his own right, is still pissed off to this day that I never finished him . . . but if you want the T-shirt it's here. It might please him if I told him a few people cared that I never did give him his body but people were wearing him on their body

Violence XXXMCC2

I don’t know why I constantly harp on this on this blog—it really has no place on a Montreal food site—but I’m constantly horrified at the violence people do to each other. It literally makes me cry. (I’m crying right now). And I constantly remind people that violence is not just hitting, shooting or killing people . . . it’s accidental violence like leaving your two-year-old in his car seat while you go to work on a hot summer’s day, it’s intentional verbal abuse, harassment, not leaving someone alone when they just want to be left alone . . . it’s all forms of inflicting whatever torment you have in mind on another person, or an animal, for that matter. Even a plant deserves respect.

I’m a great one for history and I’m watching a movie of the unspeakable—unspeakable, I don’t know a better word—the Japanese empire wrought on this world in the Second World War.

And my son has a Japanese passport? How can I possibly explain to him that his ancestors murdered 300,000-plus Chinese civilians, with relish, in the Nanjing massacre? And that the author of a book about it, Iris Chang, committed suicide with a gunshot wound to the head because she couldn’t deal with the stories?

What is it in us that deals violence? Why? It certainly doesn’t advance us evolutionarily. Unless you use the old argument that, yeah, tigers kill Arunachal macaques and we somehow have the animal urge to eat, so we have to inflict violence. But that’s because that’s what tigers NEED to do. They don’t kill things or molest them just for sport.

I’m sure what I’m saying here has been said a million times but it needs to be said again.

And again. Until the violence, in every form, stops.

Little Nicky

I am now officially Little Nicky. Christ, I seem to be in this downward spiral of childhood . . . always regressing . . . Nicky wasn't enough, now it has to be Little Nicky . . . soon it will be Baby Nicky and then just You Little Asshole, Stop Fucking Around While I'm Trying to Put Your Goddamn Shoes On.

Jes' kidding.

Yeah, Fucking Die (rant quotient: 9.85)

God, talk about ASSHOLES in this world. And more assholes. Sometimes I just think that 80% or more of humanity are JUST ASSHOLES. Worse than assholes. Your typical asshole might bug you but he WON'T KILL YOU. But some DO and then they feel all fearful and regretful. WELL, THAT JUST DOES NOT WORK.

I am all for an eye for an eye. They should just be judged, tried and executed for murdering other human beings, or raping, or molesting, or harming other human beings. No, I'm not talking about stealing a fruit at the local market, I am talking about violence, intentional or unintentional, drunken or not drunken, commanded or not commanded, on another living being.

The faster the cycle of violence and abuse in this world is stopped, the faster the people will stop the violence and abuse. I personally am a victim; someone I know was abused as a kid and IT AFFECTS OUR RELATIONSHIP. If I could seek out the abuser and personally kill him, I would.

These creeps who inhabit our world are so pervasive, so dangerous . . . the drunk drivers, the guy next door who preys on your daughter, PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO DO SOMEONE HARM . . .

They should just be vanished. Then there would be room for the rest of us to actually live without fear.

Maybe the day will come, but I'm not too hopeful.

And I certainly do not believe in a god.

Oh, Fucking Great (Rant quotient:9.5)

Well, don't like the F-word in the subject line but this time it belongs.

Seems like the parasites and n'er-do-wells of the Internet are at it again, the little fucking assholes . . . when will people realize that these fuckwads are ripping us off just the same as if they walked into a convenience store and grabbed your collar over the counter at gunpoint? Why is it any different, minus the violence? When is it going to get to the point that these termites of the world . . . and it's astounding just how many of the fuckers there are . . . like anthillsfull . . . are personally in your computer like a home invasion? Well, they ARE NOW.

Thank god I'm on Macintoshes but that ain't going to protect me long.

But please go here to find out why assholes are trying to steal everything you have.


I am a huge eBay user with over 650 transactions and for a while there I took it into my mind to root out the fucking cons advertising $4000 Macintoshes for $200 . . . of course they didn't exist but PEOPLE WERE ACTUALLY BIDDING ON THEM . . . god, people just want to be fucked very badly and they usually succeed, because there are so many assholes out there ready to oblige. So I would bid $1,000,000 on them and that got the idiot eBay people's attention real quick.

Anyway . . . rant over. TAKE CARE.

/Nicky out

Odyssey

Christ, it has been one thing after another. ALL THREE of my computers, (all Macintoshes) have in the past four months broken down. But now I'm realizing that it's my laptop I treasure most. I can take it on the balcony. I can take it on the plane. I can plug a microphone into it and shout in my bedroom. WHAT THE FUCK WOULD I DO WITHOUT MY LAPTOP?

That's basically that. Fuck my desktops, a G4 and a G5.

But just when my tech genius, Voy (514-787-9312) fixed my laptop just before I went to Japan (BTW, this is a major plug for him . . . he's just a computer genius who works out of his home but who can take apart screens, hard drives, power supplies, you name it--and just happens to be the nicest guy in the bargain, and the cheapest too! After a month of messing with my MacBook he charged me $100) I discovered that my power plug was frayed and dead. So I took a black tombstone all the way to Japan. But today my new power supply just arrived and IT'S CHARGING. And I am so amped.

Life is finally complete again.

A disclaimer: I don't know why I am so dependent on technology and the straits of confusion therein. Some of the best times I have ever had were when the power failed and it was time to fire up the candles . . .

However, I don't feel complete unless all the technology around me is performing at 99%.

So . . . maybe the next post will be from that little black tombstone . . . on the balcony . . . next to the mint and basil and cilantro and dill and parsley . . .

How

I watched a documentary recently about the building of the Golden Gate Bridge. About the tortured genius who made it all happen, from square one. He died, to quote my 6.75 year-old son.

But it was so awesome, so majestic, just how so many human beings came together and BUILT that thing (and how many died and how many were saved because the architect had the thought to put nets into the mix just in case men fell).

But what prompted this post was, as usual, music. To be specific, Yes.

I was just listening to Close To The Edge and thinking, just like I did when I was a teenager and heard it, how did human beings do this? It is just such a monumental work, on a par with Brahm’s Symphony # 3, that I liken it to other human miracles, like the pyramids or Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

How can we be so amazing? Yet not amazing? How can we be so dumb at the same time?

I guess that is a question that will never be answered. But if they, those nameless people, could do it, do what I do not know, but had the will to do it and carried it through, so can I.

Val-David II

I was just reading an article in the Gazette about a restaurant in the Laurentians, L’Eau à la bouche. Well, I went to one recently . . .The Zebras in Val-David. Pretty amazing. We had the salmon and quinoa and were blown out with a thunderstorm but it made for an amazing evening.

Who knew salmon and quinoa could taste so good?

Nicky . . . Out? Not Quite Yet

I’m really, really pissed off. But at the same time I’m really really happy. I don’t know how to explain the first; it comes from going to Japan in three days and trying to recover. It must be kind of like combat; you just did it but 99% of people have no clue what you’re talking about and don’t care at all, so you’re just barking emptily. The worst thing is that people just don’t care. Except I’m not a member of some official family that goes to Japan from Canada over a period of three days and comes back . . . that would be a weird family. This I accept. But still, it’s a lonely group to be a part of . . . .

But what I am really happy about is that my 6.75-year-old son has FINALLY taken an interest in music. He actually wants to play the guitar and piano and watch youtube music videos. He’s rapt. Next step is a concert. It will blow his mind. He has never even seen a movie in a real theater. Imagine what a Pat Metheny concert would do to his tiny mind . . .

Still in zero-gravity. Will pull out soon.

Nicky out

How Ya Doin'?

The ‘hood is good.

For the longest time (fifteen years?) I resisted bonding. Checkout dude/dudette at the local Metro? No parlay fransay. Even though I speak perfect French and got to know all their names just by hearing others talk to them. 15 years is a long, long time.

But I’m softening. It’s just that I don’t want to go through life like a Californian, with a “How ya doin’” from some total stranger on the street. It’s like, I don’t know you and I don’t want the obligation to address you by the name that you know I know . . . it’s just another day and I just want to pass it anonymously.

But like I say, I'm softening. Tonight I went to Masako Sushi and learned that Rebecca (her adoptive Christian name)’s mother had died in China last week. And Rebecca is only 35. They are solemn (her husband and her) but my heart bleeds. They work so hard and make such good food and it’s just such a horror to hear news like that. Then Rebecca laid the clinker on the equation and revealed she’s been battling brain tumours for three years. The docs can just not assure her of the outcome.

Then I went to the dépanneur for beer with my 6-year old son and Michel who is a Lebanese landed immigrant told me that if I ever needed to go somewhere without Tai-chan that I could leave him with Michel at the dép, no problem.

It’s really amazing how these tiny networks NET-WORK.

But glad to know all these folk are around. Just wish I hadn’t been so reticent all these years.

Over My Head?

Christ, maybe I really did it this time. Maybe I'm truly fucked.

There is a band in Brasil. They are a Yes tribute band. Their tunes are here and here

They are SO GOOD it's frightening. It really is good for me to shrink into the shadows when I think of putting myself up against such talent. This is five guys from Brasil who are so good . . . if you know Yes, you will swear up and down that they themselves are performing these songs and these guys are pretenders.

But they're not. They really exist.

And I want to bring them to Montreal. I'm no impresario but these guys need to be brought here. Do any of you have an idea how I can get them here? Listen. I'm a harsh judge and these bastards pass every test.

Nicky out.

Jaco

Jaco Pastorius was such a good bass player, it makes his demise so horrible and, like John Lennon, he went down without even seeing a tiny portion of his potential. Christ, had he lived!!! Humanity would have so benefited.

He was mentally ill, propelled by drugs but his incredible intelligence is evident if you dial him in on youtube.

This guy is a true monster that I can never, ever hope to be but he's not around any more and it makes me sad. He may be gone but he lives on here.

What's amazing is that when he talked (as seen on youtube instructional videos) he was so NORMAL, so HUMAN. It just made me want to get his phone number and say "Jaco, dude, how are you doing?" He wasn't this monolith killer bass player that everyone feared. He was just a simple guy just like you and me.

Isn't that always the case? Kings and conquerors, they all go to sleep at night. But when they remove themselves from our existence, it makes all of us poorer.

. . . and Exist

Why does this fog not dissipate? Upside-down all the time. Listening to the same song over and over and hearing it in my dreams.

Brain in Sleep mode.

Must be chemicals. That's what life is all about. Chemicals.

Still, there are benefits. Jaco Pastorius at 8 a.m.

Life is not that bad, is it?

I Exist

I exist.

This post-Japan miasma envelops me. I listen to Weather Report at 12:30 a.m. and sit in my office chair but my mind is still on planes, talking foreign languages (I was amazed how quickly my Japanese came back--like I've always said, better than my French, remembering how I came back here in 1994 and was paralyzed from the feet up with French, though I'd spoken it fluently from age 13--just, Japanese had replaced it. But now I can switch effortlessly back and forth. Go figure).

So . . . weird. And I'm now reading an article in National Geographic about Calcutta (they bastardise it in that post-colonialisation fervor that seems to be striking the third world as "Kolkata". Well, better than Myanmar, eh?)and that's where I was born and lived for ten years. That is a long time!

The article encompasses the traffic chaos. Like I said in my last post, I'm so protected here, so safe. I bitch about Montreal traffic, but really, we're in heaven here. When I went back to Calcutta for my 40th birthday, to go see my old house, we got in a traffic accident our very first day. Hooked bumpers with another car. It was literally like those amusement park rides you come across. It was so stupid it was funny.

Yes, I bitch and moan but then I realise I really have nothing to bitch and moan about, when all things become clear.

Small

I don’t know why but the post-Japan trip makes me inexplicably depressed. But when I try to pinpoint the depression I can’t. I’m not in Iraq, Darfur, no hotspot, not in danger, living in a comfortable apartment in downtown Montreal, one of the safest, happiest spots on this Earth.

So why do I feel so vulnerable? As if life could slip away at any time. As if I’ve been looking at the world through miracle glasses this whole time, refusing to admit that Bad Things happen all the time, to so many good people, and I have no magical protection against them.

Dunno why a trip half way across the world provokes these feelings, but it seems to. I guess it just makes me realise how truly small I am.

And a mosquito bit me. Asshole. Feeling better already. SHE WILL DIE BEFORE I DO.

Guitar Hero Part I

Start 'em early.

You Never Know . . .

. . . what you’ve got until you lose it. And there’s nothing like a pre-Alzheimer’s experience more than a three-day turnaround trip to Japan. Want to be disoriented? (pardon the pun) Check. Want to be disordered? Check. Want to be distracted, disinterested, disinterred, dismayed, dismal, destroyed? Check for all. If it weren’t bolted on I’d have forgot my head.

As it is, I had to remember the following: our passports (only realised I was missing my sons’ Canadian and Japanese passports when we were about half an hour outbound to the airport in Kansai), my tickets, the keys to my house (who thinks about the keys to your house when you’re half way across the world?) my $356 Prada glasses, my $250 sunglasses, my laptop, my bag, his bag, his snacks, my money, my credit card . . . just so many things to think about. I’m just glad I didn’t forget Tai-chan in some café at Vancouver airport.

After all, he was the point of this trip . . . well, we made it and I only lost the house keys. But they’re replaceable. And after I talk to the owner of this hostel where we’re staying until I find them, I’m sure everything will be better.

Anyone got a room? Not to mention the skeleton of the cat you're going to find.

Japan

I know I'm relentlessly negative about being here but in the end it's not so bad. After all, it's just about moving personal space around and if it happens to be across the globe, much the better if the transition is smooth, and being here in Nara is like putting on a favorite old shoe, so it cancels out all the hectic plane rides and transport crap.

It's 1:10 a.m. and I'm so awake I may as well have snorted a couple of lines but it's very very quiet here in the countryside which is more than I can say for Cote-des-Neiges, where there's always a bus ready to drown out your most piquant amorisms.

So hey, folks, it's Nightfly on headphones and Japan like a cloak and I wish you all peace and light and hope to get through the trial that will be tomorrow. But knowing you guys are around makes it so much easier.

Nicky out

Land of the Sizing Run

I'm back here in Japan after an unprecedented six months away. The trip over wasn't too bad. I was actually able to sedate myself into sleeping both on my six-hour voyage to Vancouver and my 11-hour voyage to Osaka, but we were an hour and a half late to YVR so I had to run from terminal to terminal and had to save my hunger (the fare on domestic Air Canada flights is basically "pay for junk") because there were only two junk food restos along the way.

Never mind, the food from YVR to KIX was also junk food. I was forced to eat some vile salmon concoction (post on montrealvegetable, maybe!) but happily I was also able to sedate myself with some red wine and managed a couple of hours.

A couple of observations on this trip: The Japanese are most definitely getting fat, and younger. One security guard at the airport was in his early thirties and most definitely sporting a large pot belly. A very, very unusual sight here, let alone among the "elite" so-called "trained" among the population. A customs officer in the same age range was the same way . . . very disturbing to one who was here in the 80s and never saw anyone, let alone males in government positions to be overweight. Makes you wonder how fast they'd be able to run to catch you trying to ditch your half-smoked spliff.

And the doorways are disturbingly low. I'm 5-9' but I still unconsciously crouch going through the doorways at my ex-wife's parents' place . . .

Good news is that Tai-chan, my 6-year-old son, is as happy as ever and our adventure with English has begun anew and I expect to have him back up to speed in a week or so.

Bad news is that I only have tomorrow (it's 3 a.m. now) to do my shopping and then the day after it's a plane back to Montreal . . . wish me luck.

Chess XIXXMC

By the way, if any of you nice lurkers out there would like to have a friendly game of chess,facebook has a pretty good chess interface. I can show you how to set it up if you want.

I hope this link works, but if it doesn't, just go to facebook and do a search term "Chess" and it should lead you there.

And then prepare to be demolished!

Quelle ayirre?

God, sometimes I just don’t think I can hack it in Quebec. Some guy that I'm calling about replacing a screen was just on the phone and I was having major problems understanding him. My French is very good but it’s French, not Québecois. So when we were talking about what time and he kept saying “Quelle ayirre? Quelle ayirre?” I just couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. Finally figured out he was saying “Quelle heure.” Duh.

I should have switched to English but that’s a major faux-pas here . . . I should just ditch the French and learn Québecois instead.

Fodder

There’s a Star Trek: Next Generation episode about some guy who, on his home planet, was raised from birth to be a killing machine, to go to war and kill with no regrets. Can’t remember the episode name, but it serves my point. He’s a nice guy, just with the fault that he’s been so trained to defend himself (and kill in that defense) that he’s remarkably unable to settle down and is basically a human time bomb.

Well, just look at this article.

How reasonable is it for us to train someone to kill, put him in a situation where at any time he could realistically be blown to bits of flesh, and then expect him to put on a suit and tie and go to work on his return to civilisation?

Can you sense the paradox here? He no longer has any place in our society, and knows it. Very few people have been where he’s been and he feels abandoned. People go to work every day, they eat at McDonald’s, they argue and go to sleep. That has not been his world for perhaps years. He’s been constantly under pressure in a foreign land, with people who most definitely want to see him as a charred corpse, a place where you most sincerely can’t be messing around. Even here, being a policeman is a relatively safe endeavor. At least there aren’t a bunch of idiots with you in their crosshairs just for sport. How many of us have been through that? Huh?

“Hi, I’d like to apply for a job. I’ve been trained to kill people.”

There’s no huge support group. The rest of the country is preoccupied with a downturn in the economy, not a forgotten war thousands of miles away.

No, I’ve never been in the armed forces, but I’ve spoken about it before and I’ll say it again: these boys (and mostly they are only boys, cannon fodder) are shoved into an environment as alien to them as it is to you and me and then are expected to just come back like nothing happened.

Well, excuse me, something happened.

And you and I should make it our business to take care of those who take care of us.

Écrasé

I’m just not understanding the fact that 800 bicyclists per year in Quebec are having encounters with traffic. Why can’t they just ride on the sidewalk?

People aren’t dumb. Obviously you can’t go as fast on the sidewalk, but if you’re in a hurry, take the bus. In Japan, where I lived for five years, cyclists use the sidewalk. Housewives, schoolboys, elderly men, everyone uses the sidewalk — and no one gets hurt. Bikes have little tinkly bells that warn you they’re coming through and you just develop an instinct to move aside. It really isn’t hard. Walkers are never harmed.

In a city like Montreal, where I fear to tread as a pedestrian, let alone a cyclist, I think it’s ridiculous that bikes are confined to the roadway. I will never ride a bike in Montreal unless it’s on the sidewalk; it’s simply too dangerous.

Conductor of Conversations

Hate the awkward pause? Despise the faux-pas? Come to me. I’m the conversation expert. Since I hate being uncomfortable in any situation, I’ve developed the talent to rescue myself.

Ever sat at a table of people eating and then suddenly everything descends into the scraping of forks, clearing of throats, napkins being wielded?

That’s where I come in. “Hey, what do you get when you cross a rat with a weasel? A very small lawyer.”

I’m Mr. Pausebreaker. I’m Mr. Fillin. I come up with the transitions from one topic to another.

Think about it. In a group of human beings, SOMEONE has to take the helm to prevent anarchy. Even if anarchy in this case is silence.

“My grandfather used to lock me in a closet for five minutes every day. He said it was elevator practice.”

It never fails to work. If no one is conducting the conversation then it will always be awkward. So I volunteer.

Val-David

I’ve been helping doing renovations to a “cabin” (it’s actually a house, don’t know why they call it a cabin — probably the old connotations) in Val-David, a place about one hour’s drive north from Montreal. It’s a big ski area in the winter.

At any rate, I tried to summon what creative energy I could come up with. Plumbing or fixing doors is not my forte (by the way, just in passing, that word is not pronounced “fortay” but actually “fort,” but I digress) so I volunteered for the painting. I used to paint houses in my youth.

To my surprise, it all came back to me (well, it’s not neurosurgery) and it was unbelievable fun. Rollering a wall and smelling those latex fumes is, well, a gas.

I didn’t finish the room and I look so forward to going back to Val-David as soon as possible.

At night it is as black as a coffin and there are millions of stars. I’d forgotten about stars. (They’re those funny lights above your heads sometimes. Sometimes, if you’re like me and live in a big city).

And quiet as the grave.

I’ll try to take pictures for next time. The one below is from the perch at the end of that crazy climb.

Stair-o-phobia?

I have a fear of stairs. Not always, just sometimes. It all stems from one night when I lived in Japan. The stairs there tend to be quite steep, because the normal Japanese foot seems to be smaller than ours (but that’s just conjecture; it could just be because of lack of space).

At any rate, one night after work I was travelling the train system and yet again having to walk down an interminable flight of steep stairs with my usual insouciance, both hands in my long-coat pockets, and guess what: I tripped at the top of the stairs.

It hurt. Lots. There was no blood, but imagine a log rolling down a hill covered in boulders and you get the picture.

So yesterday my ultimate nightmare came true: climb a mountain in Val-David. It was actually a walkable path, but in places, steep — very steep, and lots and lots of stairs with no balustrades or handholds. I wasn’t very worried about going up. It was coming down that I was worried about.

Because think about it: when you’re going up a flight of steps, they’re clearly delineated, silhouetted against each other. But going down, they all seem to blend into one entity. And besides, you can never fall up the stairs.

So after I reached the top, a ten-minute-or-so trek, I was seized with anxiety. I could not concentrate on the brilliant vista. All I wanted was for it to all be over with, that I would be at the bottom again, but there was that extra anxiety factor: I had to do it by myself. No one could do it for me. Like a 40-story subway staircase, all going down.

That’s a long way to fall like a log rolling down a hill covered with boulders.

But what ended up being extremely funny was that one woman, some brash New Yorker bigmouth who was quite happy to put me down because of my spoken fear of stairs, was the only one of the party who fell flat on her ass on the way down. "I've got blood blisters on my hands," she whined.

It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be.

I might even do it again after witnessing her humiliation.

Yes, I think I might. This could be the end of my fear of stairs.