Imagine There's No Camera

Somehow we got invited to the "Gala" opening of the John and Yoko's 30-year anniversary of their "Bed-in" at the Queen Elizabeth hotel in Montreal, at the Museum of Fine Arts. Don't ask how. I'll blog about it later, but meanwhile, here's a miscellaneous jumble of some photos that were taken -- gotta get the scoop on the newspapers, since it'll be all over the place tomorrow.

Click on the pics to make them bigger.

Upon Buying galacticproperty.com

At the moment, moving in to your new home on Jupiter is liable to be hindered by some commonplace complications. Foreseeing these complications, we’ve composed a Frequently Asked Questions section on just what you’ll be concerned about when you take possession of your Model XVI home on Jupiter.

Q. How do I move to Jupiter?
A. Don’t worry, we’ve got all that figured out.

Q. Am I allowed to have pets?
A. Yes, pets are allowed, but please read the Service Agreement first. Pit Bulls have recently come under the scrutiny of the Council for the Preservation of Section XVII.

Q. I'm afraid I'm going to gain some weight. Is there any truth to that?
A. If you weighed 118 lbs on Earth you'll weigh about 975 lbs. on Jupiter. However, there are Jenny Craig offices already established. Please contact Customer Service (Extension 6187-098-6252444-1098726-001-JENNY) for more details.

Q. Just how much area does “14 hectares, fertile soil, weak sun” encompass?
A. About 12.8 hectares, give or take an ammonia cloud. Planting is always advised only for the summer months.

Q. What if my neighbours are noisy, or don’t respect the parking spots along our street? I don’t want to seem to be a bother if I have to call someone.

A. Unplug their methane-protection emergency combilator. This should take care of the problem.

Q. My cable service is constantly interrupted by signals from Voyager II. Who can I apply to for a refund for those minutes that the Habs game on Earth doesn’t come through?

A. Call Customer Service at 610-987-675-9874-097865-456098776-238965-87654-45988766 and a customer service representative will be be with you in 22 hours and thirteen minutes. We apologize for the delay.

Schnookbook™, Schitter™

I have an idea for two anti-social networking sites, as invented by Jim Donahue but pursued by me: there would be schnookbook.com™, where all "Friends" would be called "Enemys" (sic) and spurned, and privacy would be of the utmost, mainly personal ramblings in some unintelligible code that only the author understood, with blurry, badly-taken photos; and schitter.com™, where there would be "schits"©, or efflusions of, to quote Jim, "4 characters or less" (© 2009 The Velvet Blog).

As in: "Fuck". Or: "No". Or: "Gway". An economical site. A grn™ site. Less photon waste®. Less carbon emissions.

Ravioli with Bolognese, Sausages and Crostini

Dinner was prosciutto-mushroom raviolis from Capitol at Jean-Talon market, with Louisiana sausage from the saucisserie at Atwater market, my Bolognese sauce and prosciutto-4-cheese crostini with sun-dried tomato.

I must say, it was quite good . . .

Nick’s Mushroom Sauce with Truffle Oil

Ingredients

About 1 lb. fresh mushrooms: shiitake, pleurot, cremini or a combination, sliced
1 small onion, chopped finely
6 large cloves garlic, chopped finely
1 cup dry white wine
1 heaped tablespoon grainy Dijon mustard
1 cup veal demiglace sauce (available at the butcher’s) or make your own
Flour
Butter
Truffle oil
Italian parsley, chopped
Salt
Pepper
Sugar

Method

Heat about a tablespoon of butter in a nonstick saucepan. Sauté the onions on medium heat until translucent, about 7 minutes. Add garlic, sauté three minutes further. Add about 1/4 cup chopped parsley. Remove and set aside.

Add two tablespoons butter and about one tablespoon truffle oil to pan. Sauté mushrooms until they lose their liquid, about 10 minutes. Remove from pan. Keep separate from onion mixture.

Put about 2 heaping tablespoons of flour and about 2 tablespoons of butter in the hot pan. Stir until well combined and keep stirring until the mixture begins to turn slightly brown. Add the wine and, stirring continuously, reduce for about ten minutes. Add the demiglace sauce and keep stirring, perhaps ten minutes more. Add mustard.

Add the onion mixture and combine well. Pour hot sauce into a large measuring cup. Purée with a hand blender until smooth.

Pour back into pan and add mushrooms and two tablespoons butter. Mix thoroughly. Serve on steak, chicken, veal, or marsh turtle with sprig of parsley and deep-fried garlic chips to garnish.

Next project, when I have a spare 48 hours: make my own demi-glace.

Patate Cinque Formaggio, Prosciutto, Cipolla, Crema, Aglio e Mandorla alla Nicola

That would be Nick’s Five-cheese Scalloped Potatoes with Prosciutto, Onions, Cream and Garlic and Parmesan-Almond Crust. This is a dish of creamy goodness that goes well with red meat, chicken or marsh turtle — well, just about anything.


Needless to say, do not skimp on the fat. Do not use low-fat anything or you’ll make me come over there.

Ingredients
5-6 medium russet potatoes (new potatoes are too waxy and don’t have enough starch to give this recipe its creamy taste), peeled and in cold water
1 medium white or red onion, sliced thinly
5-10 medium cloves garlic, chopped finely
10-15 very thin slices prosciutto
3/4 cup crème fraîche, or 1/2 cup crème fraîche mixed with 1/3 cup 2% milk
1 cup each grated aged Dutch Gouda, aged Asiago, aged Cheddar and a good Gruyère
1 cup finely grated Parmigiano Reggiano
3/4 cup bread crumbs
1/2 cup ground almonds
Parsley
Freshly-ground black pepper

Method
The best way to slice the potatoes is with a mandoline. I like to give them a ripple cut; it’s easy if you have a good mandoline (the tip of my middle finger does not agree with that statement, however).

If not, have all the ingredients at hand. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

Mix the bread-crumb-almond mixture: bread crumbs, parmesan, ground almonds and some finely chopped or dried parsley and some ground pepper.

Mix the chopped garlic with the four cheeses and some black pepper and parsley and combine thoroughly.

Grease the bottom of a 14 x 10 Pyrex baking dish or some similar-sized baking dish with butter.

Start cutting the potatoes or use the mandoline. Each slice should ideally be about 1/5 of an inch thick, or about 4 millimeters. Smaller or larger is not important, but try to keep them uniform.

As you finish the first potato, lay down each slice in the bottom of the baking dish so that they’re all slightly overlapping until you’ve covered the bottom of the baking pan. Lay on top three or so slices of the prosciutto. Depending on how many slices you have, be sparse or go wild.

Sprinkle a handful or so of onions on top, distributing evenly. Add some of the cheese mixture and distribute evenly. Drizzle about 1/4 cup of the cream over the potato-cheese-onion mixture.


Repeat the previous steps exactly in another layer. Depending on how many potatoes and/or cheese you have left, repeat until depleted, but you want to end up with the top layer completely covered by potatoes. If there is no more prosciutto, skip it; ditto for the onions. It’s best if you end up with a layer of the four cheeses on top of the potatoes.


Now sprinkle the top of the potatoes/cheese with the parmesan-bread crumb mixture in an even layer until gone.

Lower oven to 350 and bake one hour uncovered, checking frequently that the bread crumb topping is not getting too brown. Cover with a top or aluminum foil and bake another hour, checking from time to time. The parmesan-breadcrumb top should be a fairly deep brown; now carefully broil the top on 500 degrees, uncovered, for about three or four minutes, making sure not to burn.

Let cool slightly and serve. Reheats in microwave like a charm.

Note: if the potatoes are still underdone at this point, cover, increase heat to 450 and bake 30 - 60 minutes more. It will be worth it!

Ten to Six

When I used to work a nine-to-five, and I did, it was a nightmare. Not because I had to work a nine-to-five, but because everyone else did at the same time as me. Everyone had the lunch hour off (which I detested -- fuck lunch hour, let me come in early so I can leave early) so what ended up happening was that I joined the sheep at the bank, the post office, the miserable Friday nights and the equally miserable Sunday nights.

So you'd think our good merchants would figure these things out. People (notwithstanding me) work 9-5 Monday through Friday. What the fuck good is it for YOU to work 9-5 Monday to Friday? Selling groceries? Or wine, or knicknacks? HELL-OH, everyone is WORKING!

See the logic? They are WORKING, so they CAN'T COME TO YOUR STORE.

So you'd think the logic would filter through, that people are too busy working to come to your store during the week, but hey, there's always the weekend, right? Time to SHOP!

But also time to SLEEP IN! So, everyone wakes up at noon, fucks around till two, then starts to actually get out and about at three.

But guess what: you close AT FIVE. You close at FIVE on a Saturday. And you're not even OPEN on yet another day when Dad can finally drive mom and the kids somewhere to go shopping, that day called SUNDAY. Where the FUCK is the logic in that? Hey, close on a WEDNESDAY. We don't NEED you on a Wednesday. There are 50,000 other motherfuckers covering your ass.

So . . . today it was exactly that scenario. Up late, off to Jean-Talon Market at three. So many people, so few brains. It's a lousy place to buy steak and that's what I was shopping for, so we picked up fresh pasta at Capitol, but by the time we decided to go to Lachine to check out their sausage market it was 4:30. Arrived just in time to be told it had folded years ago, so rushed off to Atwater Market. Hell, thought I, THAT will be open till seven on a Saturday.

Wrong. Closed at five. Atlantique, the butcher near my house: closed at five. Paris, the other butcher near my house: closed at five. Neither open on Sunday (Paris neither on Monday).

"If they only stayed open one more hour," observed Brigitte, as we sat in the car watching several would-be customers trying the doors at Atlantique, "they'd get all the runoff from the lamers who close at five."

Exquisitely put.

Gone are the days when my neighborhood Metro closed at six every day and completely on Sunday but we apparently STILL HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO.

Welcome to Québec.

Flying Today

This says it all.

Seriously, Though

I'm being serious, now, people. I just lay down and my ears are still ringing, in spite of the lame-ass tissue-in-the-ear-last-minute remedy that Brigitte and I came up with. It's like a sunburn signals you've damaged your skin; ringing in your ears signals you've damaged them, quite badly. And in your ears' case, it's sometimes irreversible.

I still can't believe I got away with what I did in my youth, how many times I walked out of the rehearsal room with my ears in a literal fog, muted, not being able to hear treble, like a soft sponge had been put over them. How many concerts I went to when I was actually PROUD of how badly my ears hurt.

I haven't paid for it yet. I still hear very well, maybe more than most my age.

But I will. And after tonight's aural assault, actually quite vicious, maybe in many ways more insidious than in the past, with the tweakers and sub-woofers and aural enhancers, I might just invest in some hearing aid companies.

Because somehow I know I'm going to need them.

Macwood Fleet

Uhh . . . guess what! I'm not only a food critic! As of tonight I'm also a music critic! Qualifications: being an ACTUAL MUSICIAN. Yes, you read it correctly: my fingers can actually do more than type!

So we went to Fleetwood Mac at the Bell Centre tonight. C'mon, people, stop ragging on me, they're legends, you know, legends? They will probably never be back to Montreal in our lifetimes, (however, my young son might enjoy them live sometime in his lifetime, as might HIS son).

So there we went, to enjoy Mick Fleetwood, Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham and John McVie . . .

I won't do this in traditional critic format: I'll instead present it as in a form of numbered bullet points.

1. Loud.
2. Loud.
3. Loud.
4. The ciliae in my ears were having an urgent meeting to discuss what could be done, as they faced imminent total destruction. Their owner was putting them in an untenable situation, namely Stevie Nicks trying to sing Christine McVie, and the pitchforks and grumbling were beginning to unsettle the whole community.
5. Pedal point is good. Pedal point is a bunch of chords all being played on top of one note. Macwood Fleet is good at this.
6. Too good.
7. A-minor-F-G is good, a lot of the time. Not the 100,000th time.
8. LOUD. Brigitte actually had to give me some tissue, which I wet with my spit and shoved into my ears . . . ahhhh, blessed relief.
9. AND I USED TO BE A GODDAMN HEAVY METAL MUSICIAN WHO STOOD NEXT TO MY AMP FOR SEVERAL YEARS.
10. Note to Fleetwood Mac: stick to your hits. The rest is a bunch of crap.
11. Lyndsey Buckingham is an INCREDIBLE guitarist.
12. There are sheep farmers in Australia I would like to hire to put Stevie Nicks out of her misery.
13. Brigitte insisted she was on smack. I insisted she was not.
14. She was on Jack Daniels. Rich people no longer do smack.
15. Oh, and all those lovely lighters being lit and held up in solidarity with each other, like in the 70s at Santana concerts? Brigitte had to point out that they were actually cell phone video cameras.
16. Fuck me.

Nick's Observation of the Day

Watching Rachel Ray's "30-Minute Meals" is mesmerizing, like watching fire ants devour the decaying carcass of an oppossum, except sped up fifty times, like they do on the National Geographic channel.

Nick's Meet Sauce

. . . because this is what YOU should make on the first date. The classic Bolognese, made only the way a true mafioso would make it, know what I'm sayin? No fancy stuff, chop chop early, put it inna pan, wait three hours, put on your Sunday best, and wait for the doorbell to ring.

Nick's Bolognese



Ingredients

3 tablespoons butter
3/4 cup finely chopped onion
3/4 cup finely chopped carrot
3/4 cup finely chopped celery
3/4 cup finely chopped red pepper
4 tablespoons minced garlic
Salt
Cracked black pepper
Sugar
About two cups of shiitake, pleurot or porcini mushrooms, sliced
1/2 lb. each beef stew meat (cubes), veal cubes (if you can get them) and pork, in each case, no particular cut, ground in your nice grinder, or bought pre-ground
1/2 cup milk (low-fat is okay, we'll make up for it)
1/2 cup crème fraîche (see?)
1 cup dry white wine
1 large can San Marzano tomatoes, puréed with a hand blender (or a vacuum cleaner, whichever you prefer)
Fresh basil leaves

Method

Heat the butter in a large pan, Le Creuset if you have it. If not, a large nonstick skillet is acceptable. Make sure it has a cover. Sauté the mirepoix (onions/carrots/celery/red pepper) on medium heat until softened but not brown, about ten minutes.

Add the garlic, sauté another five minutes, stirring often.

Add the meat and separate with wooden spatula until thoroughly broken up. When meat is no longer pink, add milk and cream. Stir to combine. Cook until the liquid has almost disappeared, 15-20 minutes, stirring often; add the wine and mushrooms and repeat until the liquid has reduced, again, about 15-20 minutes.

Add the puréed tomatoes, stir to combine. Set stove on lowest possible setting, so that the occasional bubble is seen and, with lid partially on, simmer for approximately three hours, stirring occasionally.

At any point during these three hours, add the salt, sugar and pepper, tasting constantly. You want a nice balance of sweet and salty.

If it ends up being too dry, add a bit of water or chicken broth. Garnish with basil leaves. Can be made ahead and refrigerated/frozen or served right away with pasta of choice.

A Knife Story, For a Change

Now that there are two choppers around here, it was obvious to me that we needed two good chef's knives. Mine is already good, so I ordered one on eBay, thinking, Well, mine is Damascus steel, this is Damascus steel (half the price!) so what could be wrong with that?

Lots, as it turned out. Ignoring the fact that it took 45 days to arrive (more on that later), I took it out of its "box" and immediately knew I'd never use it. It was extremely heavy, for one. It was badly balanced, for two. And it wasn't sharp.

My test for sharp is The Tomato Test. If, using no pressure, only the weight of the knife itself, the blade immediately penetrates the skin instead of just impressing a blunt line, the knife is sharp (try it with your knife and a tomato. I'd like to hear the results of your tests). This knife failed the Tomato Test.

Add to that, the first time I washed it, I was appalled to come back an hour later to see it merrily rusting away. I kid you not.

$101 down the drain. (When I tried to file a claim with PayPal they told me the claim time limit was 45 days. Guess what? $101 down the drain. Anyone want a rusty, dull never-used knife with a nice cedar handle? Mail me a stamped, self-addressed knife box).

So we decided to go with what we have, and in Brigitte's case it was a serviceable, no-name, very blunt chef's knife. It was nice enough, though, well balanced and from I could see, a nice blade.

I tried sharpening it with the stone but it didn't work. Hard steel. So we decided to take it in. Somewhere. But we didn't know where, so we tried a couple of key shops but no one sharpened knives.

One of them recommended a place on Van Horne called Paris. "They sharpen hockey skate blades."

I should have taken that as an ominous warning.

But we went there anyway, and I decided to take my precious Kasumi with me as well.

The young guy said "Sure, I can sharpen these." And he proceeded to grind them in some godawful grinding machine for a few minutes. "Eight dollars."

I got home, did the Tomato Test on both and was horrified. The Kasumi was useless, where when I took it in it easily passed the test. Brigitte's was still useless.

But all Knife stories have good endings, as we all know. My friend Barry Lazar recommended a place in Laval called Bertoldi's.

So we popped up there on this very sunny morning. It's extremely hard to find -- hidden in a warren of side streets off the 15 to the Laurentians, but they were very pleasant and said they could have them in an hour, so we buzzed off to Carrefour Laval.

(Side story: found a place there called Le Rouet, that was having an astonishing 95%-off sale. Imagine a nice set of pasta bowls for four, quality stuff, for $2.50. We bought four. They usually cost $25. Get your sweet peasant asses down there before they're all gone).

Anyway, back to Bertoldi's to find out that I owed them not $40, not $20, but $8.

I didn't even look at the knives. Just brought them home and did the Tomato Test.

I could shave with both of them (matter of fact I might, tomorrow -- my razor's getting a bit worn).

So I really enjoyed making a mirepoix for my Bolognese this afternoon -- an hour of untold bliss.

See? I told you it'd be a knife story.

UPDATE:

We've decided we're going to go up to Laval tomorrow and buy ten pasta sets. For $25. Got that? $25 for TEN PASTA SETS FOR FOUR PEOPLE PLUS A SERVING BOWL. I'm posting this late so YOU< MY DEAR PEASANTS, CAN'T GO BEFORE US AND BUY THEM OUT FIRST.

New Projects

Brigitte and I are not doing well because we're so stressed out with money woes. Sniping, crabby, sleepless, the both of us. My usual inclination is to get drunk but that only makes things worse.

Our handyman, Shlomo, (Brigitte calls him "Shlo-poke") came over today and he's pretty much in the same situation. He proposed that we throw a Miserability Party; everyone comes over, gets drunk and starts arguments. There is no food and you have to pay to get in. Good idea, no? The end of the evening will be 12 drunk drivers and a sense of hopelessness.

Yes, I like that.

Either that or everyone comes over and we all watch Casablanca. The thing is, you drink when THEY drink. The results is 8 drunk drivers (can't fit twelve in the bedroom) and a sense of hopelessness. But at least no fights. See how my mind thinks up wonderful things to do?

Also, Butter Chicken on Sunday and tasting menu at Arlette's on Saturday.

Did I leave anything out?

In Case

In case you think I was joking about chimpanzees, check again.

If I Could Do It all Over Again

Fucking A. I would go to keyboard school. I just LOVE the piano. Call it piano envy. Fucking stupid dumb guitarist. What was I doing?

Well, I fucked up.

But I'm trying to rectify it. I was just on the piano listening to Peter Cincotti, who is very jazzy/bluesy, and, since my guitar is in the shop, was blasting on the piano (scotch and coke at 7:30 tends to do it to you) but I swear, now I'm not sure if I'm a better guitar player than a piano player. Jeez. Such troubles I seen. I don't have a clue what I'm doing on the keyboard, don't know the names of the notes, same as on the guitar or the bass but my fucking little fingers are the brains. I swear, they take me nowhere I've ever been, and it's quite without my permission.

The little fuckers rule me sometimes.

Yep, think about it. Sometimes your FINGERS rule you, you not them.

Listen to Peter Cincotti if you get a chance.

I Used To

Speaking of guitars, back in 1975 we lived in Dakar, Senegal, on the top floor of the tallest building in the country. I was in a band with my brother. We practiced in the apartment.

We went to California and bought a Marshall Stack.

Uhh, these are the same amplifiers that The Who used to use in concert, dear readers. And we all know that all the ciliae in their ears died long ago and Keith Moon exploded onstage, so you can only imagine the day Chris and I decided to crank it up to 11.

My mother just happened to be out shopping and she said she heard it from the market, which is about a mile away.

She was not amused.

Oh Dear

Took the guitar to Steve's the other day and am now having withdrawal symptoms . . . the acoustic is okay but I can't keep the neighbours awake with it.

This alone is regrettable. Please donate for a nice electric guitar at PayPal in the name of tonbo@montrealfood.com. Did you know that even birds get entertained when listening to me play? Yup, their brains are really small but they're really SMART. They know top-ten hits when they hear them.

So please donate, loyal readers, the spiel I got from Steve's about the guitar was distressing.

Support a good cause! Donate! Summer is coming and I'll be blasting on the balcony . . . don't you want to hear that?

I Don't Know

I guess we all get depressed from time to time. Brigitte is now. So what do I do?

Well, I take a picture of her little plants in the window. See how that makes things better?

Fucking sun. What's up with that? Piss off. I need a rainy day right now, you 12,000 degree-burning asshole. Go find some friendly clouds and seduce them, willya? Oh, I know, you MARCH ACROSS THE SKY in your inexorable way, but fuck you, you're flat and don't think about denying it and you fucking BURNED ME when I was a kid, you asshole.

Burned

Red

Horror.

So maybe, you could think twice about rising tomorrow morning?

Black Holes

I don't know all the technical details about Black Holes, but I know they're really evil. Really, really evil. Please avoid them like the plague. I think I have one just above my balcony, because birds seem to fly into it but never come out.

And what's the deal with a billion? Do you even KNOW how much that is? It's unimaginable. Yo, look at all the pixels on your screen. Multiply that by one-hundred million.

Get it? ONE HUNDRED MILLION times the pixels on your screen.

Have you seen a pixel?

Here

.

That's a pixel. Or maybe, it's just a full stop -- the exact nomenclature escapes me for the moment. But just imagine a BILLION OF THEM. That, my fine feathered friends, is A LOT. Like, they would be spilling out of your fucking monitor. All over your desk.

Just how do you clean up a billion pixels?

Huh? Swiffer Wetjet? ShamWow?

I really need to know the answer to these questions.Please email me if you have any ideas.

Downtown

We had the misfortune of being downtown yesterday.

Fucking 723 cop cars, ambulances and firetrucks at the same time. Can you say "mistake?"

Just wanted to turn in my guitar to Steve's, fuck around at some kitchen store, maybe an Asiatica or two, and instead we got chaos.

People are SO FUCKING DUMB. It was apparently an ANNUAL protest against police brutality, yet they went on a rampage, smashing small business windows or throwing paint on hotels or whatever it is that fucking clueless hooligans like to do. Anything for an excuse.

Look, last I checked I'm no cop-lover and legitimate protest is all very well, but do you HAVE TO BE IGNORANT ASSHOLES ABOUT IT?

Hmm . . . well, in light of my recent contemplations of the human condition,

I GUESS YOU DO.

I say: FUCK YOU FOR RUINING MY DAY DOWNTOWN ON A PERFECT DAY WITH BRIGITTE.

THAT is what I say to those MOTHERFUCKERS. Brigitte joked around when I said how concerned I was to be in the midst of such a rabble, cop cars jetting down the street at 50 miles an hour in a 20-mile-an-hour zone, but now that I'm thinking about it, next time,

BRING IT ON. I will personally join the fray and KICK your sorry, tired lame rabbity asses. You, your organizers and everyone to do with you need to be HUDDLED UNDER A FREEWAY OVERPASS with the rain falling and nowhere else to go. Hey, ever heard of Bernie Madoff?

Lucky you stupid fucking retards didn't get involved with that, although I'm very much wishing you did.

It is formally called a SOCIETY. WE LIVE IN IT. No one needs your sorry-ass pathetic protests. Fucking call the mayor's office in the future, you fucking excuses for human beings (or hey, here's a good one: go to Iraq and become a failed suicide bomber -- that always does a service for humanity! Yay! Hey, I can come up with MANY services you can provide humanity other than FUCKING BEING ALIVE WITH THE REST OF US).

Hello, hello, anybody home? The police, whom I absolutely have no truck with, are not some Nazi-organization out to fuck you personally. HELLO, each one of them is an individual like you with possibly a family, small kids, cousins, who the fuck knows. They get their jobs just because they want a job. How could you possibly think that they're a sinister "entity" out to get you? To brutalise you? Sure, there can be mistakes and fuckups, but doesn't that happen in any job? Well, mostly, our jobs don't involve carrying around live ammunition -- last time I thought about it, my job as a photostat technician didn't call for a Glock 90, but these are people like YOU AND ME.

And guess what: they're trying to protect YOU AND ME. Young kids, often with no experience.Just ON-THE-JOB NIGHTMARES.

Think about it: how often have you had to deal with some raging alcoholic maniac with a handgun suddenly going berserk? Okay? Getting me here?

They fuck with me. I swear, they personally target me. Brigitte got a ticket for $42 just parked outside the Bistro, those motherfucking assholes, the other day, for TWO MINUTES but y'know? The cops piss me off but they are here for a PURPOSE.

It's life. They're all good people, just trying to do their jobs. I don't know what the fuck it is you do but _I_ personally wouldn't want to have to wake up at 6 a.m., kiss my wife and baby goodbye, put on a fucking uniform, strap on a lethal weapon that I may or may not have to use in a chaotic situation and GO TO WORK.

Is that okay, have I finally made some sense?

Coleslaw

I know you're not going to have a clue of what I'm talking about (a physics degree might help, but I know you'd just buy one online, so that doesn't count), but the so-called "Dark Matter" that apparently permeates the universe all we humans reluctantly share has been discovered to be your common, garden-grade coleslaw.

You read it right, people; that would be shredded cabbage, maybe shredded carrots and if you're lucky, some red onion, in a light sauce that involves a certain amount of mayonnaise, maybe a touch of honey and definitely salt and cracked pink 'n black pepper (at least, the way I might do it, though I could always use Kraft Coleslaw dressing in a pinch) that has been refrigerated for a certain amount of time.

See, here's the reasoning:

a) There is Dark Matter. That has been proven beyond a doubt.

b) 99.9% of the time, unless you open the door, your refrigerator is completely dark. No light can escape its confines. This is also a confirmed phenomenon by reputable scientists.

c) Many, many people have coleslaw, in various degrees of preservation and various degrees of configurations, in their refrigerators.

d) The previous statement is somewhat vague, as in how many people constitutes "many"? Is it like that Amazonian tribe that while numbering anything after three as "many" nevertheless can do calculus while filing down blowgun darts?

e) The Final Answer (do you need to go to the audience or are you willing to risk the entire five million?)

f) Is

g) YES! The Final Answer is that coleslaw is the shapeless, formless phenomenon that shields the Hubble Telescope from the Crab and Lobster Nebula (and a whole bunch of other nebulae, all on special this week for $12.99, by the way), and

h) takes up a LOT OF SPACE.

Eagle

Houston, the Eagle HAS LANDED. I'm stepping off the LEM now.

The sauce is awesome and all its relatives look really good. Meat has tenderized over the past five hours -- I should hope so! -- so now I'm going to take my happy pill (more on that later) and DINNER IS SOIVED.

UPDATE SUN 15:

The meat was better than good, the potatotoes (not a typo, just what I call them for my son) not overdone, and the dinner was a grand success.

Hmm, now what to do with the leftovers . . .

The Roast Part Deux

Too oily to tell is my watchword, but hey, I'm blogging as I cook. But Brigitte seems to be of the opinion the the meat is just a fucked piece of meat. That happens. We're blasting the hell out of it at 500 degrees but apparently it just doesn't seem to be softening, and it's been 4 hours.





Now doing the mushroom sauce . . . at least that's my specialty. A few shiitakes, a few buttons, some garlic butter, a little white wine, some pan juices (hey, remember that, my earnest band of pupils?) maybe some flour and lots of butter and we have >FUCKING LIFTOFF> Houston.

Capiche?

The Roast

God, everything seems to be a production around here. Brigitte was sneezing like a squirrel yesterday and then today I sneezed, like, literally, fifteen times in a row.

It was my plan to cook the pot roast, so indeed, I woke up out of an Ambien-induced sleep this morning and went to get all the vegetables at Exo Fruits and came back, but started sneezing shortly thereafter. So we both took Actifed. Mistake! We died as if being snowploughed by a team of meese. Woke up with a jerk at 4 and realised I had neglected to spice-rub the roast . . . Oh, the Humanity!

Anyway, long story short, got that done and the bastard is in the oven sitting on a bed of garlic cloves, celery and carrots (Brigitte told me in no uncertain terms: NO TOMATOES).

Cut new potatoes, halved them and sautéed them in garlic butter (of my own making, I'll have you know!) then did halved onions -- I forgot the pearl type, which I regret -- and then long green beans, which I did with a slight Indian touch of cumin seed and turmeric. Put all those creatures together in their own roasting pan and put them in with the roast on 400.

God knows how this will all turn out; it's all on the fly, McFly. Hopefully the beans will turn out browned and succulent, the potatoes soft yet not overdone, the meat absolutely falling apart on the-not-bone, and the shiitake and button-mushroom sauce I am planning will just make everything SING. (No pastis! Don't you admire my restraint?)

Ahh, I guess we'll find out. I may even take pictures of this potential disaster. At least I'll have a record for next time.

But just remember this one word, my precious peasants: pan-juices. THAT ALONE will save the day.

The sermon hath officially been delivered for this, the fourteenth day of our Weasel, 2009.

Is it Wrong?

Is it wrong to medicate? No doubt among whoever is reading this there will be two firmly embedded camps.

But is it wrong? If humanity had been sober since the Dawn of Time would there ever have been an Oscar Wilde, a Toulouse Lautrec, a Van Gogh?

You may not know it, but Stephen King (and he'll freely admit it) made most of his early fortune completely pumped on coke. Writing day and night. For YEARS! Snorting day and night.

Did

You

Know

That?

Fucking Ernest Hemingway was pretty much 90% half in the bag. Do you understand my words? WHEN HE WROTE HIS "MASTERPIECES" THAT ARE TAUGHT AT COLLEGES HE WAS PRACTICALLY SO FUCKED UP he probably couldn't see his typewriter.

Ian Fleming was the same. Pretty much fucked up ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. Richard Burton: fucked up ALL DAY EVERY DAY on amounts of alcohol you and I can only just imagine. Elizabeth Taylor: even worse: arrived at work in the morning with an enormous flask of "juice" which was really straight vodka on ice. Oh, okay, you go to work like this? But THEY DO AND THEY DID.

Dylan Thomas was so fucked up 99% of the time that it's amazing anything arrived on the page.

And I have it on personal knowledge that dear, dear, Nick auf der Maur, gods rest his sweet, sweet soul, loved his liquor when it was thicker. God, I loved him. You just can't IMAGINE how much I raced to read his columns in the Gazette. Fuck, Nick, why did you check out anyway? There is no equal.

But I digress, as Brian Kappler, AKA Doug Camilli likes to say in the Gazette (sorry, I should be providing links to this stuff but I'm too lazy here on this Saturday morning rant).

I know I've written most of my best stories on cocaine and alcohol so I guess I'm just JOINING THE HALLOWED PANTHEON.

Chat

Another video chat with my son, sitting on fucking Mars in Japan, last night . . . why? (As the tears roll down). Why can't he be across town? Why can't I see him every weekend? What is it going to do to him to only see me two months a year?

He was so normal, just as usual, but I wonder what it does to his little seven-year-old mind.

I felt abandoned by my parents when they sent me to boarding school in England when I was nine . . . I was so small! I didn't have a choice. So being deprived of your father must be so tough, mentally.

Maybe not, but I don't want to see the posts he'll write when he gets older: "Oh, my dad, he was never around. I saw him each weekend on chat and he came and got me every six months if I was lucky."

Is that a nice thing for a son to think? That I don't care about him? I JUST SO CARE ABOUT HIM but there's nothing I can do and there's no way I can tell him how much he infiltrates my very soul because he can't read English and his mother probably wouldn't read it to him if I wrote it anyway.

Sorry to depart from the regularly scheduled joke programming but sometimes the tears roll and there's nothing to be done with it. It's hard, I know it's hard and I know it's going to be hard but it shouldn't be of any consequence to anyone but myself so just ignore me for the moment.

I'll get back to myself shortly.

Thankful

Another thankfully removed from the gene pool!

But taking a five-year old with you . . . I'd have done him the personal favor and used a nail gun to the back of his head instead (you'll notice I have a fascination with nails, simply because I know how painful they can be).

Fucking moron.

Okay

Okay, I can see now that the peasantry needs a collective SOUND THRASHING. You are simply too slow! In this space of five minutes I have already come up with the "low-cost beef cut" solution, none involving a recipe culled from anyone else.

Here's how it will go down: I won't bother marinating the beef (doesn't work) but will prepare a spice rub probably involving fresh thyme and perhaps Italian parsley with sea salt and cracked pepper in a truffle-oil base.

I will probably sear it on all sides in a non-stick pan, then transfer it to a baking dish to rest. I will probably cut around 30 cherry tomatoes in half and roast them with olive oil, lots of garlic and a little basil for about thirty minutes.

Meanwhile, I will cut around ten new potatoes in half and peel around 30 pearl onions.

When the tomatoes are roasted I will put them in a pan with three cups white wine and reduce. I'll then purée this mixture and add a tablespoon of tomato purée and some herbs, then about two cups of chicken stock.

I will put the roast in the oven at around 400 degrees in the tomato/wine/broth mixture, adding wine or broth as necessary, foil-tented, for one hour.

I will turn the roast over and braise for one more hour. I will brown the pearl onions in garlic butter, set aside, then brown the potatoes.

About 25 minutes before pulling the roast out I will add the potatoes and onions and eventually, even some green beans and broccoli.

When the roast is done I will pull it out, pour off the pan juices, mix them with some flour and butter and spices and maybe some more wine and reduce in a frying pan.

Done!

Pot Roast

Okay, I'm faced with yet another first. My Saturday cooking project involves around a 2 lb. "European Blade Roast".

From what I've gathered, this is called a pot roast. Maybe? Anyway, it's a less desirable cut that needs to be braised for several hours, probably in some kind of alcoholic liquid (how about scotch and coke?) with large vegetables. Okay, this I can do.

I thought I would look up some recipe for it but instead will ask you, the peasantry, for ideas, and if they are not forthcoming will get the servants to cook it.

But the sound of the words "Pot Roast" remind me of my mother and the abominations that came from her oven.

Perhaps some truffle oil could be involved? Some sherry and/or champagne? An exotic mushroom or two, just for the flavor? Tons of shallots and garlic and a roux gravy with the pan juices after, with tomato paste or maybe even roasted cherry tomatoes? Puréed with Italian parsely or even, as a touch of the exotic, mint?

Hmm. Fennel. I said I wanted to cook with fennel. Would that work here, or is this a more Irish-style deal? Earthy, salt-and-pepper stuff . . .

Hmm, could Italianate it with a ragù-type sauce, tomatoes, chicken broth, potatoes, basil . . .

C'mon, c'mon, HELP ME, pezzanovante, don't just stand there reading! The fate of my Saturday cooking project depends upon it and may affect generations to come. Ideas, IDEAS, people, let's come up with IDEAS.

I will hold each and every one of you personally responsible if it is not a success. And YOU KNOW THE VASTNESS OF THE REACH OF MY INESTIMABLE WRATH.

The Old West

I imagine in the Old West there was a lot of downtime. I mean, look at it: it took hours to ride your horse to the neighbour's ranch or go into town for whatever passed for groceries back then (no shiitakes, that's for sure!)

So your grandfather fell off a cliff at Devil's Pass? Hey, weeks to find out.

Nowadays things are so much faster. So why the fuck did I just call 18 people and they were all too busy to come to the phone?

The Usual Rant

Okay, okay, so I was being facetious in the below post about being Green, but how does one get rid of that famous "microwave smell" that tends to accumulate after hundreds of operations with a million different foods, when WHEN THE DOOR IS OPEN the light stays on?

Duhhhhh, hello, hello, anyone at Toshiba home? How about an on/off switch for the microwave light?

But noooooohhhhhh. Oh, I see, you have to unplug the whole fucker every time. That is REALLY USEFUL.

Who designs these things, anyway? What do they do with their days? If they're Japanese, I know what they do with their days: they do calisthenics and bow down to the boss first thing and then they get to work making fucking video machines with tiny English type saying "In" and "Out" which only Tanaka in Marketing understands in BLACK ON BLACK so that YOU are going to end up fussing with changing the cords with no FUCKING ELECTRON MICROSCOPE AND A KLIEG LIGHT with an input that is SO CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE INSET that you need a crowbar and possibly a plumber to try to get the plug screwed in.

This is what these people do with their day-in/day-out days, my friendly crowd of loyal readers.

Umm, I trust you're not from Japan. Well, China's pretty bad as well. Come to think of it, VCRs from Sri Lanka are pretty much shit too . . .

So, what. I have to unscrew the light bulb from the microwave for a few days so my popcorn doesn't taste like curried bolognese?

Time

Time is obviously everywhere. It is really hard to imagine that once, there wasn’t any time. No, really. Before the Big Bang. At least, that’s what the eggheads with our tax dollars seem to theorize (and what is it with Stephen Hawking, anyway? He’s the watch that seems to keep on ticking; I think he’s a very cleverly built wax dummy made to speak through a robotic device by Microsoft. Or maybe Sony).

So, then, my question is, what was there if there wasn’t time? Huh? People sat in waiting rooms FOREVER? Isn’t that called Hell? What, everyone’s watch just didn’t work, no matter how many Moishe’s Jewelers you went to?

Just how did that work, the no time thing, Stephen et. al.? Can you, like, maybe duplicate that so I can sleep all day and nothing moves or makes any noises and doesn’t disturb me? And the Hydro bill never arrives?

Hey, they DO fuck with my time, like send it an hour back, an hour forward like they did recently (and I want to get those motherfuckers over here to PERSONALLY work all my electronic devices) but just how does NO TIME work?

Because I’m getting interested. If we can just stall Friday until a more convenient time I won’t have to go to Madame Toledano and buy some kosher stuff for Brigitte’s mother.

Hey! I have an idea! I can put that in THE FUTURE!

See? If I cans, even YOUSE can be a fizzicist.

I Like

I like walking around my house naked with a scotch and coke at 10 a.m.

The particular fact I like about it is that no one else knows I'm doing it.

Oh, I guess now you do.

Shit, I fucked up.

Trying to be Green

I'm really trying to be Green. Did you know that sleeping during (most) of the day saves almost 18.6% in CO2 emissions? It's true.

Not watering plants: they gradually die, but the water savings are actively reducing wastage. Feeding fish: they're fish, they really couldn't give a shit. They like swimming upside-down.

Being awake at night is extremely cost-effective, as the photons from the light are not wasted on the skin and as long as you only keep twelve halogens on at a time, you're getting valuable Vitamin D. Just be sure to monitor the channels of the TVs in the kitchen, living room and bedroom and make sure the ones you're not actually watching at the time are on mute. Did you know how many foot-pounds per square inch of carbon emissions that saves per week? Hmm, Neither do I.

I recycle everything. Especially my brain. It needs to be recycled pretty much hourly, if not minutely, and I like to think that diminishes emissions.

So do as I do and perhaps we can save the planet. It's the first step before the journey that precedes the last step!

Uhh, or something like that.

Imagine

Please sing this along the lines of John Lennon, forgiving the torturing of the phrasing. Please sing this in the bathtub to anyone who cares to listen. Written and produced by Moi le vrai.

Imagine you make bottles
It isn’t hard to do
Just melamine below us
Above us only Shanghai
Imagine all the people
Using your shampoo
Whoo-hoo—ooo

How could you fuck it up so badly?
Am I the only one?
You designed the lid so sadly
All the shampoo’s turned to gum

You may say that I’m a dreamer
But I wish it wasn’t so
That each time I try to open it
All the shit just seems to flow
Oh-ho, oh oh

If it weren’t just Head and Shoulders
I would kill you one by one
But I hope someday you will join me
In my bathtub having fun

Au Refucking Voir

And while I’m at it, yes, the cull is on . . . useless hand-whackers, general pieces of shit and acquired hangers-on can all line up at the door and kiss my sweet ass before getting the fuck out of my life. Who the fuck needs you?

Simple is Good. Life has enough distractions without assholes complicating them. DUHHHH> DON’T NEED YOU> DUDES!

Allez vous faites en culer.

Permanently.

Compris; do you want me to put that in a bag for you? Your clodhoppers are near the front door. Oh, and give 'em a lick while you're stumbling down the stairs, willya?

I Swear

To the moon and the stars or however that fucking piece of shit song goes . . . I have NO PATIENCE with assholes. And I have no patience with those who have no patience with me.

Those-who-shall-go-unmentioned-because-you-know-who you are, where do you get off saying "our collaboration is pointless" simply because I don't like, fly down to your city enough, dude? How does that float your boat? What, you think I'm floating on a lake of shekels?

Well, let me tell you how it floats my boat. That is the fucking LAST TIME you will be ever hearing from me. Hope that makes you happy, because, frankly, it makes me VERY happy! No more dealing with you and your anxieties and nervous disposition.

Besides, I have to go make a vinaigrette.

Les cantons de l'est

Oh my god . . . we just came back from a place called Shefford, where we stayed at my friend Jacques Beaudoin's cottage/country house.

Let me tell you, I won't tell you where it is -- secrecy is of the utmost. But suffice to say, I brought my guitar (he already had one) and there was a piano, and his kitchen was almost a role model for MY kitchen, there was a pot-belly stove for heat, there were ladybugs in our bed, there was a squirrel who I named Alfred (for no particular reason) who looked completely different from these rats with fuzzy tails we have in Montreal, there were chickadees, there was a view of Mt. Orford and it was FANTASTIC.

All day Sunday, all day Monday . . . raviolis in cream sauce lovingly made by Brigitte last night, steak at McPherson Steakhouse/Bistrot the night before, champagne, a tiny smoke here or there, and SILENCE. Blessed silence. A silence so huge you could cut it with a knife.

And darkness, disorienting, at first, like being blind, it was so dark.

And a host so charming, so raffiné that words fail me in my descriptions.

Oh, and we watched the Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show dans la campagne. That alone was worth the price of admission.

Fennel

I want to learn how to make things with fennel. Pastis is related to fennel, right? It's just anise in another form. The few times I tentatively tried fennel were good ones . . . it didn't taste like liquorice, like I thought . . . more like cabbage that had been mildly marinated in pastis. But not offensive at all.

So maybe the next project will involve fennel. Hmm . . . already the mind is scheming . . . hey, pardners, remember that this here oaf used to be a vegetarian! Yup, you're looking at one and the same person!

It's just contemplating the awful fennellity of it all . . .

The Joys of Being Robotic

I swear, I've become a robot, a Pavlovian automaton. Brigitte gets in the shower: quick, make her her scotch and coke. Pick guitar up. Play blues tune, serenade. Wait while she lets her hair settle, then start again while the hair dryer is going. Crank it up to override dryer noise.

Soap time. Lie down and pretend to read while watching Bold and The Restless Robots. Want to comment; comments not appreciated. Shut the fuck up.

SATURDAY. My MOST PAVLOVIAN RESPONSE.

MUST

COOK.

Must stand in kitchen for at least four hours straight. Must drink beer. Must watch "Simply Ming" or some other PBS cooking show.

MUST.

I am currently rudderless, as Brigitte is gone to some Bar Mitzvah, we're driving to Lac Brôme this evening and I have NO FOOD PROJECTS.

Jesus Christ, I have to invent one. The bell is ringing, I'm slavering, someone is turning my on and off switch on and off, on-and-off. ON OFF. ON OFF.

ON

OFF

I must respond. Tell me what I must do!

Ah shit, maybe I'll smoke some dope instead.

Just kidding.

I Cry Just a Little

I just looked at the photo of my tiny boy that I put on my blog and then the feelings came in a huge tsunami. I miss him so much, it's not a controllable thing, the tears just come and you can't do anything. I miss him so much.

All those days when you yelled at him and then felt guilty because all he was doing was being a tiny boy, all those days that you snuggled with him and looked at the fake stars on the ceiling and talked about real stars, all those glasses of orange juice and all those cookies first thing in the morning though you didn't want to give them to him and you really miss him. I really, really miss him.

I swear, the world can be a very cruel place, especially at 7 a.m. with a scotch and coke.

Resto-rant

Hmm . . . (actual restaurant review happening! Pull up your aluminum chairs!) Camelia, which is literally a 40-second sprint from my house, is a sad, sad piece of shit. Look at my initial review. It was absolutely, devastatingly horrible last night.

Everything -- EVERYTHING -- was just "Going through the motions, we own this space and we call it a restaurant" but it was just tired, awful and downright disgusting.

Which makes the demise of Masako a particular puzzle. Why did they fail and Camelia still exists? Masako was hands-down the best sushi place in Montreal. I'll never be able to have their "Eye of the Dragon" sushi again because they folded up their tents and moved back to China, and boy, I am very pissed off about that. The sushi, not the moving.

Anyway, Brigitte hated it and now I do too, so that just brings the number of restaurants within walking distance to basically Nickels. I don't count that overpriced piece of shit Pizzedelic (why can't IT go out of business?) or that shitty kebab joint as restaurants.

I don't know. It's all just humanity, isn't it? What, it's the luck of the draw that shitty places survive and good places go under? How can that be?

Well, it's probably for the same reason that someone elected George Bush.

Twice.

Too many assholes, not enough time.

Fish

I hate the smell of fish.

Can't someone change it?

My Worst Fears Confirmed

Yep, just like I predicted, this is slated to be among the worst days of my life.

You guys just get ready for the whiplash. I can only imagine what the rest of it's going to be like, but already it's on a scale of 8 out of 10.

Hasta

PETH

I’m fascinated with violence — gang violence, mob violence, domestic violence, terrorist violence — simply because I don’t understand it. It just doesn’t make sense in the evolutionary scheme of things, unless it destroys the purveyors of violence themselves. There’s the old adage, “Well, let the fucking Mafia kill each other because at least they’re leaving us alone” which we could extend to gangs (again gangs, I wish I could get off gangs, maybe I should become an undercover Hoodie) but I just don’t understand violence, which is paradoxically why I find it so interesting.

Lions kill other animals in incredibly brutal ways, but they don’t rape them while they’re doing it.

PETA has it all wrong . . . it should be called PETH instead. And you know what that stands for.

Oh Dear . . .

Somehow I get the feeling that the shit is really going to hit the fan today but at least we'll be meeting Arlette, she of chef school and many brilliant stories (and recipes) at a place named Miso tonight. (God, like Maurizio at Basi told me, those restomontreal guys practically have the whole business locked up. Probably mafia-based, the bastards).

And here's a note to Miso: get someone competent to design your website. Here's what I want from a restaurant website: an address and a phone number and a menu with prices. Pictures are nice, but I'm not shopping around. And NO ONE needs to order anything or make reservations online.

What, I'm going to check all those stupid boxes an hour in advance and just HOPE that someone is going to show up at my door with the food?

Dudes, it's called A PHONE. I pick it up and dial, you pick it up and say "Miso, how can I help you," and I say the following: "I'm calling for delivery?"

And you're going to say "We don't deliver in your area." And I'm going to walk in the living room and ask Brigitte if it's okay to have hot dogs for dinner.

See how that works?

I do web design, by the way, so you might give me a call. If you want a website for hot dogs.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawrence_Durrell

Lawrence Durrell

Tinies

My neighbour on my floor is a very sweet Korean woman who is married to a Spanish lawyer. She has three boys, one who's Tai-chan's age, around six, then the next, Miguel, who's around 4, and then the third, who can't be more than four or five months old.

When Tai-chan is here, he plays with the 6-year-old, Manuel, but when he's not here I always tell their mother, Myung-Hee, to leave her kids over if she ever needs to do something.

Well, today that little knock finally came on the door. She had to go pick up Manuel, so could I take care of Miguel and the baby?

Brigitte had to go out, so it was just yours truly . . . there was not much to do--they're very good kids--but still, having a four-year-old and a four-month old suddenly thrust in your custody is somewhat alarming.

Little one didn't want to be in his car seat so I brought him out and Miguel was glued to Caillou so I rocked the tiny one and crooned to him and despite my frightening pirate beard (or maybe because of it) he smiled and cooed a lot. To me, a total stranger.

But it was an amazingly nice feeling with these two tiny urchins and, well, I have to admit I kidnapped them and am now in a motel somewhere near El Paso, Texas. (Lousy takeout, use the Rebel Yell Tacqueria for the best in shrimp enchiladas, and I held up the post office already, so don't bother).

Please don't fire up the Amber Alert. I love these kids like they was mine and they ain't goin' home lessun you pry my cold dead . . .

Hmm. Note to self: can't you EVER write a serious post any more? Why must they all deteriorate into nonsense? What is it with you and nonsense?

Angrrrr Management

You know, I HAVE discussed anger management classes with my therapist but she suggested "Happiness Management" classes instead.

What an asshole.

Sword of Gideon

I watched this movie last night and it only reminded me of everything I've always thought about gangs and killing.

I'm not "Pro-Israeli" or "Pro-Arab" . . . I frankly couldn't give a shit about internecine conflicts, family feuds or any of that shit, but having been around since 1957 I know a bit about stuff.

Listen, dude, I'm going to kill you. Yes, I am most definitely going to kill you. I'll train. I'll find you and I'll find the best way to kill you. And you will most definitely will die, make no mistake, once I get my marching orders. I will hunt you down like a red fox in the British woods, but most assuredly, you will die.

But your wife won't die with you. Your daughter will be deprived of a father, but after all, how many other sons and daughters did you deprive of a father and mother? Plus, you did it without a thought; the "collateral" damage of twelve nuns and a busload of civilians was merely "sacrifices for The Cause". Afterwards, you hugged each other with relieved laughter, went to a café and smoked a celebratory hookah.Yay, what's the body count, 28? no, really, 39? Excellent!

But if you ever killed my elder brother, I would hunt you down, dude. I would not stop. If he has transgressed in some way in your code, as in the Mafia, I would pause. For about 45 seconds.

I guess that's just the Human Condition.

Ask the chimps, why don't you. They share most of our DNA and tend to bite each others' faces off.

At least my revenge would be a bullet in the back of your sorry-ass head.

But that would be after the penny nails. Oh, you will really like the penny nails.

J'ai Oublié

Et en suite, mon cher, cher salopard Torontonien, prends soin d'emmener TON CHEVRE AVEC TOI. Il va être ton meilleur copain pendant les nuits blanches dans cette toilette où tu veux aller.

"MEEEEHHHH, MEEHHH" vont être les chansons qui va te faire endormir, mon petit ESPÈCE DE NAIN RABOUGRIS.

Bon voyaaaaage, TOUS LES DEUX.

Je Vous Jure

Ben, vous allez excuser les erreurs ici, mais j'ai vraiment pas la patience pour idiots. Ils sont vraiment partout, et j'en ai marre d'eux.

Bien sûr il y'en a plein parmi les français, mes parmi les anglais il parâit qu'il y'a une GRANDE deficience d'intelligence.

Numéro un: d'habitude, ils ne peuvent que parlais EN ANGLAIS. D'habitude, ils sont TRÈS provinciales, étant presque commes les enfants. "Je suis jamais été autrepart, donc TOUT VA BIEN."

Cretins. Je suis fier au moins que je peux parler un petit peu des autre langues, mais parfois les anglais (Américains et Canadiens) sont incroyablement arrogantes.

Okay, rant over, French spellcheck non-functional. But you get the picture. AT LEAST I TRIED.

Hey Asshole

Hey Mr. Toronto, who's following my blog, you can just get your ass back to Toronto, if you love it so much.

I don't know how to delete you (the technology seems to prohibit it) but please get the fuck off my blog and PLEASE get on the 401. We who love Montreal don't need you and your fucking Rest o' Canada thinking.

We're proud of our beautiful city, and yes, I've been to Toronto and I really was SO not impressed -- it's a very shitty copy of this beautiful place, and besides, EVERYONE CAN'T SPEAK FRENCH.

That alone is a crime, fuckwad. Toronto is one of the ugliest cities I've ever been to, and I've BEEN AROUND THE WORLD ABOUT 50 TIMES.

Just go down to the bus station -- it's at Berri de Montigny, if I recall correctly -- and get on that Greyhound and shamble RIGHT BACK to that shithole called Toronto. If you want, I'll wire you the fare via Western Union.

The faster the better.

But meanwhile please explain why on Earth you'd be following MY BLOG about my beloved city.

Yes, that might be a good idea. Please explain to us asshole "crazy" Montrealers why the fuck you're polluting our good city in the first place.

Yes, very good idea. Tu me fais chier, toi et tes opinions infantiles Torontonien, mon petit ami autistique.

Va te faire foudre, mon cher Torontonien. Et cherche-toi une bonne dictionnaire, capiche? Tu et ici chez nous maintenant, pas dans ton cul en cherchant les trésors.

Woids of Wisdom

"If a Man rendereth unto you a Service, ye shall render unto Him a Service in a like fashion, in grace and good Humor; if a Man rendereth unto you a Disservice, yet knoweth that He is rendering You a Disservice, you shall thenceforth KICK HIS GODDAMN ASS AND EAT ALL HIS FUCKING GUINEA PIGS."

--Aurangzeb, c. 1651 A.D., Maharashtra Province, India*

*The subtext is garbled, but according to researchers, it translates somewhat as "And disallow the Fallowness of The Steed Upon which He has Approached the Corral", which roughly corresponds to "And fuck the horse he rode in on while you're at it, ya schlub of a newbie asshole."

Notes on a Sunny Day

God, I should have been a headline writer. That is just SO ORIGINAL. I mean, I could have come up with "Sunny Day Kills Man, Pet Rat and Bystander in Bizarre Roadside Tragedy" but I guess I just wasn't inspired enough.

But I have good news! Last night I got stoned for the first time in a long while! Yep, I made a pipe out of aluminum foil (I swear, I'm an expert at that, email me for directions) and out of it came the realisation that, hey, I'm more optimistic about the past than I've been for a very long time. It soothed my soul, let me tell you . . . plus the 5 a.m. munchies soothed my stomach.

But it's cold as a witch's tit and it's time to slave away in my hot galley and make my first-ever effort at Murgh Makhani.

Better get to it, will try to document and post later. Can't waste this sunshine!