Just watching Jamie Oliver's "Ministry of Food" just kind of brought home something I really don't think about much. But, and not trying to brag or anything, because, like I said, I don't think about it much, I've possibly eaten at a fast food outlet perhaps three times in the last twenty years.
I think I told you a couple of months ago that I got some insane craving for a Big Mac -- a very unusual occurrence for me -- but when we went to McDonald's and I bit into it I almost puked.
I don't want to sound self-righteous at all. But I know that my 7-year-old son, if he's ever in my care, will never, ever see the backside of a fast food outlet. He won't drink Coke on my watch, even though, hypocrite that I am, I drink it at least once a week. He will never know the horror of a fast-food burger or, indeed , fast-food anything on my watch. If he wants a burger I'll make it for him, ground from scratch, which is the only way I eat my burgers nowadays.
I know this is not possible for 98% of the world, but the inexpensiveness of junk food just contributes to the pandemic of eating it for so many families.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Scripts That Failed!
I did these for a now long-defunct website I had. "Walker" is reference to a long-defunct TV show called "Walker: Texas Ranger." Click on scripts for larger versions.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
BBQ Fun!
Even though we have to hide the spaceship barbecue from prying eyes because it's forbidden in the building, we just love breaking the rules! And there simply is no substitute for a charcoal grill meal.
But it can be a bit complicated and there's nothing better than to have competent cooks in the background to deal with the plating, salads and dessert instead of being mushrooms sitting around waiting for the food. Hate that!
But Brigitte made a fantastic Greek salad, a mushroom sauce for the steak and of course, her signature potatoes, which Dave the new Band Guy sliced, and Vicky, his charming chef-wife, generally raced around and helped everyone.
Then Dave and I jammed on our guitars to find out what tunes we want to play while the women, well, what could they do? It was too loud for them to talk!
Just the way we like it! Turn it ALL up to eleven. Which is delicious.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Holiday in Yemen!
Sanaa -- Shepherds found yesterday the mutilated bodies of two German nurses and a South Korean teacher who were kidnapped while picnicking in an area of Yemen known as a hideout for al-Qaeda.
The dead women disappeared in the remote Northern province of Sanaa while on an outing with six other foreigners, including a German doctor, his wife and their three young children. The whereabouts of the six were unknown, the Yemeni government said.
Dialogue:
"Gee, meine kleine liebe mädchen, where do you think we should go on vacation this year? Klub Med?"
"Ohh, nein, not Klub Med AGAIN! How's about a desert country rife with insurgents? Hey, I know, how about Yemen?"
"Oh, darling, you always have such good ideas. Ich liebe dich so much! D'you think we'll actually be able to meet real insurgents? You know, those goofy Jihadis?"
"Oh, liebling, of course! We'll meet the whole group, and der Kinder will absolutely LOVE picnicking in the barren, windswept Yemeni desert!"
"Ich bin signed up! Let's book it on Expedia.com!"
"Oh, nein, Travelocity's much cheaper! Oder there's Priceline too -- William Shatner die ads gemacht!!"
The dead women disappeared in the remote Northern province of Sanaa while on an outing with six other foreigners, including a German doctor, his wife and their three young children. The whereabouts of the six were unknown, the Yemeni government said.
Dialogue:
"Gee, meine kleine liebe mädchen, where do you think we should go on vacation this year? Klub Med?"
"Ohh, nein, not Klub Med AGAIN! How's about a desert country rife with insurgents? Hey, I know, how about Yemen?"
"Oh, darling, you always have such good ideas. Ich liebe dich so much! D'you think we'll actually be able to meet real insurgents? You know, those goofy Jihadis?"
"Oh, liebling, of course! We'll meet the whole group, and der Kinder will absolutely LOVE picnicking in the barren, windswept Yemeni desert!"
"Ich bin signed up! Let's book it on Expedia.com!"
"Oh, nein, Travelocity's much cheaper! Oder there's Priceline too -- William Shatner die ads gemacht!!"
Friday, June 19, 2009
Personal
Wouldn't it be great if you could wander around life with your own personal film score? I'm not talking iPod here. I mean, the music swells when you look at your loved one. All around you, just like in the movies.
When you're in a prankster mood, a clarinet pipes a tiny piping tune, just like in all the comedies. Think Tom Hanks, Sleepless in Seattle!
Sad? Frank Sinatra singing "One More for the Road." But not in headphones! A real orchestra following you everywhere! Frank with it! Kind of like those guys on the Titanic!
Oh, okay, bad analogy. But you know what I mean.
When you're in a prankster mood, a clarinet pipes a tiny piping tune, just like in all the comedies. Think Tom Hanks, Sleepless in Seattle!
Sad? Frank Sinatra singing "One More for the Road." But not in headphones! A real orchestra following you everywhere! Frank with it! Kind of like those guys on the Titanic!
Oh, okay, bad analogy. But you know what I mean.
Hey! Back Off The Car, Hands Up In The Air!
Do not even DARE criticize my GI Joes! Tasers are possible here if I even hear one insult to any one of them. Just look at my little babies! They personally peer down on . . . um . . . all our activities in the bedroom. Look at them! There's Mr. Sailor! He'd rescue me if things went wrong in a hurricane.
Nazi Asshole Schweinhunt Corporal -- well, I'd be sent to the ovens, wouldn't I? I'll have to give them names. I guess he'll have to be the time-honored "Fritz."
And the Japanese corporal! Sword poised above Australian captive's head, frozen in time! Fucking bastard. But he watches over me, so I like him.
Then there's the elegant B-24 captain. Complete with briefcase (not pictured!)
Oh, I love my Action Figures. And you should, too.
Medication
Some people have an aversion to medication, but I don't. I've been self-medicating since I was fifteen, and not with alcohol.
But now I take Atenolol for high blood pressure and Buspar for anxiety. Usually my blood pressure is around 136/80, which is high.
But last night I felt very sleepy and wondered why. I took my blood pressure and it was 102/70. That's almost dead, people.
I remember going to a cardiologist earlier this year about an episode of arrhythmia and telling him that I'd taken 8 100-milligram Atenolols in a row to ward it off and he said "You're lucky you're not on a pacemaker, my friend."
Cardiologist never lie. I am lucky! Don't know about the pacemaker part.
So I guess I must have taken too many Atenolols yesterday (but I feel as calm as a paper boat bobbing on a sea of glass now!)
But now I take Atenolol for high blood pressure and Buspar for anxiety. Usually my blood pressure is around 136/80, which is high.
But last night I felt very sleepy and wondered why. I took my blood pressure and it was 102/70. That's almost dead, people.
I remember going to a cardiologist earlier this year about an episode of arrhythmia and telling him that I'd taken 8 100-milligram Atenolols in a row to ward it off and he said "You're lucky you're not on a pacemaker, my friend."
Cardiologist never lie. I am lucky! Don't know about the pacemaker part.
So I guess I must have taken too many Atenolols yesterday (but I feel as calm as a paper boat bobbing on a sea of glass now!)
Thursday, June 18, 2009
How to be a Vampire in Ten Easy Steps
1. Insomnia
2. Reasonably loud music
3. An addiction to the non-sounds of the night
4. White wine
5. Chocolate
6. A sleeping partner (that would be a partner who's sleeping! Get your minds out of the gutter!)
7. A joyous urge to see that the clock says 4:30
8. A joyous urge to see that the clock says 4:30 but suddenly realise it's P.M.
9. Midnight munchies when you had no appetite at dinner
10. Bat wings (optional)
11. (You know I always turn everything up to 11): That great big bed that you can't go to sleep on! Guess what: you're never going to be satisfied until you have a coffin! Then finally you'll get a good day's sleep.
2. Reasonably loud music
3. An addiction to the non-sounds of the night
4. White wine
5. Chocolate
6. A sleeping partner (that would be a partner who's sleeping! Get your minds out of the gutter!)
7. A joyous urge to see that the clock says 4:30
8. A joyous urge to see that the clock says 4:30 but suddenly realise it's P.M.
9. Midnight munchies when you had no appetite at dinner
10. Bat wings (optional)
11. (You know I always turn everything up to 11): That great big bed that you can't go to sleep on! Guess what: you're never going to be satisfied until you have a coffin! Then finally you'll get a good day's sleep.
Many Ways
There are many ways to pass the time. Many, many. You might argue with me, but I figure, there's only one life. I mean, hey, once you're gone, you're gone -- there is no more future. So why waste it?
But doing shit like performing crap just to get in the Guinness Book of World Records isn't one of them.
Okay, so you can line-dance for 36 hours without a break just because you want to get in The Book. But what if you fail?
Human beings amaze me with their stupidity. Climb Mount Everest? What? Just to say that you did? Spend fucking $100,000 doing it? Are you completely insane? Risking the one life you have -- there's no looking back, people! Once you're gone, you're gone . . . FOREVER.You will NEVER BE BACK as a ghost or any other fucking shit. It's erasure, like it or not. But humans are remarkable for their stupidity.
So use what life you have left in a logical way. Don't waste your time being an asshole dancing for 36 hours just to get in the Guinness Book.
Spend the time instead loving the people you are with.
I think that is the best recommendation I could ever possibly give.
But doing shit like performing crap just to get in the Guinness Book of World Records isn't one of them.
Okay, so you can line-dance for 36 hours without a break just because you want to get in The Book. But what if you fail?
Human beings amaze me with their stupidity. Climb Mount Everest? What? Just to say that you did? Spend fucking $100,000 doing it? Are you completely insane? Risking the one life you have -- there's no looking back, people! Once you're gone, you're gone . . . FOREVER.You will NEVER BE BACK as a ghost or any other fucking shit. It's erasure, like it or not. But humans are remarkable for their stupidity.
So use what life you have left in a logical way. Don't waste your time being an asshole dancing for 36 hours just to get in the Guinness Book.
Spend the time instead loving the people you are with.
I think that is the best recommendation I could ever possibly give.
All My Children
I know I brag about my kids but it's because I love them. See the dill that I mentioned earlier?
Dill We Do Part!
The first thing I do when I wake up hungover as Ernest Hemingway probably started every day (or William Holden, for that matter) is worry about the kids. These are kids, I must remind you, that I resurrected from seed packets! They would not have had life had I not planted them in Miracle-Gro. Hmm, I'm getting into the abortion-debate territory here . . . would I have been a criminal for NOT planting them? But I digress.
Thank GOD nature is watering them, but they simply love being here. I wish I had that National Geographic fast-mo camera so I could see them following the sun, I really do.
It's very too bad that they will be part of dinner in the near future, because who in God's universe plots eating their own children?
The Boys and Girls!
The first thing I do when I wake up hungover as Ernest Hemingway probably started every day (or William Holden, for that matter) is worry about the kids. These are kids, I must remind you, that I resurrected from seed packets! They would not have had life had I not planted them in Miracle-Gro. Hmm, I'm getting into the abortion-debate territory here . . . would I have been a criminal for NOT planting them? But I digress.
Thank GOD nature is watering them, but they simply love being here. I wish I had that National Geographic fast-mo camera so I could see them following the sun, I really do.
It's very too bad that they will be part of dinner in the near future, because who in God's universe plots eating their own children?
Confessions of a Germophobe
Uh . . .
Umm . . .
Okay, just getting it together here . . .
Soon . . . *microphone feedback*
Uhh . . .
My name is Nicholas and I'm a germophobe.
See? I said it! *dancing up and down*
I admit it. I push elevator buttons with my sleeve or my key. I love winter because I can wear gloves. I can't use public latrines for anything other than, well, "the small one". I have to use the paper towel that I dry my hands with to open the bathroom door, if there is one (I'm always grateful when there isn't!)
I'm afraid that it's terminal. I will never change. What set it all off was an article by Chuck Gerba back in the mid 90s. I got so creeped out that now I've developed this fucking fetish. I know I'm not the only one.
The first thing I do when I come home is wash my hands. No, not OCD-wise -- just a quick rinse. But it enables me to get on with my day.
My house is "safe". No germs here. But everywhere else is literally showered with bacteria and viruses. Hey, in my house, at least it's MY germs, right? They're mine and I loves them.
I'm obsessive about the kitchen. It must be 110% sanctified. Brigitte moans about my paper towel usage, but my mind says "Paper towel good - dishrag, BAD. GERMS."
Hey, I have a right! (see? this is the usual denial excuse in patterns of obsessive behavior, be it hoarding, avoiding public transport or collecting Garbage Pail Kids cards!)
But guess what . . . when my son, a walking Petri dish, is not here, I haven't had a sick day in my life!
How crazy is that, folks?
Okay, come on, come on, drape me with your own stories. We're all psychiatrists here.
Umm . . .
Okay, just getting it together here . . .
Soon . . . *microphone feedback*
Uhh . . .
My name is Nicholas and I'm a germophobe.
See? I said it! *dancing up and down*
I admit it. I push elevator buttons with my sleeve or my key. I love winter because I can wear gloves. I can't use public latrines for anything other than, well, "the small one". I have to use the paper towel that I dry my hands with to open the bathroom door, if there is one (I'm always grateful when there isn't!)
I'm afraid that it's terminal. I will never change. What set it all off was an article by Chuck Gerba back in the mid 90s. I got so creeped out that now I've developed this fucking fetish. I know I'm not the only one.
The first thing I do when I come home is wash my hands. No, not OCD-wise -- just a quick rinse. But it enables me to get on with my day.
My house is "safe". No germs here. But everywhere else is literally showered with bacteria and viruses. Hey, in my house, at least it's MY germs, right? They're mine and I loves them.
I'm obsessive about the kitchen. It must be 110% sanctified. Brigitte moans about my paper towel usage, but my mind says "Paper towel good - dishrag, BAD. GERMS."
Hey, I have a right! (see? this is the usual denial excuse in patterns of obsessive behavior, be it hoarding, avoiding public transport or collecting Garbage Pail Kids cards!)
But guess what . . . when my son, a walking Petri dish, is not here, I haven't had a sick day in my life!
How crazy is that, folks?
Okay, come on, come on, drape me with your own stories. We're all psychiatrists here.
Salmon
No, not Rushdie. But Jeff gave me the idea of using the dill for some sort of salmon appetizer this coming Saturday, when Brigitte is having her apartment sale.
Here's what I'm thinking: maybe some herb-Boursin with multiple-added ingredients (such as are abundant in the herb boxes -- tons of dill, chives, parsley, thyme) spread on rye bread squares (or rounds -- gotta get a little metal round-cutter) topped with a succulent slice of smoked salmon. I'm too lazy to make gravlax, but idea #2 might work. That with filet mignons with shiitake mushroom sauce and summer corn on the cob, all washed down with perhaps some champagne or vin mousseux -- plus some guitar playing and music talk -- well, I think that's a downright good idea.
Thanks, Jeff!
Here's what I'm thinking: maybe some herb-Boursin with multiple-added ingredients (such as are abundant in the herb boxes -- tons of dill, chives, parsley, thyme) spread on rye bread squares (or rounds -- gotta get a little metal round-cutter) topped with a succulent slice of smoked salmon. I'm too lazy to make gravlax, but idea #2 might work. That with filet mignons with shiitake mushroom sauce and summer corn on the cob, all washed down with perhaps some champagne or vin mousseux -- plus some guitar playing and music talk -- well, I think that's a downright good idea.
Thanks, Jeff!
Boys and Girls Update
The boys and girls are going nuts. They love this moody weather. Who'd ever have thought that the dill sprouted the earliest and is growing like a weed on steroids?
Gonna have to think up something to do with it. This is bothering me big time. Because I know he wants to flower, and will pretty soon.
Oh, I guess I have some other pressing problems.
Gonna have to think up something to do with it. This is bothering me big time. Because I know he wants to flower, and will pretty soon.
Oh, I guess I have some other pressing problems.
My Ties
When my father went to the hereafter a couple of weeks ago, (First Class, by the way -- in the style to which he is accustomed) he left a bunch of ties. What a sense of humor, Father! You didn't seriously wear these things, did you?
But he did, and my mother mailed them to me from California. Brigitte warned me that I'd be without a partner if I wore some of them in public, but whaddyagonnado. They're my deceased dad's ties, for chrissakes! Gotta wear those! Do some penance! Show some respetto!
So it's a running battle: Brigitte, the insurgent, trying to loosen my Ties. Me, the Hero, trying to rescue every single one of them.
She hates stripes. Hey, Stripes are fine with me! Live and let live. My life revolved around stripes! My school tie, which I tied about eight billion times all by myself, was black with green diagonal stripes! That's EIGHT BILLION, people! Not seven!
Therefore, I LIKE STRIPES.
I sense a battle looming. Thank God she rarely reads this blog, or I'd find myself in Goodfellas with a chef's knife poised over my chest.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Following Up
. . . . on this post.
Hey, yo, you ever want a hostile bunch of assholes? Just post a rant on eBay's forums! They are like bulldogs on crack. They think they're the Pope, Buddha and Allah all rolled into one!
Truly, people, this is all they do -- hang around on eBay forums. I imagine some sweaty 400-lb. male guy selling spark plugs and checking in every ten minutes to see what someone has posted. Then he sees my post and "weighs in", so to speak.
Hostile! Just poised to rip you to shreds! Every ten minutes! Reminds me of high-school cliques. Some asshole will post something with the subject line "Ten Things I Like About eBay, what do you like about it?" and they'll get 23,908 replies!
Just try it! Troll eBay's forums and post something provocative (or ignorant -- they don't like newbies -- you have to be in the clique! And I have over 750 100% positive feedbacks on eBay!) Look me up! tonbo0422!
Craigslist . . . . eBay . . . why do I even bother? There are so many assholes on this planet that if I started counting, well, there are 5.999 billion, aren't there?
But dear loyal reader, rest assured you are not among them. You're my plant-food-beer-as-life-loving flock.
I humbly anoint you with this, my latest rant.
Hey, yo, you ever want a hostile bunch of assholes? Just post a rant on eBay's forums! They are like bulldogs on crack. They think they're the Pope, Buddha and Allah all rolled into one!
Truly, people, this is all they do -- hang around on eBay forums. I imagine some sweaty 400-lb. male guy selling spark plugs and checking in every ten minutes to see what someone has posted. Then he sees my post and "weighs in", so to speak.
Hostile! Just poised to rip you to shreds! Every ten minutes! Reminds me of high-school cliques. Some asshole will post something with the subject line "Ten Things I Like About eBay, what do you like about it?" and they'll get 23,908 replies!
Just try it! Troll eBay's forums and post something provocative (or ignorant -- they don't like newbies -- you have to be in the clique! And I have over 750 100% positive feedbacks on eBay!) Look me up! tonbo0422!
Craigslist . . . . eBay . . . why do I even bother? There are so many assholes on this planet that if I started counting, well, there are 5.999 billion, aren't there?
But dear loyal reader, rest assured you are not among them. You're my plant-food-beer-as-life-loving flock.
I humbly anoint you with this, my latest rant.
The Lost Tapes
I just discovered these tapes of my band in the 80s. I just can't believe how good we were. I swear I was a different human being (well, I was!) I will never be this good again.
FYI, I'm on guitars and backing vocals. The vocalist went on to become this guy, even though it's not his real name, which is Derek Sorrentino. We were called "Oil Derek and the Slicks" and we played the San Francisco Bay Area.
I'm just amazed at how good we were. And I was maybe, 26, 27?
Go figure.
FYI, I'm on guitars and backing vocals. The vocalist went on to become this guy, even though it's not his real name, which is Derek Sorrentino. We were called "Oil Derek and the Slicks" and we played the San Francisco Bay Area.
I'm just amazed at how good we were. And I was maybe, 26, 27?
Go figure.
Flame War!
Ah, the flame war. I posted on craigslist about flaky musicians, and I got a couple of personal emails, mostly curious about what exactly I was complaining about (you know me by now! Never a fight I can't win!) but they were very civil.
After all, that's how I met Brigitte -- through a whiny post about idiot men on "Men Seeking Women" on Montreal's craigslist (don't get me started). (She replied and the rest is history).
So this time I post about flaky musicians and I get this pathetic rant from some useless piece of shit who can't even spell. Precisely proving my point! My response here.
Ahh, I do so enjoy a flame war. Because I ALWAYS win. I have a barrel of epithets that would make your mind reel, and I know how to wield them. I'll shout you out of existence! You simply cannot win with me!
Go for it, duuuuude!
After all, that's how I met Brigitte -- through a whiny post about idiot men on "Men Seeking Women" on Montreal's craigslist (don't get me started). (She replied and the rest is history).
So this time I post about flaky musicians and I get this pathetic rant from some useless piece of shit who can't even spell. Precisely proving my point! My response here.
Ahh, I do so enjoy a flame war. Because I ALWAYS win. I have a barrel of epithets that would make your mind reel, and I know how to wield them. I'll shout you out of existence! You simply cannot win with me!
Go for it, duuuuude!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Fucking Weasels
Please go here.
Look. Do you see anything that says "Contact us?" among all the junk and photos and fucking confusing crap? There probably is, but I DON'T HAVE TIME TO SORT THROUGH ALL THE CRAP to find it.
I have about six websites registered with these people, including montrealfood.com. But they keep changing the rules. One day, I try to upload a file to my FTP site. But . . . the password no longer works. No notification by email, no nothing. I either have to go online "chat" with a "technical support" guy who's probably operating out of Vietnam, who types in pre-programmed sentences such as "We're sorry you're experiencing technical problems. How can I help you today?" or I get on the phone (at my own expense) and talk to some clod who keeps saying the same pre-programmed thing, because he thinks he's being recorded and his bosses might listen.
So lately they've "changed platforms." Do I care? I don't care what fucking platform they're on. But now the links to the right no longer work because it asks for an index.html file. But the password to upload it no longer works.
I swear, it's Kafka-esque. Who is in charge of these companies? You'll notice their tagline is "Reliable web hosting at a great price" when in actuality they provide absolute shit hosting (they lost an entire website of mine once due to "server error" and couldn't restore it, so I had to find all the original files and re-upload them -- that's really "reliable"!)
Anyone have any ideas on who to change to? I'm sick and tired of this outfit, and I want my money back.
Update: Finally got a human being who speaks English! Who actually solved all my problems! The links work now and I can get on the FTP site so all seems temporarily rosy. They "changed platforms" but I have no idea nor care what that means. But I'm in business again.
Look. Do you see anything that says "Contact us?" among all the junk and photos and fucking confusing crap? There probably is, but I DON'T HAVE TIME TO SORT THROUGH ALL THE CRAP to find it.
I have about six websites registered with these people, including montrealfood.com. But they keep changing the rules. One day, I try to upload a file to my FTP site. But . . . the password no longer works. No notification by email, no nothing. I either have to go online "chat" with a "technical support" guy who's probably operating out of Vietnam, who types in pre-programmed sentences such as "We're sorry you're experiencing technical problems. How can I help you today?" or I get on the phone (at my own expense) and talk to some clod who keeps saying the same pre-programmed thing, because he thinks he's being recorded and his bosses might listen.
So lately they've "changed platforms." Do I care? I don't care what fucking platform they're on. But now the links to the right no longer work because it asks for an index.html file. But the password to upload it no longer works.
I swear, it's Kafka-esque. Who is in charge of these companies? You'll notice their tagline is "Reliable web hosting at a great price" when in actuality they provide absolute shit hosting (they lost an entire website of mine once due to "server error" and couldn't restore it, so I had to find all the original files and re-upload them -- that's really "reliable"!)
Anyone have any ideas on who to change to? I'm sick and tired of this outfit, and I want my money back.
Update: Finally got a human being who speaks English! Who actually solved all my problems! The links work now and I can get on the FTP site so all seems temporarily rosy. They "changed platforms" but I have no idea nor care what that means. But I'm in business again.
Weekend Menu
This weekend my new bandmate, Dave, will be coming over with his chef-wife, Vicky, to help Brigitte do an "apartment sale" (you're all welcome -- everything must go, as they say! We have about 20 new pasta sets, 10 tea sets and coffee sets, and generally floor-to-ceiling- stuff to sell!)
But I'm more interested in the menu. I bought a whole filet mignon at Costco last week and I thought I'd do filet mignons with a mushroom-Hunter sauce and twice-baked potatoes, except with Gorgonzola instead of regular ol' cheddar.
What do you think of that?
Please come. Air tickets not gratis.
Monday, June 15, 2009
David Letterman
Sorry if I offend anyone, but I despise David Letterman. He thinks he's so funny, he uses "irony" (which is not true -- that's a total misuse of the word-- it's "sarcasm") and is majorly unfunny.
Johnny Carson -- he had class. He never made fun of guests to boost his own "comedic image." He was always respectful, even to five-year-old child geniuses.
But Letterman's brand of childish humor is just that -- childish. Nothing he says amuses me. His jokes are delivered in the trademark Letterman style, which to me is incredibly unfunny. He's a fucking joke himself.
I'll never forget the interview he did with Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, the second man to step on the moon. He made fun of him, made off-color jokes and basically mocked the guy. What an utter lack of class. Aldrin was himself, a true professional, and didn't take the bait.
That just cemented my opinion of Letterman.
He's a joke.
Johnny Carson -- he had class. He never made fun of guests to boost his own "comedic image." He was always respectful, even to five-year-old child geniuses.
But Letterman's brand of childish humor is just that -- childish. Nothing he says amuses me. His jokes are delivered in the trademark Letterman style, which to me is incredibly unfunny. He's a fucking joke himself.
I'll never forget the interview he did with Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, the second man to step on the moon. He made fun of him, made off-color jokes and basically mocked the guy. What an utter lack of class. Aldrin was himself, a true professional, and didn't take the bait.
That just cemented my opinion of Letterman.
He's a joke.
Talk
Uhh . . . I talk to my plants. When I'm watering them I coo and praise them for being so strong and growing so nicely. "Oh, look at you! You're doing so well! You grew half a centimeter from the last time I saw you! Is the sun too strong? You boys and girls are so happy. Here, I'm watering you! Isn't that nice?"
I like to think this encourages them (it seems to).
They don't know that I'm fattening them up. They have no idea I'm going to eat them.
Still
Hey, I just woke up just now and realized: my father's still dead! In fact, he'll remain that way for the rest of my life! I won't ever wake up from some dream and find him alive all of a sudden.
Nope, don't look like that's ever gonna happen from where I sit. No-dee no-dee no-dee nohow.
It's a sobering thought, but who can remain sober for long?
I know I can't.
Nope, don't look like that's ever gonna happen from where I sit. No-dee no-dee no-dee nohow.
It's a sobering thought, but who can remain sober for long?
I know I can't.
Disappointed
I'm very disappointed that "Orbital Tzatziki" did not get a single vote for a band name. Also, didn't you realize that "Hollow Delhi" was the inverse of "Hello Dolly?"
Aaaahhh, you people. How I loves you. How you disappoints me.
Aaaahhh, you people. How I loves you. How you disappoints me.
RANT MODE
I'm in serious rant mode. Tune out if you don't like expletives, because there are going to be a lot of them. (See, I tune Rant Mode! But I have to get to a certain pitch before I involve you! Aren't you happy, dear readers?)
Fucking spent fucking two hours on the phone with various bureaucrats. With pretty much nothing to show for it.
Hey, how old are you? Remember when we picked up a phone and someone answered it! This is no more! Okay,so to make a long-distance call you had to talk to an operator, but at least she was an operator!
These days, you have to "enter your 10-digit card number so we can process your call" but they don't! They transfer you to some other drone in some other department who cuts you off!
Then you have to start all over again!
Brigitte and I were just talking -- what do these fucking fucks DO all day, the fucks? Who the fuck would want a job like that anyway? Slinging burgers at McDo would be a better option. But it's not their fault. It's the companies that HIRE them. Inefficiency is just running wild, I swear. I knew people can be stupid, but ALL of them? ALL of them? Who on earth comes up with this shit? Who?
Hey, I know people go to work, paint their nails for a while and let them dry for a while but FUCKING SERVICE ME WHEN I CALL! Don't pass me off, require my mother's maiden name and my favorite pet's name FOR THE THIRD FUCKING TIME BECAUSE YOUR ESTEEMED COLLEAGUE HUNG UP ON ME.
You fucking morons. Sometimes I walk around the world, look at people around me and think : "Hey! You're all fucking morons!"
That ALWAYS makes me feel better.
Fucking spent fucking two hours on the phone with various bureaucrats. With pretty much nothing to show for it.
Hey, how old are you? Remember when we picked up a phone and someone answered it! This is no more! Okay,so to make a long-distance call you had to talk to an operator, but at least she was an operator!
These days, you have to "enter your 10-digit card number so we can process your call" but they don't! They transfer you to some other drone in some other department who cuts you off!
Then you have to start all over again!
Brigitte and I were just talking -- what do these fucking fucks DO all day, the fucks? Who the fuck would want a job like that anyway? Slinging burgers at McDo would be a better option. But it's not their fault. It's the companies that HIRE them. Inefficiency is just running wild, I swear. I knew people can be stupid, but ALL of them? ALL of them? Who on earth comes up with this shit? Who?
Hey, I know people go to work, paint their nails for a while and let them dry for a while but FUCKING SERVICE ME WHEN I CALL! Don't pass me off, require my mother's maiden name and my favorite pet's name FOR THE THIRD FUCKING TIME BECAUSE YOUR ESTEEMED COLLEAGUE HUNG UP ON ME.
You fucking morons. Sometimes I walk around the world, look at people around me and think : "Hey! You're all fucking morons!"
That ALWAYS makes me feel better.
Iran
I'm so glad Iran is getting a brain. But it's just people getting fed up, isn't it? Hey, but it took a while, didn't it? Fucking losers. How long does it take being repressed that intelligent people finally get pissed off? How fucking long?
Well, it took the Soviet Union about a century. So all my conclusion is is that people LIKE being repressed. Yep, admit it! Repression is Good! Fascism and religious oppression is even better! Prison is great! Beheadings are even better!
Fucking lunatics. Iran is a basket fucking case just like North Korea -- there really isn't any difference, is there? Just ideology. Cult culture! Hey, there's a band name! Fucking huge cults. Cult of Kim-Jong Il (aren't you glad that he's named his successor? Great! Repression into the 24th century!) and cult of Islam! Hey, all very well to worship Allooooohhhu Akbar, but please do it on your own time. Please don't involve me.
Revolution. Yeah, fuckin' where did it fuckin' get you, you fuckin' clods? Shah went away and then what did you get? More repression.
I'm so sick and tired of Iran that it is going to be banned from this blog forever.
Too bad my brother-in-law is Iranian. I guess I'll have to write him off too. Well, at least he's not North Korean. Then I'd probably have to kill him.
Well, it took the Soviet Union about a century. So all my conclusion is is that people LIKE being repressed. Yep, admit it! Repression is Good! Fascism and religious oppression is even better! Prison is great! Beheadings are even better!
Fucking lunatics. Iran is a basket fucking case just like North Korea -- there really isn't any difference, is there? Just ideology. Cult culture! Hey, there's a band name! Fucking huge cults. Cult of Kim-Jong Il (aren't you glad that he's named his successor? Great! Repression into the 24th century!) and cult of Islam! Hey, all very well to worship Allooooohhhu Akbar, but please do it on your own time. Please don't involve me.
Revolution. Yeah, fuckin' where did it fuckin' get you, you fuckin' clods? Shah went away and then what did you get? More repression.
I'm so sick and tired of Iran that it is going to be banned from this blog forever.
Too bad my brother-in-law is Iranian. I guess I'll have to write him off too. Well, at least he's not North Korean. Then I'd probably have to kill him.
Upon Burgers
Hey, burgers are simple, right? Ya slap together some ground meat, cook it and put it on a bun.
But burgers are one of the most complicated meals I know how to cook. First of all, they can't be cold. The timing is crucial. Second of all, everyone has their preferences. No mustard. No onions. No lettuce. Well done. Medium rare. Shoe leather. No blood. Blood.
It's not like a slam-dunk such as bolognese. To make a good burger and to do it correctly for, say, four people, is as difficult as making pizza from scratch.
It's the wrong meal to make if you're expecting company. You'll be spending a LOT of time in the kitchen. I swear it's a two-man operation. Last night I made burgers for four but I was all afternoon in the kitchen, chopping garlic and onions for the burgers themselves (a mixture of ground pork, veal and beef), then mixing them by hand, pressing them with my happy burger press which forms perfect patties, putting them in aluminum foil and refrigerating them.
Then you have to grill the buns. No small task, as I wasn't using a grill-grill but a grill pan. You want them hot! But only two fit in the pan at a time (bottom-top).
Then I have to make "special sauce", which consists of ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard, wine vinegar and chopped gherkins.
Then . . . the side dish! Must make potatoes! Oven fries! So, that distracts me no end. Shoulda made corn on the cob, but I didn't.
The burgers were good. Very good. But next time I think I'll just make Indonesian curry. Far easier to slap together.
But burgers are one of the most complicated meals I know how to cook. First of all, they can't be cold. The timing is crucial. Second of all, everyone has their preferences. No mustard. No onions. No lettuce. Well done. Medium rare. Shoe leather. No blood. Blood.
It's not like a slam-dunk such as bolognese. To make a good burger and to do it correctly for, say, four people, is as difficult as making pizza from scratch.
It's the wrong meal to make if you're expecting company. You'll be spending a LOT of time in the kitchen. I swear it's a two-man operation. Last night I made burgers for four but I was all afternoon in the kitchen, chopping garlic and onions for the burgers themselves (a mixture of ground pork, veal and beef), then mixing them by hand, pressing them with my happy burger press which forms perfect patties, putting them in aluminum foil and refrigerating them.
Then you have to grill the buns. No small task, as I wasn't using a grill-grill but a grill pan. You want them hot! But only two fit in the pan at a time (bottom-top).
Then I have to make "special sauce", which consists of ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard, wine vinegar and chopped gherkins.
Then . . . the side dish! Must make potatoes! Oven fries! So, that distracts me no end. Shoulda made corn on the cob, but I didn't.
The burgers were good. Very good. But next time I think I'll just make Indonesian curry. Far easier to slap together.
More Names for Bands!
Inspired by some comments and Jim Donahue's blog, I have two new names!
"Clods and Criminals"
"Puppet Farm"
Anything with the word "puppet" in it is automatically funny. Same with "clod." Come to think of it, "Clod Puppet Orchestra" is great, too!
However, simply "Clod" or "Puppet" would work very well on a marquee.
Just a thought.
"Clods and Criminals"
"Puppet Farm"
Anything with the word "puppet" in it is automatically funny. Same with "clod." Come to think of it, "Clod Puppet Orchestra" is great, too!
However, simply "Clod" or "Puppet" would work very well on a marquee.
Just a thought.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Uhh . . . Not The Pilot Flying
Sometimes I just have to accept that I'm Not the Pilot Flying. It's an aviation term, actually with its own abbreviation of NPF. The pilot in the cockpit might hand over the controls to the co-pilot, with the words "It's your airplane." (Can you imagine giving a $200-million dollar gift to someone other than your spouse? But I digress).
But in today's case, I won't be the Pilot Flying. No, Vicky is making the food. I feel supremely uneasy, because if I'm not in control of the food, all sorts of things can go wrong, at least in my mind.
Will the Thai chicken be brined? If not, WHY not? What's the side dish going to be? Do they have cilantro? I know she's an accomplished chef with 100,000 hours more than me, but I still get nervous.
In this case I know the remedy. If I'm not flying . . .
Sedate, sedate, sedate. That way I won't feel the pain of jumping over Grandma Ellen on my way to the emergency exit.
But in today's case, I won't be the Pilot Flying. No, Vicky is making the food. I feel supremely uneasy, because if I'm not in control of the food, all sorts of things can go wrong, at least in my mind.
Will the Thai chicken be brined? If not, WHY not? What's the side dish going to be? Do they have cilantro? I know she's an accomplished chef with 100,000 hours more than me, but I still get nervous.
In this case I know the remedy. If I'm not flying . . .
Sedate, sedate, sedate. That way I won't feel the pain of jumping over Grandma Ellen on my way to the emergency exit.
Band Names Part Deux
As you might know, I actually created a post on craigslist asking people to vote on a name for our band, out of an accumulation of years of thought about possible band names on my part (a peculiar hobby, sorry).
But look what got the votes: Bitterfly! Three votes! Shutupnoyoushutup -- three votes! Venetian Blondes (a totally cool name!) two votes!
Mango Czars! Even Buttwing got some votes!
Well, the voting is over and now you know we're Sacré Blues (with the accent-aigu!) so feel free to appropriate.
I know I'd pay $25 to see a band called Shutupnoyoushutup, though I'd hate to try to read their business card.
But look what got the votes: Bitterfly! Three votes! Shutupnoyoushutup -- three votes! Venetian Blondes (a totally cool name!) two votes!
Mango Czars! Even Buttwing got some votes!
Well, the voting is over and now you know we're Sacré Blues (with the accent-aigu!) so feel free to appropriate.
I know I'd pay $25 to see a band called Shutupnoyoushutup, though I'd hate to try to read their business card.
Obscure Rantism
Y'know, I just woke up in a codeine fog for a headache last night and in the steps it took me to get to this computer, I forgot what it was I wanted to rant about, because I was just kind of lying there and all of a sudden a Rant -- maybe THE Rant -- came to me, as in a dream. A USB Flash dream, if you will.
But I literally forgot it on my way to the computer. (All those killed brain cells -- where on earth do they go, anyway? I hope they're not unaccompanied minors and will get run over by a truck. Will someone please get a website together to accept donations for them? I feel very, very guilty at having ruined their tiny lives).
I'll let you off this time, but believe me, it might come back to me in some odd lucid moment and you won't be so lucky next time.
I feel especially charitable because today is Band Day!
But I literally forgot it on my way to the computer. (All those killed brain cells -- where on earth do they go, anyway? I hope they're not unaccompanied minors and will get run over by a truck. Will someone please get a website together to accept donations for them? I feel very, very guilty at having ruined their tiny lives).
I'll let you off this time, but believe me, it might come back to me in some odd lucid moment and you won't be so lucky next time.
I feel especially charitable because today is Band Day!
Friday, June 12, 2009
You
In the end, it's only you. You were born alone, goes the old saw, and you'll die alone.
But like pigeons, once you acquire a partner -- with malice un-aforethought -- it becomes a whole different story.
Suddenly, all aspects of your life are different. You couldn't unload on anyone while you were single, but you sure can now! No one gave you the fucking time of day when you were alone, but now you're not alone! Time to vent!
I feel regretful that it seems to be in my nature to vent to the closest human being to me, but what can you do.
Where else can you go? Sometimes I yell and scream, but as long as she knows it's "just me" and laughs inwardly when I blow a fuse, that's good. Because I never mean anything mean by it.
We all need to vent our myriad frustrations, but it's not fair to afflict some unsuspecting person with it.
Dunno where I'm going with this, but treasure the ones you love.
Because in the end you're all alone.
But like pigeons, once you acquire a partner -- with malice un-aforethought -- it becomes a whole different story.
Suddenly, all aspects of your life are different. You couldn't unload on anyone while you were single, but you sure can now! No one gave you the fucking time of day when you were alone, but now you're not alone! Time to vent!
I feel regretful that it seems to be in my nature to vent to the closest human being to me, but what can you do.
Where else can you go? Sometimes I yell and scream, but as long as she knows it's "just me" and laughs inwardly when I blow a fuse, that's good. Because I never mean anything mean by it.
We all need to vent our myriad frustrations, but it's not fair to afflict some unsuspecting person with it.
Dunno where I'm going with this, but treasure the ones you love.
Because in the end you're all alone.
The Band
I'm not 100% sure, because we haven't had a consensus yet from all members (three total remaining) but I think we've found our band name. It's . . .
. . .
. . . .
. . . . . . wait for it . . . .
. . . . *insert snare roll*
. . .
"Sacré Blues!"
I swear, as these things happen it just came out of the blue. Sorry, the blues. Dave, the de facto organizer and Stevie Ray Vaughan afficionado extraordinaire, and his chef-wife Vicky, Brigitte and I were just lounging around last night (Hey! I'm good at that!) and Vicky blurted out at some point "Sacré Blues".
It has everything! The required 50% French content and the required 50% pun content! Double-entendre as well! Everything! It's profane without being profane!
So meet the band: Sacré Blues. It's not a done deal yet but I'm fairly confident everyone is going to go along with it.
Especially with my 9-millimeter Walther PPK jammed in the side of their necks and their children safely kidnapped. I KnOWs WHeRE YoU LivES, PeOPLe! DOn'T MIsUNdEReSTIMaTE mE!
. . .
. . . .
. . . . . . wait for it . . . .
. . . . *insert snare roll*
. . .
"Sacré Blues!"
I swear, as these things happen it just came out of the blue. Sorry, the blues. Dave, the de facto organizer and Stevie Ray Vaughan afficionado extraordinaire, and his chef-wife Vicky, Brigitte and I were just lounging around last night (Hey! I'm good at that!) and Vicky blurted out at some point "Sacré Blues".
It has everything! The required 50% French content and the required 50% pun content! Double-entendre as well! Everything! It's profane without being profane!
So meet the band: Sacré Blues. It's not a done deal yet but I'm fairly confident everyone is going to go along with it.
Especially with my 9-millimeter Walther PPK jammed in the side of their necks and their children safely kidnapped. I KnOWs WHeRE YoU LivES, PeOPLe! DOn'T MIsUNdEReSTIMaTE mE!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Average
I must be the most average guy I know. Nothing sticks out! Average-looking. Average height (5"9). Average weight (156 lbs). Average hair (brown, straight, pretty much all still there, despite what Brigitte says). Average eyes (dark brown). Average intelligence. (Okay, maybe a tad below, but not Neanderthal). Average habits (addiction personality, but only averagely so). Average musician skills. Average artistic skills, despite five years of art college. Average writing skills. Average cooking skills. Average chess skills.
This is not good, people! I want to be number one in something!
Anyone play Monopoly?
This is not good, people! I want to be number one in something!
Anyone play Monopoly?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Compound Butter
It's really good. Here's what we did with some corn, but it works with almost everything.
It's very simple.
Ingredients
About three or four sticks of unsalted butter
About 1/2 C of sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil, patted dry and chopped finely
About 6 cloves garlic, finely minced
About half a cup of Italian flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1 teaspoon garlic salt
Ground black pepper
Method
Bring butter to room temperature or gently warm in pan. Blend all ingredients. Refrigerate.
Wow XVIIMLCC
Hey, I don't speak Latin either, Nostradamus. But it looks good!
Last night was a triumph within a success within a winner! We went to Dave and Vicky's beautiful . . . well, I can only call it a cabin, since it seemed to all be made of wood -- in Dorval, and I watched planes thundering overhead very happily and drank copious amounts of beer.
Then Jake and his girlfriend arrived, he with his upright bass, and the true partying began. Music! Cocaine! Swingers! Okay, I lied about everything after music.
But it was a hell of an evening, especially because everyone was SO DAMN FUNNY! and smart! This is always good. We played music in odd combinations and then poor Roger the drummer without drums (well, he has four sets but didn't bring them last night) came by and he and I sat around and observed the tribe of lunatics, which is what I called them.
I swear, 50-somethings have a long history of being lunatics, and that's JUST what we all were.
So it looks like WE HAVE A BAND.
All we now need is a keyboard player. Who is not me.
Last night was a triumph within a success within a winner! We went to Dave and Vicky's beautiful . . . well, I can only call it a cabin, since it seemed to all be made of wood -- in Dorval, and I watched planes thundering overhead very happily and drank copious amounts of beer.
Then Jake and his girlfriend arrived, he with his upright bass, and the true partying began. Music! Cocaine! Swingers! Okay, I lied about everything after music.
But it was a hell of an evening, especially because everyone was SO DAMN FUNNY! and smart! This is always good. We played music in odd combinations and then poor Roger the drummer without drums (well, he has four sets but didn't bring them last night) came by and he and I sat around and observed the tribe of lunatics, which is what I called them.
I swear, 50-somethings have a long history of being lunatics, and that's JUST what we all were.
So it looks like WE HAVE A BAND.
All we now need is a keyboard player. Who is not me.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Montreal
Y'know, this is the reason I exist. Out of all the places I've ever been, and I've been around the world maybe 50 times, this is the nicest. I just keep counting up the pluses and they just keep seeming to add up to happiness.
I lived in the Bay Area of San Francisco for about ten years and swore up and down that it was the best place in the universe, but I was secretly sneaking visits to my parents in Montreal.
I'd bore you if I listed all the reasons, but they include French Without Actually Being French, four seasons that, occasionally harsh, nonetheless provide fodder for conversation and a hugely cosmopolitan and SMART community. I swear my taxi driver is better educated than me.
Anyway . . . I always feel this way on the first truly sunny weekend or the first frosted flakes drift by . . .
There's nowhere else I'd rather be.
I lived in the Bay Area of San Francisco for about ten years and swore up and down that it was the best place in the universe, but I was secretly sneaking visits to my parents in Montreal.
I'd bore you if I listed all the reasons, but they include French Without Actually Being French, four seasons that, occasionally harsh, nonetheless provide fodder for conversation and a hugely cosmopolitan and SMART community. I swear my taxi driver is better educated than me.
Anyway . . . I always feel this way on the first truly sunny weekend or the first frosted flakes drift by . . .
There's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Ai Yai Yai Maitai!
Well I made that one up, but it seems to fit the situation. (I'll work on the maitai).
Yesterday, The One Who Shall Not Be Named Because She Does Not Want to be Published in This Blog went to her GP complaining of abdominal pain. You saw that it might be kidney stones, but it ain't. I swear I'm the best doctor I know: I diagnosed muscle strain from square one.
But what does her GP do? Tell her to go to Emergency. Oh, thanks, Doc! You're going to refer me to a higher power, is that it? What, where did you get that tinsel-chest of doctor medals, ya fuck? Are you truly a doctor or do you just play one at Cinq-à-sept trolling for women at Weinstein & Gavinos?
Go to Emergency! Hey, I could have come up with that one, Doc! Does that make ME a doctor? I'll just print out some fake diplomas like YOU seem to have all over your wall -- it's really no trouble! I'm happy to do it! Then I can pass myself off as a neurosurgeon! I have higher aspirations than you, Doc! I do brain surgery! You send people to Emergency.
Anyway, She Who Must Not Be Named languishes in my favorite place -- Emergency -- since 8 a.m. It's now 3:15.
Let's all raise our hands now, folks, and say a Hurrah! for all the quacks and cranks out there, people! Cheer, cheer, cheer! It might be you there one day.
Yesterday, The One Who Shall Not Be Named Because She Does Not Want to be Published in This Blog went to her GP complaining of abdominal pain. You saw that it might be kidney stones, but it ain't. I swear I'm the best doctor I know: I diagnosed muscle strain from square one.
But what does her GP do? Tell her to go to Emergency. Oh, thanks, Doc! You're going to refer me to a higher power, is that it? What, where did you get that tinsel-chest of doctor medals, ya fuck? Are you truly a doctor or do you just play one at Cinq-à-sept trolling for women at Weinstein & Gavinos?
Go to Emergency! Hey, I could have come up with that one, Doc! Does that make ME a doctor? I'll just print out some fake diplomas like YOU seem to have all over your wall -- it's really no trouble! I'm happy to do it! Then I can pass myself off as a neurosurgeon! I have higher aspirations than you, Doc! I do brain surgery! You send people to Emergency.
Anyway, She Who Must Not Be Named languishes in my favorite place -- Emergency -- since 8 a.m. It's now 3:15.
Let's all raise our hands now, folks, and say a Hurrah! for all the quacks and cranks out there, people! Cheer, cheer, cheer! It might be you there one day.
They Lie!
They lie. The plant has a label saying "Chamomile" but I know it's dill. It looks like dill, smells like dill. Haven't tasted it yet but I'm sure it IS dill. It's in its own tiny pot looking very lonely.
Why would anyone perpetrate a fraud about dill? I cannot be conned. I am "Nigerian-scam-artist-proof".
These "identity theft" people are all around us. The voices are telling me to clean my guns. I'll take this all the way to the Supreme Court of Canada (uh, okay, well, maybe the "Tiny Supreme Court" in Saskatoon run by Judge Erwin Fisher . . . would you know him, by any chance? Influence-peddling . . . also a crime!)
I think I'll call my dill "Lagos."
Why would anyone perpetrate a fraud about dill? I cannot be conned. I am "Nigerian-scam-artist-proof".
These "identity theft" people are all around us. The voices are telling me to clean my guns. I'll take this all the way to the Supreme Court of Canada (uh, okay, well, maybe the "Tiny Supreme Court" in Saskatoon run by Judge Erwin Fisher . . . would you know him, by any chance? Influence-peddling . . . also a crime!)
I think I'll call my dill "Lagos."
I Can't believe
. . . I wrote this song.
What can I say? Disco? 80s? Umm, don't know. Can't say what I was thinking at the time but I was obviously enamoured of my car.
What can I say? Disco? 80s? Umm, don't know. Can't say what I was thinking at the time but I was obviously enamoured of my car.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Hey, Dude!
Hey dude! Gonna abuse kids? Gonna put child porn on your computer? Guess what! Don't take it in for repair!
Ya fuckwad, you're already dumb enough to consider children fair game, so I guess you're dumb enough to fuck up!
Just don't bring your computer into my shop and have me discover the evidence. Because I will kill you as sure as the 25 years in prison will.
Fuckwads. Okay, so I kill someone and I'm in the same prison as you.
The shank will be between your ribs before you can say "Barney The Dinosaur."
Take that to heart. I'm on your case.
Ya fuckwad, you're already dumb enough to consider children fair game, so I guess you're dumb enough to fuck up!
Just don't bring your computer into my shop and have me discover the evidence. Because I will kill you as sure as the 25 years in prison will.
Fuckwads. Okay, so I kill someone and I'm in the same prison as you.
The shank will be between your ribs before you can say "Barney The Dinosaur."
Take that to heart. I'm on your case.
Okay
Okay, God, bring it on! BRING IT ON! Fuckin' amuse me with Your tiny rides.
Brigitte seems to have a kidney stone.
Why is this happening, God, you fucker? Why this, then that? What, it's in a script that You're simply Following?
Fuckin' LEAVE ME ALONE.
I'll do a deal. You leave me alone, I don't worship You. How's that? Huh? Just make the sun shine -- You're good at that -- and let me grow my vegetables -- You created them, remember?
And LEAVE ME ALONE.
Brigitte seems to have a kidney stone.
Why is this happening, God, you fucker? Why this, then that? What, it's in a script that You're simply Following?
Fuckin' LEAVE ME ALONE.
I'll do a deal. You leave me alone, I don't worship You. How's that? Huh? Just make the sun shine -- You're good at that -- and let me grow my vegetables -- You created them, remember?
And LEAVE ME ALONE.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Oh, Don't We Love!
. . . the nightmare end to a nice day. I swear, I'm paying for all those years where I just cruised . . . nothing bad happened . . . friends, family . . . the usual tiny crises but no one died in a plane crash, no one broke their pelvis, yada yada.
But this year has literally been Annus Horribilis, to quote our darling Queen.
Today was no exception.
It began nicely -- as you can see from my last posts. Sunshine. Beer. Happy! Then, barbecue! Brigitte and I had a plan to barbecue some shrimp, some steak, some corn on the cob . . . perfect conditions! Hardly any wind! Happy temp!
Then Tony called. He's a 40-something friend who's going through some stress. No prob, feed him some shrimp and wine and he'll be okay.
But he wasn't. Halfway through the meal he started panicking. "My left arm is numb. Take me to Emergency."
You can't be serious, thought I. But he was. So we did.
Emergency is a very sorrowful place, people. It's a real horrorshow. There are seriously ill people in Emergency. I never, ever want to go to Emergency again, though I've been a patient there before.
Midnight in Emergency. Just where I want to be at this point in my life! After the year from Hell. Corpses just waiting to be cremated lying in hospital beds. Businesslike hospital staff. You know the drill.
I wrote a story about it when I was a kid. Some guy gets in a horrendous auto accident, then is conscious the whole time while he's operated on. Yeah, yeah, sorry, my perversity again.
But it's real. I witnessed so much misery tonight that I wish that I'd had a more powerful drink than the wine I had in my sippy cup.
Then, we had to repark Tony's car because it was in a no-park zone. But Brigitte can't drive a stickshift. So I had to, even though I haven't driven one for 25 years. Plus, his car is a piece of shit Volkswagen, it was dark and I couldn't see anything. So I reparked it, with much difficulty (thank God for the wine -- sober, I'd never have been able to do it) and then it was determined that the new place was equally as bad (Montreal parking laws are insane. You have to be Muslim on a Tuesday in February to park on a four-foot section of any given block) so I had to do it again.
Hey, I aced it. What can I say? I'm the champ.
But Tony languishes in hospital and it was a miserable end to a great day.
What the hell more can happen this year?
But this year has literally been Annus Horribilis, to quote our darling Queen.
Today was no exception.
It began nicely -- as you can see from my last posts. Sunshine. Beer. Happy! Then, barbecue! Brigitte and I had a plan to barbecue some shrimp, some steak, some corn on the cob . . . perfect conditions! Hardly any wind! Happy temp!
Then Tony called. He's a 40-something friend who's going through some stress. No prob, feed him some shrimp and wine and he'll be okay.
But he wasn't. Halfway through the meal he started panicking. "My left arm is numb. Take me to Emergency."
You can't be serious, thought I. But he was. So we did.
Emergency is a very sorrowful place, people. It's a real horrorshow. There are seriously ill people in Emergency. I never, ever want to go to Emergency again, though I've been a patient there before.
Midnight in Emergency. Just where I want to be at this point in my life! After the year from Hell. Corpses just waiting to be cremated lying in hospital beds. Businesslike hospital staff. You know the drill.
I wrote a story about it when I was a kid. Some guy gets in a horrendous auto accident, then is conscious the whole time while he's operated on. Yeah, yeah, sorry, my perversity again.
But it's real. I witnessed so much misery tonight that I wish that I'd had a more powerful drink than the wine I had in my sippy cup.
Then, we had to repark Tony's car because it was in a no-park zone. But Brigitte can't drive a stickshift. So I had to, even though I haven't driven one for 25 years. Plus, his car is a piece of shit Volkswagen, it was dark and I couldn't see anything. So I reparked it, with much difficulty (thank God for the wine -- sober, I'd never have been able to do it) and then it was determined that the new place was equally as bad (Montreal parking laws are insane. You have to be Muslim on a Tuesday in February to park on a four-foot section of any given block) so I had to do it again.
Hey, I aced it. What can I say? I'm the champ.
But Tony languishes in hospital and it was a miserable end to a great day.
What the hell more can happen this year?
The View From Here
This was my view as I sunned and beered and repotted on the balcony today. Not bad, eh? Just wish that large domed thing wasn't there.
Facebook Rant -- Yet Again
Facebook is truly the worst piece of shit vehicle ever developed. I don't WANT to learn its Byzantine machinations. I don't WANT to have to think about who's reading what.
Someone writes me condolences about my father. On Facebook. But there's no "reply" button. It's "Comment." I don't want to comment, I want to reply.
I WANT TO REPLY, ASSHOLES! I don't want to have to enter a new subject line. I don't want to have to search for his email. Oh, I forgot -- this is Facebook, not email!
It SO reminds me of Windows. Sorry, people, but Windows is also a piece of shit -- Bill Gates always wanted to duplicate the Mac. But I won't go there.
No, this is possibly the fourth time I've shut down my Facebook page due to frustration. Let me mull it, people.
You have email. Use it. I don't NEED fifty friends. Pick up the fucking phone, for Christ's sake.
Or design a vehicle actual people can figure out.
Bad design: the eternal human condition.
Someone writes me condolences about my father. On Facebook. But there's no "reply" button. It's "Comment." I don't want to comment, I want to reply.
I WANT TO REPLY, ASSHOLES! I don't want to have to enter a new subject line. I don't want to have to search for his email. Oh, I forgot -- this is Facebook, not email!
It SO reminds me of Windows. Sorry, people, but Windows is also a piece of shit -- Bill Gates always wanted to duplicate the Mac. But I won't go there.
No, this is possibly the fourth time I've shut down my Facebook page due to frustration. Let me mull it, people.
You have email. Use it. I don't NEED fifty friends. Pick up the fucking phone, for Christ's sake.
Or design a vehicle actual people can figure out.
Bad design: the eternal human condition.
Tenderize Me
Okay, so I've heard stories of Madonna bathing in Evian, but can you imagine being tenderized? I'd like to be tenderized. Lie in a bathtub filled with high-quality premium Japanese soy sauce, saké, mirin, loads of ginger and garlic for four hours.
Fuck spas! Tenderize me! (Can you say "Juicy?")
Fuck spas! Tenderize me! (Can you say "Juicy?")
With June Came the Sun
And it did! As if the Almighty had been twiddling His Thumbs for a month until June 1st and then flipped A Switch. (It must be awfully big).
What do I instinctively do? Head for Jean-Talon market, of course! To buy cherry tomato plants, flat-leaf parsley, purple and green basil and pretty much anything that will get eaten. It's so nice to be making, say, spaghetti sauce and say, Shit, I forgot the basil when I went shopping, then remember that it's right on your balcony!
Next stop: an afternoon trolling Little Italy and in particular, Milano (why don't these people have websites?), which is a vast emporium of all things Italian. No doubt controlled by goombahs, but who cares?
Montreal in the summer is paradise, folks. Festivale de la bière mondiale, Jazz Fest, warm nights, hot food, you name it.
Get your terrasses down here.
What do I instinctively do? Head for Jean-Talon market, of course! To buy cherry tomato plants, flat-leaf parsley, purple and green basil and pretty much anything that will get eaten. It's so nice to be making, say, spaghetti sauce and say, Shit, I forgot the basil when I went shopping, then remember that it's right on your balcony!
Next stop: an afternoon trolling Little Italy and in particular, Milano (why don't these people have websites?), which is a vast emporium of all things Italian. No doubt controlled by goombahs, but who cares?
Montreal in the summer is paradise, folks. Festivale de la bière mondiale, Jazz Fest, warm nights, hot food, you name it.
Get your terrasses down here.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Today's Poem
The flies that fly aimlessly around each other on my balcony
Why?
Why do they fly?
Why do they fly aimlessly above my balcony?
Why do you fly, fly?
Above my balcony?
Why?
Why?
Why do they fly?
Why do they fly aimlessly above my balcony?
Why do you fly, fly?
Above my balcony?
Why?
I Done Gone and Done it Again
I put an ad on craigslist for a blues/jazz outfit and three guys responded. Amazingly smart and talented guys.
So let the music machine roll! I specifically put that it was for fun, good times, wives, food and beer and certainly nothing trivial.
I meet with Dave the guitar player this weekend. Steaks will be on the barbie, mates!
So let the music machine roll! I specifically put that it was for fun, good times, wives, food and beer and certainly nothing trivial.
I meet with Dave the guitar player this weekend. Steaks will be on the barbie, mates!
How?
How can an Air France A330, only four years old, disappear over the Atlantic in this day and age? Last time I checked, this was not a maintenance record issue from the Republic of Abkhazia. It's AIR FUCKING FRANCE! Hello, people, you're supposed to get 228 people from A to B in one piece! This is not the Golden Age of Seafaring.
This is not a bus plunge in Peru! You have sophisticated radar, satellites, a pilot with 11,000 -- count them: eleven-thousand -- hours of flight time, and this happens?
What the bleeding hell?
Well, there are going to be 228 families a little irate at Air France at this point in time. What is it with them? They run off runways in Toronto, aargh, I won't even go there. And certainly not on Air France.
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, PEOPLE!
PS here's an oxymoron if there ever was one: "Brazil's Air Force."
This is not a bus plunge in Peru! You have sophisticated radar, satellites, a pilot with 11,000 -- count them: eleven-thousand -- hours of flight time, and this happens?
What the bleeding hell?
Well, there are going to be 228 families a little irate at Air France at this point in time. What is it with them? They run off runways in Toronto, aargh, I won't even go there. And certainly not on Air France.
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, PEOPLE!
PS here's an oxymoron if there ever was one: "Brazil's Air Force."
Monday, June 1, 2009
Wine
It always bugs me when food reviewers carefully note the name of the wine they ordered.
Who the fuck cares? Am I going to go out and buy that wine based on their recommendation? Are they sommeliers, on a busman's holiday?
I admit guilt: I've done it too. But it's so contrived, almost as if just writing "Alsace-de-Lorraine" makes you seem intelligent. Hey, it's French! Lots of people can't even pronounce it, let alone read it! Must be good!
Look, I'm in the biz. It takes one to know one. Food writing is a very peculiar art, and not many do it well. And it's hard to do well. How many variations are there on "tasty"? After a while they run out and you're left holding the "yummy" bag.
But wine! Wine! Ooooh, just write a few wine label words, throw in some opinion like "musky, oakish" and all of a sudden you're Mr. Review.
Fuckin' A, how the fuck did I get into this business? Can you, my loyal readers tell me that one?
I should have gone into aerospace.
Who the fuck cares? Am I going to go out and buy that wine based on their recommendation? Are they sommeliers, on a busman's holiday?
I admit guilt: I've done it too. But it's so contrived, almost as if just writing "Alsace-de-Lorraine" makes you seem intelligent. Hey, it's French! Lots of people can't even pronounce it, let alone read it! Must be good!
Look, I'm in the biz. It takes one to know one. Food writing is a very peculiar art, and not many do it well. And it's hard to do well. How many variations are there on "tasty"? After a while they run out and you're left holding the "yummy" bag.
But wine! Wine! Ooooh, just write a few wine label words, throw in some opinion like "musky, oakish" and all of a sudden you're Mr. Review.
Fuckin' A, how the fuck did I get into this business? Can you, my loyal readers tell me that one?
I should have gone into aerospace.
Hors d’ouevres and Why I Hate Them
I have trouble following orders, even from loved ones. I feel like Basil Fawlty in the famous scene of Fawlty Towers whan a few German guests arrive and he’s suffering from a knocked head. “Hors d’ouevres? YOU-MUST-OBEY-HORS D’OUEVRES!” Or something like that.
But I have serious, debilitating problems with following orders, no doubt born of years in British boarding schools. I bristle immediately at “I need you to . . .” “I want you to . . .” etc. which are quite social norms.
No, with me the language has to be “correct”. "D'you think you could . . ." "Would you . . . " " Could you do me a favor and maybe . . ." "My darling Boy, would you at some point . . ."
Brigitte has borne the brunt of my reluctance to obey orders a couple of times, simply because she was a manager for many years and English is not her first language and she, shall we say, “phrased the request wrongly”, but it’s also the reason I will never work in an office.
I’ve suffered under the imperious instructions of various bosses — not all, because I had some very kind bosses as well — but I will not be told, ever, ever again, that “I need you to cut this into six-inch squares” or something similar. You do it your fucking self, asshole. I need YOU to go FUCK YOURSELF with a very large carrot until it's been thoroughly peeled, Dickwad. Furthermore, if you happen to be smaller than me, I'll kick your tiny ass to Christmas.
I wonder if anyone else has the same philosophy . . .
But I have serious, debilitating problems with following orders, no doubt born of years in British boarding schools. I bristle immediately at “I need you to . . .” “I want you to . . .” etc. which are quite social norms.
No, with me the language has to be “correct”. "D'you think you could . . ." "Would you . . . " " Could you do me a favor and maybe . . ." "My darling Boy, would you at some point . . ."
Brigitte has borne the brunt of my reluctance to obey orders a couple of times, simply because she was a manager for many years and English is not her first language and she, shall we say, “phrased the request wrongly”, but it’s also the reason I will never work in an office.
I’ve suffered under the imperious instructions of various bosses — not all, because I had some very kind bosses as well — but I will not be told, ever, ever again, that “I need you to cut this into six-inch squares” or something similar. You do it your fucking self, asshole. I need YOU to go FUCK YOURSELF with a very large carrot until it's been thoroughly peeled, Dickwad. Furthermore, if you happen to be smaller than me, I'll kick your tiny ass to Christmas.
I wonder if anyone else has the same philosophy . . .