Is Japan As Expensive As Everyone Says?

Judge for yourself from my near-airport hotel room service menu (please bear in mind that 100 yen equals approximately one U.S. dollar, thus ¥1,500 is $15.00, all typos exactly as on menu):

Noodle/Rice Dish/Light Meal

Hot Pot Udon Noodle -- ¥1,500
Fried Rice With Chop Suey -- ¥1,500
Chinese Soup Noodle, With Barbecue Pork — ¥1,750
Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato Sandwich, With Fried Potato (this is very good, by the way) — ¥1,800
Beef Curry, With Rice — ¥1,850
Rice of Bowl, With Beef Steak — ¥2,000

Salad

Seasonal Salad — ¥900

Appetizers/Soup

Corn Soup — ¥600
Assorted Dried Snacks — ¥1,000
Assorted Cheeses ¥1,000

Beverages

Coffee/hot (Pot) or Ice (Glass) — ¥1,000
Freshly Squeezed Grapefruit Juice — ¥1,000
Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice — ¥1,000
Mineral Water VOSS or Sparkring 800 ml — ¥1,000
Kirin Free (Non-alcoholic beer) — ¥1,000
Domestic Beer (Asahi/Kirin/Suntory) — ¥1,100 (that’s $10 a CAN, folks!)

Wine

Smoking Loon Sauvignon Blanc — ¥5,500 (if you visit the link you see it only costs $7.99. That's a 688% markup. Nice!)
Alamos Chardonnay — ¥5,000
Terrazas Malbec (red) —¥4,500 (a bargain at twice the price!)
Chateau Tayac (red) — ¥5,000
Monthly Recommendation Glass of Champagne — ¥1,900 ($19 for a glass of champagne!)
Monthly Recommendation Bottle of Champagne — ¥15,000 ($150 for a $12 bottle of Freixenet Brut!)

Upon Moronity and The Human Condition

There will never, ever be a shortage of morons. I always thought there were few guarantees in life, but this is one of them. Morons burst at the seams at every level. There is such a surfeit of morons in this world that it's a wonder ANYTHING ever gets done.

To wit:

Montreal's airport builds a new wing, millions in the making, to take exclusive care of passengers travelling to the U.S. Before, everyone went through checkin, then dragged their bags to U.S. customs, then deposited their bags, went through security and were on their way.

Now, in their "airy, spacious new hall" with 27, count 'em, 27 "processing" booths, you deposit your bags BEFORE going through customs. Major innovation! Can you say "Efficiency doubled!"?

Oh, it's a very pretty new hall. Except that at 7 a.m. on a Sunday, with at least 300 people lined up in that accursed "S" queue configuration, there were only five -- count them: five -- agents working. Assuming that each person takes 3 minutes for processing and, well, YOU do the math.

I did the math. All I know is that I spent 45 fucking minutes in line where in the old, inefficient facility, I at most spent ten. So they became so backed up that harried workers started asking people whose flights were imminent to come to the head of the line. That made all the rest of us who had been waiting 40 minutes VERY happy to see twenty people barging the queue, let me tell you. Plus the fact that herding people one by one into various lines is the stupidest, least democratic way to do things. EVERYONE SHOULD BE IN ONE LINE, then proceed to the next available agent. Otherwise you get the scenario that Line H, the one they sent YOU to, happens to involve a family from Yemen, and the customs agent is giving them a thorough grilling, while all the other lines sail through next to you. MORONS!

ASSHOLES! I want to shout it from the rooftops and I hope you'll join me.

But wait -- there's more! Assholedom and inefficiency know no bounds!

Why, may I reasonably ask, AM I BEING FORCED TO GO THROUGH U.S. CUSTOMS IN THE FIRST PLACE? HelLOO, I'M NOT ENTERING THE U.S.!!!! I'm going to JAPAN _VIA_ the U.S.! Why not create a section for hello, TRANSIT PASSENGERS???? Why must I have to go through immigration and security just to transfer from one plane to another? WHY? PLEASE GOD, TELL ME WHY. In fact, it's MUCH MORE RISKY for the U.S. to allow transit passengers to deplane into the general airport because then I COULD JUST WALK OUT OF THE AIRPORT AND BECOME AN ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT. Hey, I'll have to consider that next time. Oh wait, I'm American. In the OLD DAYS you would have to go to the TRANSIT lounge, where you'd wait until your next plane left. No immigration, no security, no nothing. Doesn't that MAKE SENSE? People just do not have brains.

But wait, there's even more. Morons are everywhere in this world! Most at airports! We get into Tokyo, we being transit passengers (remember them?)

We're going through Tokyo, but our ultimate destination is Osaka.

Get this, people: We get off an airplane after having gone through security at the last airport. We're going to our transfer boarding gate without having left any secure areas but WE HAVE TO GO THROUGH SECURITY AGAIN. Literally. Yes, Mr. Hiroshi-san, I picked up some plastic explosive from Olaf the Jackal while secretly transferring through the secure area and it's in my shoe! I went to the bathrooms with my eight-year-old son and cunningly transferred the explosive to my hollow heel so I could blow us all to hell!

One plane to another and security AGAIN! What kind of idiocy reigns in this misbegotten world? WHO THE FUCK IS IN CHARGE HERE? It's worldwide -- there is NO DOUBT ABOUT IT.

Christ alive, I'm not looking forward to my return trip. But you'll no doubt hear ALL ABOUT IT.

Oh What Fun It Is To Fly

. . . into a typhoon.

Yes, my faithful flock, it's Japan time again. Montreal > Chicago > Tokyo > Osaka, with Tai-chan, my 8-year-old son.

Except the travel agent neglected to warn me that I a) can't have a beer in Illinois before 10 a.m. on Sunday b) Chicago is a lousy airport and c) that a typhoon would be making my landing in Tokyo EXTRA-exciting. I'll have to get back to him about that.

My spirits were raised when, in Chicago, I glanced at my boarding cards for Tokyo and discovered that we were going to be sitting on the top deck! First Class on Japan Airlines!

But that was regrettably not to be. They reconfigured salmon-class for sardines and furthermore, made sure that Tai-chan and I were almost the only ones sitting with a seat companion -- almost all the other rows had at least one seat free. That's called karma, for all those times I went First Class.

The food was execrable, really not what I'd expect from such a prestigious airline. Tired pasta in a bland sauce. Pouch of Italian dressing for an iceberg salad.

Other than that, the 13-hour flight from ORD seemed to be going okay. Until the pilot came over the intercom and said (in the Japanese equivalent) "Folks, there's a typhoon lashing Tokyo with extremely high winds and heavy rain. At this point, I'm considering diverting to Haneda (the other airport in Tokyo besides Narita) and I'll let you know when I decide."

Oh, yay, folks, yay yay yay. Then the stewardess comes on and explains that we really, really have to have our seatbelts tight, and check 'em again, please, as we will be encountering "strong turbulence."

Being a veteran flyer, possibly with more than 5,000 flights under my belt, those words only spelled one thing: "deep shit."

My two blood pressure pills couldn't counter my white-knuckled fear. Tokyo is not a very nice airport to land in. It's prone to all kinds of nasty conditions.

So as soon as we began to make our descent, and the captain had said nothing further, I was a squirming mass of nerves. Everything was grey outside -- a grey sheet of nothingness. Rain streamed across the windows.

Then the shaking began. I was terrified, but Tai-chan was laughing. It got really, really bad. No way he's going to try to land in this, thought I.

Yes Way. The plane lurched sideways, then up and down like a rag doll. Everything was eerily quiet except for the intermittent screaming of the engines.

We couldn't see the ground until about a minute before touchdown and we came in sideways to compensate for a powerful crosswind, just as I feared we would, and hit the ground like an anvil.

By this time beads of sweat were forming and I swear, if I'd had to stand up, my knees would have given out.

But you, my dear readers, made me keep the faith. I said the Lord's Prayer and ten Hail Marys, plus quotes from Allah, Buddha and Zoroaster and they seem to have worked. But it was the thought of posting this that kept me going.

I now sit on the 40th floor of the ANA Gate Tower Hotel sipping a lemon chuu-hai while Tai-chan takes a bath and I'm contemplating a BLT from room service.

But I'm gonna get that travel agent when I get back on Thursday. And he's gonna wish he never had knees.

I Think . . .

. . . every Japanese alive should be tied up and FORCED to see this.

I Hate Doing This, But . . .

. . . every so often I glance at my bookshelf and I see a truly evil book.

It's all about the Nanking Massacre.

It's not the only book or movie I have about Japanese atrocities in World War II, but it's one of the more disturbing.

I have a hideous fascination about Japanese atrocities because I lived in Japan and some of my students (I taught English) were there. One guy had been slated to be a "suicide boat bomber." He was so tiny and old that I found it hard to believe, but he was supposed to get in a boat filled with explosives and bring it next to an American ship and explode it. Luckily, the war ended just before he was supposed to do that.

Another guy, some rich business executive, was a pilot. HE was supposed to become a kamikaze but somehow the brass realized he was too good a pilot to lose and he could train other kamikazes.

My ex-wife worked for a while as a "hostess" in a bar/lounge and she told me stories of groups of elderly Japanese men who would come there, smoke and drink and laugh about the brutalities they perpetrated during the war. She was all shook up.

Nothing has really changed in Japan. I'll bet they'd do it all over again.

My 8-year old half-Japanese son looked at the book I was reading and saw a picture of a newspaper article that was published in Japan at the time that proudly described a "killing competition" between two Japanese soldiers of how many Chinese they'd killed (101! and 103!)and said "That's Japanese, Daddy!" And I had a hard time explaining to him what the book was about.

"Someday, I'll tell you what the book is about, Tai-chan," I said. "Someday when you're much older."

The Nazis were bad, but the Japanese were orders of magnitude worse. And I will be among them seven days from now.

Pity me.

Upon Writing

You can paint. I can paint. You take a brush, you dip it in the paint and you spread it somewhere. Paper, canvas, whatever. But can you PAINT?

The same goes for writing. You know how to put words together. You may even know how to write them down. But can you WRITE?

What, after all, is being able to write? To me, it's communication. It's imagination. It's being able to take your reader to a different place, to totally make him or her forget the world around them, for whatever time it takes to read your words.

Shakespeare -- okay, great. Great. But very, very convoluted and boring, at least to me. Like reading the bible.

Books with grand ideas. Nah, never read War and Peace, sorry. Too exhausting.

But when I come across a good writer -- Hergé comes to mind -- I'm transfixed.

This guy meets my criteria as a good writer. Just read it.

He reminds me of possibly one of the greatest writers in the English language, Gerald Durrell. He wrote as others paint, in living color. Even though he reputedly couldn't spell worth a damn.

But what's puzzling is that he had a brother who was (and is) even more famous than he, Lawrence Durrell, who was renowned for his collection the "Alexandria Quartet."

But the differences couldn't be more striking. I picked up one of Lawrence's books and tried to read it. Call me dumb, but it was the most impenetrable, rambling nonsense that I've ever read. No humor. No storyline. No theme. Just a litany of words that went nowhere. Like he just got drunk every night and typed on his typewriter (which he most assuredly did).

Not at all like his brother, who couldn't spell. But ALSO got drunk every night and typed on his typewriter.

I sure as hell hope I can write.

But it's a rare breed nowadays.

All Done

Well, that's it, I'm married and there's nothing more to be done. No obligations until Japan next Monday. Same old same old.

Thank god for all the bottles that didn't get drunk (and there are a lot of them). Trust me, they're going to get drunk.

No Love

Japan is truly a weird place. Especially if you come from a place like Montreal. France was weird, but I got through that. What, I have to kiss and hug a total stranger? What ever happened to a handshake?

But in Japan, no one touches anyone. Not even a handshake. Not even between relatives. Just a bow.

Gotta admit it's sanitary, but . . . hey, isn't there some happy medium?

But another thing about Japan is that you can't say "I love you." There is no "Sweetheart", "Sweetie", "Darling", no NOTHING. There is SIMPLY NO EQUIVALENT.

Yeah, yeah yeah, there IS a way to say "I love you" but no one says it. Trust me, absolutely no one says it. (In case you were wondering, it's "ai-shiteru.")

Husbands come home from work but don't kiss their wives. They never kiss their wives unless they're rutting like crazed weasels. NO ONE KISSES ANYONE in Japan unless they're in the heated throes of passion.

I was fired from a job when I worked in Japan simply for touching a girl's hair and remarking how beautiful it was. Fired. FIRED. No one touches anyone in Japan unless absolutely necessary.

What a sterile, militaristic environment it is. Can you imagine not being able to call someone "Sweetheart"? THERE IS NO EQUIVALENT in Japanese. Not even close. Can you imagine going through life not being able to call your lover "darling?" That's what it's like in Japan.

I hate the French.

But I hate the Japanese more.

Nickels

Okay, folks, I'm supposed to be a "food reviewer." Hey, I gave that up a long time ago, since 100 million clones replaced me.

I'm not a food snob. Foie gras does not interest me, nor does jambe de grenouilles grillée au four.

Nope. Jest likin' mah foods.

So it does not embarrass me in the least to talk about Nickels. Nickels is a chain restaurant, I think only in Quebec, but it has a "diner"-style presentation. You know, the requisite hamburgers, pizza, club sandwiches -- frankly, everything under the sun.

And I'm not going to say this is amazing food. Nope.

But the Nickels near me, here on Côte-des-Neiges road, IS amazing. Not for the food, but for the people who work there.

When I was going through my divorce in 2004 and had my then-three-year-old son, I found myself not wanting to cook anything. So it was Nickels. He could have chicken fingers and I could have my Jimmy Dean burger, which I was never able to finish.

We became semi-regulars. But what was amazing was not the food -- it was the people working there. This guy named George owns the place.

I think he may be Greek. But he's tireless. I just in my entire lifetime can't imagine working as much as he works. I'd go nuts, insane, in very short order. He's always on the job, always paying attention to details, but never too busy to take a moment out to seat me personally.

And the crew -- what can I say? In my blackest moments those years ago they came through, entertaining my tiny son and taking care of me, always with an amazing smile.

I got to know most of them, although only George by name, but it's really reassuring to know that if you go somewhere, there will be familiar faces and they will remember you.

And that crew is the nicest I have ever met, and I've met a few in my lifetime. I swear to god, they work so, so hard, but always with time out to say hi, always with smiles and laughter.

The food they make is not sophisticated. But I know that they make it with love and frankly, sometimes it's what you need for a break from the kitchen. It sure as hell is a step above McDonald's.

But what I remember from those bleak days is not the food but the sweet treatment I always got from George and his crew. Every one of them a saint.

Go see George. Tell him I sent you.

Not

I was not looking forward to this. Forget the carrots (well, guess what, I DID forget the carrots and they're still in the fridge) but last night's wedding bash was a blast. Hey Ed, didn't see your rangy ass around; why not?

I was extremely nervous to meet 50 people I did not know but in the end they pretty much ignored me in spite of my tux and green dayglo-shirt and tie until my speech, and I rambled on about being the lame-ass idiot that I am and maybe something about the two camels I paid for Brigitte and how they can't fit in the elevator. You know me, faithful readers. All seriousness aside.

But all in all, it was fantastic. The strawberry daiquiris that I sweated over and put in a bucket were very well received, everyone was well-behaved except for the absent Dave, who would have caused a ruckus after his 18th beer but is now in Toronto,

so

it

went

very

well.

Many thanks to Arlette, that vicious vixen, and Alex, her co-conspirator, and I'm going to be returning the favor when THEY get married next month.

Pictures to follow.

My Nemesis: Julienned Carrots

I'm sorry, I have to break a take. I just decapitated 12 (Twelve) cartons of strawberries and cleaned them for strawberry daiquiris. (Yeah, yeah, wish you were here for tonite's fest, huh? BUUUUUUUUUU).

But now the Mighty Carrot rears its ugly head. My knife is sharp. But my fingers are basically sausages, ripe for the cutting.

I have to make Thai/cucumber salad for fifty people. Not ten, not twenty. FIFTY.

I am scared of the Carrot. It holds bad things for me.

I do not like the Carrot. It does not mean well. It means mean. I shrink inside. But now I must Do It.

Prayer circle, people, prayer circle, RIGHT NOW!

Death

I've been thinking about this lately (well, who hasn't?) but it really doesn't seem to strike people of the finality of it all. You don't fall to the bottom of the canyon like Wile E. Coyote and bounce back to terrorize the world. You aren't a cartoon character.

I know it seems like Life 101 but when you're gone, you are sincerely, irrevocably gone. There will be no cocktails or conversations by the fire or arguments with your partner, there will be really, really, no nothing. There will be no Heaven with twenty virgins. There will be no Hell and Satan and his eternal pitchforks. No eternal torture or rapture -- it's just a mechanism to cope with the idea of dying.

Remember before you were born? I thought not. Well, that's exactly what it's going to be like. Nothingness. It's very hard to grasp, but there is plenty of nothingness, all around us.

Trust me, you won't miss anything, because there will be nothing. This is not necessarily a bad thing. You won't be here to miss it. I know, thinking about the absence of thinking is disturbing, but it won't be like sleeping. There won't be lucent periods where you dream about some thing or other.

I had a seizure when I was in Japan in the 80s, and trust me, you feel nothing. It's complete, utter, terminal blackness. There's nothing to think because you have NOTHING TO THINK WITH.

I try to imagine where my father is but at the same time I know where he is. He is nowhere. But even if I had explained to him the concept of nowhere, he wouldn't have minded. He was a pretty logical guy. As I type I have my sleeping son next to me, twitching as he does: life.

When life goes, everything goes with it. It's bestowed upon us, not by some munificent god, but by nature, and when you eat a tomato, the life goes out of it, but it was born for the sole purpose of someone eating it.

I am the opposite of religious -- a ferocious advocate for the causes of non-religion -- but I do always treasure this amazing miracle that not only allows us to be alive in this tiny corner of this truly vast, vast universe, but also be aware that we are.

That we are.

I get married tomorrow. Wish me luck. Not that I need it.

Three Names

Umm, why is it that serial killers, or killers in general, always have three names? Lee Harvey Oswald. John Wayne Gacy. John Allen Muhammad.

Hey! I have three names too! But no one EVER calls ME Nicholas John Robinson!

I hear that in Indonesia, everyone has only one name. That sounds sensible to me.

You can call me Nick Nick Nick, serial pizza chef.

Children

Children are amazing. They can snap awake in less than ten seconds. It takes me about thirty minutes and a shower to truly wake out of a deep sleep but it literally only takes Tai-chan (eight years old) only thirty seconds from a deep sleep to leap out of bed, start watching cartoons and demand breakfast. He's fully awake, like Clint Eastwood with the bad guys, one eye always half-cocked, gun at the ready.

Damn. Wish I could be like that.

Non-Musicians Please Tune Out (But Turn On!)

You know I'm a guitar player and always have been. These days I try to practice at least an hour a day. But I've always been frustrated by not being fast enough. These days they actually have a word for it: "shredding."

But while I practiced some pentatonic scale endlessly today and annoyed Brigitte, who was trying to actually sleep (imagine!) in the next room, a little voice came and sat on my shoulder.

It said what that guy in "Amadeus" said about Mozart. Can't remember the exact quote, but apparently Mozart was entertaining the king of Austria, who was either a nutjob or an amateur musician, and the king said after the performance something like "Very good, my dear Mozart. But far, far too many notes."

Amen to that. My fingers' future ain't what they used to be.

Billy Boy's Billions

This is a funny page. Especially for me, a Macintosh user.

I wonder how Steve Jobs compares. Oh, sorry, he won the pancreatic cancer lottery.

Raccoons II

The other day my son, Tai-chan, and I descended after dusk with peanuts and went onto the back patio outside the indoor pool and I did my "click-click" sound and the three raccoons quickly appeared. There's a large one, a middle one and a small one.

I call them the Three Stooges, but in this case I dubbed them Frankie, Hankie and Spanky.

They loooooved those peanuts.

I'll try to get pictures of our little pals next time. If you didn't like what I named them, perhaps we could have a vote.

After my series of rabies shots.

Sign O' The Times

Phone rings.

(In French): "Um, hi, did you call me on my cellular?"

"Uh, no, maybe it was my girlfriend?"

"What's her name?"

"Brigitte."

"Oh, okay, maybe not. What's your name?"

"Nicholas Robinson."

"Oh, okay. I must be mistaken."

"Okay. Thanks for calling."

"Thanks. Bye."

What It Means To Be An Asshole

When I moved back here in 1994, there was some ivy — I think it’s called Virginia Creeper (seen in this picture taken today, complete with dental floss) — that crawled all the way up the building to the 8th floor, where I live, covered my whole bedroom balcony and angled down in huge festoons, so in the summer the effect was looking out on a sea of green. Sparrows nested in it in huge flocks — the evening was a cacophony of them and my (then) cats were transfixed. Cat HDTV. They would chitter when they saw the birds, literally chitter. Have you ever seen a cat chitter?

I loved that ivy.

Then an asshole moved in downstairs, the floor below. He took it upon himself to cut the ivy at his balcony level because he thought it made his balcony dirty.

THIS, people, is what it means to be an asshole. Learn from it; absorb it; preach it; make it your mantra for today.

Now, maybe five years later, the ivy has yet again crawled up to the level of my balcony. But this time I helped it: I got some dental floss and grabbed it with a long stick from the side of the building and held it against the wall nearest me. Sure enough, it started to follow it. Now it has three tendrils crawling around the corner. But they were air-guitaring, so I thought of Fix #2 — tape them to the wall. And it worked. They need a little help, the little tykes. But they grow about two inches a day — I swear — and they’re on their way.



Maybe by 2010 I will have my tiny green wall again.

Oh, by the way, I make sure and drop all sorts of trash on Asshole’s balcony.

Embarrassing Words For The Day

I went all the way to three stores on foot wearing my T-shirt inside out and no one said a word.

Dad Attack #528

I call them "Dad Attacks." They come out of nowhere, when I least expect them. Like being broadsided with a two-by-four.

But it's simply impossible to believe that I will never hear my father's voice again, except perhaps on a tape. That I will never, ever again be able to ask him a question.

There must be some mistake.

There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.
There must be some mistake. I guess there's no mistake.

The Unthinkable

On a day like today, when all my plants are wilting from the heat -- I did the unthinkable: I fired up my oven in my airless galley of a kitchen to 550 degrees for an hour and a half and prepared four pizzas.

I keep a thermometer in my kitchen and it registered 35 degrees.

But thank God, all the pizzas went off without a hitch, but I'm at the end of my rope.

Watch Out

We went to the SAQ today to buy alcohol for the wedding. (Imagine if I had just said "I went to the drugstore to get prescription drugs for the wedding).

About 30 bottles of wine, white, red and rosé. Rum. Vodka. Gin. Champagne. Cointreau. Whisky.

There is *no way* everyone will finish all this stuff.

Hee hee.

Beam Me Fucking Up

Hey yeah, pals. We're going to the moon in 2015! Yeah, fucking get a clue, dudes, we AIN'T going to the moon in 2015. And even if we did, what the fuck for? Oh yeah, I forgot, the moon water. Great, feed it to the waterless in Namibia.

Oh, okay, "Scientists developing food that lasts for five years for Mars mission." Uh-huh. There is going to be no Mars mission -- just trust me. Just Boys With Toys. NASA can't even manage to get their shit together enough to build some fucking rocket that can safely get their crews into space and back, let alone do a "Mars mission."

Oh, but the space station! What a crock of shit. Remember Skylab? The "Bridge To The Future."

Fuck, we can't even deal with the last few days, let alone the future. Brother, can you spare 2.8 trillion?

Just another useless piece of porkbarrel junk orbiting the planet.

And now they're talking about "space elevators." Well, I can tell you I get a lot better dope than you're smoking.

Hey, assholes, where is that skycar you promised me in 1950? Huh? The fucking robot maid? Where is she?

Eternal Boys With Toys.

Beam me up, pronto.

The 10 Commandments

Since I've been working up weeding vows for Brigitte I'm thinking about certain things. (Yes, that's "weeding," as in taking weeds out of our pending marriage).

Not sure if I can come up with ten, but I will try to adhere to the following, at least as it comes to this blog.

1. I shall not rant.

2. I shall rant.

3. Please forgive me if I rant, as Hell is now my only viable destination any more. I'm now officially on a Watch List.

4. I hope it's a long, long way down.

5. I like peas, preferably Jolly Green Giant.

6. Why must you all be like this? I thought we were friends.

7. The God of All Things is named Zor.

8. She, of the Powerful.

9. Brigitte loves me.

10. She loves me and please distribute the hearts and flowers equally, no crowding, please, children under four feet not allowed according to County and Municipal regulations. No popcorn in the carriages.

11. You know I always love to turn things up to eleven.

Cheat

A question on a local news show was "Did you ever cheat in school?"

The short answer is no. The long answer is yes. When I was forced to join a boxing group and I did what they wanted and hit another kid in the face and made his nose bleed, quite by accident, I deliberately stopped trying to hit him and let him win the fight.

So I guess I cheated.

The Morons Survive Despite Setbacks!

Who, please tell me, exactly WHO thought it was a good idea to put those little stickers on fucking PLUMS?

Fine, fine, fine. I get the idea. They go through the machine and are easily identified. Well, assholes, IT WORKS ON TOMATY-TOES BUT IT DOESN'T FUCKING WORK ON PLUMS.

How many more retards will the universe supply until someone, anyone, please be someone, gets some sense?

THE FUCKING STICKERS DON'T COME OFF, shitheads. They leave you peeling the fucking skins off. Is that what plums were designed for?

The Human Condition sometimes just leaves me fucking speechless.

As you can see.

When I was Younger

When I was about 25, I went camping near Big Sur, in California. It was what we did, as I recall. There was much beer and charcoal involved.

There was a river nearby, where we used to sun ourselves.

And one day, while I was sunning, I saw a small boy, maybe 8 years old, all by himself on the bank of the river. I didn't know where his parents were. He was completely bald.

I went over to him and asked him, "Where is Mummy-daddy?" and he said casually, "Oh, they're over there."

Then I said, "Are you okay?" and he tossed a pebble in the river and said "I have brain cancer."

I wonder whatever happened to that little boy so many years ago. But I still think about him today.

Hellfire

Why would anyone name a missile a "Hellfire" missile? What, it's just come to your house to pay its respects?

OF COURSE it's a Hellfire missile, you fucking clods. Oh, no, we're going to lobb it from a drone from 30,000 feet to feed you dinner and if you're lucky, maybe some chocolate cake after?

Maybe after your severed limbs are reattached?

What the fuck is wrong with people? What the fuck is wrong with this world? Why not call it the Peace Missile? Yes, please accept THIS FUCKING MISSILE in your home, please and DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE A TIP.

Paid Off

It's really hard to speak Japanese correctly. Even the Japanese themselves sometimes don't know how to speak properly. It's kind of like you or I saying "I want a room" as opposed to "Hi, excuse me, are there any rooms available?"

Well, how do you shape up, even in English or French? Politesse is politesse.

And it's all the more so in Japanese. I have a book that stays in the bathroom (sorry) called Minimum Politeness, which is designed for people who wish to actually conduct themselves well in Japanese society.

So when I got on the phone to Japan today to reserve my hotel room for my hotel trip, it all paid off. No more "I want a room." More like what I said above. Needless to say, the guy was impressed. He abandoned all hope of struggling in English when I presented him with my FLAWLESS POLITE JAPANESE.

I deserve a medal. Not everyone goes to a different country, lives there five years, learns an alien language, marries an alien, has an alien child, and then needs to learn Polite Alien.

Rain

Have you ever stopped to consider rain? How water falls out of the sky seemingly by magic? To think that my father will never see those silver slivers raining down when I can is very, very sad.

A rainstorm in Montreal in the summertime is a loving thing.

Words of the Day Part VIMCX

"Men as cannot comply with any custom or cannot endure hardships or hard fare should endeavour to live at home as they are apt to make mountains of molehills."

-- William Dampier, privateer, 1687

Crowds

I no longer do well in crowds. I have memories of many, many rock concerts -- some even famous -- and I remember how I dealt with the idea of being with 18,000 to 50,000 human beings all in the same space. I think I must have drugged myself into numbness back then, but I just couldn't do it now.

Just a busy, crowded, noisy restaurant now has me on edge. Not exactly a panic attack, but an anxiety "moment". I know I'll survive, but I just want to be anywhere but there.

I realise that as I get older, things must be more orderly; randomness makes me extremely nervous, and a stadium full of people is a recipe for randomness.

Order is good -- chaos is bad.

Dunno why I've gotten this way.

Probably that hit of acid I took when I saw Santana at Quezar Stadium in '73.

Hair

Seriously though, I don't want to be vain, but there is a certain amount of schadenfreude when I see former pals who have now become rich lose their hair. Because I have not lost my hair.

Look at the list -- the guy who did Hellboy 1 and 2 -- he was my pal at art school. Many a day was whiled away with him. Look, he got fat and BALD! So what if he has $2.8 M in Microsoft! I HAVE MY HAIR!

And there's Steve Purcell. He worked for Marvel Comics and then for Steven Spielberg.

Bald.

Tom Bertino.

Mike Giri, drummer for the founder of Duran Duran.

All former pals of mine, all fuckin' BALD as batskins.

Hey, I ain't rich, but I SURE AIN'T BALD. See? The glass is half full!

Charles Manson

I'm seriously creeped out about this guy.

David Koresh: small fry. John Wayne Gacy, very troublesome. But Charles Manson, this guy should have been fried a LONG time ago. How can anyone let him live?

Saddam, he got his, and rightly, as did his two maniac sons. But this guy, this fuck who never actually killed anyone but ordered it, is alive, well, insane and in prison! It is quite unbelievable to me that Charles Manson is in any way, shape or form, alive today. YOUR TAX DOLLARS provide him with three squares a day! Yep, YOU are paying for his evening BLT!

Oh, one of his cohorts who brutally murdered seven people, is dying of cancer? Great, great, let's pick the most painful -- maybe pancreatic. But make it last a long, long time.

(Graphic violence, do not read warning): If I were anyone with a brain I would strap Charles Manson to a wooden chair. I would restrain his hands with some kind of straps. Then, I would proceed to hammer 100 penny nails into each of his fingers, one by one, but very, very slowly, until they connected him with the wood. Nail him to the bench.

Then I would leave him where he was until he died of starvation.

What? Waterboarding? Are you out of your mind?

And a Top O' the Mornin' To Ye!

Let Me Get This Straight.

Can you say "Traffic infraction?"

Can you say "Serial murderer"?

Can you say "STOOPID FUCKING COPS?"

See, I knew you could. You practiced while I wasn't listening, you sly people.

Arresting Headline of the Day

"Suicide Bomber Dies in Bomb Blast!"

Well, I guess . . .

. . . they became bolognese.

Things Not To Do on a Sunday Morning

Please, don't ever, EVER try to tune a new 12-string guitar on a Sunday morning. Despite a beer in your belly,despite the sun shining and everyone in the house sleeping,

IT WILL BE A BITCH.

Nightmare Part 10.7

Tonight it was a new one. Oh, yes. The police came because I had some pot. Even though I don't even smoke pot. But they came, a very big man and a woman police officer, and busted me. It was going to be jail, but they let me off with a warning. It was quite specific, down to their blue Quebec uniforms. As if they were in my living room RIGHT NOW, just as I type, waiting for me to finish this post.

Christ alive, what is going on with my brain that I dream these things? Can anyone tell me?

I'm freaking here. Enough with the nightmares.

Here's the Deal XCCVVII

I give you money. Yes, actual money! Because YOU gave ME money! But when you gave me the money, I promised that personally, I would see to it that it would magically grow on trees. And you believed me!

No, no, how about this: I'm a former Egyptian scientist who has accumulated a massive fortune; $27.9 M at last count, and I really want to put just $12 M in YOUR bank account, if you just help me deposit it, because Hosni Mubarak is pissed off at me because I sold his daughter.

No, no. I'm calling from the bank of Nova Scotia and there's, lo and behold, a problem with your account! You didn't know that you had an account with us, but we just want to set things straight! All we need is your your checking account number and password. The $12,709 is just waiting for you, really, it is!

Shall we rewind and start again from "snake oil"?

Julie and Julia

I can't believe this canny blogger made it into a major motion picture (google it, I can't be bothered.)

What a fucking canard. Some stupid fuck decides to make *every* recipe from a fucking Julia Child book, blogs about it, and now there's a fucking major *motion picture* (as those assholes in the industry continue to refer to it).

What is this world coming to when some idiot from Queens can lace some diatribe-laden blog mixed with shit about Julia Child? What the fuck???? Is it like the guy who decided to sell one-pixel ads on his website to raise a million?

But this one makes my blood boil. Where's MY fucking motion picture, you asshole morons from Hollywood? Are you so easily scammed? Her blog was a crock of shit and I thought so at the time. She quickly abandoned it when the offers started coming in. It was a piece of shit then and no doubt the movie is going to be a piece of shit -- it's almost guaranteed, since Meryl Streep is involved.

Uh . . .that's right. Meryl Streep playing Julia Child with some wannabe playing a wannabe.

THAT is what is not right with the world, my faithful few, some things just don't JIBE WITH THE UNIVERSE and this is one.

Just fucking unbelievable. Excuse the Greek.

Made It

Hey, I've made it past 51! That makes me better than James Dean, Michael Jackson and that guy who sang with Milli Vanilli!

THEY DIDN'T MAKE IT but I did. I guess assholes always want to die, and thank God they usually succeed. Who the fuck needs more arrogant assholes in this universe?

But isn't that a reason to wake up in the morning? To say "I made it" to Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and Keith Moon?

What pathetic pieces of shit. At least they died rich. I'll die poor, but I'll die A LOT LATER than those fuckwads. And I'd like to shove their money into their fucking tombs while I'm at it.

I know, I know: Happy Birthday.

The Deadliest Catch

Looking for recipes for crab salad is a fucking TOUGH JOB. The Internet is now just completely saturated with faux-recipe sites -- you either have to scroll though a mile of shit, google ads and all that just to arrive at recipes like this. Ooh, let's think: where on earth will I ever find French dressing? Maybe CHINATOWN!

I guess I'll just have to go back to cookbooks. Fuck the Internet.

More Nightmares

Perhaps the more psychologically-inclined among you could care to comment. Just two days ago Brigitte dreamed that I left her for someone else in a not-good fashion. Of course, I didn't and never will but, hey, that's why they're called nightmares. But nightmares serve a purpose -- they put us on guard. I guess. I'm not a psychologist, but Dr. Phil IS ONE. (I have some timeshares in South Texas -- come see me sometime).

But last night's was also a horror. I was in this vast airport/hotel complex in Tokyo. I'd booked my room and checked in. Coincidentally, I had my guitar, which was not in its case. So I went through the vast hotel/airport playing it, and people were very amused.

But then I had to board my flight, but I'd forgotten my bag, and I didn't know my hotel room number.

I know, people, we've all heard the same kinds of dream-stories from others, but this was a dream-killer.

Another sweating jerk-upright nightmare. Because it was almost close to reality.

New Developments: Dr. Sloth/Chang is a WOMAN

A (not so Simple) story
If we keep it simple, we can write a great story. The only rules are: It must be only one line, and there can be no profanity. I'll moderate entries and try to spice it up, like I do, but before you know it, "Shogun" will just be but a distant memory.

I'll start it off; the following writers so far are me (N) and Knatolee (K) and now Pooka. Please join in with whatever nonsense comes into your brain! Yes, Knatolee, you are the official story Floozy! I'm the Himbo! Pooka, well, you're the methodologist.

===========================================================================

Nelson was just trying to mind his own business at the beach that day, but suddenly a shadow cut off his sun.

"I woke up this morning, didn't have my cup of tea, and committed homicide," said Knatolee, Nelson's already irritable floozy. (K)

"All right, who did you eliminate this time, Knat, and besides, you're blocking my sun, not to mention my gun, chickie babe."(N)

"You don't have much of a gun, big boy, but what you have ain't gonna save us from the 10,000 Chinese soldiers who're coming over that dune over there." (N)

"What?" (N)

"That's right, big boy, the chicks are friends with the Chinese, and they've called in the troops to fry your charmoula-lovin'ass." (K)

"Hey, Knat, REALLY you're blocking my sun now, okay, I'm speaking French now, fuck the Russians and tell Tai-shee-Pek from me that this small-looking gun here has nuclear capabilities and he'd better not even LOOK at my chicks. (N)

Nelson was momentarily blinded when Knat moved out of the sun and he realised that suddenly, things were very, very wrong -- that there really WERE 10,000 Chinese soldiers over the next dune and his two-shooter was not going to stop them; so he picked up the Red Phone and ate another spring roll, as Berlin was the only logical proposition now. (N)

That was when the small, wizened goat appeared and said in Hebrew, "Manishma. Beseder! I think I can help you." (N)

That was when Knat toppled into the sand, seemingly felled by an egg roll shot from the dastardly Chinese troops; the goat tried to help but then help arrived in a limousine with Perrier and smoked salmon on small blinis, with beluga as an expensive option. (N)

The goat was a rather refined creature with champagne tastes on a cloven-hoofed budget. She snarfled up every last iota of beluga caviar, which further enraged the Chinese troops, who began lobbing goat-eating Komodo dragons over enemy lines. (K)

Unfortunately, the salmon was poisoned with warfarin, a highly toxic chemical used to kill rats and small rodents, but before Knat could take a bite of the poisoned seafood delicacy, the Chinese troops swarmed down and captured her and her deadly meal. (P for Pooka)

It wasn't the goat -- it was Nelson who began to panic when the wave of soldiers threatened to swarm over him and the goat, who, coincidentally, was also named Nelson. (N)

And Knat wasn't worried, because she'd just taken a powerful antidote to the Warfarin. She'd just sit this one out to fight again. (N)

But then Wanda seemed to appear magically, as if in a fog, waving her battleaxe and beating off the host of Asian warriors who threatened both Nelson and Nelson with their seemingly irrestible dark-toned kimonos. (N)

(Note: There will be occasional side stories. This is one of them:

Knatolee said...

Ahem. You said no profanity, yet the F-bomb is clearly dropped in paragraph seven. I'm just saying, is all.

Floozy

3:27 AM
Delete
Blogger ChefNick said...

THIS!

Can be taken all the way to the Supreme Racquetball Court!

Allow me to fire the clerk who made the mistake and replenish the error.

My apologies to all reprehensible.

Nelson (the goat)

Suddenly, one of the kimonos which had been imported from Japan since the Chinese don't have the equipment to manufacture them became unraveled due to the lack of expertise in wrapping the kimono by a Chinese warrior and enveloped Wanda and her battleaxe causing the horde of Chinese troops to overcome her. (P)

As the Chinese troops began to ravish Wanda, a butter tart rolled out of her pocket, diverting the attention of the attacking troops, who had never before seen such a delicious Canadian baked treat! (K)

But, this innocent little Canadian butter tart was Wanda's secret weapon because it had been baked with Warfarin, that toxic chemical used to kill rats and small rodents, and when the kimono clad Chinese warrior who had been holding Wanda took a bite, the poison tore through his system causing him to release Wanda who picked up her battleaxe, swung it mightily and chopped off his head. (P)

And as Wanda was preparing to slay the remaining invading horde of Japanese manufactured, kimono clad Chinese, a Vizslador which is a Designer Dog mix of the breeds of Vizsla and Labrador Retriever, ran up and tried to snatch the poisoned Canadian tart from the dead lips of the headless Chinese warrior which caused Wanda to drop her battleaxe and grab the noxious item from the Vizslador's mouth before he had the chance to ingest any of the toxin. (P)

And Knatolee the floozy cried, "There's a whole lotta war-farin' goin' on!"
(K)

Dr. Sloth then appeared out of the mists of the battlefield and cried, "This is not warfarin, but rather coumidin, and the dose isn't capable of killing humans but it might poison the Vizslador" which didn't help the dead, beheaded, Japanese manufactured, kimono clad Chinese warrior.(P)

Dr. Sloth then leaped onto his llama, also name Nelson, not to be confused with the human named Nelson or the goat named Nelson, and rode into the battlefield to help Wanda slay the horde of invading, Japanese manufactured kimono clad Chinese, wielding the head of the beheaded, dead Chinese warrior as his weapon with the Vizslador who was also named Nelson following him as his faithful companion. (K)

Whereupon they discovered that Nelson the llama loved to eat kimono fabric! (K)

Nelson, the goat, saw Nelson, the llama, enjoying a nice bit of kimono fabric, and the two Nelson started to eat their way through the marauding horde of Chinese warriors which gave Wanda the chance to swing her battleaxe while Dr. Sloth used the dead Chinese head to bonk the live Chinese so that Wanda could decapitate them. (P)

Whereupon Dr. Sloth cried, "Where the hell is Chef Nick today? How dare he have a life outside this blog!" (K)

It wasn’t the brouhaha with the Chinese or their expertise at martial arts and poisoning that really bothered Nelson; not the goat or the llama, but our fierce, dedicated Human Nelson, he of the Free Mason Order Of Jacknapery. The main problem was Goat Nelson, who couldn't get his hooves together enough to either make antidotes or strike off the Chinese horde of fanatics who were striking at all points right and left. (N)

(Side note, but although we're breaking the rules here, Human Nelson would like to just make a small comment): "Hey, lose the goat and goddamn llama. I wanna be a rock star." (N)

What, the Vizslador was also named Nelson??? (N)

Indeed, the Vizslador WAS named Nelson, being as noble and admiral-ble as the famed Lord Nelson. but as the Vizlador was sniffing Nelson the goat's butt, as dogs are wont to do, Nelson the llama tore off a chunk of kimono that was just the right size to ball up and get wrapped around his esophagus, which it did, killing him instantly. (K)

This unfortunate accident left only 3 Nelsons who were Human Nelson, he of the Free Mason Order Of Jacknapery, Nelson the goat from the lost tribe of the Hebrew nation and Nelson the Vizslador, which was very sad because four Nelsons were needed to perform the ancient Hebrew ritual that would cause the Chinese warriors to implode.(P)

Nelson was coming finally around to realizing that there could really be only one Nelson. Maybe it was time to act. It was now for the ancient Tablet of Judeah, and the ancient words to be spoken.

This was no small undertaking; spirits had to be commanded to come back to life. Wanda was history now, a fading memory. Nelson would finally have to kill Nelson the goat, llamma and the Vizslador. Otherwise, his only claim to the throne was severely threatened.

Besides, that THING that had been in the background, lurking over the ridge, had recently been making very disturbing shuffles and grunts. Nelson didn't know exactly what it was, but he somehow knew that it was very big. This would require the largest sword in his arsenal.(N)

A few days later, things seemed to have calmed down. Even though Nelson had ditched the other Nelsons, he still seemed detached, hysterical. It was as if the Chinese warriors and Wanda and Knat had never existed, somehow. All in the past. But the Thing was still there and Nelson knew not to let down his guard too much.

“It’s the bees,” he said, “the bees inside my head.” (N)

"Not to mention the mosquito that bit my middle toe last night, causing it to itch incessantly," said Knatolee. (K)

But little did Knatolee know that the mosquito was a secret weapon, sent by the powerful Overlord that most people only knew as "Chang", only because he was so reclusive, living high in the thin air in a mountainous region near Tibet.

That itch . . . that "itch" -- was actually a powerful transforming agent that was designed by Taoist monks to turn people into Megapeople. And all Knatolee didn't know is that she didn't want to become a Megapeople. But she would be, before she didn't know it. (N)

Uhh, hey, yo, what happened to evil Dr. Sloth? He hasn't been given his retirement pay yet.(N)

And that was how Nelson found out that Dr. Sloth was actually the powerful Overload known as Chang who had injected the transforming agent into Knatolee, but the ancient Hebrew ritual would also work on this Megapeople curse except Nelson needed to perform the ritual in quadruple strength and the side effects might be that Knatolee would shrink to the size of a pea. (P)

But as it happened, Knatolee quite liked peas and just finished harvesting some from her garden, and so would feel quite comfortable nestled up against them in a pottery bowl, that is until her Evil Overlord Husband, the Great Gordini, ate the whole bowl of peas. (K)

We can only guess at what the consequences might have been if her Evil Overlord Husband had ate Knatolee when she was a pea, but the ancient Hebrew ritual had not yet been performed by Nelson and our Knatolee was growing by leaps and bounds so much so that her clothes were starting to shred much like The Incredible Hulk except that she wasn't turning green, rather a very subtle puce with pale lavender highlights. (P)

Then, Nelson, quite to the contrary, came up with the idea of meeting a rabbi, even though he himself had no religious affiliations at all, to understand the mysteries of the ancient Texts, and also the mechanics of peas, which, unfortunately, the rabbi had no sermons about.

But meanwhile, the sinister Dr. Gordini was working behind the scenes, trying to prevent Knatolee, his very own wife, from knowing the truth: there was more behind the peas than she knew, and Dr. Sloth was still slithering about in the shadows with his nefarious tricks, and believe me, he was surely up to no good except to feed his face and dream up things to become THE Overlordish Overlord of the Megapeople, -- but especially, Nelson, who stood alone now, bereft of his other Nelsons.

It turned out that Dr. Chang was, indeed, Dr. Sloth -- they were one and the same. But what was his next evil plan? Nelson had a right to be very worried. The mountainous, airless regions of the Chinese-controlled areas of Tibet were getting cold with the oncome of autumn and Chang/Sloth was about to emerge from his lair.(N)

Unknown to Nelson was that the rabbi that he had consulted had a grandmother named Nelson, and that this Rabbi had 2 children who also carried the proud Nelson blood which could be used to form the 4 Nelson quadruped of knowledge to perform the ancient Hebrew ritual, but there was no way of informing Nelson of how close he was to having his Nelsons reunited in one glorious bond of Nelson ancestry. (P)

Nelson woke up with a hangover that morning. He was seriously regretting the absence of the goat, Nelson. It seared his soul that he had been so rash. But he made a bagel with cream cheese and walked his dog, who, curiously enough, was named Neslon. Kind of like teflon, but not. Nelson did not know about the new revelations about the ancient Hebrew ritual and the glorious reunification of the Nelson tribe — but he was soon to find out. (N)

And Knatolee cried, "Puce is SO not my colour! But I'm okay with lavender." (K)

The dog, Neslon, now having been walked, which annoyed the neighbour, a man named Noslen, by doing bad things on his lawn, Nelson returned home to find a post-it note on his door, left by Knatolee, saying something about “puce.” Knowing that that means “flea” in French, he decided to find out what his options were — after all, the French were always his enemy and had always been.

For all he knew, Dr. Chang was French. Who knew what these underworld characters were all about? Maybe even The Evil Magician Gordini was also French.

Thus, the whole conspiracy of the Freemasons came back to haunt him. He decided to have a salad with Balsamic vinegar dressing and mull the problem over while watching “The Bold and the Restless" on his Magnavox black and white television, in the garage near the refrigerator that hummed. He seriously needed time to think.(N)

Once Nelson had had time to relax with his watch and scotter, he reflected on the Megapeople and the threat they posed. They were not the mere “transformers” from the movies, nor were they robots. He considered the transformation process that made a Megapeople. It was such an ingenious and cunning trick that he had a hard time dismissing Drs. Chang and Gordini (Doctors’ Office, sorry, we’re on lunch break, can you leave a message or call back at 1:30) as the masteminds.

The Megapeople were a soaring race. They ranged about thirty-five feet tall. Nelson harbored no illusions about the threat they posed. With the ancient Hebrew tests in hand and the knowledge of the rabbi, they made the 50,000 Chinese just a tiny memory.

He would have to get to the Secret Hand; a device that was only known to a few. It controlled everything the Megapeople did or would adhere to. It was the only thing they would truly obey. He had read about it in obscure texts in the library a number of years ago, but now it came all back in lightning recall.

Get to the Secret Hand: then Nelson could eliminate all the multiple threats — Dr. Chang & Messrs Gordini (please call for an appointment, the doctors are not in the office until August 12th) and the evil Megapeople.

This had to be done, not just now, but soon. So he poured himself an apple wine cooler and snacked on some very nice purple grapes from the winery over the hill and contemplated getting some 6-year-old cheddar to go with it from the fromagerie just down the road, where a cheesemaker named Nselons made the best cheese in the neighbourhood. (N)

What Nelson was unaware of was that the humming refrigerator was actually a transmitter that sent a message to the leader of the Freemason conspiracy who just happened to be Dr. Sloth who was also Dr.Chang the powerful overlord who wanted to control the powers of the Nelsons for himself so that he could spread anarchy across the great horizons of the world and perhaps poison a few of its inhabitants because he so so good at poisons, especially warfarin also known as coumidin. (P)

Nelson was very aware of the hemolytic powers of coumadin. It thinned your blood to the consistency of water, not the usual molasses. Thus, like a hemophiliac, from a simple cut you could bleed literally to death in a matter of minutes. The platelets were absent — they just didn’t show up as ordered. But Nelson was canny, if not smart.

His antidote — tranexamic acid — was available from the Walmart down the street and he made sure he had a large supply of it at all times. Poison was not going to do him in. He feared it was going to be an army of bees. (N)

The Secret Hand was hidden very cleverly inside a tomb high up in the Himalayas where Dr. Chang/Sloth used their magic powers to control both the Megapeople and the invading kimono clad Chinese army who were bent on the destruction of Nelson, but since Nelson had his faithful Vizslador, also named Nelson, Nelson could have Nelson use his formidable tracking abilities to find the Secret Hand and destroy his enemies and perhaps also find another goat and a llama named Nelson or at least find something better to drink than an Apple wine cooler. (P)

Yes, Nelson had secretly hidden Vizslador. It must be told. He knew how powerful Vizslador was, and had hidden the fact that he had not eliminated Vizslador, even though he wanted the world, including the Sloth/Chang/Gordini triumvirate to think he had violently eliminated all the Nelsons. He knew the Chinese army, while seemingly eliminated, were massing in the background, fortifying themselves with garlic shrimp, for possibly a massive assault on all the Nelsons remaining — those “remaining Nelsons” a secret Nelson himself was not to give up just yet.

He wanted to always keep the enemy off base, in the dark. Knatolee had seemingly gone to ground, afraid of the mighty battle that was gearing itself up. It was only to be understood. She had fought hordes and was resting for the immense conflict to come. (N)

No, our Knatolee had not gone to ground because when Nelson looked up, he saw her in all her puce and lavender glory leading a band of cats with a gaggle of dogs on their way to save the day because unbeknownst to Nelson, 5 cats consisting of 3 Tortoiseshells, a fluffy Orange tabby and a 3 legged grey tabby, riding 2 Irish Setters, a yellow Labrador, a Brittany and a Japanese Chin, were the way that the Vizslador could be found and complete the mission to find the Secret Hand which was going to save all mankind. (P)

“Do you mean THE Japanese Chin? the infamous impostor who ruined Angkor Wat? He of the famous Bushy Black Beard? How could this be possibly so?” thought Nelson as he absent-mindedly cut off the tip of his finger while he peeled a carrot. He quickly stanched the blood with a Life-brand bandaid. (N)

Whereupon Knatolee rose up in all her puce and lavender magnificence and cried, "Don't use a Life-brand bandaid! Cheap crap that leaves adhesive on your skin! (K)

Nelson, while sitting on his porch and shooting botflies out of the sky with his trusty Willard-Remigton 2000, absent-mindedly realised that the Blue Period was coming up the very next day. It was actually a tribute to Picasso, the famous plumber (not the painter we’re familiar with) and involved chanting with mellifluous voices and much blue dye. But he remembered Knatolee’s advice and switched to a Band-aid™ brand bandage because he despised adhesives of any kind.

“I sing the blue,” he muttered, as another botfly went down. “I play the blue.” For the moment, in his reverie, all was forgotten: Chin, Evil Gordini, Sloth/Chang, Wanda, Knatolee, Pooky and the 50,000 Chinese soldiers who had switched from egg rolls to shrimp crackers.

But that was very soon to change. (N)

Nelson’s first mistake on the first day of the Blue Period was trying to make blue salsa. He realized the challenge: most tomatoes were not blue. In fact, most food on the planet was not blue, unless you included pansies. So, he chopped some pansies in an attempt to make the salsa blue, but it just became a sick purple. Then he ate it, which made HIM turn a sick purple.

And it was months before the Purple Period. (N)

Actually the color Nelson turned was puce, yes the very same color that Knatolee was sporting since she was transformed into a MegaPeople, but Nelson's puce was a solid puce unlike Knatolee's puce which had accents of lavender, and Nelson's puce coloration gave him the idea that perhaps he should investigate being a home decorator because he had heard they make a lot of money. (P)

But we aren't done with Dr. Sloth/Chang. Dr. Sloth/Chang found a bounty of blue peas and Russian blue potatoes in Knatolee's vegetable garden, which he happily sampled without knowing the drastic side-effect: Dr. Sloth/Chang's male appendage fell to the ground and a bra magically wrapped itself around his chest... or should I say HER chest, for Dr. Sloth/Chang was now... A WOMAN! (K)

This V . . . .

. . . is quite possibly the most disturbing document I have ever read.

Words We Don't Want To Hear, Part I

"Armed gangs of loggers felling valuable rosewood trees."

These really figure in the pantheon, don't they?

Fuck, let me come up with my own.

"Alien mute-ants determined to destroy Côte-des-Neiges and all its minions."

Fuckin' A, fuckin' B and fuckin' C.

Just So Pissed off

"Umm, she's a little bit weak, she's lost quite a few pounds . . ." (Sister of formerly imprisoned assholes in Democratic Republic of Korea).

This is code for "YOU FUCKING IRRESPONSIBLE ASSHOLE."

My, for one, sympathies do NOT go out to the "hearts and souls" of the families of the two arrogant idiot-mushrooms who were imprisoned in North Korea.

Everyone involved, including Bill Clinton, the stupid moron who intervened, should be lined up against a wall.

Hey Billy Boy, WHY NOT FIND A FUCKING CURE FOR CANCER rather than rescuing two little asshole arrogant journalist wannabes from the world's most durable dictator? Those two assholes mean more to you than 100 million deaths from malaria a year?

What the FUCK is wrong with this world?

I'll ask Nelson. Maybe HE has what the survey says.

Here's the Deal

Since I can't normally sleep more than five hours in a row, it's really a relay team; Brigitte sleeps during the afternoon -- I don't. Tai-chan, my little boy, pretty much sleeps when he wants, because in Japan, where he lives, he's so hugely regimented that he has little choice. So we let him be when he's here.

So I always had a habit of waking up around 4:30 and getting hungry, as opposed to my habit of not eating anything at dinner -- so, coupled with the ongoing jet lag for both Tai-chan and me, we proceed with: he falls asleep when he will. Any time, day or night. Brigitte naps in the afternoon, so I take care of Tai-chan. I crash sometimes in the early evening, or rather, just lie there and close my eyes for an hour and drift, and then seriously crash later in the night . . . when I "take my pill."

Which is an issue. Ambien, also called Imovane or under other names, is a nasty little shithead of a pill. I don't take it every night, but just in the past two days, I had a very bad nightmare that Taishi died. It was indistinguishable from reality. One of those sweating, jerk-upright nightmares that you don't want to have. Post-traumatic crying, the works. Then last night I had another jerk-upright nightmare that I'd just had a bad argument with Brigitte. "No, we didn't have any argument," she said.

Whoa, Nelly.

Last fucking time I'm taking that shit.

Here I Go Again

Okay, people, here's the plan, here is what we'll do.

We, two very young women of Korean extraction, will pretend to be journalists, then proceed to try to smuggle ourselves through CHINA over the border to North Korea! Yes, that is the plan! Oh, so sorry, but it goes AWRY.

Because we don't understand that over two MILLION OF NORTH KOREA'S OWN CITIZENS are in prison camps. Yes, squalid penal societies that even rats would abandon! So, oh, let's fucking come barging in with our moral codes and OUR SHEER STUPIDITY and break in to the most notorious place on our Fine Planet Earth!

You, my sweet darling righteous girls who consider yourselves the cream of Earth's crop, DO NOT DESERVE an intervention by former president Clinton or EVEN THE FUCKING SHERRIFF IN Arkansas.

Hey, I have a good idea! Go car-surfing! Or go hug a killer whale.

The constant, utter stupidity of human beings is a marvel to behold.

YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOTS. You are lucky, but not deserving, to be alive.

The Good, The Ugly

The bad news: I have to go to Japan August 31.

The good news: I'll be able to make my legs work, get on a plane and do it.

What Is

Cynical Depletion? Until this time I had never heard of it.

Sorry

I'm sorry, but I'll be resting my brain cells from this blog for a tiny bit.

There is stuff that needs to be taken care of and I need to take care of it.

My love to you all.

The List

Here's the list:

1. Violinists.

2. Sax players.

3. Keyboard players.

4. Bass Players.

5. Guitar players.

6. Ants.

Five

When I was five, there was a tapestry of heat. It was all around, all the time, an oppressing, mind-dulling thing that depleted the senses.

There was an air-conditioner in the bedroom. It was extremely noisy, in the old style, with gurgles and temperament changes, but it became the rhythm of my life. The Bedroom was always the refuge. No bees, ants, grasshoppers, geckos -- no, they didn't like the air conditioner.

After a while, its soothing hum became my tiny background soundtrack for life.

As I type an air conditioner hums and I realise it will always be the soundtrack of my life.

Hey, I remember five. Not all it's cut out to be.

An Emerging Wit

My seven-year-old son was watching "The Bellboy" by Jerry Lewis last night. He said "Daddy, I don't ever want to be black and white."

That is just so hilarious; Jack Benny could have spoken it.

It's just a small problem to tell him that color is about 10 years over the horizon.

Food Reviewing

Like graphic design, food reviewing has become so, so tiresome. It's like listening to Wagner's "Kill Da Wabbit" in a Gitmo loop.

It's become so mainstream, that Jill, down the street, yes, that's the one, on the fourth floor, just started montrealassholefoodreviewers.ca.net.info.biz.fuckyou.

Well, it's official. The ersatz reporting in the Gazette -- is it really writing or mere masturbating any more? -- about local restaurants has reached such a pathetic, mechanised level that it just isn't worth reading in the slightest.

Fuck, just watch Jamie Oliver! Fuck, who gives a shit about "charcuterie made at home"?

Chocolate foam? The fucking media overload is way out of proportion to the deal.

Here it is -- I surrender my resignation. montrealfood is now going to become just what all the rest are: a vehicle to make money. It was a long run but hey, fuck you too. So much for integrity.

The Last Moment

I don't know what my dad saw, if anything, in his last moments. I talked to him on the phone from Montreal, but although my sister said he seemed to perk up a bit, he said nothing. It was the last breathing conversation with my father. You will have this experience, or maybe you've already had it.

Where did he go, or where did he think he'd go? Well, I'll tell you about the latter: Dad harboured no illusions. He knew that when his last heartbeat occurred, he would expire in a wink, never to think, never to harp with angels, never to become part of Gaia or any beckoning bright light. Just to wink out with every memory he had completely erased, like turning a computer off and throwing it away.

Do you think it keeps its memory? Well, maybe it does but you can't resurrect a human memory.

I don't know how I'll face it but at least I'll know twenty dancing virgins or St. Fuckin' Peter aren't at the end of the road.

(Sorry to be cynical).