I want a room; just paint it black
Just like some burned sugar shack.
Where I can't see spiders roam
Just a room to call my home.
In the spring and in the fall
I want a room that has it all.
Forty-four inch TV
Big enough for you and me.
In my room I want some beer
In a tiny fridge, right here.
Then if you could grant me chips
I could promise Battleships.
I will win and then you will
And then have sandwiches with dill.
I want a room, quite mostly black
Just like some burned sugar shack.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Ordering McDonald's in Japanese for a Japanese
There was a guy -- I remember his name: Vincent Bandoh. He was from Vancouver and somehow he had found his place teaching English in Japan, alongside me. This must have been 1990 or so -- he must be in his forties now.
But Vince had a problem. He looked Japanese, acted Japanese, but couldn't speak Japanese to climb a tree. He WAS Japanese, but he told me his parents spoke to him in Japanese but he spoke English back. Because he really, really, couldn't speak hardly a word.
So when we went to the McDonald's, everyone was confused. We had to order, but the waitress was looking at Vince. She refused to look at me, no matter how confused Vince looked. When he started telling me his order (he couldn't even read Japanese) and I started telling her, she still ignored me, expecting some kind of "Japaneseness" or maybe "Asianness" out of him.
When I finally put him out of his misery by ordering for him, he was a trembling wreck.
"Vince," I said, "You LOOK Japanese, ACT Japanese and ARE Japanese, so you kind of have to LEARN Japanese."
He looked at me and said "You really think so?"
But Vince had a problem. He looked Japanese, acted Japanese, but couldn't speak Japanese to climb a tree. He WAS Japanese, but he told me his parents spoke to him in Japanese but he spoke English back. Because he really, really, couldn't speak hardly a word.
So when we went to the McDonald's, everyone was confused. We had to order, but the waitress was looking at Vince. She refused to look at me, no matter how confused Vince looked. When he started telling me his order (he couldn't even read Japanese) and I started telling her, she still ignored me, expecting some kind of "Japaneseness" or maybe "Asianness" out of him.
When I finally put him out of his misery by ordering for him, he was a trembling wreck.
"Vince," I said, "You LOOK Japanese, ACT Japanese and ARE Japanese, so you kind of have to LEARN Japanese."
He looked at me and said "You really think so?"
Dracula
Oh, shiite, did he really sleep all day and stay up all night? Good ol' Vlad wasn't like me.
But my friends have called me a vampire. It's 6:33 a.m. and I'm just getting started. (Oh wait, the sun'll come up soon!)
And it seems that my DNA is in full working order: Tai-chan is on Brigitte's piece-o'-shit Windows laptop (sorry, ingrained prejudice) as we speak. So we're father-and-son vampires now.
Brigitte is not a vampire -- at least it seems that when first light comes, her first instinct is not to go to sleep.
But me . . . it's Halloween every day of the year. Flapping wings extra at checkstand D on Aisle 4.
But my friends have called me a vampire. It's 6:33 a.m. and I'm just getting started. (Oh wait, the sun'll come up soon!)
And it seems that my DNA is in full working order: Tai-chan is on Brigitte's piece-o'-shit Windows laptop (sorry, ingrained prejudice) as we speak. So we're father-and-son vampires now.
Brigitte is not a vampire -- at least it seems that when first light comes, her first instinct is not to go to sleep.
But me . . . it's Halloween every day of the year. Flapping wings extra at checkstand D on Aisle 4.
A Penguin Walks Into a . . . Well, You Know The Rest
I swear, where do human beings come up with jokes? I mean, really clever jokes.
Dogs have jokes, but they never let on that they're joking; that's part of the joke. Even cats have jokes, and fish have special jokes only understandable to themselves. Forget about it, you will never see the humour in a fish joke. You can try, and I can try, but the old "Why are fish wet all the time? Why don't they take a bath and dry out in front of a warm fire with a cognac" doesn't work for fish.
But the cream of the crop is the " . . . goes into a bar" joke. Who the hell came up with the concept, and why is the bartender always this hapless dope, and his first name is always "Bartender?" Why isn't his first name "Neil" or "Adam", and by the way, why can't she be a she, this being an equal-opportunity world? (Oh, okay, then she would be the "bartendress." Or not).
But anything involving the word "penguin" to me is funny, so here's the joke:
A penguin walks into a bar, goes to the counter, and asks the bartender, "Have you seen my brother?" The bartender asks, "I don't know, what does he look like?"
Dogs have jokes, but they never let on that they're joking; that's part of the joke. Even cats have jokes, and fish have special jokes only understandable to themselves. Forget about it, you will never see the humour in a fish joke. You can try, and I can try, but the old "Why are fish wet all the time? Why don't they take a bath and dry out in front of a warm fire with a cognac" doesn't work for fish.
But the cream of the crop is the " . . . goes into a bar" joke. Who the hell came up with the concept, and why is the bartender always this hapless dope, and his first name is always "Bartender?" Why isn't his first name "Neil" or "Adam", and by the way, why can't she be a she, this being an equal-opportunity world? (Oh, okay, then she would be the "bartendress." Or not).
But anything involving the word "penguin" to me is funny, so here's the joke:
A penguin walks into a bar, goes to the counter, and asks the bartender, "Have you seen my brother?" The bartender asks, "I don't know, what does he look like?"
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Building a Relationship 2
I wrote a piece a while back here.
But it seems as fresh today as when I wrote it.
In this case, it's not the Server, but the Master. Namely, Maurizio at Basi next to Jean-Talon market.
He's the owner, but even though I recognize in his young face the world-weariness that I so often feel, Maurizio somehow makes a point of making a point of making time for others. I would NOT want to do what he does; raise a small child and make sure a restaurant is humming 24/7 (even though it's not in a row, it's still 24/7) because frankly, sometimes putting pasta in the microwave is a stretch for me.
But there are saints, and there are saints. And Maurizio is a saint. So when we called to ask for New Year's Eve reservations for three on his answering machine, he called back right away. And when we needed to change them to the second sitting, he pretty much invited us to be there at midnight.
If you ever get a chance, look up Maurizio at Basi. If there was ever a guarantee on this Earth, it's a guarantee that he'll guarantee the best experience on this earth, and follow it up while he's at it, too.
But it seems as fresh today as when I wrote it.
In this case, it's not the Server, but the Master. Namely, Maurizio at Basi next to Jean-Talon market.
He's the owner, but even though I recognize in his young face the world-weariness that I so often feel, Maurizio somehow makes a point of making a point of making time for others. I would NOT want to do what he does; raise a small child and make sure a restaurant is humming 24/7 (even though it's not in a row, it's still 24/7) because frankly, sometimes putting pasta in the microwave is a stretch for me.
But there are saints, and there are saints. And Maurizio is a saint. So when we called to ask for New Year's Eve reservations for three on his answering machine, he called back right away. And when we needed to change them to the second sitting, he pretty much invited us to be there at midnight.
If you ever get a chance, look up Maurizio at Basi. If there was ever a guarantee on this Earth, it's a guarantee that he'll guarantee the best experience on this earth, and follow it up while he's at it, too.
Warning: Rant Quotient EXTREMELY HIGH
Before you go any further with your reading pleasure please be warned of the following carryon items:
People of a religious nature may be offended, people of certain political affiliations may also be offended, and people who have allergies (to particular cuss words and general generalisations) may choose to board SOME OTHER FUCKING CARRIER.
Ready, now that we have all the fucking disclaimers out of the way?
Here we go:
WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM WITH ISLAM? WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THESE PEOPLE THAT THEY ENDEAVOUR TO BE THE NEW NAZIS OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD?
WHY
DON'T
THEY
JUST
GET A JOB
AND STOP TRYING TO WIPE OUT CIVILIZATION AS A WHOLE, INCLUDING THEIR OWN LAME ASSHOLE SELVES?
WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLES ARE THESE PEOPLE? DO THEY EVER STOP BEING ASSHOLES?
It's like shitting in your own bedroom just because you can't be bothered to take it outside. Well, MULLAH FUCKING OMAR OR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT TO CALL YOURSELF, SOONER OR LATER THAT SHIT IS GOING TO STINK. YES, YOUR SHIT, IN YOUR BEDROOM.
Fucking go take a break, you assholes, I've heard Cambodian jungles are a great bargain this time of year. And I'll ship you all there on YOUR OWN PERSONAL GUIDED MISSILE. ALL FOR THE BARGAIN,ONE-TIME-ONLY PRICE OF FREE.
Thank you for your attention. You may now resume your seats.
People of a religious nature may be offended, people of certain political affiliations may also be offended, and people who have allergies (to particular cuss words and general generalisations) may choose to board SOME OTHER FUCKING CARRIER.
Ready, now that we have all the fucking disclaimers out of the way?
Here we go:
WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM WITH ISLAM? WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THESE PEOPLE THAT THEY ENDEAVOUR TO BE THE NEW NAZIS OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD?
WHY
DON'T
THEY
JUST
GET A JOB
AND STOP TRYING TO WIPE OUT CIVILIZATION AS A WHOLE, INCLUDING THEIR OWN LAME ASSHOLE SELVES?
WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLES ARE THESE PEOPLE? DO THEY EVER STOP BEING ASSHOLES?
It's like shitting in your own bedroom just because you can't be bothered to take it outside. Well, MULLAH FUCKING OMAR OR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT TO CALL YOURSELF, SOONER OR LATER THAT SHIT IS GOING TO STINK. YES, YOUR SHIT, IN YOUR BEDROOM.
Fucking go take a break, you assholes, I've heard Cambodian jungles are a great bargain this time of year. And I'll ship you all there on YOUR OWN PERSONAL GUIDED MISSILE. ALL FOR THE BARGAIN,ONE-TIME-ONLY PRICE OF FREE.
Thank you for your attention. You may now resume your seats.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Your Optometrist
Have you ever figured out that if you go to your neighbourly optometrist and say "Hi, Doctor, it's getting harder and harder to read fine print," it's kinda like the shark that smells a drop of blood in a cubic mile of seawater?
Has that thought ever occurred to you?
Has that thought ever occurred to you?
Brrrr!
Well, it will be a mighty COLD DAY IN HELL if Blork decides to quit his blog.
FUCK FACEBOOK.
FUCK TWITTER.
I say, take up a collection. Not for him, for me. Me and my henchmen, who like to be paid promptly. Because like I've already informed him, knees are a low priority at hospitals nowadaisies. The same daisies he'll be pushing up this summer in Notre-dame-des-neiges cemetery if he QUITS HIS BLOG.
Mail him a postcard. I HAVE HIS ADDRESS. (I have your address, Blorky Boy, write in front o' me! What, third floor, right? Leave the house at 7:37? Is the fat kid your kid, the one who always wears the striped shitty hat? Lets get things straight here. Guido loves undersetimations.)
FUCK FACEBOOK.
FUCK TWITTER.
I say, take up a collection. Not for him, for me. Me and my henchmen, who like to be paid promptly. Because like I've already informed him, knees are a low priority at hospitals nowadaisies. The same daisies he'll be pushing up this summer in Notre-dame-des-neiges cemetery if he QUITS HIS BLOG.
Mail him a postcard. I HAVE HIS ADDRESS. (I have your address, Blorky Boy, write in front o' me! What, third floor, right? Leave the house at 7:37? Is the fat kid your kid, the one who always wears the striped shitty hat? Lets get things straight here. Guido loves undersetimations.)
It
I was thinking about the tactical advantages of smaller, emission-beam-based prototypes, as opposed to the Heinrich/Ausschmachen models (or even the Neumann-Field ones, for that matter!) when it occurred to me:
I need to go back to print school. Yes, print school. Just forget about trying to re-invent the Hapsburg Model VIX "Viking" time machine and just go back to the drawing board, a clean slate.
That way, my mind will be sharpened and I will be able to stay alert after 5 p.m. most days, after Donald, the attendant, arrives to give me my bath and tells me the weather forecast for Mars.
Really.
I need to go back to print school. Yes, print school. Just forget about trying to re-invent the Hapsburg Model VIX "Viking" time machine and just go back to the drawing board, a clean slate.
That way, my mind will be sharpened and I will be able to stay alert after 5 p.m. most days, after Donald, the attendant, arrives to give me my bath and tells me the weather forecast for Mars.
Really.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Assembling the Troops!
Tai-chan, my tiny boy, saw fit to render my team of ultra-assault guerrillas. In this photo, you see the whole team assembled. Just that he decided to make Japanese-Sergeant Dude hold his sword out in a half-draw, as if he wanted to kill some chickens for the other soldiers.
Behold, the power of The Team! The Mighty Team That My Son Has Seen Fit To Assemble. Bow Down Before It And Tremble!
Behold, the power of The Team! The Mighty Team That My Son Has Seen Fit To Assemble. Bow Down Before It And Tremble!
Them
I'm in the mood for disparaging diverse nationalities recently and I think it's because of the wonderful holiday atmosphere. That could be a tipping point, here.
But I especially hate the Dutch. I'll tell you why, some day when I'm in a better mood.
But I especially hate the Dutch. I'll tell you why, some day when I'm in a better mood.
Yemen, Yemen, Yemen
Why are there so many Yemens around? How come there are no Nomens? Nahmeen? Nahmsayin'?
I am not normally militant. But in this case I think we should deny them toilet pepper shipments for two (2) weeks.
I am not normally militant. But in this case I think we should deny them toilet pepper shipments for two (2) weeks.
To the Leaders of Iran . . .
In this happy post-prandial Holiday Season, can you say two Magic Words? If not, I'll enunciate them for you. It's really a Romanian primer and you'd be well to pronounce and re-pronounce the words until they're cemented in your brain!
"Nicolae"
"Ceausescu"
See? That isn't so hard to pronounce.
"Nicolae"
"Ceausescu"
See? That isn't so hard to pronounce.
Word Of The Day #112
You, by the mere privilege or being alive, are bestowed with the title of "Oaf." This is not a title to be bandied about like some ratbag dropping from the living room floor.
No, this is much, much more precious. It is to be induced, then indoctrinated, into the formal Order of Oafs. This means that senior members can officially address you as "Oaf" and even you, were it to be such an occasion, might venture to address them in turn as "Oaf."
However, I wouldn't advise that, at least not right away. Get used to being an officially-prescribed and anointed Oaf first, then work your way up the Oaf chain.
(Look, as an aside, it gets better. I've been an Oaf for going-on thirty-five years and I'm still here! YOU CAN DO IT, BECAUSE I DID!)
So get to work, people, let's all be Oafs so others don't have to be.
No, this is much, much more precious. It is to be induced, then indoctrinated, into the formal Order of Oafs. This means that senior members can officially address you as "Oaf" and even you, were it to be such an occasion, might venture to address them in turn as "Oaf."
However, I wouldn't advise that, at least not right away. Get used to being an officially-prescribed and anointed Oaf first, then work your way up the Oaf chain.
(Look, as an aside, it gets better. I've been an Oaf for going-on thirty-five years and I'm still here! YOU CAN DO IT, BECAUSE I DID!)
So get to work, people, let's all be Oafs so others don't have to be.
Great, Great, God is Great
Sorry, but to follow up on my last post, excuse me? I'm supposed to be be perspiring through Detroit on my way to Japan in a few days? Why don't you just strap me inside an APV in Basra, Iraq, for a couple of days, under PFC Ryan Morgan's diligent care, and let me look for IEDs? (Umm, those are mines that are supposed to penetrate Armored Personnel Vehicles. They're personally designed by Allah. Yes, He actually oversees their manufacture, each and every shining one).
There are two choices with the shell game. Okay, three. I lost count. But in this case I'D TAKE DOOR NUMBER TWO.
There are two choices with the shell game. Okay, three. I lost count. But in this case I'D TAKE DOOR NUMBER TWO.
God. What the Fuck Next?
Okay, God dude, why do we get old? Why don't we get born old and get younger? Why are my eyes tired all the time? Why do I look 52? Is it something to do with because I'm actually 52?
What's the story, God? You got a story? Every story begins with Baby Steps. Maybe Pope Benedict XCVII has some answers, because I need answers right away. And it better be better than Brigitte-created smoked meat sandwiches from Snowdon Deli, let me personally inform You AT THIS PARTICULAR POINT IN TIME.
What's the story, God? You got a story? Every story begins with Baby Steps. Maybe Pope Benedict XCVII has some answers, because I need answers right away. And it better be better than Brigitte-created smoked meat sandwiches from Snowdon Deli, let me personally inform You AT THIS PARTICULAR POINT IN TIME.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Ambien
Take it from me, the wannabe pharmacologist/neurologist dude who haunted the drugstore in his youse (sic) . . . zopiclone is not a good drug, no matter what name it's under. Lunesta, Tropical Circle of Starry Nights, what the fuck . . . it is not a good drug to have around.
Much like methaqualone was hailed as a "sleep assistant" in the ever-optimistic language of Fuckin' (my emphasis) Smith-Kline-Glaxo-Wellcome/Pharmapricks, this drug is a serious nightmare. As in nightmares. I've had the most absurd and stupid and ruinous nightmares on this "little blue pill" than I ever had on Mandrax, Methamphetamine and Mescaline combined.
You want "Ambien" sounds? Take Ambien and strike up the orchestra. Because Wagner is going to be conducting, in person.
Much like methaqualone was hailed as a "sleep assistant" in the ever-optimistic language of Fuckin' (my emphasis) Smith-Kline-Glaxo-Wellcome/Pharmapricks, this drug is a serious nightmare. As in nightmares. I've had the most absurd and stupid and ruinous nightmares on this "little blue pill" than I ever had on Mandrax, Methamphetamine and Mescaline combined.
You want "Ambien" sounds? Take Ambien and strike up the orchestra. Because Wagner is going to be conducting, in person.
No, Really II
Do you ever actually cogitate about what you have here, my nervous throng of ostrich-resembling packrats? Does it ever occur to those small proto-human/part crocodilian brains of yours that you, for ONCE, might just be dealing with the Boss of Bosses, Capo di Tutti (and I means "TUTTI") Capi, the Pope, Jesus Christ and Caesar (not the salad guy) all wrapped into one convenient package?
Huh?
HUH?
Well, ya gots it right here, people. Yes, I know you're inclined to nervous laughter in front of the Master -- rest easy. We won't shoot till the morrow. No, what I am proudly bringing to your dear minions' attention is ORANGE!
On Merry Kris Kringle's Happy Sleigh Ride Day I was ORANGE! The troops that thundered by with their missiles were ENLIGHTENED eternally by my dayglo orange tie and shirt. I must have looked quite a sight! (I'll have to go consult my consultant for consultancyformation).
But the masses, beloved as they ever are, were entertained by the sight of me, ME, dressed in ORANGE.
In case you didn't notice, orange is not a Christmas color.
Pictures to follow at 11:30.
Huh?
HUH?
Well, ya gots it right here, people. Yes, I know you're inclined to nervous laughter in front of the Master -- rest easy. We won't shoot till the morrow. No, what I am proudly bringing to your dear minions' attention is ORANGE!
On Merry Kris Kringle's Happy Sleigh Ride Day I was ORANGE! The troops that thundered by with their missiles were ENLIGHTENED eternally by my dayglo orange tie and shirt. I must have looked quite a sight! (I'll have to go consult my consultant for consultancyformation).
But the masses, beloved as they ever are, were entertained by the sight of me, ME, dressed in ORANGE.
In case you didn't notice, orange is not a Christmas color.
Pictures to follow at 11:30.
Tune Out, Now!
Anyone with any religious proclivities, please TUNE OUT NOW. Even spiritual. ONLY FOLLOWERS OF THE MYSTIC AND ESTEEMED L.RON HUBBARD ARE EXCLUDED FROM THIS DISCLAIMER. (They deserve to be pelted with as much shit as I can throw until Elron comes back to personally fly John Travolta's 707 and maybe do the hoochie with Kelly Preston).
But here, as I sit on the after-eve of the anniversary of the so-called Birth Of The Messiah, I grow weary. Watch out, here I go. You may choose to change the channel! Do it now!
Jesus Hugo Chavez Christ was a colossal sham, a shell-game dude. A David Copperfield, a Chrisssss Sheen (can never remember their names, they hang themselves upside down in Times Square for days to prove how long they can be assholes), but Jesus was a Bernie Maddox of his time. Scammed the entire world, and still is to this day.
I for one am sick of posturing demi-semi-deities and frankly, in my mind, the whole passel of them, including Buddha, can just be classified as glorified vacuum-cleaner sales individuals.
Specials at Checkout Stand H until 5 p.m.
But here, as I sit on the after-eve of the anniversary of the so-called Birth Of The Messiah, I grow weary. Watch out, here I go. You may choose to change the channel! Do it now!
Jesus Hugo Chavez Christ was a colossal sham, a shell-game dude. A David Copperfield, a Chrisssss Sheen (can never remember their names, they hang themselves upside down in Times Square for days to prove how long they can be assholes), but Jesus was a Bernie Maddox of his time. Scammed the entire world, and still is to this day.
I for one am sick of posturing demi-semi-deities and frankly, in my mind, the whole passel of them, including Buddha, can just be classified as glorified vacuum-cleaner sales individuals.
Specials at Checkout Stand H until 5 p.m.
Happy
You only have to read this article to realize that the Gestapo, the Kempeitai and any number of Iranian "security forces" are Alive and Well and are still basking in the limelight.
These fuckwads never will go away, will they? Will they?
Will they?
These fuckwads never will go away, will they? Will they?
Will they?
Yes, I Did
I bashed myself the other day looking for something for Brigitte in the freezer but when the police came I just told them it was a brazen case of child abuse.
Nick's "Words to the Unwise" Part Trois
"Hey, dude, sometimes you can be a jerk, but most of the time, you're a jerk."
-- N. Robinson
-- N. Robinson
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Team Dynamics
Imagine that you're in a small room. All white. Lights medium-white. But white walls. No decoration anywhere. Bland floor. No patterns.
It's not a Guantanamo-Bay situation, nor a sensory-deprivation chamber.
But in it are three hounds. Yes, hounds, as in the racing/German type. One is big, two are progressively littler. The littlest one is orders of magnitude smaller than the biggest.
The biggest one wants to yap, as it's its place. But as soon as the second biggest one realises this, it wants to yap, but louder. But when the third one, the littlest one, hears all this, IT wants to yap, but louder. Much louder.
And the white room becomes a blue room, or maybe a red room of Christmas chaos and Road Runner.
Are you getting all this, or was it that Dali painting I was looking at?
It's not a Guantanamo-Bay situation, nor a sensory-deprivation chamber.
But in it are three hounds. Yes, hounds, as in the racing/German type. One is big, two are progressively littler. The littlest one is orders of magnitude smaller than the biggest.
The biggest one wants to yap, as it's its place. But as soon as the second biggest one realises this, it wants to yap, but louder. But when the third one, the littlest one, hears all this, IT wants to yap, but louder. Much louder.
And the white room becomes a blue room, or maybe a red room of Christmas chaos and Road Runner.
Are you getting all this, or was it that Dali painting I was looking at?
A Treatise on Why the Chinese Must be Eliminated
If only Henry Kissinger were still here, that popmpous elitist warmongering asshole who reportedly prayed in a drunken haze at some crucial negotiational stage with that other pompous asshole, Richard Nixon, in some World Peace (read: World War) talks. Fuck, has that jerk gone away yet? Even I don't know. But if he hasn't, I'll gladly do him in for you. Either that, or the pope, take your pick, in this sweet holiday season.
Actually, I'm feeling particularly vindictive in this happy Kwanzaa celebration event. Anyone else you want me to take out? Sorry, wives are out.
But how about the Chinese? Let's dispose of them. Why? Why dispose of 3 billion people in a single flash of light? Well, okay, 3 billion flashes of light.
Because they have decided to infiltrate our beloved Western world with their evil, pre-planned machinations.
Namely, Tai-chan's Christmas toy. Yes, this venomous attempt by those nefarious dumpling-eating hordes (delicious, I might add!) to subvert my Xmas experience by providing a Christmas toy that consists of 1,800 pieces.
Can - you - count - to - 18? Can ya double it? Can you quadruplplex it?
Okay, if you can count it, CAN YOU ASSEMBLE IT????
Case rested. Execute them all at 5 a.m. I'll officiate.
Actually, I'm feeling particularly vindictive in this happy Kwanzaa celebration event. Anyone else you want me to take out? Sorry, wives are out.
But how about the Chinese? Let's dispose of them. Why? Why dispose of 3 billion people in a single flash of light? Well, okay, 3 billion flashes of light.
Because they have decided to infiltrate our beloved Western world with their evil, pre-planned machinations.
Namely, Tai-chan's Christmas toy. Yes, this venomous attempt by those nefarious dumpling-eating hordes (delicious, I might add!) to subvert my Xmas experience by providing a Christmas toy that consists of 1,800 pieces.
Can - you - count - to - 18? Can ya double it? Can you quadruplplex it?
Okay, if you can count it, CAN YOU ASSEMBLE IT????
Case rested. Execute them all at 5 a.m. I'll officiate.
Boxing Daze
Well, hello, hello, hello, my dwindling band of hunter-gatherer primordial U-Boat captains! Shortly I shall take leave of my senses and shoot myself with Blondi the dog, then administer Eva her poison, but until then, may I entertain you with a short song-and-dance?
If I could remember the past 24 hours with anything resembling a semblance of clarity, then I would be able to report it to you. Sadly, that is not to be, at least at this early hour.
If I might just comment,though, Santa came and went in the night, that sly devil. How he managed to scuttle down the medium-format heating ducts in the roof of this building escapes me for the moment, but indeed he seems to have done so. (We have an APB out as I speak, all the way from Montreal to Basel, Wisconsin).
And the merriment he provided for one and all was truly a sight to behold. It was indeed a joyous day of celebration for Jayzus, Jayzus, Jayzus!
Uhh . . . I forgot what I wanted to say.
Oh yeah: warm beer that's been sitting out all night tastes just as good at 7 a.m. as it did at 7 p.m. Maybe even better!
Happy Boxing Day. May your shopping experience be a jolly one.
If I could remember the past 24 hours with anything resembling a semblance of clarity, then I would be able to report it to you. Sadly, that is not to be, at least at this early hour.
If I might just comment,though, Santa came and went in the night, that sly devil. How he managed to scuttle down the medium-format heating ducts in the roof of this building escapes me for the moment, but indeed he seems to have done so. (We have an APB out as I speak, all the way from Montreal to Basel, Wisconsin).
And the merriment he provided for one and all was truly a sight to behold. It was indeed a joyous day of celebration for Jayzus, Jayzus, Jayzus!
Uhh . . . I forgot what I wanted to say.
Oh yeah: warm beer that's been sitting out all night tastes just as good at 7 a.m. as it did at 7 p.m. Maybe even better!
Happy Boxing Day. May your shopping experience be a jolly one.
Friday, December 25, 2009
And For The Third Time:
Nick's Maxims for 2001! (Well, I'm old).
1. If it ain't broke, don't touch it.
2. If it ain't dirty, maybe you need a maid anyway.
3. If it moves, kill it.
4. If it doesn't move, paint it.
Cheers.
1. If it ain't broke, don't touch it.
2. If it ain't dirty, maybe you need a maid anyway.
3. If it moves, kill it.
4. If it doesn't move, paint it.
Cheers.
New Holiday Greetings!
Try to put "pope" and "attacked" together in one sentence and imagine anything possibly funnier! That in itself makes the Christmas tree lights jump a little in intensity. Add the words "Deranged Woman" and you have a real holiday greeting from the Vatican.
Holiday Greetings
Hello, my faithful group of followers. It is with regret that I have to inform you during this holiday season that you must all be regrettably bussed back to Albuquerque.
Yes, I know it's been a sweet run, but we must seek closure in all things, no, my faithful?
My message for today is simply, why do some people not read books? How can you exist not reading a book at any given time? I have a list of books I'm reading. One is Bathroom Book, another is Bedroom Book, another is Living Room Book, and sometimes I force their rotation. Sometimes (and I know it's an affectation, but I know you will forgive me) I actually note, quite out of the blue, on some page, an annotation like "10/11/05, 2:33 am" just to remind my future self what exact time I read that exact page last.
That's my Holiday Message! I watched Bugs Bunny and the Tweety show twice today and both times it was fantastic! Happy Kwanzaa!
Yes, I know it's been a sweet run, but we must seek closure in all things, no, my faithful?
My message for today is simply, why do some people not read books? How can you exist not reading a book at any given time? I have a list of books I'm reading. One is Bathroom Book, another is Bedroom Book, another is Living Room Book, and sometimes I force their rotation. Sometimes (and I know it's an affectation, but I know you will forgive me) I actually note, quite out of the blue, on some page, an annotation like "10/11/05, 2:33 am" just to remind my future self what exact time I read that exact page last.
That's my Holiday Message! I watched Bugs Bunny and the Tweety show twice today and both times it was fantastic! Happy Kwanzaa!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Japanese Lesson #2: Three Words You Don't Want to Know
These are three particular words you don't want to know, but out of the goodness of my heart and my sheer adoration of my faithful flock, (you all know who you are, and by the way, while I'm at it, Happy Kinenbi! -- that's a Namibian tribal ritual by a little-known and even littler-understood group of impoverished African nomadic herders, all sponsored by Angelina Jolie) I'm going to teach you them anyway.
1. Suzumebachi
2. Kumabachi
3. Gejigeji Mushi
Learn those words, my young Acolytes, all 26 of you. Better yet, learn to fear them.
1. Suzumebachi
2. Kumabachi
3. Gejigeji Mushi
Learn those words, my young Acolytes, all 26 of you. Better yet, learn to fear them.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
"Random" Act Crap
You know, I can't be too proud of a lot of things I've done. Not that I've ever hit anyone or just been plain stupid, but it's not every day that you get some chance to give some stranger some pleasure.
When some teenage asshole comes up to my car with a squeegee, I tend to say, "Hey, where's the fucking accompanying requisite dog?"
I know, that's mean.
But, to continue my Japan story a little bit, I got to Osaka airport and was as hungry as a motherfucker, so I bought this stupid "instant" packaged sandwich at the airport convenience store (in addition to the local hooch).
Then, I had to take a fucking bus to my hotel. I came unprepared for the weather, but that was all a part of my plan for travelling light. No heavy overcoats, just a pair of gloves.
So I go to where I know the bus stop is going to be, shivering with my bag and inadequate clothing, and the place is completely deserted. Except for one guy, across the street, out of shouting distance (I tried it anyway).
In the livery of a bus station dude, except Japanese. He looked completely bewildered at my showing up suddenly (a common thing in Japan) but quickly recovered when I looked like I was On A Mission.
"Umm, when's the next bus to the ANA Gate Tower Hotel?" I said in my best Japanese.
"Uhh . . . let's see . . . in 7 minutes!" was the reply.
But he looked so lonely, so impossibly cold, that I asked him how much longer on duty he had to be. "Oh, I guess, maybe another hour and a half?"
So I just pulled out the sandwich and gave it to him and said "Here's some fuel, dude." Of course, as usual in Japan, he looked at me like I'd just descended in a hi-tech spacemobile from Avatar, the Andromeda Galaxy, but he just took it and said "Thank you."
Dat's my good deed for the week.
When some teenage asshole comes up to my car with a squeegee, I tend to say, "Hey, where's the fucking accompanying requisite dog?"
I know, that's mean.
But, to continue my Japan story a little bit, I got to Osaka airport and was as hungry as a motherfucker, so I bought this stupid "instant" packaged sandwich at the airport convenience store (in addition to the local hooch).
Then, I had to take a fucking bus to my hotel. I came unprepared for the weather, but that was all a part of my plan for travelling light. No heavy overcoats, just a pair of gloves.
So I go to where I know the bus stop is going to be, shivering with my bag and inadequate clothing, and the place is completely deserted. Except for one guy, across the street, out of shouting distance (I tried it anyway).
In the livery of a bus station dude, except Japanese. He looked completely bewildered at my showing up suddenly (a common thing in Japan) but quickly recovered when I looked like I was On A Mission.
"Umm, when's the next bus to the ANA Gate Tower Hotel?" I said in my best Japanese.
"Uhh . . . let's see . . . in 7 minutes!" was the reply.
But he looked so lonely, so impossibly cold, that I asked him how much longer on duty he had to be. "Oh, I guess, maybe another hour and a half?"
So I just pulled out the sandwich and gave it to him and said "Here's some fuel, dude." Of course, as usual in Japan, he looked at me like I'd just descended in a hi-tech spacemobile from Avatar, the Andromeda Galaxy, but he just took it and said "Thank you."
Dat's my good deed for the week.
Mozart
Hey, you and I both know that there was a dude named Mozart, but do we really establish that he actually DID anything, aside for writing 123 symphonies? Did he get up, night after night in the Bell Center and play Haydn's 83rd (oh wait -- he's Mozart!)
Where's the proof here? A movie called "Amadeus?"
Let's see the money. Show me Wolfgang. What, did he write the Brandenbug (sic) concertos? Or was that Ludwig, his elder brother?
Is it true that Daddy Mozart was one evening playing scales on his harpsichord, A-B-C-D-E-F, and then someone came to the door and interrupted him before he could play G? And then baby Mozart came all the way down the stairs in the middle of that night just to play the G, because he was so pissed off that Daddy couldn't play the scale right?
Is that true?
I want to see Mozart in the flesh. A painting will do.
Where's the proof here? A movie called "Amadeus?"
Let's see the money. Show me Wolfgang. What, did he write the Brandenbug (sic) concertos? Or was that Ludwig, his elder brother?
Is it true that Daddy Mozart was one evening playing scales on his harpsichord, A-B-C-D-E-F, and then someone came to the door and interrupted him before he could play G? And then baby Mozart came all the way down the stairs in the middle of that night just to play the G, because he was so pissed off that Daddy couldn't play the scale right?
Is that true?
I want to see Mozart in the flesh. A painting will do.
And . . .
You know, even the most miserable people have a sense of humor. It's the humorless who suffer most, or make others suffer most.
Really.
Even the homeless have a sense of humor. (And this is MY joke).
So there are these two homeless guys, both freezing under some freeway overpass. And one guy says to the other, "Hey Charlie, whaddya got to eat?" And Charlie says "Well, nothing, but I think I'm going to go hunt down me a squirrel."
And the first guy -- let's call him King George VII for conveniences' sakes -- says "But Charlie, why would you want to go hunt down a poor squirrel? Kill a poor squirrel cuzzzin' you're hungry? Think about the poor squirrel. You gonna kill it with a stone? How you gonna kill it?"
And Charlie says "No, maybe I'll just shoot it with my rifle."
And King George VII says "But Charlie, you ain't got no rifle."
And Charlie says, "Well, I know that."
And King George VII says "Well, if you ain't got no rifle, how you planning to kill a squirrel?"
And Charlie says, "Well, I kinda hadn't figured that part out yet."
And King George VII says "Well, how come you don't just go to the McDonald's on 40th and Brooklyn and just scare you up some change from some guy and just go eat there?"
And Charlie says, "Because at McDonald's they don't put mustard on squirrels."
Really.
Even the homeless have a sense of humor. (And this is MY joke).
So there are these two homeless guys, both freezing under some freeway overpass. And one guy says to the other, "Hey Charlie, whaddya got to eat?" And Charlie says "Well, nothing, but I think I'm going to go hunt down me a squirrel."
And the first guy -- let's call him King George VII for conveniences' sakes -- says "But Charlie, why would you want to go hunt down a poor squirrel? Kill a poor squirrel cuzzzin' you're hungry? Think about the poor squirrel. You gonna kill it with a stone? How you gonna kill it?"
And Charlie says "No, maybe I'll just shoot it with my rifle."
And King George VII says "But Charlie, you ain't got no rifle."
And Charlie says, "Well, I know that."
And King George VII says "Well, if you ain't got no rifle, how you planning to kill a squirrel?"
And Charlie says, "Well, I kinda hadn't figured that part out yet."
And King George VII says "Well, how come you don't just go to the McDonald's on 40th and Brooklyn and just scare you up some change from some guy and just go eat there?"
And Charlie says, "Because at McDonald's they don't put mustard on squirrels."
To Make Matters Worse
This is easily, hands down, the worst trip to Japan I've ever made. The evidence comes from my own mind, my subconscious, which I can't control.
I've had waking dreams, bordering on hallucinations -- I can only explain it that way -- of bizarre situations, usually mindlessly bureaucratic ones: being in a vast hotel talking to complete strangers, signing receipts and giving the credit card to the deliverer of uranium, in front of the plane's captain, in the stairwell of yet another vast hotel . . . well, you get the picture. I've personally been aware of rambling or ranting about something in a half-sleep to Brigitte, aware of what I'm doing but not in control -- kind of like a "paralysed dream state." A psychiatrist would have a field day, then retire in luxury for the rest of his life.
When Brigitte came home today from shopping I could swear, as I lay in bed, that I could smell pine. I was sure it was a Christmas tree. That's what the smell was. But there was no tree -- she couldn't find one. But my mind had conjured up the smell of a Christmas tree. The powers of imagination!
So this time it seems that it will take more than the usual week to recover. And then I just about have time to prepare to do it all again.
I'll keep you postal.
I've had waking dreams, bordering on hallucinations -- I can only explain it that way -- of bizarre situations, usually mindlessly bureaucratic ones: being in a vast hotel talking to complete strangers, signing receipts and giving the credit card to the deliverer of uranium, in front of the plane's captain, in the stairwell of yet another vast hotel . . . well, you get the picture. I've personally been aware of rambling or ranting about something in a half-sleep to Brigitte, aware of what I'm doing but not in control -- kind of like a "paralysed dream state." A psychiatrist would have a field day, then retire in luxury for the rest of his life.
When Brigitte came home today from shopping I could swear, as I lay in bed, that I could smell pine. I was sure it was a Christmas tree. That's what the smell was. But there was no tree -- she couldn't find one. But my mind had conjured up the smell of a Christmas tree. The powers of imagination!
So this time it seems that it will take more than the usual week to recover. And then I just about have time to prepare to do it all again.
I'll keep you postal.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Hello
To my mind, all the best possible outcomes of being alive derive from having a natural birth to dying a natural death.
The only conceivable alternative to both these possibilities is Hell.
But hey, everyone has an opinion.
The only conceivable alternative to both these possibilities is Hell.
But hey, everyone has an opinion.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Shallowed Person of the Decade
You know you like it. Read a link to the New York Times hallowed Person of the Year.
For once, they got it right.
It's an asshole (well, they usually start like that) but they pretend for so long NOT to be assholes, (rather heroes) and sometimes actually make it! they fool us all, everyone, down to the tiniest child, with their assholdom -- c'n you say "OJ"? I knows you coulds! --
But know, the absolute biggest asshole of this decade is THIS ASSHOLE.
For once, they got it right.
It's an asshole (well, they usually start like that) but they pretend for so long NOT to be assholes, (rather heroes) and sometimes actually make it! they fool us all, everyone, down to the tiniest child, with their assholdom -- c'n you say "OJ"? I knows you coulds! --
But know, the absolute biggest asshole of this decade is THIS ASSHOLE.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Meaning of Life
I have come to realise, in my humble and tranquil reality, that the meaning of life is this, not all in this particular order:
Wake up.
Eat.
Drink.
Shit.
Pee.
Yell at someone.
Get yelled at by someone.
Fuck someone. (No, really, or the next-best thing, get fucked by someome).
Retire to bed.
Watch soap.
Have someone else cook dinner.
Take sleeping pill and kiss this fucking day goodbye.
Wake up . . .
Wake up.
Eat.
Drink.
Shit.
Pee.
Yell at someone.
Get yelled at by someone.
Fuck someone. (No, really, or the next-best thing, get fucked by someome).
Retire to bed.
Watch soap.
Have someone else cook dinner.
Take sleeping pill and kiss this fucking day goodbye.
Wake up . . .
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Ancient Art of Japanese
As I sat here on this bed and the hotel phone rang, and it was my ex-wife's mother telling me that my eight-year-old son's teacher was personally upset that I was taking him out of school four days early, well, I got creative (What the fuck else do you do in Japan.)
I thought of how many ways in Japanese that I could reprimand this fine fellow, in language he would actually understand.
But the thing is, insulting someone in Japanese is actually a very fine and practiced art. You can't just say, as we in the West are inclined to do, "Fuck you and the fucking horse you rode in on."
See, that makes sense to US but a Japanese would just observe you quizzically, as if you were a freshly-minted transplant from a dwarf planet. No, you can't bandy about cuss words 'n' such and there is regrettably, no equivalent in Japanese for "fuck", so you have to be creative.
I won't give you a Japanese lesson. It would bore you to tears. But basically, the best way for you to tell a Japanese person in their own language to take a hike is NOT, as you might suspect, saying "You fucking fuck, piece-of-shit asshole, if you don't get out of my fucking face, like, yesterday already, I'll fucking plaster your atoms so far all over the galaxy that every one of them will be HILARIOUS to see your prime asshole recede into the sunset", but rather, "My good man, if you could see your way clear to making your honorable exit from my humble and respectful presence, it would do very much to make my day much better than it has been so far."
Tell THAT to the fucking Rosetta Stone people.
I thought of how many ways in Japanese that I could reprimand this fine fellow, in language he would actually understand.
But the thing is, insulting someone in Japanese is actually a very fine and practiced art. You can't just say, as we in the West are inclined to do, "Fuck you and the fucking horse you rode in on."
See, that makes sense to US but a Japanese would just observe you quizzically, as if you were a freshly-minted transplant from a dwarf planet. No, you can't bandy about cuss words 'n' such and there is regrettably, no equivalent in Japanese for "fuck", so you have to be creative.
I won't give you a Japanese lesson. It would bore you to tears. But basically, the best way for you to tell a Japanese person in their own language to take a hike is NOT, as you might suspect, saying "You fucking fuck, piece-of-shit asshole, if you don't get out of my fucking face, like, yesterday already, I'll fucking plaster your atoms so far all over the galaxy that every one of them will be HILARIOUS to see your prime asshole recede into the sunset", but rather, "My good man, if you could see your way clear to making your honorable exit from my humble and respectful presence, it would do very much to make my day much better than it has been so far."
Tell THAT to the fucking Rosetta Stone people.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
You Knew: Part One
You knew it had to come to this. You knew, like some psychotic Matt Damon movie that I would be posting this from some fucking hotel room exactly -- I counted them -- forty four storeys above the ground in a seemingly godless place like Osaka, Japan, and that I would be as pissed off as a turd on a mushroom right about now. And you'd be thinking that even I, strong as I like to be seen as, would have become unhinged, shaken to the core, fodder for the white coats.
But you'd be wrong, my unwavering flock. The multitudes of times that you've misunderestimated me still elude me to this very day!
Actually, Japan is quite a pleasant place, as places go. You just couldn't imagine the view from the 44th floor. No, you sure the fuck couldn't imagine it after 16 fucking hours on bus, train, taxi and plane (add in the 23 mindless bureaucrats) and if I can actually arrange the dendrites and axons in my brain to manufacture something that resembles a working human being, I'll tell you why.
Because, my faithful few, all 26 of you, have been waiting, breathless, as you always are, you pleasant ones, the ones whom I live for just to type up what the latest goddamn catastrophe is now.
Well, as I type here, on the 44th floor of this delightful hotel, with the sunlight ghastlily (is that a word?) streaming in, I'm going to tell you how it all went down.
Let's start with names, because I have none. I have to call them "Airport Guy 1, Airport Guy 2, Restaurant Woman B, because I never asked their names, not that they would have given them to some slightly disheveled, unshaven asshole who seemed to have no clue whatsoever what he was doing at any given time.
Montreal: 5:30 a.m. Standing, bewildered, in a line that is not a line -- just a rabble. For an airline that is not an airline, but two. That's because Delta acquired Northwest but Continental fucked United in the ass and that's what I'm looking at in all the moving LCD monitors.
Human being? Get a life. If there was some autopilot they could create to ship you like an XPress Post package they would already have invented.
So first there was Airport Woman, some poor 60-something stranger that was only trying to go home to Phoenix. Then there was Airport Woman #2, who is a P.h.d. at McGill and was busy trying to figure out how to grade papers for her students.
Then there was Immigration. Or lack of it. Security, Immigration, Customs -- does it really matter any more? Does it matter that you have to fill out an entire form to fly through the US of A, present your passport and stand in line for 40 -- count them, I had to type this -- FORTY MINUTES. In a "state-of-the-art New US Terminal Facility", or whatever incredibly stupid euphemism they came up with last week, just to go to a bar somewhere and progress to a FUCKING FLIGHT TO JAPAN? Now we all know why Osama Da Mama brought down the entire Western World. BECAUSE WE STARTED WITH BEING STUPID, AND WE INTEND ON KEEPING ON BEING STUPID.
That's Part One. You'll get Parts Two and 3,000 as I go. That's what I exist for, is your reading pleasure. Buckle in, People, it only gets better from here! Remember, I have to live it in order to type it! All so you didn't!
Uhh, what would a plunge from the 44th floor feel like?
But you'd be wrong, my unwavering flock. The multitudes of times that you've misunderestimated me still elude me to this very day!
Actually, Japan is quite a pleasant place, as places go. You just couldn't imagine the view from the 44th floor. No, you sure the fuck couldn't imagine it after 16 fucking hours on bus, train, taxi and plane (add in the 23 mindless bureaucrats) and if I can actually arrange the dendrites and axons in my brain to manufacture something that resembles a working human being, I'll tell you why.
Because, my faithful few, all 26 of you, have been waiting, breathless, as you always are, you pleasant ones, the ones whom I live for just to type up what the latest goddamn catastrophe is now.
Well, as I type here, on the 44th floor of this delightful hotel, with the sunlight ghastlily (is that a word?) streaming in, I'm going to tell you how it all went down.
Let's start with names, because I have none. I have to call them "Airport Guy 1, Airport Guy 2, Restaurant Woman B, because I never asked their names, not that they would have given them to some slightly disheveled, unshaven asshole who seemed to have no clue whatsoever what he was doing at any given time.
Montreal: 5:30 a.m. Standing, bewildered, in a line that is not a line -- just a rabble. For an airline that is not an airline, but two. That's because Delta acquired Northwest but Continental fucked United in the ass and that's what I'm looking at in all the moving LCD monitors.
Human being? Get a life. If there was some autopilot they could create to ship you like an XPress Post package they would already have invented.
So first there was Airport Woman, some poor 60-something stranger that was only trying to go home to Phoenix. Then there was Airport Woman #2, who is a P.h.d. at McGill and was busy trying to figure out how to grade papers for her students.
Then there was Immigration. Or lack of it. Security, Immigration, Customs -- does it really matter any more? Does it matter that you have to fill out an entire form to fly through the US of A, present your passport and stand in line for 40 -- count them, I had to type this -- FORTY MINUTES. In a "state-of-the-art New US Terminal Facility", or whatever incredibly stupid euphemism they came up with last week, just to go to a bar somewhere and progress to a FUCKING FLIGHT TO JAPAN? Now we all know why Osama Da Mama brought down the entire Western World. BECAUSE WE STARTED WITH BEING STUPID, AND WE INTEND ON KEEPING ON BEING STUPID.
That's Part One. You'll get Parts Two and 3,000 as I go. That's what I exist for, is your reading pleasure. Buckle in, People, it only gets better from here! Remember, I have to live it in order to type it! All so you didn't!
Uhh, what would a plunge from the 44th floor feel like?
Words Never Seem to Do The Trick
If all the blind-sided maniacs walking the streets of XXX countries in the world could somehow come together and have a conference on just how to make my, me, MY day worse, well, then they’d be very efficent despots, criminals and mass-murderers.
Words do not fail me.
It was, unutterably but accurately, the Worst Day Of My Life. I swear, a liver transplant holds more happiness in its hope, its sheer positive promise — just imagine — the team of skilled surgeons, one of whom is named Dr. Payne — than what transpired in the last 24 hours of my life.
Get me started? Don’t go there. It’s a dark place, far, far darker than one you have ever imagined. Just lie in your comfortable bed with the streaming light of the sun dappling your bedroom as you leisurely sip your coffee and nibble on a bagel, or contemplate your easy chair, maybe recline a bit just to remind yourself how good it feels, and then, maybe then, think about how my day went.
Twenty virgins? Is that how many were promised to the few, the Brave, the Martyrs who sacrificed themselves in the Void? Fuck, have you seen the exchange rate recently? In my case I think it has to be more on the level of 2,304, give or take a virgin or two.
Just be aware of a thing or two: I’m alive. Japan is still here, always a good thing to know when setting off on these outbreaks of optimism. (Words fail me at this point; please contact my publisher for the lurid details).
But a 747 still has four engines and a glass of white wine still tastes good. And that’s all you need to know.
Words do not fail me.
It was, unutterably but accurately, the Worst Day Of My Life. I swear, a liver transplant holds more happiness in its hope, its sheer positive promise — just imagine — the team of skilled surgeons, one of whom is named Dr. Payne — than what transpired in the last 24 hours of my life.
Get me started? Don’t go there. It’s a dark place, far, far darker than one you have ever imagined. Just lie in your comfortable bed with the streaming light of the sun dappling your bedroom as you leisurely sip your coffee and nibble on a bagel, or contemplate your easy chair, maybe recline a bit just to remind yourself how good it feels, and then, maybe then, think about how my day went.
Twenty virgins? Is that how many were promised to the few, the Brave, the Martyrs who sacrificed themselves in the Void? Fuck, have you seen the exchange rate recently? In my case I think it has to be more on the level of 2,304, give or take a virgin or two.
Just be aware of a thing or two: I’m alive. Japan is still here, always a good thing to know when setting off on these outbreaks of optimism. (Words fail me at this point; please contact my publisher for the lurid details).
But a 747 still has four engines and a glass of white wine still tastes good. And that’s all you need to know.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tiny Adolf
Ohh, he wasn’t so bad. Aside from personally shooting his own dog, whom he said was “one of the only persons I could really trust” he didn’t really do anything, except deliver a few questionable speeches.
He didn’t personally hold a gun to the head of six million Jews. He got up in the morning and dressed himself in Albert-Speer-designed “haute-couture” suits, harangued his entourage for a bit and maybe had a zucchini pie for breakfast.
No, Adolf Hitler (née Heidler) was not a bad guy PER SE. He just got a BAD RAP.
He didn’t personally hold a gun to the head of six million Jews. He got up in the morning and dressed himself in Albert-Speer-designed “haute-couture” suits, harangued his entourage for a bit and maybe had a zucchini pie for breakfast.
No, Adolf Hitler (née Heidler) was not a bad guy PER SE. He just got a BAD RAP.
One More Before I Go
In mankind's darkest hour, there will be those that will still say . . . "And let there be shampoo."
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
My Fish
It seems that an inordinate amount of people who, er, come across this blog are entertained by animals. It is to these gentle people that I would now like to make my Saturday address. My "weekend report", if you will.
I have a fish. He (and he's undoubtedly a he, for reasons that will become clear later) is a Siamese Fighting Fish. The water he swims in (which will become clear later, when I change it) should best resemble a stagnant pond in Thailand, according to the literature I've been able to scare up from my local library (The Internet).
Aside from his preposterous designation -- he is a fish, yes, but he is neither Siamese in appearance, nor does he ever seem to fight anything -- he has no name. This is because we inherited him from a friend of Brigitte, and he, like most fish, never was quite given a name. We've decided that when I go get Tai-chan on Tuesday and bring him back from Japan that he will come up with a suitable name for the fish, but last night in a video chat the first offerings were not encouraging.
"Dog," said Tai-chan disingenuously, as if testing our patience.
"Tai-chan, 'Dog' is Not a Name For a Fish," we pointed out quite firmly.
I, of course, want to name the fish something like "Gill" or "Hugh Trevor-Roper III", Brigitte wants to name him something like "Mezzaluna' (I know he's male -- I had him DNA tested behind Brigitte's back last week) but the fish himself just floats there, defying anyone's efforts to name him. I knew fish basically didn't have much of a personality, but this is ridiculous.
Now I'm thinking "Gunga Din," because he does seem to have some of that brooding, Yul Brynner-like personality (without the baldness, of course) but I guess this is one thing that will have to be left to the fates.
"Dog." Come to think of it, not so bad after all.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Okay, Just Phoning It In
Tuesday and the Queen
6:28 a.m. The Queen stirs. The curtains to her bed open and there is her batman, Gibbs. “Ma’am?”
“I think I should like to draw some tea. Gibbs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gibbs goes to prepare the tea. He returns.
“Gibbs, two cubes, please don’t tell me there was only one.”
“No, m’aam. But I forgot how to place the apostrophe.”
“How careless of you, Gibbs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, Gibbs?”
“You have 73 appointments today. After your bath there is the king of Norway . . .”
“Gibbs?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Cancel all appointments till the martini at five, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Gibbs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there nothing we can’t do today?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are there colonies we must administer?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What about Bates? What is he doing today?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Well (exasperated tone) isn’t there someone we can knight, Gibbs? Get on with it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am. But ma’am . . .”
“Yes, Gibbs?”
“Ma’am, Tiger Woods would be a good candidate today, ma’am.”
“Spider Woods? Who on Earth is that?”
“The golf prodigy, ma’am . . .”
“Oh, yes, well, get the sword and we’ll knight him at 4:30 sharp. Then call Bates and have that martini . . .”
“Oh, and, Gibbs . . .”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was he nude? Did the court really block the nude Spider Woods photos?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am.”
6:28 a.m. The Queen stirs. The curtains to her bed open and there is her batman, Gibbs. “Ma’am?”
“I think I should like to draw some tea. Gibbs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gibbs goes to prepare the tea. He returns.
“Gibbs, two cubes, please don’t tell me there was only one.”
“No, m’aam. But I forgot how to place the apostrophe.”
“How careless of you, Gibbs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, Gibbs?”
“You have 73 appointments today. After your bath there is the king of Norway . . .”
“Gibbs?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Cancel all appointments till the martini at five, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Gibbs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there nothing we can’t do today?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are there colonies we must administer?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What about Bates? What is he doing today?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Well (exasperated tone) isn’t there someone we can knight, Gibbs? Get on with it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am. But ma’am . . .”
“Yes, Gibbs?”
“Ma’am, Tiger Woods would be a good candidate today, ma’am.”
“Spider Woods? Who on Earth is that?”
“The golf prodigy, ma’am . . .”
“Oh, yes, well, get the sword and we’ll knight him at 4:30 sharp. Then call Bates and have that martini . . .”
“Oh, and, Gibbs . . .”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was he nude? Did the court really block the nude Spider Woods photos?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am.”
Our Personal Pope. A Happy Pope!
The pope, that eternal defender of every moral known to man (women, too!) is outraged — no, OUTRAGED about the abuse of small boys left in his ministry’s care. Outraged, I tell you! Outraged that every one of them did not personally pay a visit to His Eminence’s skirts.
Ya gotta love popes. Is there possibly a target of affection more enduring than a pope? Well? Is there?
Ya gotta love popes. Is there possibly a target of affection more enduring than a pope? Well? Is there?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Poet and You Didn't Know It
When I was a kid in British boarding school (I know, it's hard to believe I was ever a kid) I used to excel at strange things. Rugby was not one of them.
No, strangely, poetry -- yes, THAT poetry, no, NOT Shakespeare was one of them. To this day, I cannot believe what these poets must have been smoking to come up with what they did ("I wandered lonely as a cloud?" What the fuck?) but I liked it nevertheless.
Just the fact that one sentence could end in a rhyming word compared to the last one fascinated me. (If you need to know, in Japanese, popular songs never rhyme. There is no order to them whatsoever.)
But . . . "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a Stately Pleasure Dome Decree . . ."
. . .
. . . uhhh . . .
What?
And how come these guys all had three names, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge or Edgar Allen Poe? Dante only had one, and so did Michaelangelo, (but he made up for it in little boys).
And I've said in this space that sometimes in order to get to sleep I do the rhyme puzzle -- start with a word and go down the alphabet. Can, ban, dan, fan, Han (the dynasty), jan, LAN (the network) man, pan, ran, tan, van, yan (the Chinese cooking show host) and that's just the one-syllable rhymes. I get to sleep in a hurry, if not a flurry.
So here's one: I do the first line and you do the second.
Like:
It came upon one Winter's eve
(And you say: "That Joe and Marge and I met Steve").
See how easy that is?
So let's go:
A Poem for Steve
It came upon one Winter's eve
That Joe and Marge and I met Steve
A tall man, and a strange one, too,
He -------------------------------
Go to it!
No, strangely, poetry -- yes, THAT poetry, no, NOT Shakespeare was one of them. To this day, I cannot believe what these poets must have been smoking to come up with what they did ("I wandered lonely as a cloud?" What the fuck?) but I liked it nevertheless.
Just the fact that one sentence could end in a rhyming word compared to the last one fascinated me. (If you need to know, in Japanese, popular songs never rhyme. There is no order to them whatsoever.)
But . . . "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a Stately Pleasure Dome Decree . . ."
. . .
. . . uhhh . . .
What?
And how come these guys all had three names, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge or Edgar Allen Poe? Dante only had one, and so did Michaelangelo, (but he made up for it in little boys).
And I've said in this space that sometimes in order to get to sleep I do the rhyme puzzle -- start with a word and go down the alphabet. Can, ban, dan, fan, Han (the dynasty), jan, LAN (the network) man, pan, ran, tan, van, yan (the Chinese cooking show host) and that's just the one-syllable rhymes. I get to sleep in a hurry, if not a flurry.
So here's one: I do the first line and you do the second.
Like:
It came upon one Winter's eve
(And you say: "That Joe and Marge and I met Steve").
See how easy that is?
So let's go:
A Poem for Steve
It came upon one Winter's eve
That Joe and Marge and I met Steve
A tall man, and a strange one, too,
He -------------------------------
Go to it!
Honeymoons Aren't Forever
Yeah, well, you knew this one wouldn't last long. Funny Nick is funny for a period of time but then the rant quotient just gets to be too high. Lucky you -- as the reader, you just never know what it's going to be this time.
Well, let me tell you. Some people -- okay, lots of people -- okay, THE MAJORITY of people -- just weren't cut out to have children. Yeah, all right, the same exact amount of people weren't cut out to be married, have relationships, blah blah blah. If I may be so bold, these same people weren't cut out to take care of GI Joes, let alone pets, let alone people. Let alone themselves.
So, how to explain this one?:
There is an eight-year old boy. Maybe seven. Can't remember. But he's ALSO AUTISTIC. He can't speak a word, for fuck's sake. AN EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY WHO CAN'T SPEAK A WORD. Yet someone -- I have no idea who and am not laying any blame -- yet -- allows this little boy to wander away from his home in search of the family dog. Can you imagine the circumstance in which someone could allow this to happen?
And the little boy wanders into a snowstorm, dressed only in his shirt and housewear, missing for over 48 hours as a desperate search is underway.
Amazing miracle! Dog comes back, searchers follow dog's tracks, boy is found! Boy is in critical condition!
BOY DIES. How the FUCK did this happen? How the FUCK was anyone who calls themselves human allowed to take responsibility for this little boy? WHO THE FUCK was able to fool anyone, let alone themselves, that they could possibly be capable of taking care of a small, handicapped human being?
Flashback. Eric Fucking Clapton. Small boy is unsupervised by expensive nanny. Small boy wanders over to window on XXXth floor. Small boy falls to death. Eric Clapton writes best-selling hit commemorating small boy.
What the jesus fuuuu . . . . ? ? ? ?
Flashback. My youth. I'm five or six. Playing with neighbour kid at his place. Unsupervised. We climb his fire escape. His little sister, age approximately two, follows us up. We let her. She falls through the railing to her death, which I see in Techniwhatthefuckmacolor every single day of my fucking life.
To the parents of each of these kids, I only have one thing to say: you deserve to hang in a particularly bad manner for your neglect. It isn't a fucking tropical fish you're raising, you complete and utter assholes. When you leave it baking in an unwatched car in its car seat in the noonday sun BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT THE WIFE HAD TAKEN IT TO DAYCARE it's GOING TO DIE, you asshole.
To the parents of that little boy who died in an inexplicably bad manner for inconceivable reasons, I have only this to say: may every dream be a bad one. May your guilt torment you until your own deathmoment, but may your own death be inconceivably horrible, inexplicably indescribably horrendous, to atone for your abandonment of your responsibility for a tiny, loving life that lived only to make you happy.
There is a special corner in Hell reserved for you. And trust me, I'll be there, and they don't call me Old Ironhands for nothing.
Well, let me tell you. Some people -- okay, lots of people -- okay, THE MAJORITY of people -- just weren't cut out to have children. Yeah, all right, the same exact amount of people weren't cut out to be married, have relationships, blah blah blah. If I may be so bold, these same people weren't cut out to take care of GI Joes, let alone pets, let alone people. Let alone themselves.
So, how to explain this one?:
There is an eight-year old boy. Maybe seven. Can't remember. But he's ALSO AUTISTIC. He can't speak a word, for fuck's sake. AN EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY WHO CAN'T SPEAK A WORD. Yet someone -- I have no idea who and am not laying any blame -- yet -- allows this little boy to wander away from his home in search of the family dog. Can you imagine the circumstance in which someone could allow this to happen?
And the little boy wanders into a snowstorm, dressed only in his shirt and housewear, missing for over 48 hours as a desperate search is underway.
Amazing miracle! Dog comes back, searchers follow dog's tracks, boy is found! Boy is in critical condition!
BOY DIES. How the FUCK did this happen? How the FUCK was anyone who calls themselves human allowed to take responsibility for this little boy? WHO THE FUCK was able to fool anyone, let alone themselves, that they could possibly be capable of taking care of a small, handicapped human being?
Flashback. Eric Fucking Clapton. Small boy is unsupervised by expensive nanny. Small boy wanders over to window on XXXth floor. Small boy falls to death. Eric Clapton writes best-selling hit commemorating small boy.
What the jesus fuuuu . . . . ? ? ? ?
Flashback. My youth. I'm five or six. Playing with neighbour kid at his place. Unsupervised. We climb his fire escape. His little sister, age approximately two, follows us up. We let her. She falls through the railing to her death, which I see in Techniwhatthefuckmacolor every single day of my fucking life.
To the parents of each of these kids, I only have one thing to say: you deserve to hang in a particularly bad manner for your neglect. It isn't a fucking tropical fish you're raising, you complete and utter assholes. When you leave it baking in an unwatched car in its car seat in the noonday sun BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT THE WIFE HAD TAKEN IT TO DAYCARE it's GOING TO DIE, you asshole.
To the parents of that little boy who died in an inexplicably bad manner for inconceivable reasons, I have only this to say: may every dream be a bad one. May your guilt torment you until your own deathmoment, but may your own death be inconceivably horrible, inexplicably indescribably horrendous, to atone for your abandonment of your responsibility for a tiny, loving life that lived only to make you happy.
There is a special corner in Hell reserved for you. And trust me, I'll be there, and they don't call me Old Ironhands for nothing.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Not Going to Mars
Okay, Jupiter I know.
But do you know, or have actually thought about, why we're never going to Mars?
Oh, sure, the Discovery HD channel has a million episodes entitled "Journey To Mars" or some-such CGI-enhanced nonsense -- you know: what will the astronauts eat, how will they relate psychologically blah blah blah.
Well, guess the fuck what. (I knew you could!, this being this blog!)
What did you do this morning? Oh, okay, if you're in my case, what did you do this afternoon? You rolled out of bed, either reluctantly or pissed off -- take a card, really, any card -- and went to the bathroom, muttering and scratching your neglected head. You lying hound, don't pretend you didn't. Then you went back to bed, for what? Maybe to drink thirstily from that water bottle and pretend that you actually had nothing to do all day so could catch up on that exotic dream you were having.
Now imagine doing all that in a space suit. Uhh, oxygen levels need to be bumped, SpaceCom, please boost O2 levels ASAP.
What the fuck? In a spacesuit, let alone your pathetic $65/hr job? Fuck, man, what happens if you have to sneeze? Do they have a pill for that? Do they know what 14 hours in a business suit in a fucking plane feels like, let alone fifteen weeks in a fucking metal coffin with no shower, no porn, no Internet and uhh, last time I checked, only fourteen million miles between you and the nearest Help Station is like?
Okay, well, I personally deny the porn. But have you ever woken up in the middle of the night feeling a deep urge to scratch somewhere? To suddenly watch $100,000 Pyramid, have a scotch and eat some chocolate pie?
Huh? Can you imagine those urges while you're in a spacesuit 3 months in to a mission to Mars?
I'll keep you posted. I'm on a mission to what might as well be Mars next week. Let's just pretend that the business suit is a spacesuit. Let's just pretend that the white wine feed is the oxygen feed, and when we get to Mars, switches to the saké feed.
Sorry, have to blow my nose . . .
But do you know, or have actually thought about, why we're never going to Mars?
Oh, sure, the Discovery HD channel has a million episodes entitled "Journey To Mars" or some-such CGI-enhanced nonsense -- you know: what will the astronauts eat, how will they relate psychologically blah blah blah.
Well, guess the fuck what. (I knew you could!, this being this blog!)
What did you do this morning? Oh, okay, if you're in my case, what did you do this afternoon? You rolled out of bed, either reluctantly or pissed off -- take a card, really, any card -- and went to the bathroom, muttering and scratching your neglected head. You lying hound, don't pretend you didn't. Then you went back to bed, for what? Maybe to drink thirstily from that water bottle and pretend that you actually had nothing to do all day so could catch up on that exotic dream you were having.
Now imagine doing all that in a space suit. Uhh, oxygen levels need to be bumped, SpaceCom, please boost O2 levels ASAP.
What the fuck? In a spacesuit, let alone your pathetic $65/hr job? Fuck, man, what happens if you have to sneeze? Do they have a pill for that? Do they know what 14 hours in a business suit in a fucking plane feels like, let alone fifteen weeks in a fucking metal coffin with no shower, no porn, no Internet and uhh, last time I checked, only fourteen million miles between you and the nearest Help Station is like?
Okay, well, I personally deny the porn. But have you ever woken up in the middle of the night feeling a deep urge to scratch somewhere? To suddenly watch $100,000 Pyramid, have a scotch and eat some chocolate pie?
Huh? Can you imagine those urges while you're in a spacesuit 3 months in to a mission to Mars?
I'll keep you posted. I'm on a mission to what might as well be Mars next week. Let's just pretend that the business suit is a spacesuit. Let's just pretend that the white wine feed is the oxygen feed, and when we get to Mars, switches to the saké feed.
Sorry, have to blow my nose . . .
Humor
Oh good. Having carried out my Facebook threat, holding all 47 of my "friends" hostage over the Internet (definitely a feeling of power -- denying 47 people your presence without their explicit consent aforethought by cancelling Facebook altogether) yesterday I was in the kitchen making a rosé sauce, Brigitte being on rat patrol, and I suddenly and bizarrely laughed a truly devilish laugh out of nowhere.
You know how sometimes when you're completely alone, and you know it? You accidentally mutter something to yourself, then, having realised that no one else was listening, amplified the muttering, just for your own pleasure? Perhaps it was a German word, like "Achtung." Perhaps you were mentioning it under your breath to the slice of cheese you were gingerly cutting, acutely aware that the next few seconds determined whether you were going to spend the next few hours in Emergency, or not. "Achtung!" you would whisper, then, gaining confidence, "ACHTUNG!" at the top of your lungs. No one except you heard it, you can rest easy now.
Well, that. Anyway, my own laugh so startled me in its evilness, its unbrokered Vincent-Priceishness, that, if it is indeed possible, I backed away from myself in pure fear.
That was when I decided I have a future in voiceover, if not radio. If my own laugh can scare ME, what can it do to a legion of souls listening to me imitate Vlad the Terrible in a commercial for Furnitureworld in a 5 a.m. spot the day before Halloween?
These things can only be imagined, dear readers, thank all the fates.
HOWEVER
In spite of the fact that there are terrors that are real -- that I have to board several pressurized aluminum/composite emission-spewing tubes from here through Detroit and Tokyo to Osaka next Tuesday -- I know my laugh will get me through.
The horror outdoors as I type, though, is not so easy to dismiss.
You know how sometimes when you're completely alone, and you know it? You accidentally mutter something to yourself, then, having realised that no one else was listening, amplified the muttering, just for your own pleasure? Perhaps it was a German word, like "Achtung." Perhaps you were mentioning it under your breath to the slice of cheese you were gingerly cutting, acutely aware that the next few seconds determined whether you were going to spend the next few hours in Emergency, or not. "Achtung!" you would whisper, then, gaining confidence, "ACHTUNG!" at the top of your lungs. No one except you heard it, you can rest easy now.
Well, that. Anyway, my own laugh so startled me in its evilness, its unbrokered Vincent-Priceishness, that, if it is indeed possible, I backed away from myself in pure fear.
That was when I decided I have a future in voiceover, if not radio. If my own laugh can scare ME, what can it do to a legion of souls listening to me imitate Vlad the Terrible in a commercial for Furnitureworld in a 5 a.m. spot the day before Halloween?
These things can only be imagined, dear readers, thank all the fates.
HOWEVER
In spite of the fact that there are terrors that are real -- that I have to board several pressurized aluminum/composite emission-spewing tubes from here through Detroit and Tokyo to Osaka next Tuesday -- I know my laugh will get me through.
The horror outdoors as I type, though, is not so easy to dismiss.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Drowned by the River
Brigitte is an immensely tolerant soul. You have to be, to be around me. But we do have our . . . er . . . disagreements.
She can't stand Arnold Schwarznegger or Harrison Ford. I can't stand Brad Pitt or Julia Roberts.
It's a standing joke, while I'm watching "her" movies, when I say "The explosion has to be around that tree. Or an alien."
But that would be selling myself short! I would be the last to make my case here, in the court of public opinion; but in this matter, I must prevail.
Here is my proof that I do not wallow in Steven Seagal or Whatsis Van Damme movies. That I don't require an explosion every ten minutes. That I don't thrill to the latest chase -- be it a skidoo with a UFO or a parasail with a lawn mower. That there need be an alien, a monster or a murder in the first ten minutes.
Here is my proof:
Amadeus
A Passage To India
Breaker Morant
Casablanca
See? There is my proof. Need I be tormented by A Room With A View or a Brokeback Mountain or Bridges of Madison County or A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT?????? to prove I'm not a slavering, action-figure-blockbuster-season ticket-bearing Neanderthal?
Brad Pitt? BRAD PITT?
B
R
A
D
P
I
T
T
????????????
A movie about fly-fishing?
After ten minutes, I informed Brigitte that I had noticed that the paint on the walls around the TV, put there in 2005, was finally dry.
She can't stand Arnold Schwarznegger or Harrison Ford. I can't stand Brad Pitt or Julia Roberts.
It's a standing joke, while I'm watching "her" movies, when I say "The explosion has to be around that tree. Or an alien."
But that would be selling myself short! I would be the last to make my case here, in the court of public opinion; but in this matter, I must prevail.
Here is my proof that I do not wallow in Steven Seagal or Whatsis Van Damme movies. That I don't require an explosion every ten minutes. That I don't thrill to the latest chase -- be it a skidoo with a UFO or a parasail with a lawn mower. That there need be an alien, a monster or a murder in the first ten minutes.
Here is my proof:
Amadeus
A Passage To India
Breaker Morant
Casablanca
See? There is my proof. Need I be tormented by A Room With A View or a Brokeback Mountain or Bridges of Madison County or A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT?????? to prove I'm not a slavering, action-figure-blockbuster-season ticket-bearing Neanderthal?
Brad Pitt? BRAD PITT?
B
R
A
D
P
I
T
T
????????????
A movie about fly-fishing?
After ten minutes, I informed Brigitte that I had noticed that the paint on the walls around the TV, put there in 2005, was finally dry.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Entangled
I don’t quite know what to make of the universe. Like everyone else, I question practically everything. Is a spider bad enough that I should crush it? Or will that affect my karma in some way? What is karma? Did something I did three weeks ago put me in line behind this Cosmic Granny who’s counting out her purchase penny by penny as the bagger leaves in disgust and the cash register guy comes along to get a tally on what the big bills are for the hour, bill by bill, while all the other registers zip by? Was it THAT SOMETHING I SAID that provoked this karma, whatever that is?
I’ve come to only one conclusion, which no doubt all of you have as well. There is nothing that actually exists that is not within your immediate perception. Which is to say, if you can’t see it NOW, it actually doesn’t exist. If you can’t hear it, can’t feel it, can’t perceive it, it doesn’t exist. So, while I sit on a toilet in some bathroom reading some newspaper, the actual fact is that France, the entire country, and everyone — every THING — in it — doesn’t exist. Oh sure, Jacques Chirac exists, but ONLY IN YOUR MIND. Does Jacques Chirac exist as a tangible thing? No. Is he standing in your bathroom? No. Then how can he exist? See? It’s only you’re imagining that he exists. The reality is that the four walls of this bathroom, the newpaper you hold in your hand and the drip of the tap exist.
Face it. At ANY GIVEN TIME, those are the only things that you can absolutely be sure exist! Everything else, and I mean everything — the economy, Pluto, the pyramids, all recorded history, Paris Hilton — they don’t really exist unless they’re all standing in the bathroom right in front of your very own eyes, right now, as you sit on the toilet! What EXISTS is only the craven “evidence” of your own imagination. That someone named Paris Hilton is no longer wowing the tabloids. Well, think about it: in a court of law, wouldn’t that be hearsay? Is Paris Hilton, the person, standing in your bathroom with tabloids being wowed right in front of your very eyes?
I thought not. Then, you must admit, the overwhelming evidence is that Paris Hilton, tabloids, and every single iota of everything outside your bathroom DOES NOT, IN FACT, EXIST. Oh, sure, you say, well, I know the hotel room I’m staying in exists. If I just get up, flush the toilet and leave this bathroom, I’ll be in it. It’s there — I just can’t see it right now. Well, guess what: outside the bathroom, right now, is a grey blob of nothingness. Acre upon acre, mile upon mile, parsec upon parsec, of nothingness. Oh sure, you’ll get up off the toilet, walk into the hotel room, even take a picture of it — but then the bathroom doesn’t exist. See?
The old saw of “if a tree falls in the forest” is not a myth. Milli Vannilli — did they exist? It’s debatable. I’m reading this, but are you? Guess what — even though I don’t know who you are, I know you’re reading this right now. Does that mean I’m psychic? Okay, so how do I know that you’re reading this? Yet I do! Go ahead, admit you’re reading this and that I knew you would be! I guess that makes me The Amazing Kreskin by default.
We're entangled, you and I RIGHT NOW, and through a COMPLETE LACK OF CHOICE.
Even if you stop reading after this period: . then the MEMORY of having read all this will be in your brain, the REALITY of having read all this WILL EXIST; but only for YOU, not for someone else.
You could swear up, down, sideways and backwards that you have just proceeded to read everything you have just read -- Hell, you can even memorize it word for word, but is it really PROOF that these words exist to someone who has not yet seen them? You can argue in a court of the highest law imaginable that you have READ EVERY WORD HERE but if you can't actually show the judge and jury these here words -- and who can prove YOU DIDN'T WRITE THEM AFTER THE FACT TO PROVE YOUR POINT?
As far as the universe goes, only YOU and now _I_ know that you have read these words. We are now ENTANGLED in a fashion that ONLY INVOLVES US; I, knowing that, having read this far, you have more than with 90% probability read EVERYTHING I HAVE WRITTEN, and YOU, knowing that these words did, in fact exist, BECAUSE YOU READ THEM YOURSELF.
So, like it or not, you and I are now permanently entangled. I can NOT BE a figment of your imagination, like Jacques Chirac, or Paris Hilton, whom you have NEVER PERSONALLY SEEN.
Thus, you can just put me into your drawer entitled "Theory: PROVED BEYOND A SHADOW OF A DOUBT."
Welcome to my entangled world.
I’ve come to only one conclusion, which no doubt all of you have as well. There is nothing that actually exists that is not within your immediate perception. Which is to say, if you can’t see it NOW, it actually doesn’t exist. If you can’t hear it, can’t feel it, can’t perceive it, it doesn’t exist. So, while I sit on a toilet in some bathroom reading some newspaper, the actual fact is that France, the entire country, and everyone — every THING — in it — doesn’t exist. Oh sure, Jacques Chirac exists, but ONLY IN YOUR MIND. Does Jacques Chirac exist as a tangible thing? No. Is he standing in your bathroom? No. Then how can he exist? See? It’s only you’re imagining that he exists. The reality is that the four walls of this bathroom, the newpaper you hold in your hand and the drip of the tap exist.
Face it. At ANY GIVEN TIME, those are the only things that you can absolutely be sure exist! Everything else, and I mean everything — the economy, Pluto, the pyramids, all recorded history, Paris Hilton — they don’t really exist unless they’re all standing in the bathroom right in front of your very own eyes, right now, as you sit on the toilet! What EXISTS is only the craven “evidence” of your own imagination. That someone named Paris Hilton is no longer wowing the tabloids. Well, think about it: in a court of law, wouldn’t that be hearsay? Is Paris Hilton, the person, standing in your bathroom with tabloids being wowed right in front of your very eyes?
I thought not. Then, you must admit, the overwhelming evidence is that Paris Hilton, tabloids, and every single iota of everything outside your bathroom DOES NOT, IN FACT, EXIST. Oh, sure, you say, well, I know the hotel room I’m staying in exists. If I just get up, flush the toilet and leave this bathroom, I’ll be in it. It’s there — I just can’t see it right now. Well, guess what: outside the bathroom, right now, is a grey blob of nothingness. Acre upon acre, mile upon mile, parsec upon parsec, of nothingness. Oh sure, you’ll get up off the toilet, walk into the hotel room, even take a picture of it — but then the bathroom doesn’t exist. See?
The old saw of “if a tree falls in the forest” is not a myth. Milli Vannilli — did they exist? It’s debatable. I’m reading this, but are you? Guess what — even though I don’t know who you are, I know you’re reading this right now. Does that mean I’m psychic? Okay, so how do I know that you’re reading this? Yet I do! Go ahead, admit you’re reading this and that I knew you would be! I guess that makes me The Amazing Kreskin by default.
We're entangled, you and I RIGHT NOW, and through a COMPLETE LACK OF CHOICE.
Even if you stop reading after this period: . then the MEMORY of having read all this will be in your brain, the REALITY of having read all this WILL EXIST; but only for YOU, not for someone else.
You could swear up, down, sideways and backwards that you have just proceeded to read everything you have just read -- Hell, you can even memorize it word for word, but is it really PROOF that these words exist to someone who has not yet seen them? You can argue in a court of the highest law imaginable that you have READ EVERY WORD HERE but if you can't actually show the judge and jury these here words -- and who can prove YOU DIDN'T WRITE THEM AFTER THE FACT TO PROVE YOUR POINT?
As far as the universe goes, only YOU and now _I_ know that you have read these words. We are now ENTANGLED in a fashion that ONLY INVOLVES US; I, knowing that, having read this far, you have more than with 90% probability read EVERYTHING I HAVE WRITTEN, and YOU, knowing that these words did, in fact exist, BECAUSE YOU READ THEM YOURSELF.
So, like it or not, you and I are now permanently entangled. I can NOT BE a figment of your imagination, like Jacques Chirac, or Paris Hilton, whom you have NEVER PERSONALLY SEEN.
Thus, you can just put me into your drawer entitled "Theory: PROVED BEYOND A SHADOW OF A DOUBT."
Welcome to my entangled world.
Farewell to Facebook
(As posted on my Facebook page):
I love you, really, I do, every one of you. But I'm going to have to say goodbye for the third and final time. I don't need you to Write On My Wall. I don't have a wall. I have an email address and a telephone number. My email address is nick(at)montrealfood.com.
If you cared even slightly you'd already know my phone number. There is nothing that Facebook provides me that I couldn't find though email or your kind telephone call. Too much information. And as of Monday, December 7, I'm declaring my own Facebook Pearl Harbor.
Goodbye, my Facebook friends. Goodbye. May all your Facebooking be truly happy and keep you snug in your beds through all kinds of winter storms. Goodbye, dear Facebook, goodbye. I will now Share this poignant farewell with All Of You by clicking on the bluish-grey "Share" button below this pixellated window.
How profound this Sharing moment this is, this final Facebook moment. Share. Share. Share! Share all your dreams through the bluish-grey button; it exists only to serve your scantest whim.
If indeed I cease to exist on Facebook, remember me as I was. Pass on my Sharingness, pass on my love to all your Friends. Think of me as a mere snapshot in your dear lives, to be treasured for everything that we Shared. Do not forget me. -- Nick
I love you, really, I do, every one of you. But I'm going to have to say goodbye for the third and final time. I don't need you to Write On My Wall. I don't have a wall. I have an email address and a telephone number. My email address is nick(at)montrealfood.com.
If you cared even slightly you'd already know my phone number. There is nothing that Facebook provides me that I couldn't find though email or your kind telephone call. Too much information. And as of Monday, December 7, I'm declaring my own Facebook Pearl Harbor.
Goodbye, my Facebook friends. Goodbye. May all your Facebooking be truly happy and keep you snug in your beds through all kinds of winter storms. Goodbye, dear Facebook, goodbye. I will now Share this poignant farewell with All Of You by clicking on the bluish-grey "Share" button below this pixellated window.
How profound this Sharing moment this is, this final Facebook moment. Share. Share. Share! Share all your dreams through the bluish-grey button; it exists only to serve your scantest whim.
If indeed I cease to exist on Facebook, remember me as I was. Pass on my Sharingness, pass on my love to all your Friends. Think of me as a mere snapshot in your dear lives, to be treasured for everything that we Shared. Do not forget me. -- Nick
Friday, December 4, 2009
Memail
I’m disturbed . . . and at a loss. What is the etiquette with email? I realise I’m waaay behind the times. Email is almost like telegrams were, what with texting and Twitter and Facebook.
But I’m talking about good old email. It’s been around a while now. I remember when messages between people used to actually have to be written longhand or typed, somehow, then put into a mailbox. Aside from routine correspondence, such as paying bills, etc., there was not much of this sort of communication except between friends, relatives, or even the occasional acquaintance.
But it was a big thing. If you got a letter from someone, well, you were put in a spot. Frequently, it was weeks after the fact, whatever the fact that may have been. So everybody had to be completely non-spontaneous. Greetings, the “how I’ve been, how are you?” etc.
And you felt compelled to respond. To not respond would have been churlish. Worse yet, more often than not, your response would be hopelessly outdated by the time they received it. But actually getting a letter from someone . . . well, someone had to mail it! It had to be put in an aeroplane. Someone had to sort it, delegate it, and someone else had to bring it to your door! Therefore, it deserved SOME sort of response.
But now . . . the creeping insidiousness of instant communication. I remember the way I felt back in, maybe 1995 when I got my first “emails” from a friend. I was horrified. He kept referencing what I had written in my last email, in quotes, as if to remind me of what I’d written. Even worse, sometimes he would copy and paste, section by section, what I’d written, then his response to it. As if I were some bureaucrat that needed to be reminded of what I’d said. I remembered what I’d said. I was capable of remembering it all, and deducing from his responses what the original question had been.
======================================================
"I hope Emiko is well. I remember you’d said she’d been ill."
Emiko is great!
"And do you still live in Kamakura?"
Yes!
======================================================
But all that seems so old now.
Now, I have a host of new issues. I hope you, loyal readers, and masters of etiquette, can clear them up for me. I’ll proceed with hypothetical scenarios.
A basic one: an exchange with a stranger you know for sure you’re never going to come in contact with again. In other words, the person who writes in response to your question “is the Perambulator still available, and if so, how much is shipping” And they reply “Sorry, it’s sold.” Do you have to write them back and say “Thanks for the reply! Have a good one!”?
Or say you impulsively email someone about something they wrote on their webpage. It seemed important at the time, but they took so long to get back to you that now you’ve totally forgotten your earlier enthusiasm. Now they enthusiastically reply, in detail! What do you do?
One day, you think of an old friend with whom you used to be close, and have been in email contact with in the past, but now you have kind of drifted apart from. All of a sudden, you feel nostalgic and email them, but don’t receive a reply for a couple of weeks. When you get the reply, you’re no longer in the mood you were back then and quickly see that there is no Earthly point in continuing the correspondence. What do you do?
Worst scenario: you were in regular, almost daily contact with someone, to it almost being a routine. You’d email random thoughts and they would respond. You’d get together in real life sometimes. All of a sudden, although you don’t realise it right away, they stop responding, for seemingly no reason at all. Fine, you think, but you don’t overdo it. You email them maybe a month later with a “Long time no hear” and upon receiving a laconic reply, realise they’ve been there all along, no crises, no nothing. Just that they never return your emails.
What do you do? Blow them off and never email them again? Try occasionally? Decide “Fuck you too!” and give it up, even though you know for a fact they still read your blog? Write them and say that you’ve just come into 25.8M dollars and that you’d like to share it with them and here is your fax number?
I feel I’m being desensitized. Someone writes me “Thanks for your purchase! It was great doing business with you — Pam.” And I never write her back. I write Adam on a whim about setting up an Internet company. And he writes me back four days later when I don’t feel like it any more. So I don’t write him back.
Maybe it’s time to be re-educated. wht r ur opnions?
But I’m talking about good old email. It’s been around a while now. I remember when messages between people used to actually have to be written longhand or typed, somehow, then put into a mailbox. Aside from routine correspondence, such as paying bills, etc., there was not much of this sort of communication except between friends, relatives, or even the occasional acquaintance.
But it was a big thing. If you got a letter from someone, well, you were put in a spot. Frequently, it was weeks after the fact, whatever the fact that may have been. So everybody had to be completely non-spontaneous. Greetings, the “how I’ve been, how are you?” etc.
And you felt compelled to respond. To not respond would have been churlish. Worse yet, more often than not, your response would be hopelessly outdated by the time they received it. But actually getting a letter from someone . . . well, someone had to mail it! It had to be put in an aeroplane. Someone had to sort it, delegate it, and someone else had to bring it to your door! Therefore, it deserved SOME sort of response.
But now . . . the creeping insidiousness of instant communication. I remember the way I felt back in, maybe 1995 when I got my first “emails” from a friend. I was horrified. He kept referencing what I had written in my last email, in quotes, as if to remind me of what I’d written. Even worse, sometimes he would copy and paste, section by section, what I’d written, then his response to it. As if I were some bureaucrat that needed to be reminded of what I’d said. I remembered what I’d said. I was capable of remembering it all, and deducing from his responses what the original question had been.
======================================================
"I hope Emiko is well. I remember you’d said she’d been ill."
Emiko is great!
"And do you still live in Kamakura?"
Yes!
======================================================
But all that seems so old now.
Now, I have a host of new issues. I hope you, loyal readers, and masters of etiquette, can clear them up for me. I’ll proceed with hypothetical scenarios.
A basic one: an exchange with a stranger you know for sure you’re never going to come in contact with again. In other words, the person who writes in response to your question “is the Perambulator still available, and if so, how much is shipping” And they reply “Sorry, it’s sold.” Do you have to write them back and say “Thanks for the reply! Have a good one!”?
Or say you impulsively email someone about something they wrote on their webpage. It seemed important at the time, but they took so long to get back to you that now you’ve totally forgotten your earlier enthusiasm. Now they enthusiastically reply, in detail! What do you do?
One day, you think of an old friend with whom you used to be close, and have been in email contact with in the past, but now you have kind of drifted apart from. All of a sudden, you feel nostalgic and email them, but don’t receive a reply for a couple of weeks. When you get the reply, you’re no longer in the mood you were back then and quickly see that there is no Earthly point in continuing the correspondence. What do you do?
Worst scenario: you were in regular, almost daily contact with someone, to it almost being a routine. You’d email random thoughts and they would respond. You’d get together in real life sometimes. All of a sudden, although you don’t realise it right away, they stop responding, for seemingly no reason at all. Fine, you think, but you don’t overdo it. You email them maybe a month later with a “Long time no hear” and upon receiving a laconic reply, realise they’ve been there all along, no crises, no nothing. Just that they never return your emails.
What do you do? Blow them off and never email them again? Try occasionally? Decide “Fuck you too!” and give it up, even though you know for a fact they still read your blog? Write them and say that you’ve just come into 25.8M dollars and that you’d like to share it with them and here is your fax number?
I feel I’m being desensitized. Someone writes me “Thanks for your purchase! It was great doing business with you — Pam.” And I never write her back. I write Adam on a whim about setting up an Internet company. And he writes me back four days later when I don’t feel like it any more. So I don’t write him back.
Maybe it’s time to be re-educated. wht r ur opnions?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
My Unified Theory
I’m reading a book about teleportation (I read them all, no subject is too abstruse) and it has some amazing things to say. (Well, it better).
Okay, here we go. If you go into a dark room, cut two slits in a piece of cardboard, and shine a bright light through them against a white background, what do you get? Well, you’re going to say “two slits of light on the white background.” And you’d be wrong! Turns out that, just as if you dropped two pebbles into a pond, the light waves that go through the slits interfere with each other, like ripples in water, forming troughs and peaks where they intersect. So instead of getting two slits of light, you get bands of dark and light where the light waves intersect!
But you knew that already. Trouble is, there are two theories about light — one is that it’s waves, but the other is that it’s particles. Yeah, you know your theory — a light particle is called a photon.
So (bear with me) when you shine a light through the two slits, literally sextillions of photons are going through at once. Now what if you could just reduce it to ONE photon? Well, guess what — they did. And it showed that when just one photon went through the two slits you still got the ripple pattern — yet the photon wasn’t divided in two! Thus, light waves. (The other half of the atom goes to a bar looking sad. Bartender says "What's wrong, buddy?" Atom says "I just lost a neutron." Bartender says "Are you sure?" Atom says, "Yeah, I'm positive!" Bartender says "Okay, then for you, no charge.")
Why am I telling you all this? Well, because I’m trying to develop a Unified Theory According to Me that explains not only teleportation, but also invisibility and time travel — all at the same time! Why, again, you ask, am I bothering, when hundreds, if not thousands of esteemed physicists before me have explored these very same questions yet not arrived at a theory that can account for all three phenomena?
I’m glad you asked! Well, as for teleportation, I want to find a way to beam one of Brigitte’s hot dogs directly to a plate on my lap in the bedroom so I don’t have to get up and miss a second of The Love Connection. What? you ask? The Love Connection? That went off the air decades ago!
Well, that’s precisely why I want to invent a time machine! Okay, so why invisibility? Well, I want to be able to sneak to the refrigerator undetected by Brigitte to grab myself another beer while I wait for the hot dog to be made and The Love Connection to come on.
So what progress have I made so far? Well, I’ve discovered that by cutting two slits in a National Enquirer and beaming Tiger Woods through them results in a whole bunch of sleazy-looking supermodels all hefting nine-irons!
Okay, here we go. If you go into a dark room, cut two slits in a piece of cardboard, and shine a bright light through them against a white background, what do you get? Well, you’re going to say “two slits of light on the white background.” And you’d be wrong! Turns out that, just as if you dropped two pebbles into a pond, the light waves that go through the slits interfere with each other, like ripples in water, forming troughs and peaks where they intersect. So instead of getting two slits of light, you get bands of dark and light where the light waves intersect!
But you knew that already. Trouble is, there are two theories about light — one is that it’s waves, but the other is that it’s particles. Yeah, you know your theory — a light particle is called a photon.
So (bear with me) when you shine a light through the two slits, literally sextillions of photons are going through at once. Now what if you could just reduce it to ONE photon? Well, guess what — they did. And it showed that when just one photon went through the two slits you still got the ripple pattern — yet the photon wasn’t divided in two! Thus, light waves. (The other half of the atom goes to a bar looking sad. Bartender says "What's wrong, buddy?" Atom says "I just lost a neutron." Bartender says "Are you sure?" Atom says, "Yeah, I'm positive!" Bartender says "Okay, then for you, no charge.")
Why am I telling you all this? Well, because I’m trying to develop a Unified Theory According to Me that explains not only teleportation, but also invisibility and time travel — all at the same time! Why, again, you ask, am I bothering, when hundreds, if not thousands of esteemed physicists before me have explored these very same questions yet not arrived at a theory that can account for all three phenomena?
I’m glad you asked! Well, as for teleportation, I want to find a way to beam one of Brigitte’s hot dogs directly to a plate on my lap in the bedroom so I don’t have to get up and miss a second of The Love Connection. What? you ask? The Love Connection? That went off the air decades ago!
Well, that’s precisely why I want to invent a time machine! Okay, so why invisibility? Well, I want to be able to sneak to the refrigerator undetected by Brigitte to grab myself another beer while I wait for the hot dog to be made and The Love Connection to come on.
So what progress have I made so far? Well, I’ve discovered that by cutting two slits in a National Enquirer and beaming Tiger Woods through them results in a whole bunch of sleazy-looking supermodels all hefting nine-irons!
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Role of This Blog
It has come to my attention recently that the title of this blog is actually "montrealfoodblog" which kind of implies that a large part of the content is about food in Montreal!
Well, that's in an ideal world. There was a time a few years ago when I physically despised the word "blog" in the same kind of way we all came to despise the words "Information SuperHighway" or anything with "Cyber" before it.
Blog. Fuck blog, I said. If this is what they call a blog, I've been fucking blogging before WordPress's founders were billionaires. And I was!
But now that's like saying "Hey, I was on Usenet before there were forums!"
My original intentions were solid. Montrealfood.com would be a semi-gossipy, occasional resto-centric, freewheeling site that only really had one agenda: food in Montreal.
That worked for a while. But eventually, the old "no ads on THIS site" became really old. Then, the foodblogging craze exploded -- the chowhounds, the egullets, the Food Network. These days, people with degrees in foodstyling take pictures of food and publish them in a whole new category called "food porn."
Even the diehard stalwarts, the stolid bloggers who seem to love going against the flow, still devote their entire blogs to reviews of restaurants -- brilliant pictures, absolutely phenomenally well-written reviews concentrating on everything from hot dogs to zershck ... frankly, I've on a number of occasions been very suspicious as to how these people manage to go out to all these fantastic restaurants, take these gorgeous pictures and post these journalistic-level reviews.
It's a struggle for me to review even one restaurant and write it up, let alone post excellent photos with links, podcasts, what have you . . .
So guess what? I've given up. On montrealfood alone there must be at least 50 reviews -- written by someone, for sure, maybe even me -- about restaurants that are long, long gone.
Who has the time to sit around following what new restaurant sprang up here or there or where the best brunch place is in Little Italy?
Now there are monstrous, massive sites like chowhound and egullet that have entire forums just dedicated to questions like "What's the best Glatt Kosher in Montreal?" with dozens, if not hundreds of very talented responders and recommendations!
I feel truly like Ogg, having invented the wheel. People were very impressed at my amazing achievement, until Ugg came along, invented fire, and burned it.
But I feel a strange and unnatural exhilaration when a website actually links to this blog!
There is someone out there who actually still believes this is a blog about food in Montreal! But it's really just a random diary about things that happened to me between meals and at meals with the magical addition of the snow that's making everything amazing at 7:50 on a Monday two days into my 52nd year. Now THAT's something to write about.
Well, that's in an ideal world. There was a time a few years ago when I physically despised the word "blog" in the same kind of way we all came to despise the words "Information SuperHighway" or anything with "Cyber" before it.
Blog. Fuck blog, I said. If this is what they call a blog, I've been fucking blogging before WordPress's founders were billionaires. And I was!
But now that's like saying "Hey, I was on Usenet before there were forums!"
My original intentions were solid. Montrealfood.com would be a semi-gossipy, occasional resto-centric, freewheeling site that only really had one agenda: food in Montreal.
That worked for a while. But eventually, the old "no ads on THIS site" became really old. Then, the foodblogging craze exploded -- the chowhounds, the egullets, the Food Network. These days, people with degrees in foodstyling take pictures of food and publish them in a whole new category called "food porn."
Even the diehard stalwarts, the stolid bloggers who seem to love going against the flow, still devote their entire blogs to reviews of restaurants -- brilliant pictures, absolutely phenomenally well-written reviews concentrating on everything from hot dogs to zershck ... frankly, I've on a number of occasions been very suspicious as to how these people manage to go out to all these fantastic restaurants, take these gorgeous pictures and post these journalistic-level reviews.
It's a struggle for me to review even one restaurant and write it up, let alone post excellent photos with links, podcasts, what have you . . .
So guess what? I've given up. On montrealfood alone there must be at least 50 reviews -- written by someone, for sure, maybe even me -- about restaurants that are long, long gone.
Who has the time to sit around following what new restaurant sprang up here or there or where the best brunch place is in Little Italy?
Now there are monstrous, massive sites like chowhound and egullet that have entire forums just dedicated to questions like "What's the best Glatt Kosher in Montreal?" with dozens, if not hundreds of very talented responders and recommendations!
I feel truly like Ogg, having invented the wheel. People were very impressed at my amazing achievement, until Ugg came along, invented fire, and burned it.
But I feel a strange and unnatural exhilaration when a website actually links to this blog!
There is someone out there who actually still believes this is a blog about food in Montreal! But it's really just a random diary about things that happened to me between meals and at meals with the magical addition of the snow that's making everything amazing at 7:50 on a Monday two days into my 52nd year. Now THAT's something to write about.
B-52
And by the way, I had a most excellent two days of birthday (it's not often it comes on a Saturday), yesterday just hanging with Brigitte, the dog and the fish, drinking the aforementioned perfect Bloody Marys and having delectable pasta with Italian sausage meatballs and playing guitar and force-marching the dog, and tonight heading off to the wonderful Basi for an intimate dinner and a return to Helicopter Dog (I swear, she could get off the ground if her tail was reconfigured for maximum lift) so my B:52 ended up being a grand success.
Plus I grew a whole inch in the night.
Plus I grew a whole inch in the night.
Herr I Go Again
Umm, I won't go into too many details, but recently a friend decided to take a break from his hospital job to go to, of all places, Columbia, for a week. Well, the jokes flew back and forth, but when it was established that there were no duty-free shops at Medellin International with dime bags I kind of lost interest.
But what he DID do, was leave us his dog for a week. A dog. In this apartment. On the eighth floor. To wit, this dog:
Now, while me and dogs go back a long way, I don't trust them. Brigitte "loves dogs", in that sepia bubble of nostalgiahood in which some of us bask from time to time (ripples, blurs and multiple harp soundtracks extra).
But me . . . uh-unh. So I approached this small bag of spiked fur and grafted-on tail (from a vintage helicopter toy) with a small amount of trepidation.
His owner, regrettably, "trained" this dog in French. Regrettably, I confine my excellent French to those who most deserve it: the French. English is fine, but I could see the dog wasn't getting it -- the wheedling, the begging, the orders, the bargaining . . . the pee still ended up far from the newspaper, in a manner of speaking.
Brigitte, however, strode into the task with enthusiasm, barking orders in the King's French with matchless aplomb. However . . . the pee still remained far from the newspaper.
So I hit upon a brilliant idea. Speak to it IN GERMAN! That magnificent Teutonic language, that commanding tongue where one word can send thousands to ovens even when shouted by a pygmy dwarf in a monocle and ill-fitting jodphurs! The ideal language! Instead of "Si-si, va faire pi-pi! Va faire pi-pi sûr les journaux MAINTENANT!" it became "UNTERMENSCH! GEHST-DU DER URINEN MACHEN ÜBER DEINE ALLGEMAINE ZEITUNG JETZT! JETZT! *JETZT* MEINE KLEINE TEUFELHUNDE!!!! RAAAAUUUSSS! RAUUUUSSSS!!!"
Oh, I forgot the "Schnell" at the end. But believe me, that gets results in the dog world!
I only have the hellhound for another four days but I was thinking of using a commandant-by-proxy for the rest of the time -- my vocal chords are sensitive -- so I was on the lookout for a Hitler action figure to add to my GI Joe collection. Hey, you wouldn't believe how many large corporations that make millions of beloved 12" Fighting Men decline to make a 12" Hitler doll! (or Stalin, for that matter!)
So I went looking! The only pathetic approximation I could come up with was here.
Needless to say, he's undressable -- his clothes are melted to his corpulent frame -- and the dog will not be impressed when I brandish Lil' Adolf and bark my orders in flawless German!
And when the coup de grace comes -- it always comes with my GI Joes, sooner or later -- I will derive little satisfaction pulling The Mustached Midget's feet off one by one to serve as ornaments in the fishbowl. Oh, I didn't tell you about the fish that our friend left in our safekeeping?
I've been reading that book Luc left me entitled "Japanese Cooking" with renewed vigor lately.
Raus!
But what he DID do, was leave us his dog for a week. A dog. In this apartment. On the eighth floor. To wit, this dog:
Now, while me and dogs go back a long way, I don't trust them. Brigitte "loves dogs", in that sepia bubble of nostalgiahood in which some of us bask from time to time (ripples, blurs and multiple harp soundtracks extra).
But me . . . uh-unh. So I approached this small bag of spiked fur and grafted-on tail (from a vintage helicopter toy) with a small amount of trepidation.
His owner, regrettably, "trained" this dog in French. Regrettably, I confine my excellent French to those who most deserve it: the French. English is fine, but I could see the dog wasn't getting it -- the wheedling, the begging, the orders, the bargaining . . . the pee still ended up far from the newspaper, in a manner of speaking.
Brigitte, however, strode into the task with enthusiasm, barking orders in the King's French with matchless aplomb. However . . . the pee still remained far from the newspaper.
So I hit upon a brilliant idea. Speak to it IN GERMAN! That magnificent Teutonic language, that commanding tongue where one word can send thousands to ovens even when shouted by a pygmy dwarf in a monocle and ill-fitting jodphurs! The ideal language! Instead of "Si-si, va faire pi-pi! Va faire pi-pi sûr les journaux MAINTENANT!" it became "UNTERMENSCH! GEHST-DU DER URINEN MACHEN ÜBER DEINE ALLGEMAINE ZEITUNG JETZT! JETZT! *JETZT* MEINE KLEINE TEUFELHUNDE!!!! RAAAAUUUSSS! RAUUUUSSSS!!!"
Oh, I forgot the "Schnell" at the end. But believe me, that gets results in the dog world!
I only have the hellhound for another four days but I was thinking of using a commandant-by-proxy for the rest of the time -- my vocal chords are sensitive -- so I was on the lookout for a Hitler action figure to add to my GI Joe collection. Hey, you wouldn't believe how many large corporations that make millions of beloved 12" Fighting Men decline to make a 12" Hitler doll! (or Stalin, for that matter!)
So I went looking! The only pathetic approximation I could come up with was here.
Needless to say, he's undressable -- his clothes are melted to his corpulent frame -- and the dog will not be impressed when I brandish Lil' Adolf and bark my orders in flawless German!
And when the coup de grace comes -- it always comes with my GI Joes, sooner or later -- I will derive little satisfaction pulling The Mustached Midget's feet off one by one to serve as ornaments in the fishbowl. Oh, I didn't tell you about the fish that our friend left in our safekeeping?
I've been reading that book Luc left me entitled "Japanese Cooking" with renewed vigor lately.
Raus!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Bad Me: Again
I posted the following on Craigslist under "writing jobs" . . .
Bad, bad me.
=====================================================================
English translation job desperately needed
Needed, ASAP: translation of the following sentence spoken by Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, into English, preferably, but other Indo-European languages also acceptable:
"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."
All this company's translation teams are at a loss so it is with reluctance that we go to Craiglist for possible interpretation. Russian transliteration okay upon approval of CV.
* Compensation: $500/wd
* Telecommuting is ok.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
=====================================================================
The replies (preliminary) that I've gotten:
"What, exactly, are you looking for? The sentence is already in English. Are you looking for what he meant?"
--------
"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."
I look forward to reaching,in Copenhagen, a comprehensive agreement which does not just set absolute targets, but which will in fact allow us to work on the actual reduction of emissions.
-------
(And this, the best so far -- ed.):
"It means 'fuck you; me and the oil companies are going pump out as much CO2 as we can'"
-- Keep 'em coming, folks!
Bad, bad me.
=====================================================================
English translation job desperately needed
Needed, ASAP: translation of the following sentence spoken by Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, into English, preferably, but other Indo-European languages also acceptable:
"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."
All this company's translation teams are at a loss so it is with reluctance that we go to Craiglist for possible interpretation. Russian transliteration okay upon approval of CV.
* Compensation: $500/wd
* Telecommuting is ok.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
=====================================================================
The replies (preliminary) that I've gotten:
"What, exactly, are you looking for? The sentence is already in English. Are you looking for what he meant?"
--------
"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."
I look forward to reaching,in Copenhagen, a comprehensive agreement which does not just set absolute targets, but which will in fact allow us to work on the actual reduction of emissions.
-------
(And this, the best so far -- ed.):
"It means 'fuck you; me and the oil companies are going pump out as much CO2 as we can'"
-- Keep 'em coming, folks!
Happy Birthday To Me
Yes, today I’m fifty-two.
Little doubt, much more than you.
Behold my fruitful time on Earth
Ignore my rather meatful girth.
I wake and contemplate the sun
That’s risen every day since One
And wonder if there’ll be one more
And if it be, just what’s in store.
With hurting heels I crawl from bed
Leave mindless epithets unsaid
And think of maybe making tea
But then I think “Why should this be?”
“I’m fifty-two years old,” I think.
”Fuck this tea. I need a drink.”
So many dawns; so many days
Ushered forth with bland Earl-Greys?
The frozen vodka mutely cries
The stalks of celery arise.
The Worcestershire, Tabasco, dill
(My recipe is in my will).
And so I now this nectar sip
My celery within it dip
Fuck, many more ‘fore setting sun!
And no more tea till I am done.
Little doubt, much more than you.
Behold my fruitful time on Earth
Ignore my rather meatful girth.
I wake and contemplate the sun
That’s risen every day since One
And wonder if there’ll be one more
And if it be, just what’s in store.
With hurting heels I crawl from bed
Leave mindless epithets unsaid
And think of maybe making tea
But then I think “Why should this be?”
“I’m fifty-two years old,” I think.
”Fuck this tea. I need a drink.”
So many dawns; so many days
Ushered forth with bland Earl-Greys?
The frozen vodka mutely cries
The stalks of celery arise.
The Worcestershire, Tabasco, dill
(My recipe is in my will).
And so I now this nectar sip
My celery within it dip
Fuck, many more ‘fore setting sun!
And no more tea till I am done.
Friday, November 20, 2009
New Painting Project
The above is a painting done from a poster that we bought, by the miracle-working Jack Lee and the folks at Europic Art.
I've had them do at least 5 paintings so far, and they're absolute geniuses.
So I have a new project -- while in New York a while back I took some photos from the Empire State building. I've messed with them in Photoshop and now have to decide which one to make into a 72" painting. Which would you pick? (Click for larger version)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
On Spidey Silk and Other Matters
I’m not the guy who’s going to ruin your movie experience in the theater, the dork who keeps whispering, cackling and commenting behind you.
No, I’m not that guy. Because I very rarely go to see movies in the theater. I wait to rent them. No, I’m that guy right next to you on the bed watching the movie on my 42” Plasma with Surround Sound.
I have a somewhat early memory of watching “The Shining” on VHS, one of the earliest rental videos that ever existed, and trust me, almost the whole block was over at the house to watch it. But I couldn’t stop myself. “What’s he doing? Who’s that in the background? Are the ghosts going to kill him? This isn’t like the book.”
My very own brother threatened out loud to silence me forever.
Flash forward: The Bourne Supremacy, with Brigitte. And the usual mantra, only much more sophisticated.
“Wow, he’s limping like a motherfucker from that botched jump. But how does he keep maintaining those razor-sharp sideburns? How come he doesn’t put on a fake beard and wear sunglasses to throw off the CIA assassins? Umm . . . he walks around half the world with no bag, no accoutrements whatsoever . . . what, he just wanders from hotel to hotel (well, make that “flees” from hotel to hotel) with no personal possessions whatsoever, not even a decent pair of sunglasses, other than what he’s wearing? How does he DO that?
“And is he a bottomless pit of money? It seems that his wallet is a personal printing press of greenbacks. Unless he’s charging everything — so where do his bills go? I’ve never, ever seen him, throughout this entertaining trilogy, profess to have a fixed address.”
Well, you get the picture. By this time, Brigitte is crawling the walls.
But now I have a different set of questions. Spiderman, the comic version. I’m sure you’ve all read it.
You remember all those panels where Spidey is on the move. Wham! Out comes his Spidey Silk from the heel of his hands. He leaps tall buildings with ease, always landing neatly on some rooftop.
But how come his Spidey Silk always attaches to something outside the frame? What, he’s gluing himself onto a cloud? Otherwise, he’d just find himself coming face to face with a huge concrete fly swatter.
How do they explain that? Huh? He shoots his silk at a cloud? Huh?
No, I’m not that guy. Because I very rarely go to see movies in the theater. I wait to rent them. No, I’m that guy right next to you on the bed watching the movie on my 42” Plasma with Surround Sound.
I have a somewhat early memory of watching “The Shining” on VHS, one of the earliest rental videos that ever existed, and trust me, almost the whole block was over at the house to watch it. But I couldn’t stop myself. “What’s he doing? Who’s that in the background? Are the ghosts going to kill him? This isn’t like the book.”
My very own brother threatened out loud to silence me forever.
Flash forward: The Bourne Supremacy, with Brigitte. And the usual mantra, only much more sophisticated.
“Wow, he’s limping like a motherfucker from that botched jump. But how does he keep maintaining those razor-sharp sideburns? How come he doesn’t put on a fake beard and wear sunglasses to throw off the CIA assassins? Umm . . . he walks around half the world with no bag, no accoutrements whatsoever . . . what, he just wanders from hotel to hotel (well, make that “flees” from hotel to hotel) with no personal possessions whatsoever, not even a decent pair of sunglasses, other than what he’s wearing? How does he DO that?
“And is he a bottomless pit of money? It seems that his wallet is a personal printing press of greenbacks. Unless he’s charging everything — so where do his bills go? I’ve never, ever seen him, throughout this entertaining trilogy, profess to have a fixed address.”
Well, you get the picture. By this time, Brigitte is crawling the walls.
But now I have a different set of questions. Spiderman, the comic version. I’m sure you’ve all read it.
You remember all those panels where Spidey is on the move. Wham! Out comes his Spidey Silk from the heel of his hands. He leaps tall buildings with ease, always landing neatly on some rooftop.
But how come his Spidey Silk always attaches to something outside the frame? What, he’s gluing himself onto a cloud? Otherwise, he’d just find himself coming face to face with a huge concrete fly swatter.
How do they explain that? Huh? He shoots his silk at a cloud? Huh?
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The Stalin Diet!
While he was murdering 20 million Russians, Stalin had to eat, too! (Rumor has it that his pipe tobacco was Blue Navy brand).
4:34 a.m.: breakfast/late dinner
Presiding over large table of cronies, plying vast amounts of vodka in order to loosen tongues, while drinking only water for himself:
Pickles. Lots of pickles, blini and beluga from the Iranian marshes. Drinking matches and slogans. Traitors mentally put in file folders.
6:30 a.m.: Arrive at dacha; deer sausage and real vodka.
6:30 pm. : No time, no time for food while being betrayed! Yet snack on limes marinated in vodka (bitter fruit!)
4:30 a.m.: Hold another fake drunken orgy with senior commanders. Drink water, ferret out traitors, munch on Iranian cashews. Too much useless fat! Must trim everything, number of soldiers not worrisome, waistline worry!
4:48 a.m.: Fantasize about Eva.
The Hitler Diet
(Well, everyone’s got to eat, right? Here’s my theory on the Hitler diet):
6:35 a.m.: Summon Grndl for scones and fishcakes. Bring out maps of the Volga while eating on gilt-edged tray.
8:15 a.m.: Tiring of discussion about troop movements north of Stalingrad with General Paulus on field telephone. Call in airstrike. Small cucumber salad with parsley and vinegar dressing. Looking forward to lunch.
11:05 a.m. Goebbels nothing short of annoying, having disturbed timetable by showing up unannounced and with some vague nonsense about some place called Treblinka. I’ll Treblinka you later, buster.
Two fat knackwurst (vegetarian, with bean curd and trifle) and hot Bavarian mustard. Glass of carrot juice. Full! Nothing more until High Tea.
All day, all day, headaches, so much business talk. Fed up with running an empire. Looking forward to Dieter’s dinner, even though he’s Romanian and his name is not really Dieter.
6:17 p.m. Supper on the balcony at Der Wolfsschanze with Eva, Hermann, Clothilde and Wolfgang: Breaded deep-fried beancakes with Hungarian potatoes “à-la-Provençale” in forest mushroom gravy while discussing troop movements in the Ukraine. Note to self: more carriages, less jostling.
10:26 p.m. Late night supper with bodyguards and Eva. No more telephones today! Let Groscurth figure out by himself how he’s going to feed the 23rd Division. I’m going to bed.
Small wedge lemon pie with meringue topping with mint leaves. Digestif of bergamot tea. Nighty night!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
If A Taliban Warlord Ever Ate at a Montreal Restaurant, Then Reviewed It
Khyber Pass
506 avenue Duluth Est
Montreal, QC H2L 1A7, Canada
(514) 849-1775
by Mullah Gulbuddin al -al -al -al (sorry, frog in throat) Hekmatyar Abu Sheikh Abu Abu-abu-abu (sorry again) bin Dude
Translator is late! Late! Must to write review himself!
Montreal is evil city, evil since supplying alcohol nonetheless the US infidels’ prohibition of the times of Grandpa Adbullah VIIX.
Atmosphere is typical Western apostate haven of western musical abominations, of which I think I recognize Hank Williams. What is Hank Williams playing in Afghan café? Oh, sorry, waiter tell me it is Pashtun tribal songs. It is mistake mine.
Waiter is slow. I bring out Kalashnikov but drink still come slowly. Butter tea taste weird, not like what kidnap Russian girl make for Gulbuddin in 80s. There is no Glenfiddich, even though bodyguard ask nicely.
First course I ask roast mutton but no roast mutton. Only chicken. Death to chicken! But waiter say dark meat only, many bones, can eat with hands. Remind of home, so order. Not worried about taste. As they say in Isfahan, “Even cockroach taste like mutton.”
Too many napkins. No hand bowls. Appetizers weak (samosa taste like made by gardener wallah!) and dipping sauce not enough cilantro. I pull safety back on Kalashnikov, much noise, cilantro come quickly. Taste like mutton.
Is strange. Come in, place is full. Now place is empty, in, like ten minute.
Ask for rice. No waiter. Ask chapati. Still no waiter. Bodyguard go look. No waiter. No cook.
Bodyguard bring beer, Canadian, instead. Taste like what mutton make. Is good.
Restaurant get three red star.
506 avenue Duluth Est
Montreal, QC H2L 1A7, Canada
(514) 849-1775
by Mullah Gulbuddin al -al -al -al (sorry, frog in throat) Hekmatyar Abu Sheikh Abu Abu-abu-abu (sorry again) bin Dude
Translator is late! Late! Must to write review himself!
Montreal is evil city, evil since supplying alcohol nonetheless the US infidels’ prohibition of the times of Grandpa Adbullah VIIX.
Atmosphere is typical Western apostate haven of western musical abominations, of which I think I recognize Hank Williams. What is Hank Williams playing in Afghan café? Oh, sorry, waiter tell me it is Pashtun tribal songs. It is mistake mine.
Waiter is slow. I bring out Kalashnikov but drink still come slowly. Butter tea taste weird, not like what kidnap Russian girl make for Gulbuddin in 80s. There is no Glenfiddich, even though bodyguard ask nicely.
First course I ask roast mutton but no roast mutton. Only chicken. Death to chicken! But waiter say dark meat only, many bones, can eat with hands. Remind of home, so order. Not worried about taste. As they say in Isfahan, “Even cockroach taste like mutton.”
Too many napkins. No hand bowls. Appetizers weak (samosa taste like made by gardener wallah!) and dipping sauce not enough cilantro. I pull safety back on Kalashnikov, much noise, cilantro come quickly. Taste like mutton.
Is strange. Come in, place is full. Now place is empty, in, like ten minute.
Ask for rice. No waiter. Ask chapati. Still no waiter. Bodyguard go look. No waiter. No cook.
Bodyguard bring beer, Canadian, instead. Taste like what mutton make. Is good.
Restaurant get three red star.
Roasted Potato Stacks
I know, I know, sorry to have to give you all the creeps with the picture in the last entry. So get your mind off it by thinking of roasted potato stacks.
Here's the theory behind it: get a bunch of potatoes, waxy preferred, probably around medium to small, then slice them with a mandoline (sorry, if you're a serious cook you'll have one -- can't take responsibility for hand-sliced). Then soak them in cold water for a while, then dry them off, one by one, toss them in oil and herbs, stack them somewhat randomly into towers and then bake them. Here's how I did it:
Ingredients
(To serve two):
4-6 new potatoes, blond or purple, smallish (a bit larger than a very large hen's egg), scrubbed but not peeled
3-6 garlic cloves, peeled and slivered thinly
Truffle oil (optional)
Olive oil
1 tablespoon dried thyme or 2 chopped fresh thyme
Fresh ground pepper
Sea salt
Method
Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Mandoline potatoes, thicker than the thickest potato chip you ever ate but thin enough to bend almost in half without breaking; about 1 1/12 of an inch.
Immerse slices in cold water pre-treated with about three tablespoons salt and three tablespoons sugar.
After about a half an hour, drain and rinse potatoes. Dry thoroughly on paper towels.
Toss with truffle/olive oil and herbs until coated.
In a baking pan (aluminum, glass, anything flat is okay) start stacking the potato slices. Intersperse each one with a couple of slivers of garlic. The more garlic, the better, as the slivers will help keep the potato slices apart so the hot oven air can circulate enough to bake (and not steam) them.
Once stacked, ideally about 1 1/2 to 2 inches high, carefully place in baking pan.
Reduce oven temperature to about 475 and put the potatoes in on the middle rack. Time it at 15-minute intervals so you can rotate the baking dish and make sure the stacks aren't collapsing.
After about 45 minutes, start checking every five minutes or so. The top few potato slices should be brown and almost crispy, as should be all the edges. Serve with chopped Italian parsley.
This Little Fucker
Out of the corner of my eye (a very well-trained one, from years in the tropics, although admittedly rheumy now -- but still quick!) I observed the above little fucker scuttling across my living room floor this evening. MY LIVING ROOM FLOOR!
Have you ever seen these little fuckers before? My skin crawled as I performed my dutiful "husband-therefore-bug-catcher" and caught the evil bastard, almost two inches long, in the old cup 'n' cardboard trick.
Can you imagine that horror crawling over your face in the middle of the night?
The picture is from a quick search of "Quebec centipedes" but I'd be happy if you could PUT A SHINE on what the little fucker is so I can nuke future Its out of existence.
Much obliged in advance.