We're Gonna Have a Test

I don't know quite why I've been in this mode of contemplation recently -- maybe it's because I lost my father. But hey, everyone loses their father eventually.

But as you go about your day, the laundry, fussing about the stain on the shorts, what to fix for dinner, did you ever contemplate that we are the only sentient beings in the universe as we now understand it? Sentient only meaning that we're conscious of our own existence, aware that there is a past and that there is a future. Having amazing powers to change OUR universe, as not even our fathers and mothers knew, let alone their parents.

It can be quite frankly frightening. I really don't know why it's attacking me now, maybe it's getting on a plane halfway across my universe, maybe it's dealing with death and life, but please, for all our sakes, while the laundry is on, take a second to realise how precious just being able to think about how precious everything is.

For me. No joke.

Letter To Scotty

My good friend, Scott, emailed me just now to ask how my trip to Japan was. I thought I would share my rant with you, my very good friends, every one of you:
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scotty,

No, I've been home for a week, but I'm still completely trashed. Imagine going to that pithole, Chicago, arriving at 10 a.m. and wanting a beer before boarding that 14-hour leg to Tokyo, then a two-hour wait in an unfamiliar terminal before another another two-hour flight to Osaka and a search for your hotel to be told that "No alcohol in Illinois on Sunday before 11 a.m." But hey, that after going through security twice, looking desperately for a restaurant, ANYTHING open at ALL and discovering that everyone you're talking to is just mumbling to cover up the fact that, yes, indeedy, this IS a shithole, you shouldn't be here, there is NOTHING open so please let me get along on my good God-fearin' Sunday.

Hey, that was just the first part. Don't get me started on the second. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or the fifth. Or the sixth. (Hey, the sixth was actually okay).

N

Kid

You know, being a kid was tough. Now that I'm with my seven-year-old son I realise it even more.

What THE FUCK are Cheerios? What were they then, what are they now? Fuckin' SPACE FOOD introduced to subsume the ENTIRE FUCKING POPULATION.

Oh, yes, I remember Cheerios. All the lies about the various FUCKING CRAP that the food industry, every single smarmy-on-camera-denying one of them delivered to ME. Yes, ME, PERSONALLY.

When I was seven I DID NOT HAVE A CHOICE. It's like being forced to be a FUCKING MUSLIM.

Froot Loops. The CEO of that company, probably those fuckwads Protcologist-Gamble, should be LINED UP A WALL AND SHOT.

Why did I ever have to eat that shit? It's like giving a lit cigarette to a chimpanzee. Guess what --- he's going to smoke it.

I just got off a lecture to my son, Tai-chan. Hey, being an adult is tough.

"Look at this, Tai-chan," I said, pointing to the box of "Crunchy Cheerios." This is junk. This is BIRD FOOD. This is what I would FEED THE SQUIRRELS."

Needless to say, he got a major laugh out of that. I hope you and every artery you ever had, let alone EVERY FUCKING DENTIST YOU MET would get a MAJOR LAUGH out of that.

Stepford Husband

I swear (no, I really always do, frequently quite loudly) is this guy a front company? "I suddenly became interested on the Sicilian practice of boiling small vegetables, so I looked up this recipe . . ." (37 comments -- are THEY for real?)

Huh?

"Yes, indeed, I am a single man with a day job that has no real relationship with Martha Stewart, yet I seem to have the wherewithal to conceive, finance and create all these miraculous dishes", with seemingly this identical-type commentary for each one -- there's always at least one "delicious" in there --

. . .

Hey, It's the Stepford Husband! Oh, I play racquetball on my days off, and I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale! I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!I'm at Walmart first thing when they have a sale!

Raccoons

Um, what do raccoons eat? Yesterday I was outside on the patio of the building and a very friendly raccoon came over to my 7-year-old and almost sniffed his hand. He was a big little guy -- a cross between a beagles and a tabby.

I was, sensibly, aware of the possibility of rabies, so I warned Tai-chan away from the little guy but I was wondering what he'd do if I tried to pat him.

Okay, silly question.

Cats

Cats are a dilemma. Admit it, they always have been. They defy all the rules. Basically, they just want to get fed, and pet. That is their sole raison d'être. They don't want warm clothing, nor do they want for money. What is a cat going to do with money unless he's a character on Bugs and Elmer?

Transfer everything you have just read to small children, and you will understand my focus here. Unfortunately, small children have talents no cat will ever have. I mean, have you you ever seen a cat throw a small, pointy toy at the head of another cat?

I rest my case.

Oh, good. The headline on the news channel is "No Mideast Peace." Somewhere in all that is cats, children, and small pointy toys.

You're a Zebra, Right?

Yep, you spend your time munching some tasty grass, maybe a mushroom or two. But then a lion suddenly comes and kills Mummy. Well, that can't be good, can it? But when it's all squared away, the lion has to eat too, doesn't it? It can't eat grass like you and can't go to the store and get fifty chickens for tonight's feast.

So it needs to eat you, so sorry.

On the other hand, the below DOESN'T HAVE TO BE DONE.

I Am Russian

(Deep Russian Accent):

Don't get me wrong. I get up, I abuse Olga, I kick dog. But not mean bad. Dog okay after Olga take him to doctor.

Then I go to job at space program. Space still okay, I check. Boss make me check again; space still okay.

Smoke. Smoke make me sick, I swear on Xavier XVVV.

I have the lunch. It is always purple. Why is it purple?

Then I go back to work after vodka. Is same as in rocket.

Then I go home.

The Best News Of The Day

This

I Just Woke Up

Out of a somewhat deep sleep, and suddenly realised: I hate the French. I don't know why this particular thought came to my cerebellum, but it did.

I hate the French. The French in Quebec, I can stand, with admittedly a good glass of wine before dealing with, but no, it's the French French I can't stand.

How the fuck do you sink a French battleship?

What, you actually need an answer? Put it in fucking water. Why didn't you know that? Maybe it's YOU who needs to have their heads examined.

Two. Can you count to two? Two fucking world wars. Guess who lost both? That's TWO, not one, and they're both WORLD WARS, not, like REGIONAL DISPUTES. Hey, that's like losing the SuperFecta 10,112,00 times. Oh, sorry, missed a zero.

They are such arrogant fuckers. You think Americans are arrogant? Hey, they're AMERICANS. They are TOO DUMB TO BE ARROGANT.

A little knowledge is a very dangerous thing, and when you give it to the French, it remains A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE. And they use it in their various weaselish ways -- being snide, superficial, pedantic, righteous, upright-downright, but most of all, ARROGANT WITH NO PRIOR PERMISSION.

This alone is a crime.

But just BEING French should be automatically a life sentence with no possibility of NOT being French.

Line For The Day

It was Barzini.

Oh, Hey, Me Again!

Hello. What part, exactly, of the sentence: "If you aren't home before seven o'clock, I ain't doing shit" is indecipherable to you, kind people?

Is it maybe more mature to frame it as "Darling, I am not going to fire up the grill, marinate the steaks, clean up the kitchen and make dinner unless you are going to stop your wanderings and GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE" . . . ???"

Should I maybe say it in Russian? "Da vrotchki in schmolenenka anta 7 p.m. amber SCHMOLENENKA, da grillade NO COMPRENSKA?"

No, let's try Finnish, always my old standby.

"Ja, ja, ja, mein hunde da vost eternally PISKED OFFA bekoz zu micht NINEZ ûnterstanden heiren. Ish vill nøichtmaken der dinnerz aprez Zeben oklok."

Making sense yet? Good, because it doesn't seem to have in some quarters with which I am very familiar.

What Should I Do? The Right Thing?

Recently I haven't been opening my email program as often as I should. Sometimes I get a bit fearful.

Because this person keeps telling me that I need something called v1A/Gr@. What is this v1A/Gr@? When I go to read the email, it's a mass of meaningless drivel -- it's not that I don't WANT to figure it out, it's just that I CAN'T.

Why is this nice person (I'm sure he's nice because I haven't yet met him TWICE to give him that baseball bat that's been languishing in the hall closet for nigh on eight years) trying to give me some stuff? Especially when it's spelled so weirdly? Does he know what I do to certain small animals on a GOOD, VERY GOOD day?

"Evisceration" was a term learned long ago in my hellish youth. "Dad" is a word best not remembered.

This nice man that wants to give me some "v1A/Gr@" should maybe call me instead, and we can work something out. I'm in the phone book.

Really, I'm on the level.

A Friend of Mine

I go through life cautiously greeting every day when my eyes open. Saying, "Is it gonna be a good one or a bad one?"

Of course, I never know. Sometimes a bad one turns into a very good one. Other times, well, you know.

But that's just me. That's just MY life. OTHER people's bad days are majorly my concern, too -- after all, they could kill me if they're in a certain mood, right? Being killed would not be a very optimal situation, right?

So it bothers me when people are upset. It bothers me when they're upset with themselves, but it bothers me more when they're upset with others. And it bothers me even more when they're not upset at the idiot at the grocery store who did something stupid, but they're upset at their LIFE PARTNER who *may* have done something stupid.

As is the case now -- I'm dealing with a friend who shall remain nameless and sexless, but an entire lifetime hangs by a thread, an entire union in jeopardy. And these are not young people.

Oh well. Just goes to show: anything can go to Hell at any time.

Oh, Not Again

Yet again, my heart bleeds. Where is the mercy?

Jupiter Update

Hello, my friends, this is the proud owner of galacticproperties.com just wishing to "keep you in the loop", if you will.

No one wants to preface any news with the word "unfortunately" but that's unfortunately the case. Hey! I make Joke!

Seriously, though, and I know you don't want to hear it, but it's getting official, is that real estate prices on Jupiter have just spiked. No real telling why, as it's a gaseous giant that's been around for 5.8 billion years, and not much has changed since then, except the demand for properties near the Great Red Spot has inexplicably surged in the last two weeks. Hey, it's the fucking GREAT Red Spot, not the "Tiny" red spot after all, ya assholes! This is in no means and ways tiny! Fucking 560,000 Earths could be put in this "tiny" red spot! With a capital F!

What used to be an 82-story floating condo with all amenities going for a mere $389,004 has somehow leaped to the price of $389,086.

As you know, the Great Red Spot is a highly desirable location, with lots of inner sun and a gentle methane breeze of around 7,008 miles per hour. Need I remind you, "highly desirable." (Please mark that on your calendar).

But just to mitigate your disappointment, shall we say, a new condominium property has just become available: it's in a highly desirable spectral region that can reveal the water vapour abundance and vertical cloud structure in the troposphere with just the purchase of a handy spectrometer, which, of course, we can provide.

It's north-facing, which some might find a defect, but I think the price is right on this one: just $25. Yes, that is a two and a five.

We plan to have Jupiter One up and ready for firing for August, 2017, so please reserve your properties now.

PayPal, Mastercard accepted. Personal checks okay, but please sign the backs as well as the fronts, just in case.

Upon Being Naked

Hey,the subject line beats "Upon Being On Mars", don't it?

You, when were you last in the doc's office. I don't particularly care WHICH doc. GP is always the best, Specialist, well, let's not drift there. But when?

Now I'm going to have to get nasty. You're not with the GP, the Cardio or the Gynie . . . no, you're with some fucker in ER. He's half your age, but if you don't get your shit together, YOU are going to be half your age in a hurry. Uh, amend that -- 0% of your age.

Then come the dreaded words . . . "please disrobe." Huh, you mean this T-shirt? These lousy Dollar store shorts? My underwear? THESE underwear? Are you sure you want to . . .

"Yes, sir, please remove all your clothing."

There is this recurring dream in which I am "disrobed" in public. No, fuck you, don't tell me it's YOUR dream, it's MY dream.

What the hell is my point, here? Just that I got out of the bath, into which I went naked in front of my 7-year-old son, who, being Japanese, does not mind this at all. That my wife wanders around after her shower in flagrante delicto, like I do.

We're all, like COGNIXENT CITIZENS around here.

Last time I saw a dog with a coat on I squashed it.

Law of Physick #43

There is no sane way to reheat a quarter-eaten hamburger. It's like taking a buffalo and asking it to travel in a spaceship with its newly-born calf to Beta Centauri (in a very polite tone).

Consider (bear with me, dear reader) the dynamics that went to it in the first place. Crisp bun -- not overly browned, but with a bit of a crust on it; if you want it all dressed there has to be a copious amount of mayonnaise and ketchup -- then the burger itself, not too thick, but incredibly juicy and bathed with a slice of good cheese.

Now the cold troops march in: the delectable sliver of dill pickle, the finely sliced red onion, the hopefully-not-monster-slab of tomato, and the finely shredded lettuce . . .

What the fuck??? You're going to MICROWAVE that back to perfection? Toaster-oven the little fucker on high for 20 minutes (might as well grind the whole mess and send it to the lab for analysis)?

Here's my recommendation: get hopelessly smashed and plant the whole thing in the planter on the balcony and hope that it grows back in its original form.

Trust me: the smashed part will work.

It's

The world is salty. Did you notice? But then it's sour too. And always peppery. But it's also sugary sweet. I guess that's the best part of the world.

Coffee

I know recent events have given you pause, far too many reasons to doubt my sanity. It is regrettable, and I regret it.

But I fuckin' got my shit wired tight this morning and made Brigitte the BEST FUCKING CAPPUCINO she will have had, will have, and WILL HAVE AGAIN.

I summoned every existing (believe me, I'm now having to outsource) fucking braincell and

put the coffee

in the espresso creature

put exactly *one* cube of brown sugar in THE BIG CUP

got out the Braun tweezer thingy (well, it sounds like what you'd think a tweezer would sound like)

jammed that coffee into that little fuck

nuked that bastard 2% milk

BEAT IT TO NEAR-EXPIRATION until almost NO BUBBLES could survive any more and assembled in that miracle thingy, The Black Cup That Is Exactly The right Size.

Are or are you not FUCKING PROUD OF ME?

Viagra!

Hello, my name is Mephistpoles Farah Aidid the Third (which is one removed from the second)and I am offering my sincere services as an investment banker. As you know, the Aidid family is well known in the financial world, and some of our many clients include Bernie Madoff and Earl Jones.

If you wish to double your retirement plan within eighteen (18) days, please contact us! There are no risks and no funds to lose. You can only win with our plan. Just think: cruising on a balcony of a condominium at Boca Raton, Florida (the name means "smart rats") drinking maitais at eleven. A.m.

Is your name Gried? You get an extra 3.9% discount on all our services.

Our sincere reverences and condolences and grievances and we wish you a nice day.

Sand

Sand. You've been to the beach. Y'know, rubbed your feet in it on a sunny day.

Now try, try, as I am, to imagine that there are more stars in OUR GALAXY than every single grain of sand on Earth, times two million. TIMES TWO MILLION. Count them: one grain of sand, two grains of sand . . . until every grain on Earth has been accounted for. Then do it TWO MILLION TIMES MORE and believe you me, by the time you get to that point, the sun will be only a wistful memory and you will be very, very old.

Sand. Such a cosmic joke. But I try to include it in every song I ever write, because it always reminds me of the stars in the sky. They are literally one and the same.

I Can't Believe!

Christ, I swear, I really feel some days as though I'm an old man of 51.

Oh, wait, I AM an old man of 51.

eight times

What is No Longer

I know, I know, too much information, but I'm losing my hair. No, not THAT hair, Silly -- if you bother to go to facebook you'll see somewhere that all up top is growing fine, thank you very much. Too damn much, in fact. I'm turning into Captain Haddock here.

No, it's way more embarrassing than that. I swear, my leg hairs (see, I told you, too much information) are disappearing. I mean, they weren't exactly much to begin with, but now I'm definitely feeling that there should somehow be something where there is nothing, so to speak.

I'm actually considering taking some mascara and "enlightening" that which is not. I'm sure Brigitte would be fascinated applying herself to the task. I know there are kidney guys, brain guys, liver dudes . . . but are there Leg Hair guys? It's somehow quite important to me right now and I ask that you indulge me, bring your seat to an upright position and stow your tray table.

Flight attendants, please prepare for departure. I already have.

here

Harder

It's getting harder and harder to believe what's been happening, and I don't expect you to. It's like a slow-motion wreck involving several 18-wheelers, narrated by Steven King and produced by Dino de Laurentiis.

The obvious biggie: my father dying. The next: my 19-year-old nephew dying. The next: the economyshotoHellyadayadanojobandnoprospectyadayadablahblah . . . .

But this one has to have been th' biggie of the year.

Here's what I did, my precious readers: I actually woke up at around zero hour, nine a.m., if you want to recall an old song, and then I went to Mars.

Mars is a very long haul. At last count, it's at least 36 million miles. That's on a GOOD day. (You just don't want to go there on a perihelion mark of 54.8 million miles, let me tell you).

I hear NASA is contemplating it but they just don't seem to have the "Right Stuff" to actually do it. Because I just did it. And if their army of scientists can't come up with an army of astronauts to do what I just did, then I'd fire them all.

Because I just returned from Mars. I not only returned, I returned in one piece. That piece is a little questionable, judging from A View From Brigitte, but I did what John F. Kennedy said: "Before this decade is out, to transport a man to the moon and return him safely to Earth".

(Maybe that was John *G.* Kennedy but you kinda get the picture).

As I speak, I just got on a plane; no, several, I've lost count -- and left this tiny haven I call home to crawl, at multiply anxiety-ridden lengths, half way across THIS FUCKING PLANET, in THREE -- COUNT THEM< THREE<<<< FUCKING DAYS and all I have to FUCKING SHOW FOR IT is a huge pain in my shoulders and calves and a son who's sleeping in the room next door.

If Brigitte were not ALSO sleeping in the room next door, the only possible option would maybe be the balcony (more on that later) and not this here beer I'm having instead.

Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids, People. In fact, it's cold as Hell.

Easy Garlic Dill Pickles

I swear, I should be the fucking guru for Easy Garlic Dill Pickles. Do you, faithful reader, have any concept of how many people come to this tinsel-chested blog just because of a search for "Easy Garlic Dill Pickles"?

Hey. gotta make some bucks off this. I'll take down Vlasic and those other "crunchy" dudes -- really, I will. Mine are the best (hey, so no wonder they're beating a path to this misbegotten laptop in Osaka, Japan!)

Hey folks, feel like making easy refrigerator pickles? (See gauntish dude wearing strange headset, wielding plethora of strange tools).

Wait, there's more!

This has come to be the marker of my existence. "Had the most hits for the search term: 'Easy Garlic Dill Pickles' since records have been kept."

Oh, Whatever

I flew into Narita last night. In case you didn't know, it's like, the most major airport in Japan. Kinda like JFK or Heathrow to us. Fuck Charles de Gaulle -- just the name pisses me off.

But, as exhausted as I was from that sinkhole of Chicago, I marveled at the approach to Narita. Green, green, green. It was extremely beautiful, as the Japan Airlines 747 gracefully settled onto the runway -- it was almost yet again a miracle. I swear, I actually cried as I realised what had just happened. Especially when I recalled what happened to that FedEx plane that sailed into probably the same runway as me, hiccupped, took a nosedive and scratched two pilots.

But what took two -- count them -- two years of horror for people like Cook or Adams, with incredible suffering, pain and just general nastiness back in the 16-17 hundreds, took me just 14 hours.

Fourteen fucking hell of hours, mind you, but I guess it beats 365 days x 2.

Being in Japan at this point in time is beyond bizarre, but whaddyagonnado.

For now, I FEEL like Cook and Adams -- totally weirded out in a place that should, by all accounts, rightfully be renamed Mars.

Mes Chers

As I type, you really don't want to be in the situation I'm in. Just imagining the situation I'm in, let alone actually BEING in it is a time-waster, lemme tell you.

Christ, too many hours watching Lockup: RAW but I'm sure it really does something to my (still?) conscious mind.

Dig this: sitting at a fucking hotel desk drinking a pisswater beer laced with what, cognac? (Sorry, that particular brain cell has gone AWOL) and contemplating doing what I did yesterday -- namely, going through that asshole of the Universe, Chicago, then going to its nearest neighbor, NARITA, Tokyo

AGAIN TOMORROW.

There are things to be thankful for. The beer. The . . . okay, I guess it says "Four Roses Bourbon". Christ, THAT brain cell has just gone AWOL as well. I can barely see. But take heart; Ernest Hemingway could barely see for half his life yet hey, fuck, he's a legend!

And so am I. My dearest throng, bear with me in this very, very odd place in which I find myself . . .

I swear, I wouldn't wish this bourbon on my worst enemy.

Understandings

Brigitte and I, we have our deals. Sometimes she makes the bed, sometimes I make the bed. Sometimes she does the dishes, sometimes I do the dishes. We don't keep track of these things. Sometimes she folds the laundry, sometimes she folds the laundry. Sometimes she makes dinner, sometimes I make dinner. Sometimes I make dinner, sometimes I make dinner. Sometimes she chops and dices, sometimes I make dinner.

Sometimes she says "I love you," sometimes I say "I love you." Sometimes I say "I love you," sometimes she says "I don't love you."

Sometimes she sleeps till 4. Sometimes I sleep till 4. Sometimes she's still sleeping at 4. Sometimes she wakes me up at 5.

Sometimes she makes me a drink. Sometimes I make myself a drink. Sometimes I drink to prepare myself to make myself a drink. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something.

Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something.

Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something.

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Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something. Sometimes she wants me to help her do something.

Sometimes I help her do something.

Is That . . .

. . . a black Cocker Spaniel I see in the water there? Can Cocker Spaniels be black?

Uhh . . . Okay

I'm really, really sorry for the woman who died a couple of days ago when a piece of building fell on her.

But my febrile brain must recreate the conversation, as it usually does:

"Oh, honey, I'm so glad to be back here, at our favorite Mikasa sushi restaurant under this glass awning that's so convenient given the 364 straight days of rain we've had."

"Yes, dear, isn't it marvelous? Happy birthday!"

"But I kind of don't want to sit here at this table, even though there are twenty and most of them are unoccupied. How about over there?"

"You mean the one that's directly under the three-by-eight concrete slab that's perched on the wall of this hotel at around the 18th-floor level and looks to have a crack -- is that a crack? -- in it?"

"Yes, dear, that's exactly the table I want to sit at."

"Okay, sweetheart!"

(Waiter): "May I take your order?"

"Yes! I'll have the steak teppanyaki. Make it extra-well done, please!"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll make sure the chef understands."

"Yes, because I don't want to have to take the leftovers home and not be able to line my Gucci shoes with them!"

"Understood!"

"Uhh, dear?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What's that man wearing a tall white hat hanging out of the 18th-floor window up there doing with that chisel and hammer?"

"Well, I can't realy te --"

My Flock: to Japan!

Hell-o, Flock,

How would you all like to do Dear Leader a favor and fly to Japan tomorrow instead of Him? It would be third-class all the way. Just think: (hands spreading apart, beatific look in eyes, ray of sunshine beaming through window, almost-inaudible sound of reverberated angels)

Montreal to Chicago at 6:30 a.m.! Yes! Chicago! But security and immigration in Montreal! Then, haul bag off plane and change terminals! Security again! Shoes off, meine freunde, schnell schnell schnell! You're going to take a long shower now! Fritz, give that grandmother in the wheelchair an extra once-over -- I've seen their type before!

Oh, and now that most lovely of lovelies -- a fifteen-hour flight to Tokyo! With chickenorbeeformaybefish three times in a row!

But wait, Flock, there's more! Yes, Immigration, complete with fumbling for tickets, boarding cards, having fingerprints and eye scans, and then -- you guessed it! Check-in and security! Lugging all your shit to yet another gate! Another ass-numbing two-hour flight to Osaka!

Then, a new game: Find The Hotel! Yes, you get to use your Perfect Japanese for once in your life now. "Hey, Hiroshi, where's my gozaimashita hotel at? Awready got those. Don't touch my mustache."

Check in to hotel, go to your room and stay there for two nights. Then come back with a 7-year-old. Through New York.

Now, flock, don't jostle each other, keep an orderly lineup in single file down the hall and have your passports out for quick identifiction by my trained monkey, Gollum.

How . . .

. . . my heart bleeds.

Facebook x MCXXCIVVIV

Must I? Again? I know you're shaking your pointy heads at this, my latest rant about Facebook, but I'm really at my fucking wits'end. It's so hard to equivocate a singly, simply bad piece of design that simultaneously is so popular (well, there's Windows, but that's another story) yet so flawed.

Imagine: A distant relative. Maybe a distant friend. Maybe someone you actually haven't talked to in actuality for twenty years, is now leaving messages on your answering machine. "I went out with Doug, isn't Maine cool?" "I went to the manicurist and got a way cool tattoo. It's removable!"

And YOU CAN"T TURN IT OFF!

Yes, the pundits will be able to weigh in and say "If you go to this widget and turn off the Preferences . . ." well, I DON'T HAVE THE FUCKING TIME!

So, dear Facebook friends, prepare to be eliminated. I'm very sorry but I refuse to be a slave to bad technology. Man invented the wheel. Then they burned it with Fire. What the fuck you gonna do with a burnt wheel?

Cooking Classes

Uh . . . this is a last-ditch effort. Obviously I would invite anyone who cared to come for dinner that I or they would cook, but hard times call for cooking lessons.

Thus:
===============================================================================
montreal craigslist > services offered > lessons & tutoring
Cooking classes!
Reply to: your anonymous craigslist address will appear here [Errors when replying to ads?]
Date: 2009-07-14, 5:42AM EDT


What, you don't know how to chop an onion? You barely manage French toast? Don't know how to cook without a recipe?

How about Gorgonzola Shrimp Linguine, flambéed with Pastis?

Don't have a good chef's knife and want to know where to get one, cheap? Don't have a clue how to use your nifty grill? How to deep fry without losing the use of your hair?

I charge money! Yes, it's true. But it will be worth it. Please go here to see the kinds of things I do. Pickling? Done that. Baking? No problem. Pasta from scratch, pizza from scratch, compound butter, infused oils Asian, French, Greek, Indian, Japanese, Turkish, American, Ethiopian, Mongolian -- well, just take a look at my 200 cookbooks!

You can come to my kitchen in downtown Cote des Neiges for a free evaluation and then we can go from there! Got kids? I'll teach them how to cook! Lazy husband? Send him on down! Gourmet hot dogs? Yep, I can do that. (Or my wife can; they're the best on the planet and I know all her secrets. The KGB have been nosing around recently!) My burgers have been raved about. I even do kosher!

Yes, YOU can be a good cook in as little as ten lessons! Knife skills? Check. Garnishes? Check. Plating? Check. Resources? Well, I've run possibly the oldest restaurant review site in Montreal for almost ten years . . . yeah, I think I know where to get that.

Hey, I have a Benriner Turning Slicer. How can you be any cooler than that?
===============================================================================

Answer!
===============================================================================

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Hi,
I am interested in finding out about your cooking lessons. I cook for my family but am bored and want to do some new stuff. How do you work your classes?
Thanks
Nina


this message was remailed to you via: serv-j4pz5-1269006158@craigslist.org
===============================================================================

What should I do? I've never given a cooking lesson in my life. Except for . . .

Dinner

I don't know about you, but I have a sickness. I HAVE been known to have breakfast. Yes indeedy, no one is as good at making a delicious omelette as me. The cheese has not been born, nor the mushroom, that has escaped my omelette. Bacon is My Friend. Ham comes by every so often for a chat, sausage -- well she hasn't been around in a while.

And I've been known to nod kindly at Lunch. A midday burger? Not fast food, mind you. BLT is good. Hot dog does not escape my midday notice. But since I don't come from an office culture, Cup-o'-Soup just doesn't come into my meal plan.

No, no, no. The Meal is always dinner. Dinner is my ongoing obsession. Yes, it IS categorically OCD-describable.

I must -- repeat, must -- know what is for dinner, each and every day. Sometimes, no, often -- it must be a day or two in advance. You have never seen someone as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs as when I do not know what is in the cards for tonight's dinner.

I don't know where this comes from. Possibly boarding school, when all the meals were predictable weeks in advance. A Nervous Disposition. Who knows? But let me tell you, when someone I'm with hasn't come up with a decent game plan for what is going to be tonight's dinner by the time my sexy eyelashes have come fluttering to life first thing in the morning, the scheming dreamer comes to life as if newly plugged into a light socket.

And if what's for dinner isn't established in the first five minutes of wakefulness, well, that's when the voices start telling me to clean my guns.

This

Bass Notes

Qaro asked me how the bass was doing. I guess if you're not a musician you may not be interested, but the bass is doing very, very well! Ignore me if I speak Musician in this post -- I have many other idiocies you can read.

But the fretless is such a joy to play. It's like snowboarding as opposed to skiing -- not that I've done either. Pretty much anything goes.

So why did I leave it at Dave's house?

Because my guitar can get very jealous.

Danish, Anyone?

Just to mix it up, I'm going to post in Danish. At least I think it's Danish.

Gdanska, everyone!

Jeg er stolt af at præsentere min nye Bamseassistent

Amalie vil fremover lave helt unikke bamser, med eget look og personligt præg,

og de vil komme til salg her på siden, hvorefter man kan få broderet navn og årstal efter ønske...

Amalie Felding, der netop er færdigudlært udi bamsesyning, og nu bruger en del af sin fritid på at arbejde med bamser i Bee-Ware Bears:



Amalies meget fine håndbroderi præger de nye bamser fra Bee-Ware Bears og er med til at give det håndlavede, oldfashioned look, som vi så godt kan li´ på vores bamser:

Hmm, don't know how that "oldfashioned look" crept in there. Must be some out-of-town dialect. Hey, any language with the conjunction "og" in it can't be all bad!

Zubbles

The things I go through to amuse youse. Yeah, yeah, yeah, what is it this time? It's Zubbles.

I think I waited three years to get these fuckers. Just because the story behind it was so amazing.

Go ahead and read what's on the link and then come back to me.

I freaked Brigitte out today when I started blowing bubbles and they were exploding in brilliant blue all over my shirt. Sure enough, out whipped the trusty water-soaked paper towel to get the stain out of this nice Value Village bargain, but she was brain-locked when the stain disappeared before she could clean it off.

It was worth a month of Sunday reruns of the Three Stooges.

BTW, do you know how difficult it is to create bubbles and then photograph them?

A Fiery Tale

Once upon a time, there was an enormous, very bright ball that came almost every day (see exception, Plague of Locusts, Matthew MCXVI:18) and settled in the sky. It was viewable from almost any perspective and delivered a quite noticeable amount of heat.

This was called "A Sun".

However, according to my sources on High, its pension was skewered by backroom dealings between the Moon, the Clouds, and the Rain, and has now officially gone on strike.

How long? "All goddamn summer," the Sun rumbled in our last interview. "Fuck the Moon and those guys. All they ever do is get in the way. I'm done, finished, on strike."

So there you have it. Retire your sunscreen and fire up your moonbrellas.

I also sell garlic necklaces, special, four dollars off this week only. PayPal, Mastercard accepted.

Onion Dip and Chip Update

I made the onion dip from scratch

What's astonishing is how much they shrink:



The dip was great. The chips were done on a mandolin with no loss of fingers and fried in bacon fat. Delicious!

$4.50 Filet Mignon

$64 for a whole filet at Costco . . . that makes 14 1" steaks. I "Foodsavered" them and you just can't imagine how delicious they're going to still be six months from now.

Yo!

Sorry for the silence! Just gearing up for Japan next Sunday. That can't be anything but fun, right?

Now

The things one thinks. The way the bathrobe hangs on the back of the bedroom door. The hiss of the fan and the tiny waves of air in the darkness of a Sunday afternoon. The tiny snores of someone next to you who has no idea you're in your own Wake World.

The thoughts that you'll be thinking at 37,000 feet in an aluminum tube: that all you ever want is to be here, that this moment should be preserved in amber for all time. This little sanctuary; call it what you will. For some it will be a freeway underpass with a bottle of Colt 45, for others, a windswept desert with three crying children, but for me, it's right here, right now.

Right here, right now.

How Well

Do you ever know someone? Furthermore, how well SHOULD you know someone?

Bad Bob

My old bandmate Bob, who's now some bigwig with Pandora, is seen here wearing the shirt that I designed from a drawing of our band (that's me second from right) that I did in art school, in turn based on a photo.

If you ever see the scumbag, remind him that he owes me $100 for a 12-string Takamine that I sold him when I was in dire financial straits in 1990, for a mere $100. That very same guitar would probably be worth $2000 today.

Meh.

Today's Haiku

What is that?
Fiery orb aloft
It hurts these
Old eyes

Ideal Old Folk's Night Out

Okay, ya fucks, so I'm old. I'm over 50. Cut me a break.

So what would be my ideal night out?

Try some pool hall. Not a dingy one, filled with truckers. A NICE one. With the beer I like. With the girl I love. And Kenny Loggins' Heart To Heart, which I hated in the day, along with all sorts of stuff I despised. You name it -- the BeeGees, Kenny Loggins, Doobies, Boz Scaggs . . . I hated them all. But now I recognize that they're the true soundtrack to my life and there be NUTTIN' to compare now. Fuck Michael Jackson.

When was the last time you listened to Loggins and Messina? Seals and Croft? Toto? Sorry, I know how much they date me, but the imitators these days just remain that way.

Beer.

A nice pool hall.

70s music.

Truckin'

I follow my fretless bass as it wends its way from New Hampshire to Montreal. I bought it last week and I can't wait to see it. But as I follow it online (www.fedex.com, tracking # 604256930361234) I think of the guy driving the truck.

"Departed FedEx Location -- Jul 8, 2009 7:31 AM -- WILLINGTON, CT," wherever the fuck that might be.

But that guy's driving my bass to me here in Montreal. I follow him vicariously, only knowing of his progress from cryptic FedEx.com posts on the tracking page.

Does his wife miss him? I know, too much thought.

The bass will show up on Friday. I will be very happy. Some local dude will deliver it to me. But the guy who's driving now, at 12:35 a.m. on some highway somewhere, making sure I get it . . . he has no idea how happy I'll be. He'll just go home with no incident, which is just how he likes it.

Just wish I could crack a beer with him.

Montreal and Music

This fucking place is a magical hotbed of good music, unlike any I've ever seen before. What the fuck is up with Montreal? Surely not the summers. Or winters. Or lack thereof.

But just listen to these upstart motherfuckers.

I'm not much for Arcade Fire or Godspeed You Black Emperor but this is true music, performed, no doubt, from those now-too-ubiquitous McGill music school graduates.

Fuckin' A, I knew McGill was famous for its med school, but now, a Canadian Juillard?

Hmm. The food here is okay (I prefer San Francisco's, but I don't live there and don't own sanfranciscofood.com), but the music is better 'round these "hear" parts.

Scratch That

I know I sometimes get silly about food. Sometimes I say to myself things like "Why buy a baguette when you can make one yourself?" So I go the whole hog. I go out and buy baguette trays. I try to make sourdough starter from scratch. I wait days for dough to rise, all in the quest for "authenticité." I fail. I try again. I succeed.

I want to make raviolis from scratch. I research the process. I order books from Amazon entitled "Making Raviolis At Home." I buy an Imperial pasta machine, with electric motor, drying racks for the pasta. I fail. I try again. I succeed.

I want to make pizza from scratch. I buy pizza pans, pizza stones, pizza grids, San Marzano tomatoes, Mozzarella di Bufalo, the finest Rosette de Lyon salami, the freshest garlic. I fail. I try again. I succeed.

I want to make dill pickles from scratch. I buy Mason jars and tongs. I research the process. I fail. I try again. I succeed.

I want to make sausages from scratch. I buy a meat grinder. I buy pork butt and salt pork; I spend an entire day making sausages. I don't fail (you can't fail making sausages).

I want to make egg rolls from scratch. Okay, that is easy enough to make it worth it.


But after all this, I ask myself, Why? Why do I want to make a baguette when I can just hop to the corner and buy a very good one for $1.80? Why do I want to make raviolis when perfectly serviceable ones can be had from Capitol for $6.99? Why do I want to make pizza when I hardly ever eat it anyway and making it from scratch is expensive and time-consuming?

Dill pickles? Well, they're so easy that it's hard not to justify making them from scratch.

Sausages? They have great ones at Jean-Talon market. Just go, pick, buy, sauté. Better than mine and a hell of a lot cheaper.

Still, I love a challenge. Make my own mozzarella? Intriguing. Just to DO IT. I used to make my own beer. Very, very challenging, but the end result was so satisfying. I MADE THIS. A multinational corporation did not make this. It may not taste like the beer I get at the store, but THAT'S WHY IT'S SO GOOD.

Thus, I present my latest challenge: French Onion Dip from scratch with homemade potato chips.

Here's how I see it in my mind's eye (not made yet -- just a theoretical recipe, which I will do on the weekend):

French Onion Dip with Chipotle Peppers

Ingredients:

1 large container (not the medium sized ones) full-fat sour cream
3 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 cup Japanese mayonnaise (Kewpie brand -- inquire at your Asian market)
2 large Vidalia onions, chopped in a medium dice (about 4 cups)
2 large cloves fresh garlic (the kind that still have the scapes on them and you have to refrigerate), roasted
1 bunch green onions (scallions), sliced into thin rounds
2 tablespoons juice from can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce (La Costena comes to mind)
1 tablespoon cilantro, finely chopped
I tablespoon white wine vinegar
Salt and pepper to taste
Parsley sprigs for garnish


Method

Bring nonstick sauté pan to medium heat with olive oil. When simmering, toss in onions. Stirring fairly often, sauté until deep brown and caramelized, approximately 40 minutes. Do not leave unattended. Add garlic, mix well. Sauté another five minutes. remove from heat, chill.

When thoroughly chilled, blend with rest of ingredients, allow to mix overnight in refrigerator. When serving, garnish with sprigs of parsley.

Homemade Potato Chips

Ingredients

2 large russet potatoes
Vegetable oil, bacon oil or duck fat, one inch deep in sauté pan
Chile powder
Salt and pepper to taste

Method

Using a mandolin, slice the potatoes no more than 1/32 of an inch thick. Place slices in ice water.

Heat oil on medium until a drop of water spatters in the pan. Drain and pat potato slices extremely dry with paper towels; layer them between paper towels if you have to. Get a bowl ready with paper towel liner to receive potato chips.

In small batches to avoid bringing the temperature of the oil down too low, fry the potato slices until just golden brown. Remove with a spider and leave to drain on paper towels in bowl. If necessary, place done chips in metal bowl in 200-degree oven to keep warm while you fry the rest of the potatoes.

Sprinkle with condiments and serve immediately with onion dip.

Consider William Dampier

As I type this I watch Brooke Shields deliver a semi-hysterical eulogy to Michael Jackson. Simultaneously translated by some French dude on some French channel!

Who was Michael Jackson? What did he do? Uhh, I've been through it a couple of times, and I've come to the conclusion that if Michael Jackson had never lived, the world would still be ticking along nicely, thank you very much. Unlike, say, John Lennon, we learned exactly nothing from Michael Jackson. He had no message other than to indulge himself to the fullest extent, with the occasional nod to "charitable" causes that are the celebrity prerequisite these days.

In twenty years, Michael Jackon will be about as relevant as the person he's continually compared to, Elvis Presley, another laggard who really had not too much to account for his presence except for seemingly being in the right place at the right time.

I keep coming back to John Lennon, but he was very stubborn. He had something we like to call integrity, something we call true conviction. Please explain what conviction either of the "Kings" had, except for their pathetic addiction to painkillers.

William Dampier . . . no, I know you've never heard of him. But even though he was a nonentity in his own time, he was one of the first persons to travel around the world three times, a pirate and a scientist . . . in short, orders of magnitude more talented and intelligent than some dancing puppet that seems to be our definition of "hero" today.

In 500 years, his name will still be in the exhibits of the British Museum.

Do you think Michael Jacksons's will?

*Sigh* . . . Must . . . Mention . . .

Umm, I really believe someone other than the seller's best friend bought this at auction for $21,000,000. Never mind that that would buy a nice mansion in the Hamptons! Instead of camping on some squalid obscure domain name that will be completely irrelevant in about three weeks.

I, on the other hand am selling this snappy domain name for a mere $20!

Buy, buy, buy, people! You KNEW that the fortune you made by following in Bernie Madoff's footsteps would come to good use someday!

I makee good price. Twenty-five million dollah. Oooh, solly, just minus couple zeros. Just for sahib. Domain name not transferable!

Miniature Dinner

Okay, here's the deal. An "anti-massive-portion-trend" dinner, if you will. Not just small portions of ordinary food, mind you, but small versions of traditional food.

Nothing fancy. Just imagine a typical American-style menu:

Quail deviled eggs.

You'd bring some water to the boil with about ten quail eggs. Let them sit for five minutes off heat. Cold-shock them. Remove the yolks, mix with mayonnaise, mustard, shallots, paprika etc. etc. and there you'd have it. An appetizer. Others might be stuffed cherry tomatoes. Or stuffed baby shrimp (pull that one off, why dontcha!)

Main courses? Maybe guinea-hen burgers, ground from scratch. Really, really tiny, maybe just an inch and a half across and 1/3 of an inch thick. Charcoal grilled, of course. With pearl red onion slices and cherry tomatoes sliced ever-so-fine and some form of cheese literally 1/32 of an inch thick. Hmm, the rolls would be a problem. I'll have to think about that. Baby lettuce as garnish.

Side dish would be super-fine julienned fingerling potatoes fried in duck fat for, like two minutes. Or could I risk trying to make twice-baked miniature potatoes? My Microplane grater would grate the cheese to ultra-feathery levels. Could be done! Instead of having to plow though a half a baked russet, you'd just pop this in your mouth and it would be gone in one bite.

Then, maybe mini-stuffed baby veal rolls. Couscous instead of rice. Everything as miniature as possible. The wine, Pommery '64 in 375ml bottles served in children's glasses.

A SMALL dinner party, to fit with my budget.

Yes, I think it could be done.

Letter to My Son

Hello, my boy,

Ever since you were just a tiny thought in your mother’s womb I knew you existed. The very first night I found out, when I didn’t even know you were a boy or a girl, I wrote to you.

I know you won’t be able to read any of the many letters I’ve written you over the years until you’re big, but I wrote them anyway, knowing that one day you’d read them.

All sorts of things happened in the eight years that you’ve been alive so far. With you, I remember every single one of them. Every single goddamn one, and I miss them all.

I wish that you could just be with me, all day, every day, but since you can’t, I just want you to know that during your absence it was always a void, there was never a time when I felt truly whole. I know reading this will never make up for that but you have to know that I was always, always thinking of you, in a low background rumble at the best of times, that you are never, ever far from my thoughts, though you’re physically as far as the moon.

One day we will be together. It’s not today, but rest assured that until that day, I will always write you to remind you that I never forgot you.

Your father

Upon Disliking Artichokes

Why do we like what we like? And dislike what we dislike? People can be very creative/evasive when it comes to their food. The excuses run from the lame -- "I'm allergic to onions; I break out in a rash when I have one (that's funny, I just made a nice curry in which the onions were copious but hidden, you loved it and I don't see you breaking out in a rash!) -- to my favourite, the Very Lame "I just don't like it."

"Well, have you ever tried it?" "No . . . " "Well, why don't you just have one bite?" "NOOOOO . . . ."

But this is my attitude. So, I'm sure soft-shelled crabs are fantastic with a little lime-pear salsa, but hey, I'm ALLERGIC to soft-shelled crab! Yes, specifically! Only soft-shelled crab makes me break out in hives! Mental ones, but hey, that counts!

Why should I like squash? Could you just tell me why I should like this squishy, slimy, tasteless vegetable when there are so many tasteful, crisp ones available to eat?

And artichoke. Okay, I've never had one. But I've never had roasted tarantula, either. Does that mean I MUST eat at least one bite of artichoke in my life? Just to say I did?

No, I'm not allergic to anything. But hey, you sanctimonious bunch of kitchen preachers, how's about some Dave's Insanity Salsa on that bite of grilled steak? How's about 40-Garlic chicken? Want some adventure, do you?

I'm very slow to mature. I'm just getting around to considering the merits of cooked fish. Hey, why don't you like raw fish? What, slimy, disgusting-looking? Have you ever had just ONE BITE?

I know people who will not touch ham. But they eat bacon cheerily, as long as it's roasted into charred black unidentifiable corpses. WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT????

People who break into sweats when just ONE serrano chile is diffused into a curry. The other night my guitar friend Dave rose to the challenge when I told him slyly that I could "up the heat within one degree of intolerable pain" with the salsa . . . and passed with flying colours! As would I.

People who like their steaks slathered in HP sauce. This is a crime! Punishable by a perfect, salt-and-pepper garnished medium-rare filet mignon grilled on a charcoal grill.

People who actually eat doughnuts!

People who like zucchini! People who like asparagus! People who eat edible flowers! People who grill fruit! People who like guacamole! People who can't drink beer! People who have never eaten shrimp! People who avoid garlic! People who like foie gras!

You know who you are.

I am Nick, and I am allergic to artichokes.

Why . . .

. . . global warming will not be our ultimate demise.

It is frankly incomprehensible that ordinarily intelligent human beings will come up with stuff like this:

"Conga ratz {{{{{{AP}}}}}}} iz tiem heer fur da lait dai nomz nd drinkeez. Letz orf tu da koktayl lownj fur sum partyz. Wantz sum sawngz nd dans? maibe sumwun dere wil du fur yu. Nawt rely mai jawb heer."

Am I losing my mind? No, I'm losing theirs.

Now We See . . .

. . . the logic behind why Montreal has no street food vendors.

Deconstructing Poetry

When I was in school in England in my youth, I was very good at poetry. Reading it, writing it. Now I'm not so good. And I have a beef with those old poets. Revenge time!

I will now deconstruct Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" as no one of my English teachers ever would have wanted me to:

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

Umm, clouds usually hang out with LOTS of other clouds. They're called Low-pressure Fronts.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

What is a vale? There are no vales any more, dude. And what do you expect from a cloud? It hangs around like, at sea level all day? Redundant oxymoron, duude!

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Oh, nice one, Wordsworth, nice one. Say, how long did it take to make up that name, anyway? What was the original? Hartzheim? Dorrit-Pieterzoon? Bevall'acqua? Wouldn't have done quite as well being called William Bevall'acqua, would you?

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:

Hey, Bill, there are a LOT more stars in the Milky Way than there are in your weed plot, lemme tell you. Conservative estimates range from ten to fifty trillion. Did you actually bother counting your daffodils?

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Wow, you should either go into mathematics with that eagle eye of yours, or sign up for ballet lessons.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

What is it you're watching, dude? Ever seen Columbo? He's pretty cool. But I'd imagine you're more of an American Idol fan. LOTS o' daffodils on that show.

Where my Dad is (and where I'm Headed)

Here’s what I imagine happened: My father, deceased about two months ago, arrives at the Pearly Gates. Sure enough, according to all the travelogues, there’s St. Peter.

“Uh,” says Dad, “I don’t think I’m in the right place.”

“Ho ho ho,” thunders St. Peter jovially, “You most assuredly are.”

“Umm, okay, do you have crossword puzzles?”

“Of COURSE we have all manner of crossword puzzles, young man!”

“New York TIMES crossword puzzles? Edited by Will Shortz?”

“Oh . . . I don’t recollect the name but I know we have crossword puzzles! Many, many of them! Here’s seven-down, three letters: ‘And it came to pass that --— ate multitudes of locusts!’”

“Umm, okay, sounds good, that would be Job. Umm, do you have magazines? Books? Cable TV? I really like Crime Scene: Miami.”

(Slight rumble) “While these things can be arranged, my son, we prefer to steer our newest arrivals to our newly renovated harp school. After all, you know that for all eternity, you will be entertaining Jehovah at various official functions in various capacities, but the most important is to be able to play the harp and perform all manners of worship."

“Uh, how about my nightly scotch at six? I have like, two in a row and then Marjorie makes me a martini and then — ”

“SILENCE! SILENCE! There is NO, repeat, NO alcohol in Heaven! This is Heaven! You have chosen the wrong elevator.”

(Dad goes meekly to Elevator Number 2, descends for what seems like eternity).

Emerges on a windswept white beach with a coral sea lapping up it, and settles down under a palm tree. Immediately a platform arises from the sand with a scotch cooling nicely (his budget Safeway brand), folds out and a 3D LCD screen starts blasting Jeopardy, a packet of Native cigarettes spontaneously appears with a lighter and an ashtray, hovering impossibly just to his left, a copy of the financial section of the New York Times from tomorrow floats onto his lap and a small demon buzzes by and says “How would you like your steak tonight, sir? In fact, how would you like your steak for the rest of eternity? Shall I go turn down your pillow for you now or are you ready to carouse well into the night?”

I'd add that some of the virgins who went AWOL from good ol' Allah's Paradise B** and Grill after 9/11 would cluster around Dad but he'd push them all away -- he's just waiting for his wife.

Oh yes, I know very well where my dad is. Don't worry, Father, the ice cream doesn't last long in that heat but there's eternally more where it came from.

Mysteries Of The Mind

This song suddenly came into my mind uninvited and now won't go away.

What is it? One thought disturbed a neighbouring batch of neurons, who all suddenly woke up and said "Let's party like it's 1979!"?

I swear I haven't heard that song SINCE around 1981, yet all of a sudden it's on an endless loop in my brain. Yes, scientists, there ARE mysteries about the human brain. Number one in my book is how the words "Sheena" and "Easton" ever saw fit to reassemble their axons and dendrites and come back for a last hurrah after thirty years.

Uh-oh, it's woken up the Lionel Richie team -- I feel them beginning to stir. Gotta go!

Macintosh Portable

Canada Day: Eh Plus

Hmm. Dubious distinction dept: although I've been living here on and off since 1976 (the last stint from 1994-solid) I've never experienced Canada Day as A CANADIAN, eh? But now that my shiny Canadian passport snuggles happily next to my US one, I guess strawberry margaritas are in order, eh, fellow Canadians?

I'll tidy the beaver pelts while I'm at it and put the Moosehead on the arctic ice while waving off the horse-sized horseflies and greet Chas McDonald, the Mountie/postie when he comes a-deliverin' my weekly supply from Down South, and hopefully he won't have ripped out the good pages from my Penthouse magazine this time, eh?

And must man the fortifications 'gainst these Queebeckers who've had it in for me ever since the Plains of Abraham. I can hear their cries as I type, see their torches burning! "À Louer" is no longer their battle cry! No, it's "Complet! Complet! Complet!"

Je me souviens! Yes, I remember! When I haven't had ten Strawberry Margaritas celebrating Canada Day! Lionel Groulx, the nazi with the unpronounceable name, René Levesque, the midget who smoked himself into the grave, Jean Drapeau, who gave us the biggest Monster Truck arena (Olympic Stadium) in the Four Corners . . . believe it or not, my loyalty is with YOU!

Yes, I must end this by formally renouncing Canada Day as a sham, eh? No Mounties, people from Vancouver not allowed through security,

We Be Quebecers Here!

So get that maple leaf outta my face.