They'll Stay That Way Forever!

My son Tai-chan (his name is Taishi but “chan” means “little”) has adored computer games almost since he could walk.

I myself grew up in India, where there was no television, no radio, and only a mono phonograph that played Nat King Cole a lot.

There will never be a world for Tai-chan in which there weren’t computers. That is an odd sentence to read in many ways. But, like it or not, he’s surrounded by them now.

Which brings me to the point: why do all his Japanese relatives decry his playing computer games? (I guess they’re now just called video games, because those stand-up video game consoles hardly exist any more).

“His eyes will go bad . . .” “It’s a waste of time . . .” “Go play outside” . . .

Yup. It doesn’t bother MY mother when Taishi comes to California and spends all his time racing cars in an amazing Nascar simulation, or trying to find clues in some online mystery game.

Oh, you’d rather he be watching “Little Bear”, with its carefully educational, feel-good message all nicely encapsulated in its thirty-minute fantasy?

Which would you rather, now: having your child believe that there are bears and geese and badgers that can talk and commune together, with a cute message at the end of each episode, or be able, with delicate hand movements and constant mental adjustments, to win a very realistic simulator car race game?

Umm, ever flown on an Airbus A-340? The pilot does not rely on his memories of Owl’s messing up the cake batter in Cake Disaster, he relies on fine hand movements coordinated with his eyes, which are constantly multitasking between instruments.

Or perhaps, G. Donnelly Goldstein, the laparoscopic surgeon, who is removing your aunt’s gallbladder while watching a TV monitor, or maybe not even doing it manually — controlling the robot that does it.

Tai-chan, at age seven, picked up a billiards game on Brigitte’s computer in about 30 seconds, even though he’d never seen billiards in his young life, and was beating her by THE THIRD GAME.

Well I was reading Tintin at age seven, and I can surely tell you Snowy says “Whoah!”

Relativity Theory of Languages

It's my theory, my most basic one, that all the language difficulties in the world would be solved, countless misunderstandings avoided, subtitles thrown to the wind, if only everyone spoke English. It's the easiest to understand and the easiest one to speak.

You don't know how many times a day I go out, say, to a store, and say, "Excuse me, this flyer says this is on sale but you didn't ring me up with that price." See how easy it is to understand?

See, then if it were French I'd have to say something like, "Excusez, mais cette publi-ci mets ce truc comme "sale*sale*sale*" mais la caisse me dit quelque-chose de maudite."

German, it would be "Entshuldigen-sie bitte, ich habe nür eine halbe jahre deutsch gelernt am schule . . . aber Hitler war eine scheisskopf."

Japanese would be "Shitsurei shimasu ga, kono chikaku dewa osushiya-san ga sukunai, desu ne?"

Italian would be "Qui è un'offerta che non potete rifiutare . . ."

Do you see how much easier it is to understand the first sentence than all the others, no matter how mangled they might be?

Okay, don't get your backs up, YOU KNOW I'M KIDDING. Obviously the language YOU speak is the easiest language in the world and you have a right to wonder why the whole world doesn't adopt it because it's THE EASIEST ONE TO UNDERSTAND.

But it got me to thinking . . . (that can never be good, Nick watching a Discovery Channel documentary is always best at this time of night, just TAKE THE COMPUTER AWAY GENTLY, HANDS OFF THE KEYBOARD).

But I'll have to say that if Japanese was the most difficult language I learned to speak fluently in my short life, Hebrew is FAR FAR WORSE.

I remember I used to walk down the street in Japan while transferring between work locations, muttering hard-to-pronounce Japanese phrases under my breath, over and over.

Try saying "kamo shiremasen" very quickly. You have to pronounce it very precisely. It's Kah-moe-shee-ray-mah-sen. SAY IT TEN TIMES VERY QUICKLY.

It just means, "Could be . . ."

But that's a cakewalk. There are no Arabic sounding "khh"s in Japanese. It's a very straightforward language. Easy as pie.

Now try this, in Hebrew: "Sheyihiye lecha yom na'im". "Shay-ee-hee-yay-lechhhah-yom-na-eem."

Bit of a tongue teaser, eh wot? Say THAT ten times in a row. It's a real motivator to get me to get the whole world to sing the song the whole world should be singing, namely English.

And what does it mean?

"Have a nice day."

Lowel Ego lightbox

Ah Needs Anise

I never really appreciated pastis (Ricard, Pernod, ouzo, arrack) as a possible ingredient in cooking, but boy, do I sooo do now.

I’ve had restaurant meals with, say, “sauce pastis Marseillaise” (whatever that might be) but last night I took the plunge. What a revelation! The original plan was shrimp in linguine with crème fraîche and cheese sauce, but it only occurred to me mid-cooking to maybe try some pastis.

The first time was after I’d cooked down some shallots, garlic and ham in white wine . . . then something in my mind whispered “flambée!” But there was no cognac.

So in went 2 tablespoons of pastis, the click of a lighter, and “Whoosh!” Ouf. And it tasted/smelled SO GOOD.

Then, when it was time to separately sauté the shrimp in compound garlic butter and red pepper flakes, I splashed the whole potpourri with another slam of pastis, and “Whoosh!”

Recipe/pics to follow, but the shrimp were actually redolent of pastis . . . very slightly, and I’m sure that fennel would have tasted similar, but wow! I’ve met my new best cooking pal.

Next: Adventures with Absinthe!

Notes XMMCLIVª (and latent retinopathy)

Went to our final installment of the Happening Gourmand thing last night at Galiano's in Old Montreal.

Even $17 for a three-course meal adds up; add a bottle of (admittedly delectable) $30 Soana Orvieto and it's still around $70-$80 per couple.

The restaurant itself was dim. So dim that one swears that they're trying to save money on electricity. The lamps at the tables were little better than the night lights you stick in a hallway plug. The candles put out about 2.5 footlamberts per square foot.

This meant that with tired eyes, we could barely see that there was even writing on the menus, and decided that they were angling for some press on the recently trendy "blind dining" experience.

And jokers, all. When I went to inquire of the restrooms, Robin Guillaumes told me there weren't any. "Old Montreal, old way of doing things!" Hilarious. He cracked himself up.

But the real joke was on the food. Tired, insipid tomato-bocconcini salad. Dry, crusty "Chicken cordon bleu." Fit for high-school cafeterias America-wide.

Rubbery steak with an odd ratatouille-like sauce.

Needless to say, Restaurant Makeover should be called in for a prompt cardioversion.

Other than that, a trip to Tzanet rendered the usual delights. Frosted Zombie glasses. A tiny melonballer scraper to remove the seeds and ribs from chilies. An espresso maker for $10. Plus those guys are so friendly, you think you're in a Bizarro universe. They'll scour the whole place for you on a dime -- and it's huge.

And they gave us a 10% discount just because we said we were from montrealfood.com.

Awww.

Add to that a visit to Canon Montreal, just off the TransCanada, who took one look at the battery compartment door on my Digital Rebel that had fallen apart, who went wordlessly in the back, brought out a new one, attached it and said "Have a good day."

Now THAT's what I call service.

The yins and yangs of another day . . .

Girls' Night

Last night was Girls' Night. It meant that four of Brigitte's far-back-as-childhood friends were coming over to eat, drink and be very. No boys allowed. Except for servers, that is . . .

So I had to plan a menu. Two people can be challenging to cook for, but five? (I wasn't eating).

I thought: pizza. But pizza at its best is a horrifically time consuming process. One mistake and you're fucked.

It was decided that I'd make Thai curry chicken. But I usually use boneless, skinless thighs from Metro, and these had to be kosher . . . hips, bones, skin on. So I had to be butcher.

I never want to be a butcher. Trying to remove the meat from those pesky bones was messy, dangerous (it's still oozing a bit through the bandaid) and time-consuming.

But it was okay. Nowadays I never use a recipe, but it's good for something . . . to remind you of what you've forgotten. Almost forgot the frozen lemongrass and galangal but I didn't!

Plus, my first-time pakoras were on the menu. Say "Deep Fry" and then take a Deep Breath. That's how I basically feel about two + inches of hot oil in a pan.

And seekh kebab . . . still, the girls didn't seem to notice the multiple huge faults with the meal and devoured everything. A swarm of locusts in a Cheerio field couldn't have done better. (Can't for the life of me tell you how they pry open those boxes that grow on the Cheerios trees).

I'll do it again. But I'll do it differently. They wanted me to do a strip-tease. Umm, that will be with a sirloin strip, ladies, which I'll marinate, grill, wave in front of your faces with a "Nyah nyah" and then eat behind your lovely backs.

Skeletons

I'm in the middle of watching this movie, Klimt and I was struck by a single vision: a skeleton in a classroom.

It reminded me of when I was in art school. There was a skeleton in the classroom, a whole one, obviously not plastic. I often looked at it, sometimes went to touch it. It was just a skeleton, but I was fascinated by it. I finally got up the courage to ask the teacher about it. "Oh, it's from India. That's usually where they come from."

It was very small, maybe just five feet high. I looked at it and really, really thought: this was a person. This was someone just like me who maybe had hopes and dreams and just wanted what I wanted. And now he/she was hanging from a hook in a cold classroom 7,000 miles away from his/her village . . . I felt very bad. I put him/her to rest, I really did, I told him/her, you're okay, at least there's one person thinking about you, so far from home.

When I'm gone, take me any which way, anywhere you want, hang me from a hook so you can draw me, it's all fine . . . just be sure and say goodbye nicely.

Ate of the Onion Speech

I’m American, and I’m proud to be American. Today marks a day. It truly marks a momentous day: the day after yesterday and the day before all our tomorrows. I’m proud to be a part of this day. I’m actually considering doing the washing. But that’s another speech.

I am not angry with our outgoing president. I am not angry that he fucked up the free world, as it may or may not exist, for hundreds of millions of people. I am not angry that because of him, my passport — MY, “NICHOLAS J. ROBINSON” PASSPORT — became a stamp of shame in many parts of this good Earth. I am not angry that he caused the phrase “Ugly American” to be revived time and time again when before him, I had thought it laid to rest.

I am not angry at George W. Bush.

How can you be angry with someone who wants his own war to play with? “I wannit, I wannit, Daddy had one, I wannit!”

No, I’m angry at the motherfuckers WHO ELECTED HIM. Yes, you know who you are, you fucking Heartland Plumber Joes or whatever you want to call yourselves, you fucking trailer-park trash, you fundamentalist Christians, you Oprah-watching, Walmart-shopping denizens . . . YOU ELECTED HIM. TWICE.

He’s just a wannabe president, a total asshole who’d be better off running a Denny’s, but YOU ELECTED HIM.

He fucked up the world, but he was YOUR BOY.

It’s not his fault he was allowed to play in the world’s sandlot, because he was given the go-ahead. BY YOU.

Let’s hope this time you fucking got a clue and I DON’T HAVE TO RESORT TO MY CANADIAN PASSPORT THAT I NEVER REALLY WANTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

You assholes.

God Bless America.

Damn,

I KNEW that's what you were up to but these days I'm so on the money that I couldn't help guessing all your devious plots. Now you just confirmed it.

Taittinger's would be here.

As far as the sigh, goes, I RETURN IT IN SPADES.

Call James at the limo rental agency and have him on standby for the next ten + years, please. Then call Devon.

Taittinger's would be here.

Notes

God, how long has it been since I've actually posted anything as neutral or unprepossessing as something called "Notes?" Truth is, it's been utter chaos for almost six months. But maybe things are actually calming down, finally. No more planes, no more holidays, no more renovating, no more nothing. Until Feb 6, when we're due for an appointment with Air Canada and San Francisco . . .

But that's another story.

Notes:

Went to Basi again last week with a party of ten for Brigitte's birthday, and let me just say, that place is KING as far as dealing with people goes. We asked beforehand, and no doubt Mauricio would have a fit if I told you, but he let us bring TWO bottles of our own champagne (expertly served to us by the waiter) and also a birthday cake, also immaculately presented and served as if we'd ordered it from him.

Plus, he allowed me to substitute my favorite gamberi (jumbo shrimp) for what they had on the table d'hôte, on top of so many special requests I'd lost count. What was the damage for the both of us, after all this, including an amazing bottle of Soana Orvieto Classico 2005?

$125, 25% tip and tax included. Damn, I was going to make it 50% tip but cooler heads prevailed. The tip, it was pointed out, was not going to go to Mauricio.

But trust me, be you a couple or be you lots of couples, this is the place to have a grand experience for a measly price. And you know me, motherfuckers, I ain't just SAYIN' DAT.

And . . . okay, so I was being cagey the other day about a certain secret I didn't want y'all to know about. Okay, the pressure is too great . . . we went to a restaurant under the aegis of Happening Gourmand (pronounced, inexorably in Québecois "'Appeningeux Gerrmain") that was amazing, for the price . . . seventeen bucks for a three-course meal. Of course, you could get away with the $17 x 2 = $35 but of course we had to have a bottle of wine plus the extras, so it added up.

We slated for Suite 701 in the Place d'Armes hotel but, it being full that night, Brigitte wangled our going downstairs in the same hotel to the rich sister restaurant, Aix Cuisine du Terroir, for the same price! So we had a fantastic dinner, me with my incredible burger and she with her Angus beef steak (regrettably, among the few things upon which we part company is how she likes hers done . . . mine still grazing tableside and hers being chopped up into lumps of charcoal for further burning) and it only cost us $100 with wine, tax and tip.

So that's the reason I didn't want to tell you . . . I didn't want you peasants CROWDING MY SPACE. Especially that corner table at Galiano's tomorrow night, where we're going next . . . if I see you there there will be HELL TO PAY.

Unless you're buying, of course.

Khyber: Pass

Did you know that Kabul was in Tunisia? Well, neither did I. Until tonight.

God, what a slog across the frozen tundra to this misbegotten restaurant. You'll remember last night that we arrived at 9 or so only to be told there was "no more food" . . . that's like going to the OR and being told "Sorry, no more sutures . . . "

A caveat: I knew beforehand that this place was wildly popular. But no one told me half the younger college-age Québecoise in Montreal called this place their home.

Nice enough, I suppose, with the faux-Afghani ceiling-hangings and blah blah blah, but really, the rooms were claustrophobic and the nearby -- no, NEXT-TO tables -- were the equivalent of sitting in the balmy exhaust of a 747 engine as far as decibel levels go.

Who knew how high the female human voice can go? How loud? How strident? How disharmonious several of them can be? A murder of crows would sound more pleasant.

We were just ITCHING to get out of there after the harpy three feet away (can one be only 21 and yet be a harpy already?) shrieked her 54th guffaw at her own joke with her little pal across the table, swinging her glass of wine dangerously, while the only male of this six-part choir of shriekdom bellowed above the din (he only 21 or so, balding and 5-foot-five) about how he had chosen the Merlot specially for this occasion, and oh so how much did I want to grab the pitcher of ice water at my neighbour's table, reach across and pull the harpy's shirt away from her and pour the WHOLE PITCHER, lemon included, down her back.

The Shriek That Could Be Heard From Mont-Royal. It would have been sweet.

Then at checkout we found out that everyone who ran Khyber Pass was, in fact, from Tunisia. Oh well, nothing wrong with fighting for the preservation of lamb kebabs.

Oh, the food? Nothing to write home about.

Back?

After an alarming visit to Emergency -- stress-from-Japan-related -- maybe it's back to normal. Maybe.

I guess it can only be so if I'm going to restaurants. Yesterday it was Aix Cuisine du Terroir and tonight it was an abortive visit to Khyber Pass. Unfortunately as usual we were late -- try 9:30 -- and believe it or not, they said they'd "run out of food."

Huh? A popular restaurant, over 15 years old, "run out of food" on a Thursday in January? Ooooohhkay.

So it was across the street at Jardin de Panos. Who had no pitas. A Greek place with no pitas. No, they hadn't run out. They NEVER have pitas. Tsaziki with bread.

WHAT THE FUCK. (Well, I have to say it at least once a post, right? It's what you delightful crowd of lurking MOTHERFUCKERS have come to expect, god loves ya all).

Anyway . . . last night and the night before that redeemed everything, but I won't tell you why, yet. Not because I don't want you to know, but that I don't want you spoilin' my party 'cause I knows sumpin YOUSE don't and if ya dids you'dse be spoilin' my party. So when the party's over I'll let ya know.

But it's good to be back anyway. Nice to feel that crackling -28-degree snow underfoot. Bring it on!

Question Of The Day

Hey, how do you pronounce "quixotic"? Is it KEE-HO-TIC as in Don Quixote (who was that motherfucker anyway and why do I somehow know his full name (First name first, last name last, whoops, sorry, still coming down from Immigration) or is it Quicksolydian?

Jesus, who knows. Who ever actually uses it? "Quixotic individual arrested, 10:34 p.m., Arresting officer P. Johnson."

I guess just the cops.

The Trip From Hell

I know I'm a whiner. I'm that guy at work who whines about everything (usually for a good reason, but I digress because I'm a whiner) but I whine in a GOOD way. Think John Lennon whining and you get me. A "bon mot" here and there so to speak. A "fuck this noise" here and there too.

But might I presume to whine yet again?

There are trips from Hell. But somehow other people don't seem to mind them. It's only me who seems to gripe (always privately, never at anybody else, mind you -- that's a WEASEL kind of whiner) but it's a little running conversation with myself that only I enjoy (God forbid you're part of it) . . . ahh fucking A, jesus christ why are we sitting here on the fucking ground and the pilot isn't saying anything it's because there's something they don't want us to know we'll just turn around and go back to the gate why did I pick this fucking airline why did fucking Air Canada cancel its trips to Osaka those motherfuckers that's why I'm sitting in this miserable seat in this shithole of Detroit next to this snoring motherfucker . . ." Well, you get the general picture.

But in person, I become Affable Me, the kind who FUCKING WANGLED A FIRST-CLASS TICKET FROM OSAKA TO DETROIT JUST BY LOOKING SHARP AND MAKING A COUPLE OF GOOD JOKES IN JAPANESE. Yep, I can be sharp, kids. I've had people watch me make, say a service call to the video company and just drop their jaws and say "That was amazing! Where did you learn how to do that?" As if remembering "Hi, my name's John, how can I help you"'s name is John is amazing. Ya just gotta look sharp, act sharp, button down everything, toss off a few jokes and the woild is your OYSTER, I swear to Jesus Fucking Christmas.

So what you see is not always what you get . .. inside I'm seething but outside I'm laughing . . . you just gotta get a talent for it. Hmm, come to think of it, that accounts for 99% of Japanese . . .

Anyways, I DO tend to digress, especially considering I've been up for about 39 hours and can't sleep and felt the need to tell YOU (good) PEOPLE about everything as is my wont . . .

It was STILL the trip from Hell even in first class. When you don't want to be doing something, it always makes the rant quotient quite high, if I might say so myself. But I outdo me. I ALWAYS predict the worst possible outcome . . . there's going to be a huge line at security (there was) . . . Immigration is going be a nightmare (it was) . . . I'm going to lose my glasses (I didn't!) but let me tell you, if my personal fate was destined to be a root canal a day for a month I probably would have taken that sweet option.

How many times can you say fuck? How many times can you THINK fuck? It gets fucking old, let me tell you.

They need a better word because I've run out of mine.

But I'm back and I AIN'T GOING NOPLACE except for Brigitte's sweet arms.

Thank fucking god for some things. That's my sermon for today. God bless.

Finally

As if it somehow knows it's wrung every last ounce out of me, Japan loosens its grip. The vast silence of the countryside penetrates this lovely tatami room as Taishi sleeps by my side. A gentle rain percolates through the cold moist air and pitter-patters on everything except me.

Finally.

The horror of tomorrow's trip looms but it is lessened by the promises of its rewards: Home and Brigitte.

Thus this fucking blue sleeping pill and glass of sake better fucking work, pronto.

Silence

Sometimes silence is the only solution.

Think about it. Silence is highly underrated. Try it sometime and you'll always come out on top.

The Timetable

From 1 - 10 you're just a kid. If anything happens to you now that isn't good, you're fucked for the rest of your life.

10 - 20 you're a semi kid. This is when people will really try to kick your sorry tiny ass.

20 - 30 you're expected to not be a kid any more. But you're still a kid.

30 - 40 if you don't have your shit together everyone looks down on you as being "still a kid"

40 - 50 if you haven't made your fortune by now, you're pretty much fucked.

50 - 60 you are now really sorry you are no longer a kid.

60 - 70 well, haven't been there yet but I imagine it's pretty fucked.

70 - 80 guess what . . . everyone's taking care of you and you're a kid again. Still a fucking kid.

Nice Facebook, Nice (*pat pat*)

Sorry about the amount of five-letter words, ya fucks (sorry, I don’t count so good nowadays) in the titles but, hey, some thing just gotta be said.

Fuck Facebook. It’s about as useful as a nipple on a balloon. I deleted my account.

Half the fucking time you have no idea who’s reading your shit.

Friends? What do I need friends for? I have lots of friends. I don’t need to know who their fucking friends are or where they went for vacation. There are *hello* fucking orange 8 1/2 x 11 formula FAMILY NEWSLETTERS printed out on HP printers for that.

“H went to B and M had a baby and he’s so cute”. “J has posted a comment on your wall.” “J just had a baby but the baby unfortunately had yellow eyes so we’re considering contacts.”

WHO THE FUCK CARES?

What

Ever

Happened
To
The
PHONE ya fucking fucks.

It’s easy. Pick it up. Dial.

There is now an amazing technology called email.

Fuckin’ email me, ya fucking fucks.

As you can see, my mood is now restored.

Wish You Were Here

Well, maybe I didn't coin it, but "It never gets worse till it gets worse." I'm not being bombed in Gaza, maybe, but being in this godforsaken hellhole has its merits. Those being that I know there will be a time when I'm GONE, that being tomorrow afternoon at precisely 1:35 p.m. Japan time.

Have you ever felt completely helpless in a foreign country, dependent entirely on your hosts for everything, far from the nearest airport, not knowing how to get there? Well, I felt that in France and I feel it now. I was SO about to get dressed this morning, pack my meagre bag and walk out the door, at the mercy of passersby to tell me how to get to the nearest train station, where I would ask for the bus to the airport, to take my chances.

The only reason I didn't was that then I wouldn't be able to say goodbye to my son, who spent the night with me last night (rare around here).

So I guess I'll just DEAL WITH IT and suffer until tomorrow.

Fuck, couple of more chuu-hais and counting down the seconds will dull the horror.

Wish you were here.

Instead of me.

Upon Being On Mars

The lassitude I feel. I ventured to the store today. Same old, same old. Didn't sleep till 6, up at 12. Same store. The grandmother doing the same thing, raising her voice six octaves to talk on the phone.

It's an odd world, Japan. I remember the first time I arrived here and it was like stepping off a space ship. Well, it's still Mars, but it's the old familiar Mars I know so well. Martians all still act the same but the prices are down a bit. It's not minus 250 at noon but it's cold.

Mars still ain't the kind of place to raise the kids. And I'm still no Rocket Man.

I Want To, But

I'd love to cook something here but this place is such an unholy mess.

Every time I come here I get sick and I know why. The kitchen is a cesspool, the living room worse and the only oasis is the room I stay in. The grandmother makes the food and does a cursory job of seeing that the place is clean.

Food stays out overnight uncovered. It's not a big problem when it's cold like it is now, but she does the same during the summer . . . the parade of ants is testimony to the happiness of the bacteria.

I swear, every time I come here I get diarhhoea, sweating, you name it. They're always sick with something, these people.

Yet, my god, a COLD! Doctor, doctor doctor! Twelve useless medicines! Powders, salves, unguents!

It's fucking crazy.

So I'm hoping tonight's yakisoba was cooked into oblivion because although it was quite good I already feel my stomach just warming up for the real party . . . just hope that automatic toilet-seat warmer is in good shape.

I surely ain't here for the food.

I'm Still Not Sure

Not that I like to get into this, but here goes the gang theory again. Hamas is really no different than a huge gang. So what if they were so-called "elected?" Does the fact that Robert Mugabe rules Zimbabwe make him legitimate? He's a thug and Hamas are thugs. Hezbollah are just fucking one step away from being Crips. They hide behind the idea of religion to wreak their violence but in reality, they are simply hoodlums, no better than John Gotti and Meyer Lansky.

Call a thug what he is: A THUG.

I'm still not sure what violence solves but I know that thugs need to be kicked in their fucking asses because they're TOO DUMB to understand anything else.

Just thought I'd get that off my chest.

This Is My Reality

Here . . .

Ouf

The worst . . . easily the worst. Here I sit in this same ol' tatami room in Nara. I can't believe I'm here again.

I really DID NOT WANT TO GET ON THAT PLANE. I couldn't sleep all night before. My stomach was fucked just knowing what I had to do. But I had to do it . . . too many people at stake. Bring a little boy halfway across the world . . . well, let's say a Moon Shot is not too dissimilar.

And that's what it felt like. The fatigue, the sheer, numbing fatigue of waiting in line at security in one of the most crowded periods of the vacation season, at 6 a.m. The surly Northwest checkin people. The plane. Although I love to fly, I didn't feel like flying today. Leaving Brigitte and my safe, warm, happy house.

And then the flight to Detroit . . . horrific. Trying to sleep but as usual not succeeding. Then Detroit, Michigan, that asshole on the surface of this good Earth. "I'd like a white wine, please . . . "

"Sorry sir, we can't serve alcohol until noon on Sundays in Michigan." Whaaaa? Buttfuck, Egypt.

And then that insane 13-hour trek to Osaka on a rickety 747 with the gay pursers and actually accidentally falling asleep on the girl next to me because I thought somehow it was Brigitte and the stewardess waking me up to tell me not to (the girl swore she didn't call anyone) and then Taishi vomiting out of nowhere and trying to catch it with the cheap airplane pillow and it going all over my $250 coat and then the sheer horror of looking at my watch . . . it seemed that every time I looked it actually grew LONGER until touchdown.

And then the arrival, my GOD and the lineup at Immigration, the absolute chaos of the fucking Japanese who somehow seemed unable, this time, to coordinate themselves and my tired boy and my exhausted me, in yet another line (which line? Form two lines! No, form one! No, go here!) for 40 minutes . . .

Well, let me just say this futon feels pretty good right now.

This chuu-hai tastes pretty good too, and I'm going to just DIE now, if it's okay with you.

Nicky Out, from the darkside of the Earth . . .

Out of Work, Nothing Else to Do

My neighbor is out of work. He’s been out of work for a number of years now. He’s plenty smart, but he prefers to sit around drinking coffee, smoke, and talk about how he’s out of work.

Me? Well, I’m doing fine. I try to go about my day and find a way to make some money. What the hell is the point to sit around and stew about how I’m not making any money?

But recently my neighbour’s been weird. He knocks at my door in the middle of the night. Sometimes he knocks at my door in the middle of the day. But the other day, he kicked my door, and then started kicking my door every day, totally at random.

My kids are getting nervous. I’m getting nervous. I’m thinking, though I’m a peaceful guy, that I have to go over and kick his ass. What do you think, do you think I should go over and kick his ass? After all, how many times can I tolerate him kicking my door? Maybe I should just go over there and smash his knees so that it'll take years to walk again, let alone kick my door.

Maybe I should just take a baseball bat over there and finish his door-kicking forever.

What do you think?

Happy Goddamn New Year!

I really lost it yesterday. The chicken was there, a gift from Barry, he of montrealfood fame. It was STARING ME IN THE FACE. But Brigitte had to go BACK to the dentist to remove the crap from her wisdom tooth surgery. Bleeding like a stuck animal. I was alone except for Taishi.

Did I crumble, like I thought I would? Did I give up the quest and say "Okay, it's hot dogs for dinner . . ." I was so tempted. I not only had to make the first roast chicken of my life, but I HAD TO DO IT RIGHT.

So I did. I chopped a whole bunch of shallots, a bit in a daze. I toasted two slices of country bread, like a robot. I made a compound herb butter with garlic and parsley and fresh thyme. I put the chicken in the refrigerator, naked, so the skin would crisp up, for at least four hours.

Then I did what I was dreading . . . took the bird out and pushed up the skin so it was loose everywhere and spoonfed the herb butter under it. Then I stuffed it after cracking some pepper and sprinkling a little garlic salt into the stuffing.

Somehow, in my daze, I'd remembered to preheat the oven to 550 . . . I turned it down to 500 and cleaned about 10 new potatoes, sliced them kind of thick, and put them in a broiling pan drizzled with olive oil and chopped garlic and then set the chicken on a rack just above them so the drippings would flavor everything.

Then I made the gravy . . . I couldn't believe I was doing it, but I chopped the onion and sautéed it with garlic like an automaton (I was busy worrying about Brigitte) and chopped thyme and parsley and then added wine and chicken broth and reduced it over thirty minutes and then made a roux with herb butter and mixed it all together and it got thick and creamy and my god, the end of the road was near . . .

And the smell of the chicken roasting (my first!) filled the house and my work was done and Brigitte came home without pain and Taishi was being a seven-year-old angel and all suddenly became right with the world.

It was a good chicken. It was my first, but I did it goodly. I will make it again. I will make it better. Just like every day of this neue jahre, nouvel année, nuevo años, o-shogatsu . . . you guys take it easy and keep up wit' me. I'm gon' kick yo' asses!