I can’t believe it. The phone rings, some guy says “Can I speak to Russell Robinson?” (my deceased father) and I had to utter the words “Well, I’d love to pass you to him but unfortunately he doesn’t exist any more. You want his room number in the Sky?”
Well, that sure the fuck shut him the fuck up.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
How The World Works
It's incredible that Roman Polanski is under threat of being extradited for a what, hundred-year-old crime, long, long ago being dismissed by even the victim, in which he was probably too stoned and drunk to think (well, having your pregnant wife savagely stabbed to death might have something to do with it).
But frankly, I couldn't give a rat's ass about Roman Polanski. He's not God, but just another film director.
HOWEVER
The extremely weasely way the Swiss, those fucking bastards (line 'em up with the Japanese and the Germans, and while you're at it, throw a Frenchman or two in) set this caper up is truly disgusting.
Those fucking cunning "neutral" fuckers -- which basically meant looking the other way while Adolf Hitler massacred millions -- are now seeking to weasel their way out of hiding massive swindled bank accounts in order to assuage their American pals.
Backroom deals, people. The fucking mafia of the world (and I remind you, I AM AMERICAN) in full cooperation mode.
Like I said, I couldn't give a shit what happens to Roman Polanski, hell, fry him, but shit, give him a cigarette before, you fucking weasel bastards, you Scheisskopf fondue-eating, lying hypocrite traitors.
What. Me? Mad? Naaaahhhh.
But frankly, I couldn't give a rat's ass about Roman Polanski. He's not God, but just another film director.
HOWEVER
The extremely weasely way the Swiss, those fucking bastards (line 'em up with the Japanese and the Germans, and while you're at it, throw a Frenchman or two in) set this caper up is truly disgusting.
Those fucking cunning "neutral" fuckers -- which basically meant looking the other way while Adolf Hitler massacred millions -- are now seeking to weasel their way out of hiding massive swindled bank accounts in order to assuage their American pals.
Backroom deals, people. The fucking mafia of the world (and I remind you, I AM AMERICAN) in full cooperation mode.
Like I said, I couldn't give a shit what happens to Roman Polanski, hell, fry him, but shit, give him a cigarette before, you fucking weasel bastards, you Scheisskopf fondue-eating, lying hypocrite traitors.
What. Me? Mad? Naaaahhhh.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Oh No
I just bought this book that I'm reading, called Blood River.
I'm just freaked out. I don't know if the older you get, the more freaked out you get, but I guess it's so. It becomes your awareness of the fragility of all life, from an ant to a grasshopper to a weasel to a cat to a dog to a chimp to a human to an ecosphere to a planet to a star to a solar system.
I know, because I was there. I was in this inhuman place called Zaïre, now ludicrously called the Democratic Republic of the Congo. But when I was there, there was a modicum of what is called civilization. But nature has a way of reclaiming itself, and humans have a way of debasing themselves, and all this has happened.
From the north to the south, I have to say ALL OF AFRICA is now a wasteland. It's just one VAST land of mayhem.
It's a creeping creep of chaos that is starting to grip the entire world.
But the news is that it's not new. We never fucking learn. We still exploit, ruin and kill each other with extraordinary enthusiasm.
Let me get further into this book. Then you will hear from me. Now I have to hug Brigitte.
I'm just freaked out. I don't know if the older you get, the more freaked out you get, but I guess it's so. It becomes your awareness of the fragility of all life, from an ant to a grasshopper to a weasel to a cat to a dog to a chimp to a human to an ecosphere to a planet to a star to a solar system.
I know, because I was there. I was in this inhuman place called Zaïre, now ludicrously called the Democratic Republic of the Congo. But when I was there, there was a modicum of what is called civilization. But nature has a way of reclaiming itself, and humans have a way of debasing themselves, and all this has happened.
From the north to the south, I have to say ALL OF AFRICA is now a wasteland. It's just one VAST land of mayhem.
It's a creeping creep of chaos that is starting to grip the entire world.
But the news is that it's not new. We never fucking learn. We still exploit, ruin and kill each other with extraordinary enthusiasm.
Let me get further into this book. Then you will hear from me. Now I have to hug Brigitte.
Guess What (yet again)
Uhh ... guess what? Well, I kind of knew it a long time ago, but I'm a sperm bank! Yes, a walking excuse for a woman to have my child, then keep him!
I am the half-parent of a Japanese American child, and we've had a very good relationship since the divorce, but I should have known that the Japanese would be unbending in their "uncompassion". Because that's what they are. Oh, don't lecture me: I KNOW THEM. They don't belong in the first world. They don't belong in the SECOND world. Do businessmen get smashed and then piss on the floor of trains here? Didn't think so. But I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES.
Of COURSE not all of them. But as a group they're incomparably impassionate, grudging, and brutish, freaked-out and seriously generally disturbed.
Yet they try to pass themselves off as "world-class citizens", such, as say, the Dutch.
The Japanese are not the Dutch. They're just ONE STEP REMOVED from the ass-fuckers in Burma.
Think about it. No, no mossy gardens and Zen Wa. Just repression, hostility, ignorance and just complete imbecility.
I've been there. I've done it, so many times that I have lost count, so trust my words. I speak their language better than you'll ever hope to speak a second language in your dreams. I KNOW THEM. I've taught Korean men older than me in Japan who admitted they could barely speak Korean, they were born in Japan, yet STILL CARRIED FOREIGNER CARDS. He was ashamed to admit it, but it's A FACT. They are a card-carrying racist, militaristic society that, mark my words, carried out the most INCREDIBLE atrocities in the Second World War. They made the Gestapo look like baseball players just having a cheeky lark. Which they of course, being Japanese, deny every year at Yasukuni that anything ever really ever happened. Those fuckers. "Internment camps." Yes, they were bleak, families were removed from their homes, which may have been completely unjustifiedly "repossessed" . . . but babies WEREN'T BAYONETED FOR BAYONET PRACTICE for the lunatic animals who were the Imperial Army of fucking TENNO HEIKA! BANZAI! BANZAI! BANZAI!
Yet to this day they'll insist they were the victims of "The Atomic Bombs", which they may have been, but it was the only way to stop their lunatic, insanely brutal misadventures. I've been to Hiroshima three times. Oh, "Never again?" "Never Again?" You fucking hypocrites. Try "Great Asian-Co-Prosperity Sphere." TRY THAT, ASSHOLES! Roll THAT around, you motherfuckers, roll it around your tongue and then talk to a Philipino, a Korean, a Malaysian or, for that matter, a Guadalcanalan.
People don't change so fast. There is that undercurrent still lurking, believe you me.
Believe you me.
You think you know "racist"? Just go meet a Japanese.
I hate the Japanese, yet he is my son. I guess I'll have to deal with it.
I am the half-parent of a Japanese American child, and we've had a very good relationship since the divorce, but I should have known that the Japanese would be unbending in their "uncompassion". Because that's what they are. Oh, don't lecture me: I KNOW THEM. They don't belong in the first world. They don't belong in the SECOND world. Do businessmen get smashed and then piss on the floor of trains here? Didn't think so. But I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES.
Of COURSE not all of them. But as a group they're incomparably impassionate, grudging, and brutish, freaked-out and seriously generally disturbed.
Yet they try to pass themselves off as "world-class citizens", such, as say, the Dutch.
The Japanese are not the Dutch. They're just ONE STEP REMOVED from the ass-fuckers in Burma.
Think about it. No, no mossy gardens and Zen Wa. Just repression, hostility, ignorance and just complete imbecility.
I've been there. I've done it, so many times that I have lost count, so trust my words. I speak their language better than you'll ever hope to speak a second language in your dreams. I KNOW THEM. I've taught Korean men older than me in Japan who admitted they could barely speak Korean, they were born in Japan, yet STILL CARRIED FOREIGNER CARDS. He was ashamed to admit it, but it's A FACT. They are a card-carrying racist, militaristic society that, mark my words, carried out the most INCREDIBLE atrocities in the Second World War. They made the Gestapo look like baseball players just having a cheeky lark. Which they of course, being Japanese, deny every year at Yasukuni that anything ever really ever happened. Those fuckers. "Internment camps." Yes, they were bleak, families were removed from their homes, which may have been completely unjustifiedly "repossessed" . . . but babies WEREN'T BAYONETED FOR BAYONET PRACTICE for the lunatic animals who were the Imperial Army of fucking TENNO HEIKA! BANZAI! BANZAI! BANZAI!
Yet to this day they'll insist they were the victims of "The Atomic Bombs", which they may have been, but it was the only way to stop their lunatic, insanely brutal misadventures. I've been to Hiroshima three times. Oh, "Never again?" "Never Again?" You fucking hypocrites. Try "Great Asian-Co-Prosperity Sphere." TRY THAT, ASSHOLES! Roll THAT around, you motherfuckers, roll it around your tongue and then talk to a Philipino, a Korean, a Malaysian or, for that matter, a Guadalcanalan.
People don't change so fast. There is that undercurrent still lurking, believe you me.
Believe you me.
You think you know "racist"? Just go meet a Japanese.
I hate the Japanese, yet he is my son. I guess I'll have to deal with it.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Why
Why (I wrote a song called that once) would anyone commit a crime? I can see maybe minor shoplifting, but major assault and armed robbery? How can that EVER work? Killing someone? Excuse me?
If for any reason I were sentenced to 20 years for something, do you think I'd even live one day in prison? 20 years?
It would be immediate and permanent suicide watch.
Christ. The decisions supposedly sane people make.
If for any reason I were sentenced to 20 years for something, do you think I'd even live one day in prison? 20 years?
It would be immediate and permanent suicide watch.
Christ. The decisions supposedly sane people make.
No, Really.
Really. Happy Yom Kippur. I atone for my idiocies, I really do. But I can't guarantee they won't continue. Hmm. Does that work?
Manishma! Beseder, ani ohev otach!!!!
Manishma! Beseder, ani ohev otach!!!!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Fuck Sports
Today’s edition of the Montreal Gazette’s cover was plastered with a large article that almost filled the page. About hockey. What the fuck, I’m now paying for Hockey Today? Why must I pay for Hockey Today?
I’m very grateful to you nice folk who entertain some sport or other — I don’t now but have been known to — but plastering hockey on the front page of the only English language daily in Quebec, as opposed to actually REPORTING SOMETHING, is a crime.
This . . . THIS . . . is what they’ve been reduced to? I wrote my contact at the Gazette a few months back and he wrote me that “Things here are tight, good luck getting your ideas to the right people.” Boy, was he right.
That paper has become so much kindling for dwindling grills.
But HOCKEY filling the front page? How slow can a slow news day get?
Or is it just me. Yes, it’s JUST ME.
That’s it — the Gazette is now bye-bye. Bye-bye, you fucking excuse for an English-language newspaper in Quebec. Today's edition merely signed your death knell.
I should read "Allo Police" instead.
I’m very grateful to you nice folk who entertain some sport or other — I don’t now but have been known to — but plastering hockey on the front page of the only English language daily in Quebec, as opposed to actually REPORTING SOMETHING, is a crime.
This . . . THIS . . . is what they’ve been reduced to? I wrote my contact at the Gazette a few months back and he wrote me that “Things here are tight, good luck getting your ideas to the right people.” Boy, was he right.
That paper has become so much kindling for dwindling grills.
But HOCKEY filling the front page? How slow can a slow news day get?
Or is it just me. Yes, it’s JUST ME.
That’s it — the Gazette is now bye-bye. Bye-bye, you fucking excuse for an English-language newspaper in Quebec. Today's edition merely signed your death knell.
I should read "Allo Police" instead.
Words Of Wisdom
What To Do Do In An Emergency
I’m not Marcus Welby, but here’s some advice to preserve yourself in an emergency (hint: before I go any further, email the guy who invented the Jaws of Life and become somewhat chummy with him).
1. You’ve walked onto a pond in the middle of a bitter cold snap and you’ve fallen through the ice. What do you do? There is no miracle rescuer in sight.
Here’s what you do: try to not flail around. Flailing around depletes precious body heat. Unfortunately, it also keeps you afloat. So don’t flail around. Just drown faster than you would have otherwise.
2. Your plane has just crashed on land; there are dozens of bleeding and wounded, many small children among them. Your solution: take on your most fearsome resolve, and LEAP OVER THEM TO THE EXIT nearest you. Then help them by standing at least 200 yards away from the burning wreckage and discreetly weep into a handkerchief while checking and rechecking the contents of your carry-on.
3. You are camping with your wife. You are several hours away from any official services. Your wife wakes up in the middle of the night and says “I have to go, honey”.
You never hear from her again. Well, duh, she told you she was going, didn’t she?
4. You’re rock-climbing in Yosemite. You’re determined to do Half-Dome. Unfortunately, at a crucial ledge, where you’re clinging on for dear life, someone above you has accidentally dislodged a small boulder. And guess what? You’re looking up.
5. You’re making pizza in your dilapidated oven — some premade crap — and you accidentally forget about it. While watching Jeopardy you suddenly smell a smell. And it’s not a good one.
You rush to the kitchen while noticing that the smoke alarm that you haven’t replaced the battery for for eight years is not going off, while clouds of smoke are filling the kitchen.
You hastily go for the natural thing: you fill a pan full of water and open the oven door and throw the whole thing in. Later, much, much later, you don’t forget to send a thank-you card to the folks at the burn unit.
6. Last but not least, you leave your car to take pictures closer to the lions.
I’m not Marcus Welby, but here’s some advice to preserve yourself in an emergency (hint: before I go any further, email the guy who invented the Jaws of Life and become somewhat chummy with him).
1. You’ve walked onto a pond in the middle of a bitter cold snap and you’ve fallen through the ice. What do you do? There is no miracle rescuer in sight.
Here’s what you do: try to not flail around. Flailing around depletes precious body heat. Unfortunately, it also keeps you afloat. So don’t flail around. Just drown faster than you would have otherwise.
2. Your plane has just crashed on land; there are dozens of bleeding and wounded, many small children among them. Your solution: take on your most fearsome resolve, and LEAP OVER THEM TO THE EXIT nearest you. Then help them by standing at least 200 yards away from the burning wreckage and discreetly weep into a handkerchief while checking and rechecking the contents of your carry-on.
3. You are camping with your wife. You are several hours away from any official services. Your wife wakes up in the middle of the night and says “I have to go, honey”.
You never hear from her again. Well, duh, she told you she was going, didn’t she?
4. You’re rock-climbing in Yosemite. You’re determined to do Half-Dome. Unfortunately, at a crucial ledge, where you’re clinging on for dear life, someone above you has accidentally dislodged a small boulder. And guess what? You’re looking up.
5. You’re making pizza in your dilapidated oven — some premade crap — and you accidentally forget about it. While watching Jeopardy you suddenly smell a smell. And it’s not a good one.
You rush to the kitchen while noticing that the smoke alarm that you haven’t replaced the battery for for eight years is not going off, while clouds of smoke are filling the kitchen.
You hastily go for the natural thing: you fill a pan full of water and open the oven door and throw the whole thing in. Later, much, much later, you don’t forget to send a thank-you card to the folks at the burn unit.
6. Last but not least, you leave your car to take pictures closer to the lions.
Terrorism
Chef-boy-ar-dee Mini Raviolis are like dog food. Food for Yorkshire terrorists. You know, those dogs you constantly mistake for very furry rats?
But even the addition of Schneider's ANGUS BEEF HOT DOGS doesn't make it terrorist food.
The only thing that makes it Yorkshire terrorist food is scotch and ginger ale. They'd bomb a pub or two for this grub.
There ya go.
But even the addition of Schneider's ANGUS BEEF HOT DOGS doesn't make it terrorist food.
The only thing that makes it Yorkshire terrorist food is scotch and ginger ale. They'd bomb a pub or two for this grub.
There ya go.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Hives
She has her hive. Yes, she does. Except she's only one bee. She's the worker bee. She's the Watcher bee. She's the hive protector. She's the drone bee.
She's the Queen Bee. I guess I must be the King Bee.
Hmm . . . I've never heard of a king bee . . .
She's the Queen Bee. I guess I must be the King Bee.
Hmm . . . I've never heard of a king bee . . .
When You Feel Life is Difficult . . .
. . . just imagine the smell of fresh-cut parsley. All, really, all, your troubles will melt away.
How To Argue 101
I’m not the one who . . .
Why don’t you tell your friends . . .
You don’t listen to a thing I’m . . .
Why should I apoplogize for . . .
I’ve told you a million times . . .
No, YOU SAID . . .
I’m not going to say I’m sorry when I’m not . . .
The sad thing is that people go to war over such words.
Why don’t you tell your friends . . .
You don’t listen to a thing I’m . . .
Why should I apoplogize for . . .
I’ve told you a million times . . .
No, YOU SAID . . .
I’m not going to say I’m sorry when I’m not . . .
The sad thing is that people go to war over such words.
Ooo de la oui
Y'know, I'm just not sure o' the metaphysics (or even the consequences, let alone the allowabilities) (Christ, that's hard to spell after a scotch and coke at 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning -- way too many wwws? Or is the lllls? All looks the same to me) of babbling about people you know personally on your blog . . . or what you did last night, on your blog where PEOPLE YOU KNOW might be involved and might NOT like your interpretterptertration of what went on, but whaddya gonna do? Huh?
Jest WHADDYA GONNA DO?
I will delightfully report that Brigitte and I attended the wedding of Arlette and Alex, the same angels who came to our wedding and made sure all was operating on full cylinders, stayed to the end despite being distracted, and it makes me so happy to say that their ceremony was a miracle perhaps only if just seeing their love for each other in their eyes and how happy Brigitte and I are to even know them. To us, they're young people, but they are supremely worshipful young people, especially combined.
As I emailed Arlette, "Let's do this every month!"
May the gods take them into the stratosphere and over the top and then all over again, for ever and ever.
Jest WHADDYA GONNA DO?
I will delightfully report that Brigitte and I attended the wedding of Arlette and Alex, the same angels who came to our wedding and made sure all was operating on full cylinders, stayed to the end despite being distracted, and it makes me so happy to say that their ceremony was a miracle perhaps only if just seeing their love for each other in their eyes and how happy Brigitte and I are to even know them. To us, they're young people, but they are supremely worshipful young people, especially combined.
As I emailed Arlette, "Let's do this every month!"
May the gods take them into the stratosphere and over the top and then all over again, for ever and ever.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
1.5 Million Years B.C.
You know, back then, there wasn't too much amusement. They probably sat around in their cave and invented wheels.
But there were no sitcoms. There was no TV, even. But now there is.
Brigitte and I disagree about a lot of things, but I know for sure that Ogg and Ugg did not disagree on what amount of fire they'd watch every night. It's like "I don't like the shadow creatures you keep doing, Ogg. Can't you AT LEAST do a coyote properly? It's just not funny."
Well, speaking of Brigitte (which I will often do, dear, if you don't have the hatchet behind your back while you're reading this) we tend to disagree on some television choices. She tends to like chick flicks -- y'know, romantic comedies blah blah blah. But she's also one of those people who goes to a video store and rents something she's never seen, never heard about, purely from the description on the cover.
Me, I like the tried and true. I've seen Terminator 1,000 times, but at least I know it'll be a blast.
"A Room With A View" . . . well, can you say "diphenhydramine hydrochloride?"
But this post is really about sitcoms. I was never really a fan of sitcoms. I tried never to watch the stuff my parents watched: All in the Family, M*A*S*H etc.
I was never into "Friends." It just seemed to be drivel, just babbling. Everybody Loves Raymond.
Nope.
But Seinfeld . . . that's one I liked, for years. It was just so stupid, it was amazing.
But Brigitte didn't like it very much, even though she's Jewish, and the humor is quite a bit Jewish.
She's since come around, but where I just descend into fits of laughter, she can only manage a chuckle.
What should I do? Should I tolerate her chick flicks, watch my explosions-truck-bomb-Schwarznegger-Sci-FiRoad Warrior flicks by myself and we all cry and make up?
What do YOU think?
But there were no sitcoms. There was no TV, even. But now there is.
Brigitte and I disagree about a lot of things, but I know for sure that Ogg and Ugg did not disagree on what amount of fire they'd watch every night. It's like "I don't like the shadow creatures you keep doing, Ogg. Can't you AT LEAST do a coyote properly? It's just not funny."
Well, speaking of Brigitte (which I will often do, dear, if you don't have the hatchet behind your back while you're reading this) we tend to disagree on some television choices. She tends to like chick flicks -- y'know, romantic comedies blah blah blah. But she's also one of those people who goes to a video store and rents something she's never seen, never heard about, purely from the description on the cover.
Me, I like the tried and true. I've seen Terminator 1,000 times, but at least I know it'll be a blast.
"A Room With A View" . . . well, can you say "diphenhydramine hydrochloride?"
But this post is really about sitcoms. I was never really a fan of sitcoms. I tried never to watch the stuff my parents watched: All in the Family, M*A*S*H etc.
I was never into "Friends." It just seemed to be drivel, just babbling. Everybody Loves Raymond.
Nope.
But Seinfeld . . . that's one I liked, for years. It was just so stupid, it was amazing.
But Brigitte didn't like it very much, even though she's Jewish, and the humor is quite a bit Jewish.
She's since come around, but where I just descend into fits of laughter, she can only manage a chuckle.
What should I do? Should I tolerate her chick flicks, watch my explosions-truck-bomb-Schwarznegger-Sci-FiRoad Warrior flicks by myself and we all cry and make up?
What do YOU think?
Ode To My Computer
My computer loves me not
Against a wall, it should be shot.
Neither does it work so well,
So it should be sent to Hell.
My computer is a beast
Who likes me not the leastest least.
It makes up its mind to hate
By often changing today’s date.
Moves my folders everywhere
All on purpose. Yes, I swear.
Will not listen to my mouse;
Puts its hum throughout the house.
Keeps me all awake at night
Every nerve so wired tight.
Always stops when it should go;
My computer hates me so.
I must not allow it to.
There are things that I must do.
I will thrash and mash its brain
Because it’s driving me insane.
So, your hard drive far will go
Because your master SAID IT SO.
I will kill you, faithless friend
BECAUSE THIS SHIT JUST HAS TO END.
Against a wall, it should be shot.
Neither does it work so well,
So it should be sent to Hell.
My computer is a beast
Who likes me not the leastest least.
It makes up its mind to hate
By often changing today’s date.
Moves my folders everywhere
All on purpose. Yes, I swear.
Will not listen to my mouse;
Puts its hum throughout the house.
Keeps me all awake at night
Every nerve so wired tight.
Always stops when it should go;
My computer hates me so.
I must not allow it to.
There are things that I must do.
I will thrash and mash its brain
Because it’s driving me insane.
So, your hard drive far will go
Because your master SAID IT SO.
I will kill you, faithless friend
BECAUSE THIS SHIT JUST HAS TO END.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Hitler
Hitler should have one day been doused in kerosene, then left for a while in his cell. Every so often, a guard should have come and held up a lighter and waved it in front of the tiny window with a smashing grin.
Then, he should have been doused in gasoline, probably more prevalent at the time.
Then, the guard should have gone to the convenience store and got some matches.
Then, he should have been doused in gasoline, probably more prevalent at the time.
Then, the guard should have gone to the convenience store and got some matches.
My Kitchen
I'm sensing a theme here -- it's either a rant or a rave or music, food or Brigitte. I'm sorry, loyal readers, that it rarely involves Middle Eastern affairs (oh wait, it does!) but this time it's about my ever-suffering Brigitte, and my kitchen.
We kind of agreed, a few months (?) ago that I would be the master of the kitchen. This means that I would do the dishes; fill the water bottles; clean the counter; put everything away nicely.
You know, it's kind of the easy "roommate truce" except in this case, it most definitely is NOT a roommate.
But to tell you the truth, I like it this way. "Hey, I do the laundry! I take care of the bills! I go out and do the shopping! I make your BLTs at 4 o'clock in the morning!"
All true. Everything rings with a certain echo of truth.
But, as I trudge my merry way yet again, filling (or emptying) the dishwasher, checking that everything is in its place and I know where it (whatever it might be) is, I rejoice.
I LIKE the kitchen to be my kingdom. I LIKE that when I go there tomorrow, utensil "A" will be where I put it last night! See! Simple happiness.
But you know, I love most of all that Brigitte allows me to deal with the kitchen as I see fit, (and all she ever does is come into that world and cook her brilliant stuff), the affairs to which I am now committed, and HAPPY to square away, each and every day.
Fuck, I'm hungry. Should I wake her up for a Brigitte BLT?
We kind of agreed, a few months (?) ago that I would be the master of the kitchen. This means that I would do the dishes; fill the water bottles; clean the counter; put everything away nicely.
You know, it's kind of the easy "roommate truce" except in this case, it most definitely is NOT a roommate.
But to tell you the truth, I like it this way. "Hey, I do the laundry! I take care of the bills! I go out and do the shopping! I make your BLTs at 4 o'clock in the morning!"
All true. Everything rings with a certain echo of truth.
But, as I trudge my merry way yet again, filling (or emptying) the dishwasher, checking that everything is in its place and I know where it (whatever it might be) is, I rejoice.
I LIKE the kitchen to be my kingdom. I LIKE that when I go there tomorrow, utensil "A" will be where I put it last night! See! Simple happiness.
But you know, I love most of all that Brigitte allows me to deal with the kitchen as I see fit, (and all she ever does is come into that world and cook her brilliant stuff), the affairs to which I am now committed, and HAPPY to square away, each and every day.
Fuck, I'm hungry. Should I wake her up for a Brigitte BLT?
Loving Brigitte
I love Brigitte. She's half francophone, half anglophone and half telephone. No, sorry, Hebrew.
But she says really hilarious things. "Honey, can you please close the light?" Well, babe, I'd be happy to, but I didn't realise that it was open. I guess the laws of physics go out the window here.
Then there's "Honey, can you please throw the garbage?" Well, I really would love to, I really would like to throw it off the balcony. In fact, I might!
I can't think off the cuff of anything else she says to delight me -- at least she doesn't say "pepper towels" -- but to tell you the truth, I'd be delighted if she did!
I'm just kidding. She has command of three languages, which she pretty much speaks equally as well, which is WAAY better than me (well, I can play all sorts of instruments, not all electronic, so doesn't that make me good too? Huh?)
But I'll never get past "Just eat it."
But she says really hilarious things. "Honey, can you please close the light?" Well, babe, I'd be happy to, but I didn't realise that it was open. I guess the laws of physics go out the window here.
Then there's "Honey, can you please throw the garbage?" Well, I really would love to, I really would like to throw it off the balcony. In fact, I might!
I can't think off the cuff of anything else she says to delight me -- at least she doesn't say "pepper towels" -- but to tell you the truth, I'd be delighted if she did!
I'm just kidding. She has command of three languages, which she pretty much speaks equally as well, which is WAAY better than me (well, I can play all sorts of instruments, not all electronic, so doesn't that make me good too? Huh?)
But I'll never get past "Just eat it."
Have You Ever Noticed . . . (no)
. . . that words with two letters the same in a row (hey, am I suposed to be a linguist as well as a comedian? I don't know what the technical term is, goddamn it) are automatically funny?
Think about it: "Fuzzy little rabbit." Look at those words and tell me you don't somehow want to laugh. Sorry, laff.
"Dill." You telling me "dill" isn't funny as a stand-alone word? "I be illin', chillin' and dillin' . . . ."
Can you seriously tell me that isn't funny? See, even "funny" is funny.
Think about it: "Fuzzy little rabbit." Look at those words and tell me you don't somehow want to laugh. Sorry, laff.
"Dill." You telling me "dill" isn't funny as a stand-alone word? "I be illin', chillin' and dillin' . . . ."
Can you seriously tell me that isn't funny? See, even "funny" is funny.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Kreate a Joke
No, I made it up by myself, but you can come up with the punchline:
==================================================================================
A donkey comes into a bar, with a monkey on his shoulder. Sits down and says to the bartender, “Set me up.”
Bartender says, “I’ll set you up, but who’s the monkey?”
Donkey says, “Thanks, doc, I’ll have a Black Russian.” (Lifts a hoof).” The name’s D. He’s M. and he’ll have a banana daiquiri.”
(Bartender retort A): Bartender says "Can I see some ID for the monkey?"
(Please insert punchline "A" here): From Qaro: "Are you sure? Monkey ID is monkey doo."
(Bartender retort B): Bartender says "I see a donkey and a monkey. What happened to the honky?"
(Please insert punchline "B" here): From Qaro again: "The honky had to go cook his goose--I mean duck!"
==================================================================================
A donkey comes into a bar, with a monkey on his shoulder. Sits down and says to the bartender, “Set me up.”
Bartender says, “I’ll set you up, but who’s the monkey?”
Donkey says, “Thanks, doc, I’ll have a Black Russian.” (Lifts a hoof).” The name’s D. He’s M. and he’ll have a banana daiquiri.”
(Bartender retort A): Bartender says "Can I see some ID for the monkey?"
(Please insert punchline "A" here): From Qaro: "Are you sure? Monkey ID is monkey doo."
(Bartender retort B): Bartender says "I see a donkey and a monkey. What happened to the honky?"
(Please insert punchline "B" here): From Qaro again: "The honky had to go cook his goose--I mean duck!"
Here's The Situation
(You love these "Here's the Situation" posts, tell me that you don't. Get that shit- eating grin off your face right now, Buster).
But just imagine being a historian -- no, a FORENSIC historian. I know probably not many of you are interested in history, (but that's all of you who are interested in the future! Maybe you should apply at the Future Historian Society! Hiring now,$alary commensurate with experience!)
But I'm reading a book about Joao (it's pronounced "Juan") Rodrigues one of the first Portuguese Jesuits to go to Japan.
What strikes me is the language of the author . . . there are so many unknowns in his narrative. "Rodrigues may have sailed in a ship travelling to Macao in 1568 . . . it is possible that he was aboard a trader in early 1569."
The poor guy! I mean the author, not Rodrigues! He can only rely on extremely poor records of the time . . . I just don't know how he managed to assemble enough information to actually write a book out of it.
It's not like writing for Vogue: "Why Paris Hilton Skipped The Oscars" . . .
Well, let me tell you, I wouldn't have wanted to be the author's partner.
Nope de-nope.
But just imagine being a historian -- no, a FORENSIC historian. I know probably not many of you are interested in history, (but that's all of you who are interested in the future! Maybe you should apply at the Future Historian Society! Hiring now,$alary commensurate with experience!)
But I'm reading a book about Joao (it's pronounced "Juan") Rodrigues one of the first Portuguese Jesuits to go to Japan.
What strikes me is the language of the author . . . there are so many unknowns in his narrative. "Rodrigues may have sailed in a ship travelling to Macao in 1568 . . . it is possible that he was aboard a trader in early 1569."
The poor guy! I mean the author, not Rodrigues! He can only rely on extremely poor records of the time . . . I just don't know how he managed to assemble enough information to actually write a book out of it.
It's not like writing for Vogue: "Why Paris Hilton Skipped The Oscars" . . .
Well, let me tell you, I wouldn't have wanted to be the author's partner.
Nope de-nope.
No Dinner! How Much?
This is the text of an auction I just posted on eBay, thanks to inspiration from my friend Jim at Velvet Blog (link at left).
:
*Auction Title:
NO DINNER with Sarah Palin
Subtitle: Yes, you DON'T HAVE TO GO TO DINNER WITH SARAH PALIN!
Description: Hello,
I recently had a chance to not have dinner with Sarah Palin. I didn't even know who she was until my friend Jim pointed her out to me on his blog. Hey, I'm Canadian! I was amazed to realise that she lives in the 54th Canadian province, Alaska! (Well, Alaska, but what good would it do? She'd turn me down).
ANYWAY! This is your chance because I'm giving up mine. Yes, you read it right -- I am offically offering up for bid a chance to NOT HAVE DINNER WITH SARAH PALIN. No, no, no, I ain't gonna do any "Buy It Now"s. I want to give you very pleasant folk a chance to BID because EVERYONE, even the poor, deserve a chance to not have dinner with Sarah Palin.
I missed my ticket to not have dinner with Sarah Palin.
BUT
My loss is your gain! FREE S&H to N. America
Happy bidding!
:
*Auction Title:
NO DINNER with Sarah Palin
Subtitle: Yes, you DON'T HAVE TO GO TO DINNER WITH SARAH PALIN!
Description: Hello,
I recently had a chance to not have dinner with Sarah Palin. I didn't even know who she was until my friend Jim pointed her out to me on his blog. Hey, I'm Canadian! I was amazed to realise that she lives in the 54th Canadian province, Alaska! (Well, Alaska, but what good would it do? She'd turn me down).
ANYWAY! This is your chance because I'm giving up mine. Yes, you read it right -- I am offically offering up for bid a chance to NOT HAVE DINNER WITH SARAH PALIN. No, no, no, I ain't gonna do any "Buy It Now"s. I want to give you very pleasant folk a chance to BID because EVERYONE, even the poor, deserve a chance to not have dinner with Sarah Palin.
I missed my ticket to not have dinner with Sarah Palin.
BUT
My loss is your gain! FREE S&H to N. America
Happy bidding!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
You
You bands of lurkers, you. You lurking bands of lurkers! What would happen if we got you all together like a roving pack of rampant readers and actually FORCED everyone to make a comment? What would you say to one another? "Uh, okay, I kind of read this . . . uh . . . kind of stupid blog by this . . . uhh . . . umm . . . kinda stupid guy. Ahhh . . . what do YOU do? I actually work for a small publishing firm in Saginaw . . ."
And we could go from there!
Spring forth from the fount of mischief, my circling band of Underwoild lurkers, my small cult following, spring forth and show your lurksome side!
Please wear a tie, preferably not one with stripes or patterns, if you're male. Females: please bring me some concealer for my face because I have a mild case of psoriasis and you guys seem to be the go-to persons for these kinds of things.
And we could go from there!
Spring forth from the fount of mischief, my circling band of Underwoild lurkers, my small cult following, spring forth and show your lurksome side!
Please wear a tie, preferably not one with stripes or patterns, if you're male. Females: please bring me some concealer for my face because I have a mild case of psoriasis and you guys seem to be the go-to persons for these kinds of things.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Saddam
Oh, oh, shut up. I know the arguments. I hate George Bushes, all of them, too. Bushes should all be shaved.
But Saddam and his little parasite sons were pure evil. Imagine 2,000 serial killer/rapists all operating at once and you can imagine Saddam, but that still would not even be near to the truth.
The son, Uday, was just the most insane murdering rapist the world has ever seen. In some ways, even despite my dislike for the Bushes, I am so glad that fucker met his end at the Americans' hands. Too fucking bad he didn't get tortured or captured or flayed alive, because that's what he and his brother Qusay deserved.
Saddam -- that fucking torturing madman who managed to school his murderous sons by forcing them to watch videos of his torturing rampages -- deserved far more than having his head yanked off his neck.
I'm not a big fan of the Iraq deal. But I am very glad that the team of serial killers of the Saddam family were hopefully killed with the maximum amount of pain. Let's hope that it hurt, very hurt, to compensate for every single coalition/civilian death.
Oh, Saddam, Saddam, I wish I had you in this room right now. Then Uday and Qusay. I could have saved the world a lot of trouble.
But Saddam and his little parasite sons were pure evil. Imagine 2,000 serial killer/rapists all operating at once and you can imagine Saddam, but that still would not even be near to the truth.
The son, Uday, was just the most insane murdering rapist the world has ever seen. In some ways, even despite my dislike for the Bushes, I am so glad that fucker met his end at the Americans' hands. Too fucking bad he didn't get tortured or captured or flayed alive, because that's what he and his brother Qusay deserved.
Saddam -- that fucking torturing madman who managed to school his murderous sons by forcing them to watch videos of his torturing rampages -- deserved far more than having his head yanked off his neck.
I'm not a big fan of the Iraq deal. But I am very glad that the team of serial killers of the Saddam family were hopefully killed with the maximum amount of pain. Let's hope that it hurt, very hurt, to compensate for every single coalition/civilian death.
Oh, Saddam, Saddam, I wish I had you in this room right now. Then Uday and Qusay. I could have saved the world a lot of trouble.
Upon Being A Musician: A More Thankless Task?
Yeah, I know this is called montrealfood blog. But so often I veer off it for music. This or that. But like it or not, all my life I've been hell of interested in food AND music.
And I've learned through DOING, that they're not so separable. A good chef IMPROVISES. She works with tools that are AVAILABLE TO HER. Available, in any venue, maybe not her native turf. Not her knives, not her pans, some other dick giving the orders. A project that somehow must come together, even if it's only dinner for the family. Fish, steak, potatoes, salad . . . Rock, jazz, blues, classical, reggae . . .
You see? Same bloody thing.
But what's annoying that the titans of cooking -- or playing -- are so much above me that I have no hope in my lifetime of ever matching them. They're just TOO FUCKING GOOD.
I'm not a defeatist. But sometimes you have to be. It can be enjoyable, in a twisted sort of way.
And I've learned through DOING, that they're not so separable. A good chef IMPROVISES. She works with tools that are AVAILABLE TO HER. Available, in any venue, maybe not her native turf. Not her knives, not her pans, some other dick giving the orders. A project that somehow must come together, even if it's only dinner for the family. Fish, steak, potatoes, salad . . . Rock, jazz, blues, classical, reggae . . .
You see? Same bloody thing.
But what's annoying that the titans of cooking -- or playing -- are so much above me that I have no hope in my lifetime of ever matching them. They're just TOO FUCKING GOOD.
I'm not a defeatist. But sometimes you have to be. It can be enjoyable, in a twisted sort of way.
Bold, Restless, Generally Hospitally, Lays of Our Wives, and Rats
In the early 80s, when I was in art college, we didn't have a VCR. That meant that dammit, we had to watch it when it was on. And "It" was Luke and Laura.
At the time, General Hospital was a whammy bar, a TKO, a show that brought the entire country to a standstill at around 2 p.m.
I used to cut classes for it, regularly. The villains were multiple, and famous. There was John Colicos, who famously portrayed a Klingon on Star Trek. A very villainous but lovable Klingon. ("It's a shame the battle has been cancelled, Kirk. It would have been glorious" is what comes to memory).
But he was the evil Cassadyne, played with total relish (onions and mustard, too). There was the skiving Strine dude, Roggeeaahh Scorpio.
Now there's only . . . Brigitte. That tiny little wraith only watches the Young And The Restless, so I try every single day to tape it faithfully for her. I don't watch it when she does but I like her being able to relax for at least an hour. I stopped commenting long ago haughtily about the posturing and insane plotlines. "It's an escape!" she would tell me. "I don't want to be reminded about reality!"
She's very right. Even the character of Victor Newman has roots in my long-ago past; he used to be not Eric Braeden but "Hans Dudegast." He played in a couple of my favorite wartime dramas, Twelve O'Clock High and Rat Patrol.
Okay, okay, that dates me.
So I feel it my civic (and loving) duty to make sure her soap is taped, at least when the fuckers don't pre-empt it for some golf tournament.
And while I lie next to her and read my book or fuck around on the computer while she watches her episode-of-the-day and Victor is deep in some soapy trouble I get a tiny spark of the thrill that I got all those Luke and Laura years ago and somehow feel that now we're both cutting classes.
At the time, General Hospital was a whammy bar, a TKO, a show that brought the entire country to a standstill at around 2 p.m.
I used to cut classes for it, regularly. The villains were multiple, and famous. There was John Colicos, who famously portrayed a Klingon on Star Trek. A very villainous but lovable Klingon. ("It's a shame the battle has been cancelled, Kirk. It would have been glorious" is what comes to memory).
But he was the evil Cassadyne, played with total relish (onions and mustard, too). There was the skiving Strine dude, Roggeeaahh Scorpio.
Now there's only . . . Brigitte. That tiny little wraith only watches the Young And The Restless, so I try every single day to tape it faithfully for her. I don't watch it when she does but I like her being able to relax for at least an hour. I stopped commenting long ago haughtily about the posturing and insane plotlines. "It's an escape!" she would tell me. "I don't want to be reminded about reality!"
She's very right. Even the character of Victor Newman has roots in my long-ago past; he used to be not Eric Braeden but "Hans Dudegast." He played in a couple of my favorite wartime dramas, Twelve O'Clock High and Rat Patrol.
Okay, okay, that dates me.
So I feel it my civic (and loving) duty to make sure her soap is taped, at least when the fuckers don't pre-empt it for some golf tournament.
And while I lie next to her and read my book or fuck around on the computer while she watches her episode-of-the-day and Victor is deep in some soapy trouble I get a tiny spark of the thrill that I got all those Luke and Laura years ago and somehow feel that now we're both cutting classes.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Junk
I have so much stuff on my desktop. It drives me nuts. Except for the background of Brigitte at 17 and me at 20.
I know: Awwwwww.
Do Yourself a Favour
. . . and read Billenium, by J.G. Ballard, the guy who wrote Empire Of The Sun and lots of other stuff.
This is possibly the worst-spelled-title-that-got-missed-on-Earth. Although "Billenium" is an invented word, it should follow the spelling conventions of "millennium" with a double "n" (Don't worry, even I have problems with these obschure schpellings).
There are some things I can't read. Metaphysics. Stuff by lunatics, like William Burroughs. Literary crap by people like V.S. Naipaul.
But you owe it to yourself to try to track down a copy of Billenium. It's like travelling into a nightmare, but with a lunatic as your pilot.
Highly recommended.
This is possibly the worst-spelled-title-that-got-missed-on-Earth. Although "Billenium" is an invented word, it should follow the spelling conventions of "millennium" with a double "n" (Don't worry, even I have problems with these obschure schpellings).
There are some things I can't read. Metaphysics. Stuff by lunatics, like William Burroughs. Literary crap by people like V.S. Naipaul.
But you owe it to yourself to try to track down a copy of Billenium. It's like travelling into a nightmare, but with a lunatic as your pilot.
Highly recommended.
Aaaargh
Eeee-yuck.
I don't know what comes over me at five a.m. when I wake up hungry. I don't know what possesses me, when I'm at the grocery store, to buy Heinz baked beans and Schneider's Angus Beef hot dogs, then decide to combine them with a few slices of onion and a teaspoon of chopped garlic, microwave it in a bowl for about five minutes, and then expect it to taste good.
What is it in my tiny brain that ever, ever tells me it will taste good, or EVEN SATISFY MY HUNGER????
Is it the same tiny part of the medulla oblongata that also persuades me that Big Macs are actually food?
I think goats' testicles would be preferable. Maybe with blood sausage and crickets in a bechamel sauce. Mmm mmm good.
I don't know what comes over me at five a.m. when I wake up hungry. I don't know what possesses me, when I'm at the grocery store, to buy Heinz baked beans and Schneider's Angus Beef hot dogs, then decide to combine them with a few slices of onion and a teaspoon of chopped garlic, microwave it in a bowl for about five minutes, and then expect it to taste good.
What is it in my tiny brain that ever, ever tells me it will taste good, or EVEN SATISFY MY HUNGER????
Is it the same tiny part of the medulla oblongata that also persuades me that Big Macs are actually food?
I think goats' testicles would be preferable. Maybe with blood sausage and crickets in a bechamel sauce. Mmm mmm good.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
What Part Of . . .
. . . being smashed out of your gourd don't people understand?
Oh, celebrities just positively HATE IT when Dull Normals come up and "notice" them during dinner, or some shit like that, yet they persist in driving their own Mercedeses while totally fucked up when they could afford a dozen chauffeurs a night, doing cocaine at parties, getting pulled over by the cops and just losing their marbles with the "Do You Know Who I Am?" schtick . . .
Ever since William Holden (yo, yo, you too young? Google him) killed an innocent driver on a road in Switzerland by being smashed out of his mind and got away with it pretty much scot-free, "celebrities" and whatever these puffed-up peacocks want to call themselves at any given time have ridden roughshod over the "plebes" as if they were a race apart.
Well, guess what: THEY are a race apart. It's called "Assholes."
Learn the term. Study it. Absorb it. Call me if you have any further questions about the term "Assholes."
My office hours are nine to five. That's P.M.
Oh, celebrities just positively HATE IT when Dull Normals come up and "notice" them during dinner, or some shit like that, yet they persist in driving their own Mercedeses while totally fucked up when they could afford a dozen chauffeurs a night, doing cocaine at parties, getting pulled over by the cops and just losing their marbles with the "Do You Know Who I Am?" schtick . . .
Ever since William Holden (yo, yo, you too young? Google him) killed an innocent driver on a road in Switzerland by being smashed out of his mind and got away with it pretty much scot-free, "celebrities" and whatever these puffed-up peacocks want to call themselves at any given time have ridden roughshod over the "plebes" as if they were a race apart.
Well, guess what: THEY are a race apart. It's called "Assholes."
Learn the term. Study it. Absorb it. Call me if you have any further questions about the term "Assholes."
My office hours are nine to five. That's P.M.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Tsunami
The 2004 tsunami still bothers me. I can't exactly say how, but the sheer insidiousness of it bothers me. I think I mentioned in some post a while back that while I was in Senegal in 1975, a whole passel of freak-sized waves, some over forty feet, slammed into the beach not far from my apartment building. I know you see stuff on TV, like in "Rogue Nature" or some shit, but these waves would have capsized cruise ships. EASILY.
I was awed, and I was just a kid. The fishermen on the beach were awed. We just all sat there and watched them roll in, some, I swear, 90-feet high. The FISHERMEN were scared.
But the tsunami . . . I watch videos of it. Just imagine your living room, and the river overflows. Then the water starts to rise. But it's not this one big awesome wave, it's more like this pervasive, overflowing toilet.
Have you ever been to the beach? Ever stood in a wave that's breaking at your knees? Ever felt the power of that? Just imagine a wave that's breaking above your head.
I'm very far from a beach.
I hope you are too, and you have a 150-foot ladder and don't live near the Andamans.
I was awed, and I was just a kid. The fishermen on the beach were awed. We just all sat there and watched them roll in, some, I swear, 90-feet high. The FISHERMEN were scared.
But the tsunami . . . I watch videos of it. Just imagine your living room, and the river overflows. Then the water starts to rise. But it's not this one big awesome wave, it's more like this pervasive, overflowing toilet.
Have you ever been to the beach? Ever stood in a wave that's breaking at your knees? Ever felt the power of that? Just imagine a wave that's breaking above your head.
I'm very far from a beach.
I hope you are too, and you have a 150-foot ladder and don't live near the Andamans.
Jealous -- Of Myself.
Sorry, dudes and dudettes, to involve you with my guitar playing obsession -- I know it can't possibly interest most of you in the least, but there IS one revelation that might shed some rays, somewhere.
I'm pissed off, royally, at my earlier self. Think about it. We shed so many skin cells per month that, okay, I don't know, but they say that we no longer have any cells that belonged to us every ten years or so. I don't know, but it makes sense. The atoms that were part of me, say, thirty years ago, have, well, departed, replaced with these tired ones.
So when you look at yourself thirty years ago, you're literally looking at a stranger -- someone who once was, but is no longer.
Hey, yo, we all get old, but when I find myself COMPETING with that thirty-year-gone stranger, then I get pissed off. Okay, we can't all do cartwheels across the lawn or swan dive into the pool any more.
But I get pissed off when it comes to playing the guitar. When I listen to my younger self -- maybe 28 years old -- playing this guitar -- I get mighty jealous. I just can't imagine I was able to do that. I pride myself today on my guitar playing and I practice at least once a day, and I think I'm doing well, very well, but I'm nowhere near that maniac with an axe in his hand. That person -- the me that existed then -- was a lunatic. He probably had done several lines of cocaine before the concert -- how the hell am I supposed to remember? But he wails like I can only dream of now.
I don't know him any more. But I respect him. I know I'll never be as good as him, ever again.
But I wish I knew where he's been hiding all those brain cells.
I'm pissed off, royally, at my earlier self. Think about it. We shed so many skin cells per month that, okay, I don't know, but they say that we no longer have any cells that belonged to us every ten years or so. I don't know, but it makes sense. The atoms that were part of me, say, thirty years ago, have, well, departed, replaced with these tired ones.
So when you look at yourself thirty years ago, you're literally looking at a stranger -- someone who once was, but is no longer.
Hey, yo, we all get old, but when I find myself COMPETING with that thirty-year-gone stranger, then I get pissed off. Okay, we can't all do cartwheels across the lawn or swan dive into the pool any more.
But I get pissed off when it comes to playing the guitar. When I listen to my younger self -- maybe 28 years old -- playing this guitar -- I get mighty jealous. I just can't imagine I was able to do that. I pride myself today on my guitar playing and I practice at least once a day, and I think I'm doing well, very well, but I'm nowhere near that maniac with an axe in his hand. That person -- the me that existed then -- was a lunatic. He probably had done several lines of cocaine before the concert -- how the hell am I supposed to remember? But he wails like I can only dream of now.
I don't know him any more. But I respect him. I know I'll never be as good as him, ever again.
But I wish I knew where he's been hiding all those brain cells.
I Had a Dream
I dreamed last night that I put a duck breast with all fat on it in olive oil with ten crushed garlic cloves, chunks of shallots, a bouquet garni, and deep-fried it for twenty minutes.
Then I discarded the solids and used the oil to perfume everything I used oil for for six months.
Do you ever have dreams that actually come to reality?
I Will Do This.
Then I discarded the solids and used the oil to perfume everything I used oil for for six months.
Do you ever have dreams that actually come to reality?
I Will Do This.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The "Argument" Diet.
Very quick way to lose weight (guaranteed to work!)
Have a tiff with your partner. All appetite certain to be lost.
Just thought you should know. It works in 100% of cases.
Have a tiff with your partner. All appetite certain to be lost.
Just thought you should know. It works in 100% of cases.
Love
I loved my father, bless his heaven-living pointy head.
But I didn't like his TV habits. I risk alienating at least a few of you, my faithful, but fucking Quantum CSI x 1,000,000 really got to me. What, what's the name? How many times can you manipulate CSI? Miami? New York? Havana CSI? CSI: Antarctica: McMurdo Sound, Cabin Thirteen? What the fucking FUCK is up with these shitty throwaway "procedural" crime dramas that have not a whit of a basis in reality? It's worse than wasting precious minutes of your life watching a hockey game. But good ol' dad watched them like a monk gazed at the Cross.
Jeopardy. The world came to a screeching halt with Holy Jeopardy.
And what was bad about the whole thing was that he couldn't be swayed. Fuck, "24" came on and he was truly lost to the world.
"Umm, Dad, I'm here visiting you for a week from Montreal and I actually wanted to talk to you about your wartime experiences . . .
?
"
Nope. Alex Trebek trumped all the Nazis he bombed to death.
I am heavily allergic to: sitcoms, procedurals, opera, politics, stock market and baseball, and that's what my dad loved.
Let's just hope Heaven has 500 channels.
But I didn't like his TV habits. I risk alienating at least a few of you, my faithful, but fucking Quantum CSI x 1,000,000 really got to me. What, what's the name? How many times can you manipulate CSI? Miami? New York? Havana CSI? CSI: Antarctica: McMurdo Sound, Cabin Thirteen? What the fucking FUCK is up with these shitty throwaway "procedural" crime dramas that have not a whit of a basis in reality? It's worse than wasting precious minutes of your life watching a hockey game. But good ol' dad watched them like a monk gazed at the Cross.
Jeopardy. The world came to a screeching halt with Holy Jeopardy.
And what was bad about the whole thing was that he couldn't be swayed. Fuck, "24" came on and he was truly lost to the world.
"Umm, Dad, I'm here visiting you for a week from Montreal and I actually wanted to talk to you about your wartime experiences . . .
?
"
Nope. Alex Trebek trumped all the Nazis he bombed to death.
I am heavily allergic to: sitcoms, procedurals, opera, politics, stock market and baseball, and that's what my dad loved.
Let's just hope Heaven has 500 channels.
Brigitte
I know Brigitte doesn't particularly like being mentioned on this blog, but I sometimes have to.
Have you ever been overcharged for some service and sat there meekly and paid for it? I used to do it all the time. I mean, I CAN get angry on the phone but I can't be Brigitte. She used to manage whole apartment buildings, so she knows a lot about idiot bureaucracy.
She tackles these motherfuckers like a pitbull. For some reason, our telephone bill had jumped by roughly 1,000%. Only because I was calling my ex-wife in Japan on her cell phone, as opposed to her landline. Of course, it was always official business, when was I coming to pick up my son, blah blah blah, but Bell Canada neglected to inform us that if we called Japan on her CELL phone, the price would skyrocket from six cents a minute to 39 cents a minute.
As I had to arrange complicated schedules of when I would be picking up my son, I ended up calling quite a lot. A trip to Japan can't be done off the cuff.
So what do you do when you suddenly get a phone bill for $240 as opposed to the usual $60?
Call Brigitte. She flat out refuses to pay it. As I speak she's still on the phone with them. But she'll iron them out.
Then there's the bureaucracy in this building in which I live. I get newspapers delivered to my door on weekends. But if I don't pick them up fast enough, like, after an hour that they're delivered, I get a formal letter of complaint.
But it's good to know that Brigitte is on the case. I'm a milquetoast. But she reduces bureaucrats to gibbering wrecks. You should be so lucky.
Have you ever been overcharged for some service and sat there meekly and paid for it? I used to do it all the time. I mean, I CAN get angry on the phone but I can't be Brigitte. She used to manage whole apartment buildings, so she knows a lot about idiot bureaucracy.
She tackles these motherfuckers like a pitbull. For some reason, our telephone bill had jumped by roughly 1,000%. Only because I was calling my ex-wife in Japan on her cell phone, as opposed to her landline. Of course, it was always official business, when was I coming to pick up my son, blah blah blah, but Bell Canada neglected to inform us that if we called Japan on her CELL phone, the price would skyrocket from six cents a minute to 39 cents a minute.
As I had to arrange complicated schedules of when I would be picking up my son, I ended up calling quite a lot. A trip to Japan can't be done off the cuff.
So what do you do when you suddenly get a phone bill for $240 as opposed to the usual $60?
Call Brigitte. She flat out refuses to pay it. As I speak she's still on the phone with them. But she'll iron them out.
Then there's the bureaucracy in this building in which I live. I get newspapers delivered to my door on weekends. But if I don't pick them up fast enough, like, after an hour that they're delivered, I get a formal letter of complaint.
But it's good to know that Brigitte is on the case. I'm a milquetoast. But she reduces bureaucrats to gibbering wrecks. You should be so lucky.
Miracles Of Science
A nanometer is the length a man's beard grows while his hand raises to shave his face.
A MANOMETER is the length a beard's MAN grows while his face waits for his hand to raise to shave his face.
A WOMANOMETER is the length between a woman's voice-soundwaves and her husband's ear when he turns on "Stargate SG1" when he should be emptying the dishwasher.
A MANOMETER is the length a beard's MAN grows while his face waits for his hand to raise to shave his face.
A WOMANOMETER is the length between a woman's voice-soundwaves and her husband's ear when he turns on "Stargate SG1" when he should be emptying the dishwasher.
What Does an Atom Look Like?
Have you ever wondered what an atom actually LOOKS like? Does it look like that popular 50s illustration of those tiny balls connected with lines buzzing around a nucleus?
Guess again. As you can see from the startling image below, captured by a new breed of supercomputing scanning electron microscope, an individual atom actually looks strikingly like the 80s pop singer George Michael. The resemblance is undeniable, as you can indeed see from this admittedly blurry image.
If estimates are correct, since an average human weighing about 150 lbs. is composed of approximately 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms, more than all the stars in the universe, there are many, many versions of "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" occurring inside you at this very moment. Classical, reggae, country, House, Dub, ska, disco, electronica, Ambient, jazz, blues, rock, metal, Bollywood, you name it. (Either that, or "You Gotta Have Faith.")
Luckily for us all, no public restrooms are involved.
Okay, just kidding. Go read my apology. And the following is what an atoms REALLY looks like:
Guess again. As you can see from the startling image below, captured by a new breed of supercomputing scanning electron microscope, an individual atom actually looks strikingly like the 80s pop singer George Michael. The resemblance is undeniable, as you can indeed see from this admittedly blurry image.
If estimates are correct, since an average human weighing about 150 lbs. is composed of approximately 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms, more than all the stars in the universe, there are many, many versions of "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" occurring inside you at this very moment. Classical, reggae, country, House, Dub, ska, disco, electronica, Ambient, jazz, blues, rock, metal, Bollywood, you name it. (Either that, or "You Gotta Have Faith.")
Luckily for us all, no public restrooms are involved.
Okay, just kidding. Go read my apology. And the following is what an atoms REALLY looks like:
Thursday, September 10, 2009
News
Good people, I have welcome news! Yes, news you need!
It's been confirmed. Kennedy was killed by a lone misfit assassin, who was then killed by a lone misfit assassin, not a mobster.
Man landed on the moon. Really, he did -- there was no elaborate Hollywood production.
And on September 11, 2001, 19 hijackers, most from Saudi Arabia, on the orders of Osama Bin Laden, Sheik Ayman al-Zawahiri and Kalid Sheik Mohammed plunged hijacked planes into various structures. There was no secret Zionist conspiracy. The "Jews" did not "engineer" the whole "operation." The Bush government didn't secretly sabotage the Twin Towers by placing explosives in strategic places so the towers would come down "neatly."
Umm, GET A FUCKING LIFE.
It's been confirmed. Kennedy was killed by a lone misfit assassin, who was then killed by a lone misfit assassin, not a mobster.
Man landed on the moon. Really, he did -- there was no elaborate Hollywood production.
And on September 11, 2001, 19 hijackers, most from Saudi Arabia, on the orders of Osama Bin Laden, Sheik Ayman al-Zawahiri and Kalid Sheik Mohammed plunged hijacked planes into various structures. There was no secret Zionist conspiracy. The "Jews" did not "engineer" the whole "operation." The Bush government didn't secretly sabotage the Twin Towers by placing explosives in strategic places so the towers would come down "neatly."
Umm, GET A FUCKING LIFE.
A Word
I'd like a word with you. Yes, you.
I have a confession to make. I used to never be able to finish anything. Not one thing. An ambitious project would always kind of peter out towards the end, be it a song that I was writing or a drawing I was making (see above, a drawing I made of my band in the 80s. I never finished Mikey, on the right, and he's always held it against me. Of course he does. He's just a head, so he can't punch me until I pencil in his arms. But I'm never going to do that).
But I gradually learned, by hook or crook, that if I DIDN'T finish something I started, and let it lapse, it would lapse forever.
I'm permeable. Not 100% these days any more. But the saying goes, "If it's it's worth doing, it's 100% worth doing." (Plato, or his black sheep cousin, Costa the Greek).
So it bothers me when I see stuff unfinished! We really got into painting our kitchen blue but there have been dings and dangs and we were always supposed to finish it but we never did!
Do I now formally have your permission to blame Brigitte? It eats at me. It subsumes me every time I look at a chip off the paint; the unfinished job.
I'll finish it. Yes, I will, while she's on vacation somewhere in Zimbabwe. I'll show her. I leave no job unpunished. (Sorry, Unfinished).
More Women?
Just watched a report on CBS news that showed data saying that financial firms with women executives did something like 30% better than those with men.
Well, duh. If women ran the world, there would be no more wars. THAT is a categorical statement of fact. There would be no more famine, dictators (hey, who was the last woman dictator? Winnie Mandela?), far less child/domestic abuse, far less addiction, no racism.
Just imagine a world run by women. Not a single testosterone-laden man among them.
And you have a world practically free of suffering. Think about it. You know it's true.
Think long and hard about it.
Well, duh. If women ran the world, there would be no more wars. THAT is a categorical statement of fact. There would be no more famine, dictators (hey, who was the last woman dictator? Winnie Mandela?), far less child/domestic abuse, far less addiction, no racism.
Just imagine a world run by women. Not a single testosterone-laden man among them.
And you have a world practically free of suffering. Think about it. You know it's true.
Think long and hard about it.
On the Same Theme
I think if there really IS anti-matter in the Universe it would be Tom Cruise. Or John Travolta. Can you see how they cancel matter out?
Okay, okay, Oprah, I know, but she's definitely not anti-matter. Hmm, come to think of it, better put Rachel Ray on the list.
Okay, okay, Oprah, I know, but she's definitely not anti-matter. Hmm, come to think of it, better put Rachel Ray on the list.
The Small Bang
Unbeknownst to the majority of scientists: Astronomers, Physicists, Entomologists, Agronomists and Chiropractors, just one millisecond AFTER the Big Bang there was a Small Bang.
In it was Richard Nixon, Herbert Hoover, Jean Chretien and anyone with just one name, like Madonna. This is proven by the Red Shift theory and Planck Time. Oh, I forgot Menudo and The Knack. "Ma-ma-ma-MY SHARONA!"_
Oh, and anyone named Dick.
At least we know about the Small Bang now! Tell your doctor and you might be able to get a discount on minor stars.
In it was Richard Nixon, Herbert Hoover, Jean Chretien and anyone with just one name, like Madonna. This is proven by the Red Shift theory and Planck Time. Oh, I forgot Menudo and The Knack. "Ma-ma-ma-MY SHARONA!"_
Oh, and anyone named Dick.
At least we know about the Small Bang now! Tell your doctor and you might be able to get a discount on minor stars.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I Swear
I can't remember half the posts I've written. But Brigitte hates it when I'm writing one and giggling like a crazed schoolboy. "What are you laughing about?"
I'm frequently at a loss to explain. 90% of the time she won't get it, because I'm in manic schoolboy mode. So she just sighs and attributes me to spoutoff Nick, which I am at at least 90% of my life.
But I still giggle under her blouse, of which I've taken possession. It fits me so well! Now I'm a cross-dresser. So there.
I'm frequently at a loss to explain. 90% of the time she won't get it, because I'm in manic schoolboy mode. So she just sighs and attributes me to spoutoff Nick, which I am at at least 90% of my life.
But I still giggle under her blouse, of which I've taken possession. It fits me so well! Now I'm a cross-dresser. So there.
Jump. Please!
My sister emailed me this article on Golden Gate Bridge jumpers. It's fucking hilarious.
Here's the email I sent back:
Laurie,
Any asshole who decides to jump 200 feet (about 5 stories higher than Rockhill) (the apartments across from me that are 15 storeys high) deserves anything they get. I just don't know why they think water is a better end than concrete. What, a "softer" impact? They drown? Horrifying, especially if you have the misfortune to live. But assholes just insist upon being assholes. What can we do?
Well, it just goes to prove my maxim: that those who want to die should die in the most hideous of ways. Have I ever been proven wrong?
I think I'd be part of that famous crowd who yell "Jump! Jump! Jump!"
It'll free up the gene pool for the rest of us.
Here's the email I sent back:
Laurie,
Any asshole who decides to jump 200 feet (about 5 stories higher than Rockhill) (the apartments across from me that are 15 storeys high) deserves anything they get. I just don't know why they think water is a better end than concrete. What, a "softer" impact? They drown? Horrifying, especially if you have the misfortune to live. But assholes just insist upon being assholes. What can we do?
Well, it just goes to prove my maxim: that those who want to die should die in the most hideous of ways. Have I ever been proven wrong?
I think I'd be part of that famous crowd who yell "Jump! Jump! Jump!"
It'll free up the gene pool for the rest of us.
The Magic Seven Days
It will be seven days tomorrow since I got back from Japan, but apparently that's a milestone, because I'm still not over it. And I seem to be infecting Brigitte as well. We're sleeping like zombies. I'm waking with regularity at 3:30 a.m. Yes, I look at the clock and it's always on or about 3:30 a.m. She's sleeping, but I'm waking.
Then I stay up till daylight. Fucking around on the computer. Answering emails I haven't for weeks. Emailing Brigitte to tell her how much I love her, even though I could just go to the next room, wake her up and tell her (not the same thing -- I always get an unexpected "Awww" and a kiss when I least expect it).
(Least expect it is good).
But if you're going to be a zombie, it's GOOD to recognize that you're a zombie. There is really nothing wrong with that. The moment of realization is always a shock, but the moment of revelation is always bliss. You're a zombie consorting with bats and eschewing humanity, yet not a Goth, which would be a crime, but you are first and foremost a zombie.
No sock puppet army involved.
Then I stay up till daylight. Fucking around on the computer. Answering emails I haven't for weeks. Emailing Brigitte to tell her how much I love her, even though I could just go to the next room, wake her up and tell her (not the same thing -- I always get an unexpected "Awww" and a kiss when I least expect it).
(Least expect it is good).
But if you're going to be a zombie, it's GOOD to recognize that you're a zombie. There is really nothing wrong with that. The moment of realization is always a shock, but the moment of revelation is always bliss. You're a zombie consorting with bats and eschewing humanity, yet not a Goth, which would be a crime, but you are first and foremost a zombie.
No sock puppet army involved.
How Many Times
How many times will the Beatles take my money? How much longer will "Sir" Paul rip me off for the same shit that I paid for forty years ago? And Madame Ono? If I calculated, actually tallied it up, it must be in the thousands that I've paid for their records, tapes and CDs. I am just not making this up.
Yoko is sitting in her fat white universe mourning dear John, who went way before his time but left the business to her, upon which she's cannily reaping, reaping, reaping, as she did when he was alive.
"Sir" Paul is a shrunken vegetarian shell of the shrunken vegetarian shell he was when his pious vegetarian wife went bye-byes long ago. Dude, "Yesterday" is so yesterday.
If you really want to know, I'm never going to pay for Hard Day's Night again. I'm going to pirate it.
You shameless money-grubbing bastards. John would be ashamed of you.
Yoko is sitting in her fat white universe mourning dear John, who went way before his time but left the business to her, upon which she's cannily reaping, reaping, reaping, as she did when he was alive.
"Sir" Paul is a shrunken vegetarian shell of the shrunken vegetarian shell he was when his pious vegetarian wife went bye-byes long ago. Dude, "Yesterday" is so yesterday.
If you really want to know, I'm never going to pay for Hard Day's Night again. I'm going to pirate it.
You shameless money-grubbing bastards. John would be ashamed of you.
Fuck You, Amazon.com
For not allowing Canadians to download music after PAYING FOR IT. What, the fucking Americans are kings of the Universe? You fucking assholes. Get this: I'm American AND Canadian. Shove that up your asses. You just LOST MY FUCKING BUSINESS.
But guess who's waiting in line for the business? BitTorrent, that's who. If I can't buy it, I'm GONNA STEAL IT. Yep, you music industry assholes who want to keep tabs on every fucking song so you can put your cats through school -- you LOST MY BUSINESS, fuckwads. You just FORCE people to steal your overhyped "product." So That's a-what-I'm-a-gonna-do.
Assholes.
But guess who's waiting in line for the business? BitTorrent, that's who. If I can't buy it, I'm GONNA STEAL IT. Yep, you music industry assholes who want to keep tabs on every fucking song so you can put your cats through school -- you LOST MY BUSINESS, fuckwads. You just FORCE people to steal your overhyped "product." So That's a-what-I'm-a-gonna-do.
Assholes.
Truly the End of Summer?
Yesterday Brigitte had me help her dump all our balcony plants. But she forgot that my chilies still had lots of chilies on them and dumped them as well. I managed to rescue four.
Oh well. Now I can finally wear my handsome black coat and impress the Publick, who will think I'm some mafia scumbag. Let 'em imagine. I look pretty fucking cool in that black coat. No one messes with me in that black coat!
But I'm kind of glad summer is over. Believe it or not, it's Back To School for me too!
And I'd better get at least B's this time around.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Responsibility
Hmm, not too sure I want to take on the mantle, but this blog has been mentioned in links as something to do with food. People actually post links to it, calling it "fun."
Fun? Fun? I use this blog to denigrate whole species of animals, let alone people. I rail against even a tiny perceived slight with diatribes worthy of Fidel Castro's legendary six-hour television speeches. This is fun, people?
And hardly a single word about Montreal food! But it seems they no longer care! They link to me anyway, no matter how many times the word "fuck" is inserted in a post. Christians link to me! Well, I guess they know the etymology of "fuck" as well as me.
But you know what? What's going to go onto my headstone? "Montreal food?" Guess again.
It's going to be "Dill-pickle Recipe King." Christ, the last post I ever did about a restaurant was, like, ten years ago.
But they keep linking me anyway. And calling me "fun." Hey, people, I ain't been "fun" since my parietal lobe was accidentally removed with my wisdom tooth in 1986.
Fun? Fun? I use this blog to denigrate whole species of animals, let alone people. I rail against even a tiny perceived slight with diatribes worthy of Fidel Castro's legendary six-hour television speeches. This is fun, people?
And hardly a single word about Montreal food! But it seems they no longer care! They link to me anyway, no matter how many times the word "fuck" is inserted in a post. Christians link to me! Well, I guess they know the etymology of "fuck" as well as me.
But you know what? What's going to go onto my headstone? "Montreal food?" Guess again.
It's going to be "Dill-pickle Recipe King." Christ, the last post I ever did about a restaurant was, like, ten years ago.
But they keep linking me anyway. And calling me "fun." Hey, people, I ain't been "fun" since my parietal lobe was accidentally removed with my wisdom tooth in 1986.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Awwwwww
Koreans have started protesting the age-old tradition of eating dogs, now that so many of them actually sleep with their fuzzy pets.
Haven't they read that famous Korean cookbook entitled "100 Ways To Wok Your Dog"?
Haven't they read that famous Korean cookbook entitled "100 Ways To Wok Your Dog"?
Da Tings I Done Seen
Some things seem like fiction; unimaginable. A "tsunami” sweeping across the ocean and killing hundreds of thousands of people. It’s just not real, despite the evidence before your eyes on television and the Internet.
People don’t REALLY die of cancer slowly and in incredible pain. People don’t die in horrendous car crashes, or plane crashes, for that matter. It’s all a fabrication meant to scare me.
But one thing that I can’t deny is that I lived in Africa in a state controlled by one of the worst dictators on the planet at the time. I can’t deny it, because I was there. Three long years. It affected every facet of our lives. Do take a moment and read the Wikipedia entry of this guy, because unlike everything else that I deny, I was there and it’s true.
I swear, it was only my youth and my white skin that let me escape unscathed from Zaïre.
But read and learn. I, and we, deny so many things just to stay sane, and I’m so glad I sit at a computer tapping on keys instead of being in a prison, or worse, a grave, but sometimes
I’m astonished
At things
I seen.
Wit’ dese eyes o’ mine.
People don’t REALLY die of cancer slowly and in incredible pain. People don’t die in horrendous car crashes, or plane crashes, for that matter. It’s all a fabrication meant to scare me.
But one thing that I can’t deny is that I lived in Africa in a state controlled by one of the worst dictators on the planet at the time. I can’t deny it, because I was there. Three long years. It affected every facet of our lives. Do take a moment and read the Wikipedia entry of this guy, because unlike everything else that I deny, I was there and it’s true.
I swear, it was only my youth and my white skin that let me escape unscathed from Zaïre.
But read and learn. I, and we, deny so many things just to stay sane, and I’m so glad I sit at a computer tapping on keys instead of being in a prison, or worse, a grave, but sometimes
I’m astonished
At things
I seen.
Wit’ dese eyes o’ mine.
Suckerrrrrrs!!!
I have not an iota of sympathy (well, there aren't many iotas of sympathy left) for "investors" who put their life savings into account with snake-oil salesmen like Bernie Madoff or Earl Jones.
They'd have been better off stowing their greed under a new mattress. My heart bleeds when I read that they actually expected 15% returns on their investment and didn't smell 10,000 rats in a dingy sewer.
Hey, I've got one for you sobbing fuckwads: My uncle dies leaving behind a $120M inheritance, but due to my living here in Lagos, I can't put it in any corrupt bank. Just give me your account details and you get 10% . . .
Name of Joseph Mobutu. Bwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!
They'd have been better off stowing their greed under a new mattress. My heart bleeds when I read that they actually expected 15% returns on their investment and didn't smell 10,000 rats in a dingy sewer.
Hey, I've got one for you sobbing fuckwads: My uncle dies leaving behind a $120M inheritance, but due to my living here in Lagos, I can't put it in any corrupt bank. Just give me your account details and you get 10% . . .
Name of Joseph Mobutu. Bwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!
Desert Island Needs
I'm washed ashore on an island near Kolombangara, the Solomons. It's just me; no humans for a thousand miles, no hope of rescue.
Luckily, a pallet of stuff that I'd been saving for just this moment washes ashore with me! But what's in it? In no order of preference:
1. A case of a thousand boxes of Kleenex. That might last a year. I seem to have a permanent case of sniffles.
2. My laptop, Miraculously, limitless high-speed Internet seems to be available on the island, and there's also a 100V outlet on the side of a sand dune, thank Kon-Tiki.
3. The books I miraculously put on the pallet. All my explorer stuff and Tintin. That'll last at least a year, with many repeat readings.
4. Ten thousand cases of Boréale Cuivrée beer. Should last me at least a year, or until they come to rescue me; whichever's first. The water around there is cold, so that's where I park all 10,000 cases. Message in a bottle times 120,000!
5. 100,000 hot dogs, with plenty of mustard and relish and sesame seed buns that somehow have a stale-proof ingredient built in.
6. Wine and champagne. Too many bottles to count right now.
7. A semi-acoustic guitar with 100 extra string changes.
8. An eternally looping 100-hour jam track on some large, good-sounding boom box.
9. Lots of baby oil for the sunbathing that will take place all day, every day.
10. Brigitte.
Luckily, a pallet of stuff that I'd been saving for just this moment washes ashore with me! But what's in it? In no order of preference:
1. A case of a thousand boxes of Kleenex. That might last a year. I seem to have a permanent case of sniffles.
2. My laptop, Miraculously, limitless high-speed Internet seems to be available on the island, and there's also a 100V outlet on the side of a sand dune, thank Kon-Tiki.
3. The books I miraculously put on the pallet. All my explorer stuff and Tintin. That'll last at least a year, with many repeat readings.
4. Ten thousand cases of Boréale Cuivrée beer. Should last me at least a year, or until they come to rescue me; whichever's first. The water around there is cold, so that's where I park all 10,000 cases. Message in a bottle times 120,000!
5. 100,000 hot dogs, with plenty of mustard and relish and sesame seed buns that somehow have a stale-proof ingredient built in.
6. Wine and champagne. Too many bottles to count right now.
7. A semi-acoustic guitar with 100 extra string changes.
8. An eternally looping 100-hour jam track on some large, good-sounding boom box.
9. Lots of baby oil for the sunbathing that will take place all day, every day.
10. Brigitte.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Nelson Goes To India
(For the uninitiated, this is an ongoing story perpetrated by three people -- so far -- with as many twists and turns as an Afghan haircut). (N) is Nick. (K) is Knatolee. (P) is Pooka. If you want to add to it, just add a comment and I'll incorporate it in the next iteration. We need Nelson to have a GOOD life.
==============================================================================
Nelson was just trying to mind his own business at the beach that day, but suddenly a shadow cut off his sun. (N)
"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 irresistible 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 texts 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-Remington 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)
Nelson had been felled by a pellet fired by the Megapeople while he sat innocently on his balcony. It came from nowhere and the effects lasted several days, but finally he was coming through the fog. (N)
(Two weeks later): There was a storm brewing in the skies above White Plains, Minnesota. Not that Nelson knew anything about it, since he lived on an island called Khanayam just southeast of Java. But it spelled trouble. (For the BUFFALO, silly people, not NELSON).
But he snapped awake, and, in his concern for the buffalo that he didn’t know about, made a small prayer circle and summoned the Secret Hand, something he had been meaning to do anyway all these days. (Toes extra, but consult your flyer, possibly all the way thru Saturday).
There was a rush and a whoosh and the Secret Hand appeared as his small circle widened in the Javan dust.
“NELSON!” a sudden voice thundered, and he knew it was the Secret Hand, “NELSON!”
He quickly grabbed a beer from the fridge and came back to the prayer circle. THIS was going to be a show he didn’t want to miss. (N).
And Dr. Sloth whispered, "I love a man who can make a good buffalo mozzarella!" (K).
“Hmm,” Nelson pondered after he sat down with his beer and stared at the Secret Hand, “Pizza.”(N)
Yes, the Secret Hand was actually a pizza which was made with not only mozzarella but some yummy Abbamare, a semi-soft cheese made from a mixture of cows’ and sheep’s milk. mixed with Madonie Provola, a stretched curd cows’ milk cheese made in the mountains of Madonie in the province of Palermo, and it was these 3 cheeses that gave the Secret Hand pizza the ability to speak. (P)
“Wow,” thought Nelson, “gotta love Madonie Provola. Mom made those. I still remember them.” (N)
And then he thought, “Hey, enough of Dr. Sloth! I’ll just hire the Megapeople and the Chinese hordes and find his little spider hole in the hinterlands and eliminate him! The Secret Hand pizza will have to help me, of course.” (N)
And then Nelson had the most brilliant thought: wouldn't Secret Hand pizza be a fabulous appetizer for the wedding meal? (K)
But the Abbamare, the semi-soft cheese, was a problem. He’d never seen it at the cheese store. And he was getting cold feet about the wedding. It was coming up that Sunday and the preparations for it were vast.
The entire Nelson clan would be attending — and there were a lot of them. He’d rented the nearby Quezar Stadium but it still only held 12,000 people and he knew there were more Nelsons than that.
Plus, he hadn’t hired the caterers yet and had a budget of $456. (N)
And if you counted all the non-human Nelsons, the total for the wedding would be in the hundred thousand figure so Nelson had to think quickly about how he could possibly feed and seat that many Nelsons with only $456.00, but he soon came up with a brilliant plan which was to take the entire $456.00 and buy lottery tickets with the numbers given to him by The Secret Hand which gave Nelson new confidence that his upcoming nuptials would be a wedding to remember. (P)
Yes, it was truly a brilliant plan, because the Secret Hand knew a man named Slonen, who worked for the lottery corporation. Slonen was privy to all the upcoming numbers and the jackpot for that weekend was $14.8 million. Nelson would win it, even save $455 out of the $456, because the winning ticket only cost one dollar, so he’d have enough to feed ALL the Nelsons, human and non-human, and then buy what he’d always wanted: a pet raccoon.
He thought he might name it Nelson, if it were a boy. He hadn’t yet thought of a name if it were a girl. (N)
And then it came to him, in a thundery flash of brilliance eerily reminiscent of an A-bomb dropping on some Godforsaken south Pacific atoll: if the raccoon was a girl, he'd name it... Nelsonette. (K)
Nelson remembered that A-bomb test. It was code-named “Slenon” and it had obliterated the entire Cargo-cult-worshipping tribe of Vanuatu. This was technically a good thing, as they had been waiting for the coming of John Frum, the long-awaited White God, who for sure was delayed at Gate 26 due to a snowstorm in the southwest.
The words echoed in his brain: "'E look like you. 'E got white face. 'E tall man. 'E live 'long South America."
And he decided to name his raccoon, if it were a girl, "Nelsonette."(N)
But Nelson should have known not to become complacent. Dr. Sloth/Chang and the Evil Gordini had not been idle. They had “reached out” and gotten Slonen. Nelson, exultant when he actually won the 14.8 million dollars with his one-dollar ticket, deposited it in his checking account. “At last,” he crowed, “I can pay off all my debts and finance my wedding and feed all 14,054 Nelsons at the same time!”
He was in a jaunty mood when he rerturned home from the bank and made himself a BLT with fat bacon, very old cheddar cheese and crisp, crisp lettuce from the farmers’ market. “Hmm, mustard or no mustard?” he contemplated as he absent-mindedly sautéed the bacon.
He didn’t know that Chang/Sloth and Gordini had turned the tables on him. There would be no miraculous wedding, because in actuality, his bank account had been DEBITED 14.8 million dollars due to a quickly-executed Ponzi scheme (8.3 hours, a Guinness World Record verified by J. Alan Richter from Guinness Publishing, jalanrichter@guinness.com) so now instead of being able to feed the Nelson masses, he was on the run from his creditors.
There was only one solution. The Secret Hand had failed him. What was he going to do? (N)
(Here the document becomes difficult to read. Perhaps coffee stains. But it seems something happened to Nelson that left him unable to write, for at least a month. However, as you will see, Nelson was not done yet).
Nelson was not in the habit of revealing his first name to anyone, lest he be distinguished from others of the Nelson clan and possibly singled out for revenge by the Senlons, due to an ancient vendetta that stretched back over centuries. The Senlons would have no mercy if they found Nelson. So he wouldn’t tell anyone his first name was “Hieronymous.”
But now Nelson was back, and he was hungry. For Indian food, perhaps at Maison India. How could he stop watching “King Kong,” take a shower and persuade bride McNelson to take him to Maison India for the Chicken Bangalore Phal that he craved? It certainly didn’t help that he had no money. No money would buy no samosas, that was for sure. (N)
==============================================================================
Nelson was just trying to mind his own business at the beach that day, but suddenly a shadow cut off his sun. (N)
"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 irresistible 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 texts 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-Remington 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)
Nelson had been felled by a pellet fired by the Megapeople while he sat innocently on his balcony. It came from nowhere and the effects lasted several days, but finally he was coming through the fog. (N)
(Two weeks later): There was a storm brewing in the skies above White Plains, Minnesota. Not that Nelson knew anything about it, since he lived on an island called Khanayam just southeast of Java. But it spelled trouble. (For the BUFFALO, silly people, not NELSON).
But he snapped awake, and, in his concern for the buffalo that he didn’t know about, made a small prayer circle and summoned the Secret Hand, something he had been meaning to do anyway all these days. (Toes extra, but consult your flyer, possibly all the way thru Saturday).
There was a rush and a whoosh and the Secret Hand appeared as his small circle widened in the Javan dust.
“NELSON!” a sudden voice thundered, and he knew it was the Secret Hand, “NELSON!”
He quickly grabbed a beer from the fridge and came back to the prayer circle. THIS was going to be a show he didn’t want to miss. (N).
And Dr. Sloth whispered, "I love a man who can make a good buffalo mozzarella!" (K).
“Hmm,” Nelson pondered after he sat down with his beer and stared at the Secret Hand, “Pizza.”(N)
Yes, the Secret Hand was actually a pizza which was made with not only mozzarella but some yummy Abbamare, a semi-soft cheese made from a mixture of cows’ and sheep’s milk. mixed with Madonie Provola, a stretched curd cows’ milk cheese made in the mountains of Madonie in the province of Palermo, and it was these 3 cheeses that gave the Secret Hand pizza the ability to speak. (P)
“Wow,” thought Nelson, “gotta love Madonie Provola. Mom made those. I still remember them.” (N)
And then he thought, “Hey, enough of Dr. Sloth! I’ll just hire the Megapeople and the Chinese hordes and find his little spider hole in the hinterlands and eliminate him! The Secret Hand pizza will have to help me, of course.” (N)
And then Nelson had the most brilliant thought: wouldn't Secret Hand pizza be a fabulous appetizer for the wedding meal? (K)
But the Abbamare, the semi-soft cheese, was a problem. He’d never seen it at the cheese store. And he was getting cold feet about the wedding. It was coming up that Sunday and the preparations for it were vast.
The entire Nelson clan would be attending — and there were a lot of them. He’d rented the nearby Quezar Stadium but it still only held 12,000 people and he knew there were more Nelsons than that.
Plus, he hadn’t hired the caterers yet and had a budget of $456. (N)
And if you counted all the non-human Nelsons, the total for the wedding would be in the hundred thousand figure so Nelson had to think quickly about how he could possibly feed and seat that many Nelsons with only $456.00, but he soon came up with a brilliant plan which was to take the entire $456.00 and buy lottery tickets with the numbers given to him by The Secret Hand which gave Nelson new confidence that his upcoming nuptials would be a wedding to remember. (P)
Yes, it was truly a brilliant plan, because the Secret Hand knew a man named Slonen, who worked for the lottery corporation. Slonen was privy to all the upcoming numbers and the jackpot for that weekend was $14.8 million. Nelson would win it, even save $455 out of the $456, because the winning ticket only cost one dollar, so he’d have enough to feed ALL the Nelsons, human and non-human, and then buy what he’d always wanted: a pet raccoon.
He thought he might name it Nelson, if it were a boy. He hadn’t yet thought of a name if it were a girl. (N)
And then it came to him, in a thundery flash of brilliance eerily reminiscent of an A-bomb dropping on some Godforsaken south Pacific atoll: if the raccoon was a girl, he'd name it... Nelsonette. (K)
Nelson remembered that A-bomb test. It was code-named “Slenon” and it had obliterated the entire Cargo-cult-worshipping tribe of Vanuatu. This was technically a good thing, as they had been waiting for the coming of John Frum, the long-awaited White God, who for sure was delayed at Gate 26 due to a snowstorm in the southwest.
The words echoed in his brain: "'E look like you. 'E got white face. 'E tall man. 'E live 'long South America."
And he decided to name his raccoon, if it were a girl, "Nelsonette."(N)
But Nelson should have known not to become complacent. Dr. Sloth/Chang and the Evil Gordini had not been idle. They had “reached out” and gotten Slonen. Nelson, exultant when he actually won the 14.8 million dollars with his one-dollar ticket, deposited it in his checking account. “At last,” he crowed, “I can pay off all my debts and finance my wedding and feed all 14,054 Nelsons at the same time!”
He was in a jaunty mood when he rerturned home from the bank and made himself a BLT with fat bacon, very old cheddar cheese and crisp, crisp lettuce from the farmers’ market. “Hmm, mustard or no mustard?” he contemplated as he absent-mindedly sautéed the bacon.
He didn’t know that Chang/Sloth and Gordini had turned the tables on him. There would be no miraculous wedding, because in actuality, his bank account had been DEBITED 14.8 million dollars due to a quickly-executed Ponzi scheme (8.3 hours, a Guinness World Record verified by J. Alan Richter from Guinness Publishing, jalanrichter@guinness.com) so now instead of being able to feed the Nelson masses, he was on the run from his creditors.
There was only one solution. The Secret Hand had failed him. What was he going to do? (N)
(Here the document becomes difficult to read. Perhaps coffee stains. But it seems something happened to Nelson that left him unable to write, for at least a month. However, as you will see, Nelson was not done yet).
Nelson was not in the habit of revealing his first name to anyone, lest he be distinguished from others of the Nelson clan and possibly singled out for revenge by the Senlons, due to an ancient vendetta that stretched back over centuries. The Senlons would have no mercy if they found Nelson. So he wouldn’t tell anyone his first name was “Hieronymous.”
But now Nelson was back, and he was hungry. For Indian food, perhaps at Maison India. How could he stop watching “King Kong,” take a shower and persuade bride McNelson to take him to Maison India for the Chicken Bangalore Phal that he craved? It certainly didn’t help that he had no money. No money would buy no samosas, that was for sure. (N)
Awake
I find myself constantly awake in the wee small hours, now. It doesn't matter where I am. Japan, California, hotel or home, I wake at around 4 and stay awake till about 7.
Why?
It's the reason I could not possibly spring for a nine-to-fiver. Even when I HAD a nine-to-fiver I remember setting the alarm for 4 a.m. so I could wake up, drink wine, and listen to Frank Sinatra. Then I'd call in sick. I SABOTAGED that job, let me tell you.
I try to come up with explanations. There is no possibility of the phone ringing at 4 a.m. There are no buses, sirens or traffic in the street. Simply, almost NO ONE is awake!
I can read my book if I want to. Brigitte is fast asleep and will stay that way for a long, long time. I revel in the relative silence that the early morning brings. The late-night thoughts that would never occur to you during a typical day . . . that's when I come alive. It's been that way almost all my 51 years and it seems to still be the way now.
What say we vampires get together one of these nights? I make a killer Bloody Caesar.
Why?
It's the reason I could not possibly spring for a nine-to-fiver. Even when I HAD a nine-to-fiver I remember setting the alarm for 4 a.m. so I could wake up, drink wine, and listen to Frank Sinatra. Then I'd call in sick. I SABOTAGED that job, let me tell you.
I try to come up with explanations. There is no possibility of the phone ringing at 4 a.m. There are no buses, sirens or traffic in the street. Simply, almost NO ONE is awake!
I can read my book if I want to. Brigitte is fast asleep and will stay that way for a long, long time. I revel in the relative silence that the early morning brings. The late-night thoughts that would never occur to you during a typical day . . . that's when I come alive. It's been that way almost all my 51 years and it seems to still be the way now.
What say we vampires get together one of these nights? I make a killer Bloody Caesar.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Impossibly
I swear, if he weren't my son I'd idolise him. How did I get the luck to have such a handsome boy? He's impossibly handsome, and it isn't just his dad talking. He is, hands down, the cutest kid I ever saw!
If only he wouldn't spill his apple juice.
Smart! Me Smart.
What to you would be the ideal midnight snack? I’ve had many lifetimes to think about this.
Here’s what I came up with:
It couldn’t be a continuation of last night’s dinner. Ain’t happening. Has to be totally new to the tastebuds.
Five o’clock in the morning is not conducive to cooking. Max is ten minutes to prepare. We are not Dagwood. We do not construct a sandwich out of twenty ingredients. We do not boil pasta.
Vegetables do not qualify for midnight snacks. Vegetables are, and should remain, vegetables. They’re okay when mixed in with non-vegetables, but a late-nite snack is not reheated broccoli.
Hot dogs. They’re extremely versatile. You can boil ‘em, broil ‘em or froil ‘em. Okay, the last is my invention (but you should taste a froiled hot dog!)
But with a can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee Ravioli you have a meal in a can in three minutes wth a sliced all-beef hot dog!
Pizza. NEVER cold, are you insane, you roving pack of starving canines? HEATED in the toaster oven. Comes in under the ten-minute limit.
Spaghetti. It’s kind of yucky reheated but it works in a pinch. But ONLY IF YOU UNDERCOOKED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE. Plus anything microwaved always ends up being TOO FUCKING HOT.
Popcorn, but only with lots of butter, white vinegar and Southwest Spice. But messy, messy.
No, no . . . here’s the secret. Get your PARTNER to make you a BLT from scratch while you continue to watch the movie, and make sure they layer it correctly, with the right mixture of mustard and mayo and the tomatoes not too thick.
THAT’s the best midnight snack you’ll ever have.
See? You can’t call me not smart.
Here’s what I came up with:
It couldn’t be a continuation of last night’s dinner. Ain’t happening. Has to be totally new to the tastebuds.
Five o’clock in the morning is not conducive to cooking. Max is ten minutes to prepare. We are not Dagwood. We do not construct a sandwich out of twenty ingredients. We do not boil pasta.
Vegetables do not qualify for midnight snacks. Vegetables are, and should remain, vegetables. They’re okay when mixed in with non-vegetables, but a late-nite snack is not reheated broccoli.
Hot dogs. They’re extremely versatile. You can boil ‘em, broil ‘em or froil ‘em. Okay, the last is my invention (but you should taste a froiled hot dog!)
But with a can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee Ravioli you have a meal in a can in three minutes wth a sliced all-beef hot dog!
Pizza. NEVER cold, are you insane, you roving pack of starving canines? HEATED in the toaster oven. Comes in under the ten-minute limit.
Spaghetti. It’s kind of yucky reheated but it works in a pinch. But ONLY IF YOU UNDERCOOKED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE. Plus anything microwaved always ends up being TOO FUCKING HOT.
Popcorn, but only with lots of butter, white vinegar and Southwest Spice. But messy, messy.
No, no . . . here’s the secret. Get your PARTNER to make you a BLT from scratch while you continue to watch the movie, and make sure they layer it correctly, with the right mixture of mustard and mayo and the tomatoes not too thick.
THAT’s the best midnight snack you’ll ever have.
See? You can’t call me not smart.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Home Again Home Again, Lickety-Split
Do you realise that in the 1600s, it took two years for Europeans to travel to Japan? ONE WAY.
They either had to go through the dreaded Pass of Magellan, at the bottom of South America, which is one of the world's most tempestuous waterways on a GOOD day, or the Cape of Good Hope, at the bottom of Africa. (Great name, no? Some mariner had a sense of humor).
But it took two years -- in a rat-infested, leaking tub of timbers sawn together in haste, little or no food, hostile natives at every port . . . well, at least they didn't have to go through Security and remove their shoes every few hours.
But I did it all in reverse, in 24 hours, yesterday. Yep, sailed all the way from The Japans in 24 hours. I think that's at least a 1,000% improvement in time savings from the old seafarers.
But in neurons lost? Priceless. The sheer mind-numbing tedium of airports -- they might as well be re-christened "bus stations" -- makes air travel today, well, just a chore.
I made it. I woke up today in my own bed but didn't realise it, I thought I was in a hotel or a hospital or a Hell, but when I discovered I was home, a wash of amazement such as you ain't seen greasently, bruddah, swept over my soul.
Home.
Home.
Repeat after me: home.
Details at 11.
They either had to go through the dreaded Pass of Magellan, at the bottom of South America, which is one of the world's most tempestuous waterways on a GOOD day, or the Cape of Good Hope, at the bottom of Africa. (Great name, no? Some mariner had a sense of humor).
But it took two years -- in a rat-infested, leaking tub of timbers sawn together in haste, little or no food, hostile natives at every port . . . well, at least they didn't have to go through Security and remove their shoes every few hours.
But I did it all in reverse, in 24 hours, yesterday. Yep, sailed all the way from The Japans in 24 hours. I think that's at least a 1,000% improvement in time savings from the old seafarers.
But in neurons lost? Priceless. The sheer mind-numbing tedium of airports -- they might as well be re-christened "bus stations" -- makes air travel today, well, just a chore.
I made it. I woke up today in my own bed but didn't realise it, I thought I was in a hotel or a hospital or a Hell, but when I discovered I was home, a wash of amazement such as you ain't seen greasently, bruddah, swept over my soul.
Home.
Home.
Repeat after me: home.
Details at 11.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Disparagement
I know I disparage Japan every opportunity I get, but as I prepare to get my shit wired tight for the coming ordeal I can't help but look out the window at the incredible coming of the dawn over Osaka Bay from 40 stories up.
This video just can't do it justice. I'll bring a true video camera next time, but it's awe-inspiring.
See you soon.
How blue can blue be?
This video just can't do it justice. I'll bring a true video camera next time, but it's awe-inspiring.
See you soon.
How blue can blue be?
4 O'Clock In The Morning
"I'm leavin', on a jet plane,
Don't know when I'll be back again . . ."
Dep. 8:45 a.m., and I know I'll be back at Christmas. Saying goodbye to my son was miserable. He's now at an age (8) at which he actually realises the consequences of Daddy leaving, ie. he won't be seeing me again for many months, unlike before, when he was too young and somehow thought I was going out for a stroll.
So he cried, and what could I do? I cried too. I remembered all too well those ugly days when I had to go to boarding school in England -- I was just a year older than him -- and it came time to contemplate being separated from my mother. Basically, it was like going into the pen.
I tried every trick in the book, but nothing ever worked. I'd cry until no tears would come any more, just a red face and swollen eyes, but I still got on that plane. They were of the school of "Let him cry, he'll get over it."
Well, I never got over it and still haven't to this day. Abandonment is not pretty. At least Tai-chan isn't being abandoned, but still, living in Japan pretty much constitutes abandonment to me.
But I got my revenge. I lay in wait for years until the opportunity came and then I pounced. My elder brother, who went to the same school as me, and I were stranded at Brussels airport because of a blizzard, on our way to England from Africa, where we lived. We had hours to kill. And I had a return ticket in my pocket. And there was a flight leaving for Zaïre that very same evening.
In a life-changing moment, I decided I was going to be on that flight, and my brother agreed. Even egged me on. I would escape and he would live the escape vicariously. For a 14-year-old, that was quite a crazy thing to contemplate.
It took at least three hours for us to make the decision, but in the end, he ushered me to the gate and I said goodbye. He had his own flight to England to think about.
I remember arriving in Kinshasa, a boy well-versed in the ways of corrupt customs and immigration, and made my way to a taxi, in which I proceeded to light the first cigarette of my new freedom. They were called 555s.
I remember walking up on the porch, where my parents were reading the newspaper and my father was getting ready for work.
They freaked.
Some day I'll tell you what happened after that, but right now I'm waaaay off-topic.
Anyway, this is a fantastic hotel -- at around 4:50 p.m. I went out, but stopped by the front desk to ask if they could clean the room, but he apologized and said the cutoff was 5, so sorry.
Yet when I got back, guess what -- they'd cleaned the room. Nice to know when you're in good hands.
You will hear nothing further until I am safely lying in my bed in Montreal Thursday night. No doubt the adventures and rants will be many.
Cheers from the Land of the Crying Son.
Don't know when I'll be back again . . ."
Dep. 8:45 a.m., and I know I'll be back at Christmas. Saying goodbye to my son was miserable. He's now at an age (8) at which he actually realises the consequences of Daddy leaving, ie. he won't be seeing me again for many months, unlike before, when he was too young and somehow thought I was going out for a stroll.
So he cried, and what could I do? I cried too. I remembered all too well those ugly days when I had to go to boarding school in England -- I was just a year older than him -- and it came time to contemplate being separated from my mother. Basically, it was like going into the pen.
I tried every trick in the book, but nothing ever worked. I'd cry until no tears would come any more, just a red face and swollen eyes, but I still got on that plane. They were of the school of "Let him cry, he'll get over it."
Well, I never got over it and still haven't to this day. Abandonment is not pretty. At least Tai-chan isn't being abandoned, but still, living in Japan pretty much constitutes abandonment to me.
But I got my revenge. I lay in wait for years until the opportunity came and then I pounced. My elder brother, who went to the same school as me, and I were stranded at Brussels airport because of a blizzard, on our way to England from Africa, where we lived. We had hours to kill. And I had a return ticket in my pocket. And there was a flight leaving for Zaïre that very same evening.
In a life-changing moment, I decided I was going to be on that flight, and my brother agreed. Even egged me on. I would escape and he would live the escape vicariously. For a 14-year-old, that was quite a crazy thing to contemplate.
It took at least three hours for us to make the decision, but in the end, he ushered me to the gate and I said goodbye. He had his own flight to England to think about.
I remember arriving in Kinshasa, a boy well-versed in the ways of corrupt customs and immigration, and made my way to a taxi, in which I proceeded to light the first cigarette of my new freedom. They were called 555s.
I remember walking up on the porch, where my parents were reading the newspaper and my father was getting ready for work.
They freaked.
Some day I'll tell you what happened after that, but right now I'm waaaay off-topic.
Anyway, this is a fantastic hotel -- at around 4:50 p.m. I went out, but stopped by the front desk to ask if they could clean the room, but he apologized and said the cutoff was 5, so sorry.
Yet when I got back, guess what -- they'd cleaned the room. Nice to know when you're in good hands.
You will hear nothing further until I am safely lying in my bed in Montreal Thursday night. No doubt the adventures and rants will be many.
Cheers from the Land of the Crying Son.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)