Bagger Bastard II: The Soap

That day I entered Metro like a man possessed. I was in a big hurry; I had to get out and get home because there was company coming and I needed to start cooking right away.

I looked through the double metal doors but didn’t see him. Good, I thought, Bagger Bastard’s Day Off. Someone else will bag my groceries. It was like a tire filled with gasoline had been removed from around my neck.

Still, I was wary. He could be on break. He could be in The Back, through those double doors that all the stock people and loaders came out of. Yes, indeed, I thought, as I fondled a pineapple, he could be there.

But it was comparatively quiet. I’d picked the time specifically for it to be quiet. I didn’t know his hours or days, but I knew that this was the time that blue-hairs came to shop.

I was hunting through the jumbo shrimp when I heard the dreaded “Sylvain, please come to the cash.” Could his name possibly be Sylvain? Nooo, that was such a common name here. Anyone could be a Sylvain. But I stepped up my pace. Jumbo shrimp, $9.99 a pound. Excellent deal. I shoved a bunch into the provided plastic bag. Wine. I had to get the wine. But what if I encountered him on Aisle 8? Was it worth going through the extended hunt-and-peck scenario of looking through the advertised specials? The pull-out coupon section had corn two for one but I wasn’t in the mood to tear the coupons. I hurriedly pushed the cart through Aisle 4, left it there and went and grabbed the first wine I could off the shelf. It turned out to be a Christophe D’Albray. I’d scored! $7.99 for two. Well, one was going to have to be good enough.

I slunk through the cereal and breads section. I wasn’t taking any chances. I kept glancing at the double doors of The Back. People came and went, but they were stockers and grocery clerks. Not Him.

Okay. I held my breath; it was time. It was time to go to the cash and pay. I was instantly seized with a dilemma: should I go to cash number one, because I had less than eight items? Or cash number four? The cashier on four was usually Manon, the only cashier whose name I knew. But would she be there? Would she protect me from

Bagger Bastard?

I moved somewhat surreptitiously down the oils and spices aisle and pulled up my collar. Out I came into the space between the aisles and the cash. Quick look: Bagger Bastard was nowhere to be seen.

I decided quite arbitrarily to go to cash number 6, because it seemed a new guy was working. He’d give me no trouble. So I lined up behind a blue hair and kept my head down. She did the usual, counting out her purchase with pennies, so I was ready to rumble. No bagger at all! I’d bag my own! She finally counted out the pennies and the cashier took it. “Safe!” I exulted. “Safe!”

I was lifting the garlic out of the cart when the shadow fell across the conveyor. It was Bagger Bastard. Where? Wha . . .? How? My mind raced.

“Can I Put This in a Bag for You Sir?” came the dreaded words. I quailed, reeled as if physically assaulted. “Yes, please,” I said meekly — too meekly. But he’d won again.

Just as the cashier rang me up, Bagger Bastard got a sudden call from one of the head counter workers. He calmly walked away and left all the groceries on the conveyor. All my hard-earned groceries would yet again not be bagged. Foiled! By Bagger Bastard!

I swear I’ll get him next time.

Attention, Shoppers

Here's the deal: You shop, I shop, we all shop.

But why is it such a deal for you? Why must you compound grocery stores' already crazy herding strategies by becoming a sheep, like they want you to be?

Here's a primer on how to shop.

1. Don't crowd the aisles with your cart. Only you are preoccupied with what's in your cart.

2. Be aware of people around you. There are going to be assholes JUST LIKE YOU with carts to block the aisles while you browse half an aisle away. They just want to get through! Hey, you must realise it's the supermarket's strategy to stall traffic! They WANT you to get stuck and look at the product.

3. Park your cart in a strategic location and go fetch your items. Preferably out of people's way. Just park the fucking thing and do your shopping. Could Einstein put it any better? Hmm, maybe. Cart + parked at end of aisle B in front of potato chips where no one goes = Efficiency. Hey, got legs? Use them!

4. Don't hang around in front of the pickles inordinately long. There is a good chance someone else also wants to look at the pickles. Is that okay with you?

5. The cash. Do NOT get me started.

6. Get your fucking Method o' Payment together. GET IT TOGETHER, dude! Don't pull your voluminous wallet out when the total rings up and fumble for your credit/debit/asshole card, or search for the small change. I have a life, last time I checked! I'm next in line! Yeah, maybe I'm Type A but you're Type Z!

7. Fucking push your fucking shopping cart out of my way. Don't leave it there. Don't you even dare think of leaving it there.

8. Hey, Bag Guy, where you goin'?

9. Oh, now it's 5 cents per bag? Oh, very logical! Now it means I pay $5 for a box of garbage bags. Ecologically sound! I SEE THE REASONING THERE!

10. Attention, shoppers! Asshole on aisle 4!

Well, Whaddya Know?

Brigitte (who is Jewish) was blown away yesterday by a report of some 69-year-old guy being caught harboring child pornography on his computer.

"The Community is going be up in arms," she said, having been an administrator for the Community for many years. "I knew him!"

Yeah, well, guess what. He was a fucking child-porn maniac WAAAAYYY before you or anyone else, or even his own wife knew about it -- of that you can be sure.

Uhh, dude, no denials? No "Someone crept onto my computer and downloaded these files"? "Must have been my teenage nephew"? Nope. Just "We are taking these charges very seriously."

Umm, guess what: these fuckers in power in these institutions are proving time and again to be "humanist' but at the same time "dehumanist". I know, the old saw "I can't think of any reason anyone would want to harm a child" . . . but guess what, my faithful flock: THEY'RE ALL AROUND US. You thought Zombies? Guess again. They're the zombie child-harming mob -- yes, mob -- 99% male -- that surrounds YOU! Yes, YOU! A shambling mob of child-harmers (hey, molesting isn't the only thing these people do) that is part of your school, your hospital (doctors have a big reputation for spousal abuse) and just about anywhere else you can think of.

Your fifth grade teacher, Mr. Wilson. Beloved by all! Guess what! Fondling little boys.

Thank JESUSMARYFUCKINGJOSEPH it never happened to me, but it came MIGHTY CLOSE. The aforesaid "Mr. Wilson" was a talented English teacher at the prep school in England which I attended. Thank FUCKING JESUS MEEKANDMILD all he ever did was make me sit on his lap. Mark Keyser (Oh, I still remember his name!) the history teacher in Africa who got us kids stoned and then wanted to "fool around". Thank FUCKING GOD it never went any further than when I squirmed out of his overwhelming embrace and said, "Mark, stop it!"

THANK FUCKING GOD (if He exists -- this is a subject of some debate -- by the way, how come Satan doesn't have a book out?)

Yes, Darling Brigitte, this "Saint" who supposedly upheld the community was in reality some fucking dirty old man who wanted most of all to fuck children.

Oh what fun it is to rule in a one-person openpowertrip.

All Else Will Follow

I swear, I've been devoting at least half an hour a day to playing the guitar -- sometimes less, sometimes more -- but it's amazing how your fingers JUST LEARN. I don't sometimes know what key the tune is in (nor do I even have a clue what I should do over the changes -- that knowledge is long lost to my youth) but if the tune is simple enough -- read: blues and jazz that doesn't morph too much with the changes -- my fingers just take me for a ride.

I just can't describe it any differently. I seriously maintain that I'll never know what they're going to do next. They'll blister, then they'll chill. I KNOW it's my brain telling them what to do, but I promise, I am not in control. I kind of have an idea of what the theme is at the time, but then they just wander off on their own and do what they want. Isn't that odd? To think of your fingers as small children? But that's what they are.

I train them to follow the rules. I train them incessantly, and all of a sudden they're making stuff up for themselves.

Well, needless to say this doesn't only apply to the guitar. I swear to you on any holy personage that our fingers have their own brains. Each and every one of them.

That'll teach you to respect your pinkie.

The Cinematic Experience

Uhh . . . I went to Star Trek last night. I instantly regretted it. It was supposed to be in an IMAX theater here in Montreal, but only for two weeks. Go figure. But no matter.

I rarely, rarely go to movies. I guess it just takes a particular kind of person to enjoy the process. The parking. The ticket-buying. The being in the theater with dozens, possibly hundreds of strangers, all mesmerized at a lo-fi screen. Hilariously loud volume levels. Hilariously bad Hollywood "bottom line! Get back our shareholders' investment!" efforts. Mediocrity bundled with more mediocrity: day-old popcorn drenched with imitation butter concentrate for $5.95 for a ridiculously large "small" portion.

Christ Be Jesus Be Fucking Jesus Christ, JUST STAY HOME. Wait for the DVD, dudes. Do yourselves a favor and buy a 42" plasma and a nice home theater and just rent this shit.

Save the popcorn for Orville Redenbacher's, dress it up with garlic butter and Southwestern spice from Penzey's and AVOID cinemas for the next ten years. I swear, I go to the video store and look through thousands, if not millions of choices and can't pick a single one because they're just churned-out dreck. THIS is what Hollywood does these days. And last night was no exception. You want me to go to a cinema to watch this? I don't think so.

Unless the next Lord of the Rings comes out in the next couple of years (hey, why don't they have more cinematic reruns, anyway?) I AIN'T GOIN' NOWHERE 'CEPTIN MAH BEDROOM.

Foods I Don't Particularly Miss

. . . but seem to be still around. Kornnuts. God, I hated those. I worked in a one-room graphic design office and the only other person there in the windowless room would break out the Kornnuts for lunch. To say I almost vomited would be like saying the Lincoln Tunnel is a small feeder artery in New York.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Just one word: "Gross". Remember here, people, the memory of these foods is innate, the smell lives on, and so does the taste.

Froot Loops. What was I thinking? What? What? What is anyone who considers this better than dog food with sugar thinking?

Oscar Mayer hot dogs. Ohhh, the humanity.

American cheese. Can you sincerely believe that abomination still exists?

Marshmallows. That artificial, "stuck-to-the-roof-of-the-mouth" taste unfortunately acquired a billion axons and dendrites in my holographic memory, where it remains to this day. I'd like to line them all up against a wall.

Fig Newtons: YOU_WILL_BE_SHOT, SCHNELL, SCHNELL!

Spaghetti-Os. Who comes up with this stuff?

Two words: taco casserole!

Two more: meatloaf!

Alphabits. Ai-yai-yai.

Brownies.

Frosted Flakes.

Oreos.

Oreos.

Did I say Oreos?

Ack.

Double-sided Grill?

My esteemed friend Blork just made grilled pizza.

As far as I know, it's quite difficult to pull off a pizza in a home grill. Add to this a circumstance of having to have a tiny grill for your balcony because they're forbidden in your apartment building, and you can imagine the conundrums associated with my even considering grilling a pizza.

The damned thing is, and you can look it up, the bottom of the pizza burns long before the top is done. You can imagine the result -- charred bottom, half-melted cheese.

Now look, don't hassle me here. Yes, there are workarounds. Oh, yeah, you can cut holes in your grill lid blah blah blah but I'm not a great go-to DIY guy. I don't like blowtorches, either.

I was thinking more along the lines of a miniature wood-fired oven, except in your grill. If you read Blork's subsequent comments, you'll see a solution that involves convection, but I'm more convinced that a direct-heat method would be better. But how? I'm thinking either of some form of stone built into the grill lid (hmm, heavy) or some kind of grille built in that you would layer coals on on aluminum foil. That way the ashes wouldn't fall on your food but the heat would blast the top of whatever you were cooking.

Convection would work, but it wouldn't GRILL, rather steam . . . I'm not a kitchen tech dude, so I don't know if this would be the case, but it seems that would be the case.

So: problem: come up with a small, balcony-sized grill that has a powerful heat source in the lid as well as below the food, preferably charcoal. Make it easy to assemble and not a danger to fire up.

Anyone listening, Mr. Inventor?

Canadians

I love Canadians (well, I am one now, but I didn't used to be).

Compared to Americans, four out of five Canadians are actually Smart. They can actually spell "definitely"! Even the Brits are comparative clods. Dunno about Aussies, but I'd rank them second after Canadians.

Hey, we actually have an education here! Yes, reading, 'riting and 'rithmatic! People all over the world flock to our universities, and for damned good 'reason!

Most of the Canadian blogs I read are actually literate! They can spell stuff!

I'm proud to be Canadian.

Books I Have on my Shelf

Well, as you may or may not know, I love to read. During the day mainly cookbooks on the balcony if the weather is good, but at night I always run through my selection. Sometimes I have three books going in different rooms.

So what are they? Well, I divided them into rough sections. There’s the “Explorer” section. Books about Shackleton and the Antarctic expeditions (a bunch of those), books about Captain Cook, Magellan, and also books of more obscure explorers like William Adams, who was the model for the character of Blackthorne in James Clavell’s Shogun.

Then there’s the biography section, mainly actors and musicians. Vincent Price, William Holden (Damn, I never did receive George C. Scott — it must be juicy) and then the musicians; Elton John, Miles Davis, The Beach Boys (good one!), Bill Evans, the making of “Kind of Blue” and a couple of others.

Then there’s the military wing. I used to be into building model aircraft, so I’ve got books on the Luftwaffe and Pan Am. One all about my father’s bomb group in England in WWII. Books about the battles of Okinawa and Iwo Jima, all classics.

Then there’s the “eclectica” section. Books in no particular order: science-fiction anthologies (Isaac Asimov, Robert Silverberg among others), a couple of books about the Andes plane crash survivors (excellent), the complete collection of naturalist Gerald Durrell including his biography (fascinating), a book by Dominick Dunne (?), The Odessa File (wow, haven’t read that in a while!) and a couple of other true crime books. (Can you say “Paul Bernardo?”)

Then I actually have a small but ancient section of computer books. The creation of the Internet. Steve Jobs’ and Bill Gates biographies. History of Apple. Oh and (chuckle) a book on the possibility of teleportation and a book on the possibility of time travel by Paul Davies. I actually had the idea of writing a story about someone who goes back in time but in real time, but I wrote to Paul and he said it had already been done. Yup, by Brad Pitt.

Then the Japanese section — a whole shelf by itself with various textbooks, histories of Japan, grammars etc. that I accumulated in my five years there.

Then: Tintin! All the Tintins! Just missing Tintin in the Congo, possibly the most politically incorrect book ever written! And a biography of Hergé.

And last on the shelves but not least: my GI Joes. I have a Nazi captain, A Japanese corporal, a US bomber pilot, a US sailor (with the blue tunic!) and very last but not least, Roy Batty from Blade Runner!

Some day you should come over and read a few and play with the action figures. I guarantee a good time.

Ya Know XVII

You know, I've now officially been in and out of Québec for about 30 years now. Went through the nevererendums ad nauseam, have pretty much seen it all. But this is not Toronto. I used to hate the Office de la langue française but ya know something?

This is a French island in a sea of anglophones, and I like it that way. I like having businesses named Duc de Lorraine and Atlantique in my neighbourhood. So imagine my ire (well, you don't have to, you're looking at it) when a venerable sushi place called Masako, quite possibly the best sushi place in Montreal and right around the corner from me, goes out of business.

And gets replaced by something calling itself "Café Simply Delicious." Notwithstanding that they haven't even opened yet and their website already features "testimonials", but how dare they call themselves "Café Simply Delicious"?

Hey people, a third of your name is in French. Why not take it all the way? Furthermore, why are you replacing an excellent sushi place with yet another faceless café in a neighbourhood literally bursting at the seams with cafés, most no doubt better than you? And park yourself less than half a block from the incredible Duc de Lorraine, possibly the most famous pastry shop in Montreal? What, you want the runoff business, is that it?

What goes through these people's minds? They're not a conglomerate chain like Second Cup or Starbucks. Why not call yourself "Delicieux" or some other nice original FRENCH name . . . what talented team of marketers came up with your concept? Did you get your hair cut by Stevie Wonder?

Hey, nice clothes, dude. You've got a great sense of humor.

Phrases I Dislike

In no particular order:

"You smell like onion"
"Please present your boarding card and have your passport open to . . ."
"Your call is important to . . ."
"Oh, go take a bath"
"Hey, whatever ended up happening about . . ."
"How would you like that cooked?"
"In that case I'm afraid I'm going to have to . . ."
"You smell like cheetos"
"Honey, could you do me a favor?"
"Oh, go take a shower"
"The Iranian government today . . ."
"Mr. Robinson, . . ."
"30 business days"
"I think the parsley is dying"
"I'm on my way home now, could you . . ."
"No credit cards, sorry, only . . ."
"Oh, go brush your teeth"
"Hellzapoppin', Elvis"

Words of the Day

I hereby state that man cannot live on beer alone. No, man must live on beer with someone else. Man like beer.

Mushrooms

What is it about mushrooms? I swear, one of my catchphrases is "I just want to be a mushroom today."

But in reality, I used to despise mushrooms (hey, add them to the list). But now I can't do without them. They're possibly the most versatile ingredient there is. I remember when I became a vegetarian for 8 months, they were my saviour. Christ. Mushroom curry? Bring it on! Mushroom ice cream? Bring it on!

I know, I know. I'm weird. I hate eggplants. I have a personal vendetta against squash. But mushies? Hey, they're my pals!

And they should be yours too!

Don't matter.

Button
Cremini
Oyster
Pleurot
Matsutake
Enoki
Peyote

Need I go on?

They're all my friends! If I had to become an X--arian I'd have to become a mushroomtarian!

See? I don't rant all the time!

God bless all your pointy heads.

Talibania, USA

Or is it Russia? Who the fuck knows? Just watched something -- I wasn't concentrating too well -- about same-sex marriage in California. Why the fuck is this even an issue? Fuck, I feel like renouncing my fucking passport. WHAT THE FUCK does anyone think they have doing anything with what two people (note, consenting adults!) have to do with one another? Huh?

Let anyone get the fuck married. Why on God's Sweet Green Earth (of course, He has nothing to do with it! Ask his Ambassador, the child molester Pope Incarnate) would anyone in possession of their faculties have any arguments against two sane individuals forming a loving bond? Huh?

Huh?

Get a grip, you crazy maniacs. LIVE AND LET LIVE. I'm so fucking tired of this stupid fucking argument but LAST TIME I CHECKED I WAS NOT LIVING IN TALIBANIA USA.

Well, I'm in Canada but same difference.

I say, ya fucks just go burn in the Hell that you made up, along with the God that wrote the Good Book. You guys have your little party and leave the rest of us the fuck alone, okay? The moment you start imposing your beliefs on other people, guess what? You just got a notch closer to being a psychopath. Yes, Hitler officially made it a policy to burn gay people! Yes! How d'you like that? Well guess what -- in your world, YOU'RE NEXT IN LINE, ya fucks. There is no boundary between the unimaginable and the imaginable. IT'S ALL IN YOUR MIND. But the horror is, it's real and it really affects REAL PEOPLE.

Jeez Louise, I've had it up to here with this shit. Don't make me come over there.

Lazybones

Hey people! Up up up! It's 3:52! That's A.M., people! How can you be snoring your lazybone selves away? There are things to do! Like cry! Yes, you can wake up and cry! It's now become a hobby! Maybe I should roll it into an instant carpet and you can grow your MiracleCry kit!

They say we sleep a third of our lives. How about an eighth? Ah, no, let's bargain for a ninth. Poster Boy for Bram Stoker. I'm not quite hanging upside down yet, but it's close. Wandering the streets, arms extended, lumberjack shirt, glassy look? Close.
So: up up up, people! Half the world is awake while you sleep!

You know, the world DOES revolve around that bright thing that I haven't seen in a while! All I know is sometimes it's the six o'clock news and sometimes it isn't.

But I am proud (cue martial music) to be a Citizen of the Dark. Key point here in this club, though, is that you are UP and FUNCTIONING.

So WAKE UP and ENTERTAIN ME!

Duckburgers II

All seriousness aside, let's get real: I don't know about you, but firing up the grill is a big deal. It's really quite complicated, potentially dangerous -- dunno about you but fire tends to burn -- so in my mind the best plan is to a) make a good plan; b) make a better plan; and c) make a plan so that you can really make the best of your incredible hassle that is making a barbecue.

Let's face it: boiling some ziti would be easier, no? A little parmigiano reggiano, ya know, sun-dried tomatoes, garlic . . . hey, some kalamata olives! Dinner!

But No. The reason we grill is that incredible . . . primitiveness, that ineffable smoky flavour that nothing, repeat, no thing, can duplicate. It just is something your mouth instinctually recognizes. It says "Yes! This is good! This is what we've been waiting for for TOOOOOOO long!" It's the gift that keeps on giving.

That being said, let me go back to square one: if you're going to fire the fucker up, make the most of it. Really. The way we've been doing it is, like I said, have kitchen slaves do the scut work, but mostly, plan out the menu so it's GONNA LAST. That means the hellish word Leftovers. But in this case, leftovers are good. They're going to taste smoky, even if they're microwaved. Hey, microwave can be good.

In the duckburger case, We made a shitload. Not two. Try ten. Twenty would be better! I'm no grill expert, but I probably wasn't kidding when I said I'd grill some rice. Everything tastes better grilled! Just ask Ugg and Ogg!

In the case of duckburgers, I'd highly recommend them as an alternative to your supermarket ground beef (can I puke now or later?)

If you don't have a meat grinder or can't be bothered, I really suggest finding a butcher who will grind the duck and chicken for you. Then take the time out, as Arlette did (I guess I was just a bit too exhausted because of recent events) and put together a mixture of spices -- maybe next time it will be teriyaki-something -- and Christ, will you so not regret it.

I know, I whined and dined last night but I'm just jumpin' up and down knowing it's all behind me and that THAT is what I'll be having tonight. Better than a restaurant. Better than a personal chef.

Fire + coals + meat + wine x happiness = good times. You have my word on it.

Duckburgers!

The duckburgers in mid-process

It's so rare that I actually come up with something from concept to fruition, but in this case, I summoned my army of zombie slaves and all my dreams came true! Yes! My dreams came true! Aren't you happy for me, my loyal band of hunter-gatherers? (Well, it's better than "peasants", isn't it?)
I had a dream. In the dream was duckburgers. Magret de Canard mixed with chicken thighs, ground in my very own meat grinder and barbecued ON THE GRILL!

If you think of all the steps -- the going, the choosing, the buying, the paying, the bringing, the brining, the grinding . . . well, it seems like quite an effort to merely fulfill someone's private fantasy of actually combining the words "duck" and "burger" into one word. But it came true!

Duckburgers!

With the help of galley slaves Brigitte, Arlette and Alex, my private fantasy came true! But not only did it come true! There's more! Brigitte made delectable fried potatoes and also for some inexplicable reason, aubergines, which I detest (but I digress), Alex came and sat on the balcony and we discussed why Andromeda seems to be falling into the Greater Magellanic Cloud, and Arlette ground all the meat! All I had to do was drink wine!

The upshot was my fantasy . . . Arlette (you know she's now a professional chef) made succulent, smoky duckburgers . . . Mediterranean style, with a touch of this, a touch of that . . . and she made tsaziki to go on top with cucumbers and lots of garlic, and Brigitte bustled and made stuff and I lost track (It's easy to do with too much wine and personal grill zombies) but the end result was HEAVEN.

And that's where I want to be right about now!

Now, to plot the next kitchen zombie uprising . . .

Alex the zombie prepares the table!

In

God works in listerious ways. Or so I'm told. All I know is that I was awakened by a huge urge to hear "Rocket Man" by Elton John. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, is that your way of knocking on my door? You didn't even particularly like Elton John.

But listen I must, on headphones with volume at maximum, a glass of wine and drown out the birds at 6 a.m. on a Sunday.

And so I do. Brigitte just discovered me and wondered at the pile of Kleenex but what can I do.

You know, Elton really DOES sound like José Feliciano. Okay, José it is tomorrow, Father.

I Give Up

Aaaah, I give up. When does pseudo-depression cross the line into real depression? Don't give me all the clinical signs. I can go to Google too. I know I'll get through it. I've been through it! Don't worry, I won't do a Margot Kidder or Robert Downey Jr. and end up gibbering on your lawn at midnight.

But it bugs me. I'm tired of being tired. I'm sick of being sick.

Anyone selling rose-colored glasses? IIIIIIII'm buyin'.

Letter to Brigitte

In the next few days, I'm liable to be whiny, nasty, selfish and childish most of the time.

Come to think of it, just replace "In the next few days, I'm liable to be" with "I am".

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

No, it's not true.

It's a lie.

Letter to my Brother

Geoff,

Well,

What can I say? It's a hard space to wrap one's head around and it's going to take a good long while. After all, I do prowl a space that Dad occupied in my memory for so long. This apartment has just acquired another ghost. I guess we all have to rally somehow. I have an idea how you feel but we have to protect the ones who might feel worse than us -- namely Mother and Laurie. Not that I don't feel bad -- the world seems to have suddenly spiralled out of its orbit.

It's so incredibly horrible but I get by by just doing day-to-day things. I break down quite often, but even that shall pass.

I really appreciate everything you and Verna and Charlie and Sue are doing. I must admit that the coward in me didn't want to come and watch Father go through it. Purely a cowardly reaction. Typical me, eh?

Anyway, I know that you're as devastated as any of us. It reduces us to just four now. We have to take care of each other carefully now. I really hope you're doing okay. I know how many burdens you're bearing and in comparison, I have none. I know how you always bear up.

But as impossible as it might seem, (and I still haven't come to terms with it, and never will) we've lost our father, so now we have to concentrate on Mother.

I wish I were there to help. I so wish I could help in some capacity. I feel like a useless piece of shit. But I know that I only would have been a hindrance -- you had everything in hand.

I know you're going through your own personal trials and tribulations. I read the news. But now we have to come together for Mother's sake, if nothing else. I'll fly out there on a moment's notice on a single command.

It's so unimaginable that it's going to take so long for me . . . I'm sorry to be weak and to have to make you strong. We spent so many days in school together and went through those struggles together when we really didn't want to have to. We didn't have any choice at the time. Chris too.

But now we really have to band together and protect ourselves . . . I know what a struggle you've had these past few years, and recent events just add up to make it the Year From Hell, but somehow we should rise from the ashes and try to preserve our "familiness." It's only you me, Laurie and Mother now.

I'm crying uncontrollably as I write this but that, too shall pass. Do your best, Geoff; I'm with you and your sweet family and I have a tyke of my own whom I have to look after and can't forget.

I feel really, really bad right now and can't disguise it and I'm sure you do too, but we'll be okay. Everything will be okay.

Love

Nick

Why Is It?

Why is it that when a family member dies, you cry? It makes no sense. Who are the tears for? Surely not for the family member. They have no idea they've died. So why do you feel sorry for them?

Too bad Saint Peter isn't on Twitter.

There Was

There was an old lady outside Metro yesterday when I went to get some groceries. She had her little cart with her groceries. She was standing inside the cart barrier, which was at least 18 feet from the curb, and waving her hand at cabs.

I was on my way home and preoccupied (obviously) but something inside me made me stop. I spoke to her in French, but when she didn't seem to comprehend, I quickly switched to English. I said "Ma'am, why don't you take your cart out of here (pointing to the little gate that might let carts out) and wait closer to the street? Because a cab will never see you here."

She said "No, because if I take the cart out it might roll into the street if I leave it. I've done this before."

"But there might not be a cab soon, ma'am," I said, feeling the weight of groceries on my shoulder and not knowing why I was bothering, "so perhaps standing out here would be a better idea."

She had none of it. "It's only a short way, I've done this before."

I know you think that my pointy little head was looking to help this elderly woman because my father had just died but you'd be wrong. In reality I was irritated at her inefficient behaviour at calling a cab and was merely trying to point it out.

(Hey, I'd do it for anybody! Dude, don't beg in English outside Pharmaprix! Have a heart! This is Québec! Don't say "Could ya spare 25 cents?" First of all, up it to a dollar, then say it in French, dude! And last I checked, "change" in French is "monnaie", not "change!" But hey, we're in the land of "bienvenue" means "You're welcome!"

I'm sure you get the picture. Kid, lose the cute dog. It ain't gonna get you more bucks, but if you didn't have it I'd be more inclined to have you come over to my place and fix you a dinner. I'm so cynical that I think of marketing strategies for homeless people. Go figure. {I must admit, I caved two days ago when a bum came to the car while I was in the passenger seat and asked for money and I automatically said no, but dug into my pocket and found a loonie. I yelled at him as he walked away. He came back and I gave it to him but, noticing he was smoking a fresh cigarette, said "Dude, don't be blowing this on cigarettes." He looked at me and said "Hey, y'know what? I didn't buy this! Someone just up and gave it to me!"}

That made me happy).

So it was no doubt pure irritability that prompted me to even interact with the woman. She had her plan and her methods -- who was I to interfere?

But now I wish I had offered to carry her groceries home.

The Drag Is

The drag is that when someone goes, everything that they ever knew, learned or was willing to share goes with them.

Look at yourself. Look at your memories, all that hard-earned knowledge. What, you wasted your whole life not learning anything? No. Your brain accumulated so many memories and talents that literally, when you go, they all go, to be dispersed by the atoms that formed them.

Cherish them, those things that you know, because it will all disappear forever when you do, without a trace, unless you change that.

Luckily I had the forethought to ask that I be able to videotape my father's story. Which we did, every night for a couple of weeks, me over my martinis and he over his scotches, and I have the tapes somewhere. Damn, I'm glad I did that. I had no idea of my father's past and his recollections were amazing.

My mother was much less forthcoming -- she's too shy to tell her story in that much detail. But I recorded that too.

Thing is, it's all over now. I can't double-check the story. A huge mind, a mind much larger than mine, with amazing memories and experiences, has disappeared forever. No forensic anything can ever bring that incredible series of experiences back. I'll try, though, but look to your own . . . get all you can from them and never take them for granted.

I didn't. Thank you, Father, for all the wisdom you left behind. I for one always knew it was there.

The World is Short . . .

. . . one more person. My father died last night. I never thought I'd be writing these words, but I am. It's really hard to process, but I guess I'm doing it, for now.

It wasn't how I imagined it; the stroke or the heart attack. No, just a month-long decline, getting weaker and weaker. He smoked until he died, and let's hope he had his scotches till his final moment. No pain, no discernable illness, just death at the age of 87. A long ride. A good ride, with family who loved him, with no major interruptions, with no major traumas, excepting World War II.

I have to go see a doctor today. I don't feel like it, but I need some blood test results and doctors are hard to come by these days.

I wonder when I'm going to break down?

Mmm . . . Grilled Duck Mini-burgers?

Recently I've been watching so many cooking shows where people just seem to come up with menus on the fly, so I'm inspired to just come up with an on-the-fly menu.

Since we've been grilling (well, all three times!) we've pretty much only made Greek-inspired stuff.

And I never heard of a duck burger until I thought it up (but apparently it's not that rare . . . sorry, medium rare) but I was planning more like "Mini" duck burgers, fresh-ground in my grinder, Asian-style: maybe garlic, shallots, a little sesame oil, a little soy sauce, mirin and cilantro, then serve it on mini rolls with grilled red onion, lettuce, fresh cilantro and tomato with maybe a hoisin-BBQ sauce and drizzled with lime juice. Too food porny?

Everything grilled, of course. Jumbo shrimp with some kind of chile-garlic sauce . . .

No idea how doable this is, but do you think it would be a good menu? There would be no grilled green-tea ice cream involved.

Perils of Balcony Barbecuing

We had a plan to barbecue every single weekend if we could. But we only have a tiny spaceship grill -- it's really not equipped to handle too much stuff at a time.

So Saturday Arlette and Alex were due to come over for a Mediterranean feast similar to the week before. We bought all the stuff -- chicken thighs, which I brined and marinated overnight, and kufta, which is basically Moroccan hamburgers.

But I walked out on the balcony Saturday morning and the wind was howling and the temperature was about 5 degrees -- probably closer to minus five with windchill.

So we had to cancel. This not two weeks from June 1st.

But tonight was unavoidable -- the grill had to go on. There was just no way so much food could be skewered and prepared in an oven. Two other friends were supposed to come, one to help me grill. But they never showed, the pimps.

But guess what? It was around ten degrees and howling. I filled my jerry-rigged chimney starter with hardwood, and used some odd charcoal starter blocks I'd bought but never used as a base.

The wind was blowing so hard that they never caught. So I reluctantly poured a little charcoal starter in and tried that. It didn't work. So I gave up and shoved some newspaper under the thing.

That worked.

That worked so fucking well that soon there was a conflagration. Fucking flames three feet high and nothing I could do to calm it down. I was terrified and yelled at Brigitte to come to the balcony and help me. I was wondering how best to put out a fire of this sort . . . water? Not a clue.

Oh, and then the fucking "starter" bricks kicked in. Thanks! THANK YOU! Not doing what I wanted when I wanted, but now doing what I wanted when I didn't want it! BRILLIANT MANUFACTURING, PEOPLE!

Anyway, Brigitte calmed me down -- I was actually considering calling the Fire Department -- and it finally settled down.

Lessons learned: don't jerry-rig a chimney starter. Be averse to so-called "charcoal lighters". DO NOT barbecue when the winds are high. Have a plan for if things go badly wrong. Don't invite no-shows ever again.

Enjoy plump moist Mediterranean chicken and kuftas in grilled pitas with salad with feta and a fantastic pilaf.

Be happy you're not in the Burn Unit Jewish General getting your face debrided.

Whoa Nelly

Hey! I just realised that I can write anything in the world and you'll read it! See, you're reading it right now! Of course, you can go away, but I know you won't!

I could write anything, maybe about the issue of the rights of Brahmins as opposed to Hindus in rural 20th Century India, or I could write about sex between Canadian squirrels! See? You're reading it!

Your eyes glaze over as you read my words! Don't believe me? Get a pocket mirror and see for yourself! That is an official glaze, dear reader.

You think I'm nuts? Have you examined your local newspaper recently? Have you seen the intense onslaught of meaningless drivel that goes into it, day after day?

That's why you're reading me right this instant! Like a cobra fascinated by a mongoose, you can't tear your eyes away for fear you'll miss what happens next! What is he going to write now? Is it going to be complete and utter nonsense, or is he going to come up with something earthshaking, groundbreaking, eye-aching?

The real problem here is you! You just can't tear yourself away! You're bored at work or you stumbled on this page or you're a loyal reader, but it's YOU that drives me to write these words that you're willingly (or not willingly, if you're in Gitmo with a semi-automatic to your head) reading!

My flock, my flock. How I embrace you! How you endear yourselves to me just by tuning in.

Thus, I will write, my children, I will write. For you, my children, only you.

Let no word go unpunished.

Not Her Fault

It wasn't Brigitte's fault, nor was it her choice; but last evening we went to a restaurant called Portovino to celebrate a friend's birthday.

It's difficult to describe the experience in many ways -- suffice to say that I had to "pretend" to go make a phone call outside because the noise levels approached Runway 24 L at Dorval airport at peak flight hours, and hung out in Brigitte's car for about 40 minutes until she dragged me back inside.

But it can best be described as Pedestrian. "Safe". The kind of place Aunt Jeremy drags you to on Victoria Day weekend. (Get it? "drags" . . .)

The waiter was fussy, obviously in the biz for years, but, not particularly liking the look of the prices on the menu ($8 for a single jumbo shrimp? Tu exagères!) I didn't appreciate when Brigitte suggested to him that I would be "sharing" her dishes that he snidely remarked that "there will be a charge for sharing."

You asshole. How rude. What, he's going to be hovering to check if I have a bite of Brigitte's pasta? But that's what it came down to. I just wasn't in the mood for sub-grade Italian that I could whip up in a half an hour and I didn't like this strutting fuck's attitude, so I got the fuck out of there. Some social obligations are just that: obligations.

The single shrimp -- let me remind you, $8, on a bed of three-cent lettuce -- was nothing to write home about. Fuck, I could have cooked up ten of them for the same price, except without scraping an excess amount of lemon peel (cheap flavor enhancer, dude!) on it and undercooking it.

Verdict: NO TIP FOR YOU!

Fri May 15

Fri May 15

Very depressed . . . 22 days at sea now and no end in sight. Morrison has some form of consumption and refuses all rations. Bates and Moss are attending to him, but I fear the worst.

Yesterday sighted large masses below the boat, although no surface fins appeared. The wind has died down since Tuesday and the canvas has been low ever since. No sign of land, nor the telltale accompaniments; gulls or gannets nor any driftwood.

If you find this pitiful account, maybe tossed on some shore by a storm, please pass on the tale of these 12 desperate souls marooned in a small boat in the middle of the ocean. God bless you all.

Oh, and could you pick up a couple of beers at the dépanneur while you’re at it?

Picky, Picky, Picky

I don't think you want to be invited to my place for dinner. But I don't think I want to be to yours, either.

I think it's ridiculous for someone who chooses to represent food the way I do to have any food prejudices, but I do, and they're quite specific.

Here's how they shape up:

Foods I Haven't Tried, and Won't, But Do not Ask Me Why (I'll Tell You):

Artichokes. Reason: they look slimy and don't smell good.

Avocados. Reason: they look bland, seem to have no useful purpose and are too much effort to prepare, so I'm not going to go there.

Offal. Reason: No way I'm going to touch ANYONE's kidney, liver, entrails or brains. JUST WILL NEVER HAPPEN. They processed stuff so YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO.

Stuff I've tried a couple of times but won't make a habit of:

Asparagus. Reason: Nothing really distinguishes it from any other crispy vegetable but it looks like a skinny alien and I generally don't like thinking about "peeling off the outer husk".

Oysters. Reason: I guess I tried one a couple of times and they were inoffensive, but who needs inoffensive?

Any type of squash. Reason: Can I vomit now or later?

Mussels. Reason: Anything that you have to check whether they're living or discard was not meant for human consumption.

Cooked fish. Reason: It stinks everything it touches up, including the refrigerator, and is kind of the cosmic equivalent of Moose. You CAN eat it, but why on Earth would you want to?

Chickpeas. Reason: Anything with "chick" in it better be sashaying around topless.

Hmm. That's a somewhat impressive list of dislikes.

I don't know when we form these particular food prejudices, but I think I know where I got mine: inculcated from an early age by having to eat British boarding school food.

That being said, I do seem to like foods many others shun. Namely, dishes with a 1,000,000 Scoville Unit quotient, and stuff like broccoli. I know, "Why don't you like asparagus, but you like broccoli???"

I really don't know. But I'm getting better. I've recently been embracing blue cheeses, where I used to wrinkle my nose in disgust. I'll plough through a salmon steak, but let there even be one bone . . .

Well, at least I never tell my server I'm "allergic" to onions.

Misspent Youth?

Jesus, we criticize our youth all the time. Castigate them, vilify them, you name it.

But I was just listening to something that I made up and recorded, all by myself, at the tender age of 25. Or this amazing song . . . I don't want to toot my horn, but for a 25-year old on his own, now in the patina of old age, this is fucking BRILLIANT shit. Compared to this American Idol sanitized crap, ya know, I was on to something.

I remember making it. No one else was involved. It was in the Berkeley Hills and I was totally alone. I had my eight-track studio and keyboards and bass and of course, my guitar at the time, but I was still a 25-year-old so-called idiot youth.

Hey, dudes and dudettes, I couldn't do it again today for the life of me. Are you kidding? I must have devoted at least a month to that song alone. For what? you may properly ask.

Well the answer is, for nothing. JUST TO DO IT. Just for my own personal satisfaction in having done it.

Sometimes I can't believe I'm the same person I've always been.

(Best heard on headphones at maximum volume).

Thoughts Upon Sharp Instruments

I was posting a comment on Blork's blog but I deemed it necessary to repost it here.

It seems Blork bought himself a shiny new Gyutou knife. This is a truly dangerous instrument. (Parental discretion advised)

Anyway, this is what I had to say (speaking of my propensity to cutting off the upper portion of my thumb):

Yeah, I'm sorry I said "upper-right" as the upper left is always the victim. I just wish that I could get that "tuck-in-the-fingers" technique that you always see, but I never have. It's pathetic.

However, I have an inordinate respect for sharp knives.

In my book, julienning carrots is the worst, closely followed by peppers. If the knife doesn't immediately bite in both cases, it slips. Potatoes are annoying, because they "suck" the knife, and garlic also, as it seems to want to stick everywhere unless you're well lubricated (maybe in more senses than one) but I Fear The Carrots. They are my Armageddon. They will get me one day, and it ain't gonna be pretty. All you hand surgeons pay close attention.

But sometimes it gets really hairy, let me tell you. I try not to let my mind drift . . . at all. You read these stories of "Man loses hand to bolt cutter" but you really, really have to be careful . . . after all, the same knife that is carving graceful shards from a partially-frozen slice of filet mignon is equally capable of . . .

Okay, I'm creeping myself out so I'll stop there.

This Guy

You know, this guy really makes my blood boil. Because he's so good. This guy is a world-class writer, and I'm quite pissed off about it.

I would be glad if I were the editor of Gourmet, but I'm pissed off because he's ostensibly my competition. His reviews are so sharply hewn, so concise and to the point, that he transports us to the place he's reviewing -- a very hard thing to do, as I can safely attest.

His is the best food writing (and I'm sure all his other writing would come up to snuff) that I've ever seen in Montreal. Oh, okay, anywhere -- and I've seen 'em all.

Watch this guy. He is going to go very, very far.

Risk II

I reread a post (there are so many of them now!) that I thought was worthy of reposting. You can always do a search for the original at the top of your page to find the date.

Here it is:

RISK

What is it about risk that bothers me? One look at ClimbRocker's Blog reminds me that riding a bike is risky. Why would any sane person mount a bike in this city? But that’s me. I’m averse to risk but fascinated by people who take risks. I’m the first to latch onto a program like “I Shouldn’t be Alive.”

No, you shouldn’t be alive, you asshole, because you wandered up into some wilderness not telling anyone where you were going, and furthermore brought your ten-year-old son.

But people still bungie-jump, parachute from airplanes and climb mountains, seemingly totally oblivious to one fact: when you die, it’s all gone; no more swimming in the Great Barrier Reef patting manta rays — just the great chasm of death.

Risk. Yes. Risk. But the eternal gamble, against the ultimate price: is it truly worth it? For you? Guess what, everyone around you is affected when you plunge down the rock face and get severe head injuries. You’re just the poor apologising schmuck in the hospital bed going through months of rehabilitation.

Same goes for the idiot that gets in a car and drag races someone, or rides a motorcycle without a helmet.

Come to think of it, every time I see a daredevil crash his plane at an air show, I think, wow, kid, you finally did good.

"I Couldn't Get Out"

Reuters/AP

"I couldn't get out of the bathroom because the door handle was stuck," reports Nicholas Robinson of his three-minute long ordeal at the hands of faulty mechanisms yesterday.

"There was a beer on the table outside that I desperately wanted to consume, but it proved to be beyond me. The door was somehow jammed from the inside, so I yelled and yelled for Brigitte, but she was completely asleep."

Robinson eventually managed to free himself after some quick thinking. "I thought that maybe putting a pointy object into the door handle might work, so I grabbed Brigitte's manicure file and shoved it right in."

It worked, and Robinson is none the worse for wear. "That beer was the best I've had in the last twenty-four hours and I want each and every one of you to consider owning your own manicure set (from Lancombe)."

There is an ongoing investigation.

I Just Can't Stop Laughing

Isn't there some producer out there, SOMEWHERE?? Shit, if you ain't gonna do it I'M gonna do it.

Listen to this line and TELL ME it isn't right out of a Hollywood blockbuster (article about Somali pirates describing what happens to the millions taken in ransom):

"Mr. Boyah, who lives in a simple little house, explains: ''Don't be surprised when I tell you all the money has disappeared. When someone who never had money suddenly gets money, it just goes."

Fuckin' A, fuckin' B and fuckin' C, worse movies have been built on worse lines.

I say, Pirates -3. World, 0

Weirdest Assemblage of Words . . .

. . . ever spoken?

"'Man, these Islamic guys want to cut my hands off,' he grumbled over a plate of camel meat and spaghetti." -- from a NY Times story about Somali pirates.

Couldn't have said it better myself!

Though I'd have loved to! The whole Somali pirate thing is a comedy-in-progress, starring Jerry as the pirate boss and George as his henchman. Elaine . . . well, she's in the kitchen wearing a hijab.

Kramer was killed long ago by outraged comedygoers.

But don't you just dig the words "camel meat and spaghetti"? Dem goofy pirates, let's keep em' around, just so I can write about 'em. Hey, maybe George Clooney will come in at some point and the word "caper" will be included in the sentence!

Whole article (and I just can't contain my laughing out loud, Brigitte will think I'm going insane, here.) Get it quickly!

Success!

I am pleased to report that I have succeeded in bringing to life that most ancient of creatures, the mammoth. I am pleased also to share with you the details, so that you may too share in the pleasures of being a mammoth owner.

I derived the DNA from a National Geographic article on mammoths and resequenced it, ending up with the recombinant form NS161, which was surprisingly easy to do. I then implanted it in the nucleus of an egg from my cat, Iggy (who was none too pleased, let me tell you) and reimplanted the egg "in utero".

Lo and behold, 29 months later, Mary, my mammoth was born. She's a bit cranky at times but she makes for a great fuzzy bean bag on cold nights and likes oreos.

The only problem is fitting her in the elevator so I can take her out and walk her. And she seems to be growing by the foot each day, fed on my healthy diet of penne rigate with gorgonzola cream sauce.

Any suggestions?

Sometimes

The spread
Sometimes the best days are the simplest days. I hate to sound like a fucking Bon Appetit article (see, now they can't use it) but sometimes just fuckin' around, cooking something and hanging out is the best medicine.

Discovering is also good. You have to practice having fun -- you just cannot manufacture it. You have to discover what constitutes fun, but you also have to sweep partners into the game, and all of them -- repeat, all of them -- must also share your vision. Kind of like one organism looking to have fun. It can be a drifting, mindless organism, or it can be a symbiont; every separate part part of the same brain devoted toward the common goal.

What is fun? This has occupied almost every specie since the dawn of . . . oh, David Attenborough, GET AWAY, GET AWAY!

Fun is good times, dudes and dudettes! I hads fun tonight, YEE-HAW!

Yo, listen up: Tony the Schmonie Greekazoid called and wanted to see what was up. Well, guess what was cookin', oaf-lookin'!

Bee

Bee

CUUUUUUUE!

Tony, the GorillMeister Makes the Table

I swear, this was the best goddamn dinner I've had in seven decades. Longer than my grandfather's been dead, folks!

I say now that to grill is to conquer EVERY ail that travails ye.

Just LOOK at that oafish schmirk on Tony's face as he contemplates the amazing feast that he was the grillmaster for. Ouf.

AI YAI YAI it was amazing. Chicken thighs first brined by me, then marinated in olive oil, balsamic, lemon juice, oregano, tarragon and thyme and then STRUNG UP AND SKEWERED to perfection.

Jumbo shrimp, shells on, stabbed through the heart, everything slathered with basting medium (garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, butter, olive oil) and GRILLED on my tiny little spaceship grill over hardwood.

White wine, Eliane Elias, a nice table, lots of laughter and amazing tsaziki from Parthenon and added to by Brigitte . . .

Ya

Just

Can't

Get

Any

Better

Than

This.

Crisis? What crisis?

Support the Photons

Well, Brigitte's bank account is officially down to less than $100 and I'm too terrified to glance at my balance, for fear it's less, and there's no relief in sight. Plus, she has to do $1000 worth of community service for parking tickets -- 96% of which were from her old residence, an apartment building where they didn't paint parking lines in the lot so most of the tenants -- a lot of whom had internal parking but couldn't be bothered -- parked any which way, which forced Brigitte to park in the street, in an area which is literally crawling with parking Nazis -- and I mean, beat cops in patrol cars who seem to have nothing better to do than make sure Brigitte is not 3 minutes overdue in an area where a snow plough might or might not show up -- hey, fuckin' beats arresting gang members, right? So instead of being able to go look for work she has to sit around and be a receptionist for the downtrodden, or something like that.

*Whew*! I think that's the longest unstructured paragraph I've ever written.

At any rate, my concern is not for us, nor our shrinking bank accounts. It's for the photons that are even now suffering because we are too distracted to pay attention to them. One disappears every billionth of a nanosecond, people!

Thus I appeal to you, my loyal readers (notice "peasants" has disappeared from my vocabulary?!) to Support the Photons.

If you wish it, we can enable trillions to live, you and us together in this quest.

Thus a small donation of only $1 (more, if you're hammered) can be ensconced in my PayPal account. Won't you support the photons? Please send your generous donations to my address at tonbo(at)montrealfood.com.

Let's do something right this time, people. Because it's the RIGHT thing to do.

Sorry IV

Sorry, I have a habit of posting, rereading and then deleting a short time later. Two went down today. Ya just gotta be on top of things, less'n you miss some juicy rant.

Sorry, can't put them back.

Pat Metheny: Better Ranter Than Me? Huh?

Anyone of you who likes Kenny G can tune out right now. (As a matter of fact, any of you who like Michael Bolton as well can just go onto a freeway overpass and throw yourselves off, shouting "El Divoooooo" as your swansong).

And anyone who isn't too interested in music can pretty much tune out as well, but this goes beyond music.

I thought I could rant, but I do it in a cranky, loud way, you know, with lots of expletives and moaning and groaning -- I know it can get tiresome. (Have you ever argued with yourself? Well, I do it all the time, so I feel fully qualified to know what I'm talking about). (Over-qualified, perhaps).

But who knew Pat Metheny was the master of polite invective, of the nailing putdown, of the Supreme Diatribe? This unassuming, superb jazz guitarist who has filled this world with so much angelic sound over decades . . . who knew that HE COULD EVER BEAT ME WITH A RANT.

Pho, Yo!

Brigitte's been on a Vietnamese kick recently. She eyes noodle shops as if they were big game. I want an Algerian halal filet mignon sandwich -- she wants Pho. (She just called from on the road and asked if I wanted to have some Pho. I said No, but Pho Christ's sake, girl! I'll make you a vat of Pho this weekend! You can sip it with your scotch and Fresca.)

"It's healthy, not greasy, like some Chinese, it tastes great . . . " Can't argue with the truth.

I must admit I go through food fads. Some can last as much as a year: mostly pasta. Or mostly American. Or mostly Asian. I think my Asian Period (Cretaceous, oh, and crustaceous!) lasted almost two years.

So it's a whole new project. Master Vietnamese. I've done Thai and I can do it pretty well. Indian is well, well behind me. I've dabbled with Chinese and the east Asians, but never concentrated on Vietnam.

I've been sorting through the various recipes for Banh Pho Bo (Beef Noodle Soup) and trying to deconstruct the soup at Cinq Epices entirely mentally, and I've decided that the secret ingredient is star anise, which I've never worked with before.

I'm certainly not going to spend three hours with beef bones building a broth from scratch, but perhaps with a little fiddling, a nice veal broth from Atlantique and some STAR ANISE, I'll be Phoin' bePho You Knowin'.

Update this weekend.

Article Theory

Carl Sagan was a great guy. With all the idiots on this Earth the odds of someone like him coming into being seem almost impossibly small. Therein lies a parallelogramme of sorts.

Because he postulated that the scale of the universe was so huge, yet so small, that when we descend to the level of an electron, that "within it, organized into the local equivalent of galaxies and smaller structures, are an immense number of other, much tinier elementary particles, which are themselves universes at the next level, and so on forever -- an infinite downward regression, universes within universes, endlessly. And upwards as well."

But guess what: the probability that you have one atom of Carl Sagan's dead body inside you right this minute rides at about 99.999999999%.

Isn't that downright creepy?

Well, when we go into that good great night, ya gotta admit that your atoms are going to disperse, right? But at the same time they ain't goin' anywhere. They're just going to recombine in a different configuration. Ya copying here?

"So long, Willie, it's been great fun getting together -- maybe I'll see you in somebody else's asshole someday. Be sure and stop by for a drink, huh? And don't bring that electron you been hangin' round with this time, you hear? Just a no-good dishrag, always negative. Find a nice positive Higgs' Boson for a change."

Well, let me tell you I'm tired of swapping large-particle hadrons with Olivia Newton-John. Can't they all just go home and forget they'll be around until Mac Davis wins on Jeopardy?

Which is the possibility of, around 0.000000000000000000000000000001 x how many socks I've lost in my life.

Christ, I think I just inhaled one of your atoms. Go home, take a bath this time and don't come round here no more.

A Big Lack

Last night I possibly made the worst food mistake of my recent sorry life.

Uh, I don't pretend to be a food snob but I'm kind of proud that I've eaten at a McDonald's only about twice in the past twenty years . . . other fast food joints possibly less (except for hot dogs -- I'm a sucker for hot dogs).

But last night I got this irrational craving for a Big Mac. I'm usually always sorry to actually give in to my cravings. I always hate myself in the morning. But this time I hated myself LAST NIGHT.

The moment this awful caricature of food presented itself in that limp, steamed-out fast-food container, looking nothing like that Big Mac of my youth (or the ones on TV) my stomach shrank to nanological proportions.

It was just positively ATROCIOUS. Chewy, bland, tasteless, soggy, greasy (but not in a good way, like good diner food), processed, gristly and disgusting.

Even the fries were not what I remembered . . . maybe because they don't make 'em with beef fat any more, the miserable cretins? Fuck, if you're going to poison me with your fast food burger once every ten years, at least make it EDIBLE.

By contrast, this afternoon I spent an hour and a half this afternoon hand-chopping a salsa with carrots, red onions, cherry tomatoes, celery, garlic, serranos and orange peppers and made nachos with Greek olives, cheddar and Gouda and pickled jalapeños and marinated steak tacos to grill with onions and cumin and Ancho chiles on fresh lightly-toasted flour tortillas.

That's what I call a Big Nick.

Oh NO, oh NO oh NO

Last night I possibly made the worst food mistake of my recent sorry life.

U

The Curious Case of Ogg and Ugg

It was a bitterly cold day, and Ogg said to Ugg, "We need wood."

Ugg said "Why we need wood, Ogg?" and Ogg said "To burn it."

Ugg said "What is burn?" and Ogg said "Ogg not sure. Ugg find out."

Ugg said "Where is wood?" and Ogg said "There, outside cave, on hill."

Ugg said "Where on hill is wood, Ogg?" and Ogg said "Up there, just past Big Rock."

Ugg said "How much wood we need, Ogg?" and Ogg said "Enough to burn." Ugg said "Who gets wood, Ogg?" and Ogg said "Ugg get wood."

Ugg said "Why Ugg get wood when Ogg wants wood for Ogg? Why not Ogg get wood?"

And Ogg said "Ogg want Ugg to get wood so we can burn Wheel that Ugg invented last night."

Twitter

Umm, I don't use Twitter and never will. It's a step aside from Facebook but fuck Facebook too.

Summoned

The only reason I'm here, readers, at 4:23 a.m. on a Monday morning down here is in the Eastern Townships, is that in the last sleeping moments of my nocturnal adventures, I was summoned by one "Viklivier Diarkis."

I kid you not. Google away, my friends, but I can't for the life of me imagine why someone with such an imposing name would want to see me, for any reason. But it woke me completely out of a deathly sleep, a sleep propelled by more pharmaceuticals than I care to mention. (Okay, one of them was Zopiclone. but I digress).

Who is this Diarkis fellow -- or female -- who interrupts a perfectly-good Imovane-induced slumber to summon me to his/her side?

Does anyone know a Vic Diarkis? Maybe Vikki Diarkis? I definitely got the feeling that this individual really wanted to see me, like, pronto, leave the gun, take the cannoli.

I would like the public's help in this matter.

Remember the name: Viklivier Diarkis. I definitely get the impression they pronounce it in the French fashion: Vik-LIV-EE-YAY, not British, as in Viclaveer.

Thank you in advance for any help you can provide. I REALLY get the feeling that if I don't get over there right away, all sorts of hell are going to come down the pipe.

And in the End . . .

Tai says "Hi."

Do You Ever? Don't Lie, Now

I woke up (I always seem to hate waking up these days -- there can be nothing good afoot) craving Crap. Yes, Crap. Something like Chef Boy-R-Dee's Little Bites . . . dunno the name but they come in tiny pasty rectangles that seem to do well in the microwave if you only pay them a little attention.

Never mind that I had most parts of a dinner that Brigitte and I had at Cinq Epices (more on that place later -- our new Vietnamese Best Friend) sitting in the fridge.

Did I crave the grilled beef, chicken and crevettes with perfectly-cooked Vietnamese rice? No, I craved Meat Ravioli with Kraft Parmesan.

What is wrong with me?

These small, seemingly innocent successions of crimes have put me in my present frame of consciousness. To whit:

I constructed a box of Taste of Thai Red Curry Noodles according to directions and was just about shocked out of my apathy towards bad food.

Let's see . . . all the ingredients were there: Cooks in four minutes! Put weird powder packet into cup of water in the container and add all "rest of packets"! Three packets! And the glassy noodles! Microwave on high for three minutes!

Ooh, this is going to be good! But then the punchline, the one I always fall for when looking for quality repasts . . . . "DO NOT OVERCOOK."

Obviously Chef Kripongnatharakanchera had a particular eye out for fussy customers like me . . . (see words in cartoon thought-bubble above this page, echoing slightly with medium reverb, coming from mouth of white-hatted Asian chefron dude in pleasantly deep-voiced Asiatic accent):

"We may PUT Xanthan gum, hydrolyzed vegetable protein, onion and garlic powders, thickeners and FC&C Yellow dye #4 but the key is that the customer SHOULD NOT OVERCOOK! Otherwise the product will be mushy, mashy, musty and above all, taste-free!"


But haven't you ever gazed with big eyes on the loving photo of fresh-cooked ravioli floating on an orange label with a whiskered white-hatted chef at the top and not craved this crap?

To quote Brigitte, "Ay-yaï-yaï." (She has ways with words).

I have different words for it, but I promised to be mellow. See how mellow I can be when I put my mind to it?