Consider your home video camera. Consider how technically difficult, if not annoying it is to transfer your precious video to, say, DVD or your computer.
Now consider making a movie. Imagine making a real movie, not a backyard amateur production, but a real movie, where you have to hire actors, have technicians, editors, producers . . . the mind reels at the complexity of it all.
Yet my mind doesn't reel at the complexity . . . my mind reels at the SHEER IDIOCY of it all. Is there a drug called "Optimism?" If so, it isn't working.
I walked through the video store yesterday and was overwhelmed -- no, really, overwhelmed -- at the sheer number of movies, which I remind you must have taken thousands of people and millions of dollars to produce, which just upon sight alone indicated were complete pieces of shit.
Eddie Murphy in a fat suit? WHO MADE THAT FLY???? WHO GREENLIGHTED IT? yet the merde continues.
Isn't it a sad comment about human creativity when only about .01% of ALL human projects actually succeed?
That would describe the movie industry. Amazing how so many are hired for so much to produce so little.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Next Project: Chicken Pot Pie!
Yepper, it's Brigitte's fondest wish that I make the ultimate Chicken Pot Pie! I'm on the job, my faithful, I'm into full research-mode!
Wish me luck. I'll document it, as usual.
Wish me luck. I'll document it, as usual.
The Electronic "Fuck You"
What is it with people? What is with common courtesy with people? What am I ranting about this time?
Has it ever happened to you that you communicate with someone via email or even phone or, God Forbid, on Facebook, and they initially answer you back very cordially, but they never return your emails thereafter?
Like “Hey, Mikey, it’s really great to find you! What have you been up to? I’ve been up to blah blah blah.”
“Hey Nick, great to hear from you! Well, since I last saw you blah blah blah.”
“No kidding! Did XXX ever move to Australia? He was threatening to.”
Silence. No more contact, ever.
Or you contact someone on craigslist about some job and they initially reply very politely, then after your third email or phone conversation, disappear — forever.
Or even the worst-case scenario: someone you’ve been emailing for years and have met many times socially and all of a sudden they stop all contact. You know it’s for no particular reason, you didn’t get drunk at their house and make a pass at their teenage daughter, yet, everything stops, despite repeated casual emails to try to reconnect, as in “Hey, dude, what’s been up? Long time no hear.”
Silence.
I am of the firm conviction that these people need psychiatric help, because their Asperger’s Syndrome is still a work in progress.
Has it ever happened to you that you communicate with someone via email or even phone or, God Forbid, on Facebook, and they initially answer you back very cordially, but they never return your emails thereafter?
Like “Hey, Mikey, it’s really great to find you! What have you been up to? I’ve been up to blah blah blah.”
“Hey Nick, great to hear from you! Well, since I last saw you blah blah blah.”
“No kidding! Did XXX ever move to Australia? He was threatening to.”
Silence. No more contact, ever.
Or you contact someone on craigslist about some job and they initially reply very politely, then after your third email or phone conversation, disappear — forever.
Or even the worst-case scenario: someone you’ve been emailing for years and have met many times socially and all of a sudden they stop all contact. You know it’s for no particular reason, you didn’t get drunk at their house and make a pass at their teenage daughter, yet, everything stops, despite repeated casual emails to try to reconnect, as in “Hey, dude, what’s been up? Long time no hear.”
Silence.
I am of the firm conviction that these people need psychiatric help, because their Asperger’s Syndrome is still a work in progress.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Saffron Chicken III
I stumbled across my own recipe on this blog today and I was possessed with an urge to see if the recipe was as good as I remembered it.I made some modifications, which I'll list here, and it was quite spectacular. My nature is to fire it up with a multitude of heat, but Brigitte can't deal with that, so I have to make the heat separately with a raw jalapeño chutney. But in general, the recipe is sound.
Let's look at the original ingredients:
========================================================
Saffron Chicken
4 tablespoons ghee or peanut oil
8 boneless, skinless chicken thighs
6 large shallots, finely diced
4 large cloves garlic, minced
1 medium onion, cut in 1/2 inch squares
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon ground coriander
1 tablespoon chile powder
3/4 cup coconut milk
1 cup chicken broth
3/4 tsp. salt
1 teaspoon palm sugar
1 teaspoon tamarind paste
1 tablespoon saffron threads
Juice of half a lime
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
========================================================
I kept everything the same, except added some Thai spice paste that I'd made and frozen (you can substitute Thai Red Curry paste), added grated galangal, lemongrass and fresh turmeric, and fine-diced a quarter jalapeño into it. I also cut the 3/4 teaspoon salt. It's just not needed. I also added some bamboo shoots.
So now the ingredient list would look like this (changes in italics):
========================================================
Saffron Chicken III
4 tablespoons ghee or peanut oil
8 boneless, skinless chicken thighs
6 large shallots, finely diced
6 large cloves garlic, minced (upped by two cloves from the last one)
1/2 inch frozen galangal, microplaned (grated finely)
1 inch fresh turmeric, frozen, microplaned
1/2 large jalapeño, seeded, ribs removed, finely diced
1 can bamboo shoots
1 medium onion, cut in 1/2 inch squares
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon ground coriander
1 tablespoon chile powder
3/4 cup coconut milk
1 cup chicken broth
1 teaspoon palm sugar
1 teaspoon tamarind paste
1 tablespoon saffron threads
Juice of half a lime
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
========================================================
The method I kept almost identical. Critical is brining the chicken. Trust me, it keeps it plump and moist even after several hours of cooking.
Just add the galangal/saffron/jalapeño with the chopped shallot mixture and the bamboo shoots towards the end. Garnish with fresh cilantro and accompany with chutney, pappadum and roti or naan.
Have several Bloody Caesars while cooking:
========================================================
Nick's Bloody Caesar
Method:
In chilled highball glass, dump several blocks of ice. Fill halfway with frozen vodka. Add tablespoon Worcestershire sauce, ten drops Tabasco, liberal fresh-ground pepper and a half teaspoon of celery salt. Slice a lemon fairly thickly; squeeze lightly and drop into glass. Chop 1/2 teaspoon fresh dill and add to glass. Fill with Clamato "The Works" vegetable juice. Garnish with a celery stalk from the inside of the bunch, leaving on the leaves. Stir, enjoy; make another one.
========================================================
Et voilà.
Jazz in Montreal
It's just been dawning on me that Montreal is producing some of the most awesome jazz musicians I've ever heard. It may be because of the McGill jazz program but that's not necessarily so.
At any rate, though I'm sure New York has some top-notch players, I don't think there is a place like Upstairs Jazz Bar and Grill, an intimate (maybe fifty people max?) setting where you're rarely more than fifty feet from the "stage," which is on the same level as you. And, apart from usually charging $5 or $10 cover, is usually FREE. Open seven days a week.
Some of the awesome players who play there (if they have MySpace pages, check out their tunes -- you won't be disappointed):
An extraordinary piano player named Eric Harding.
An equally extraordinary piano player named Steve Amirault.
Two monster (and I mean monster) bass players: Remi-jean LeBlanc and Nic Bedard.
And my favorite, crazed sax player Ben Henriques.
If any of these guys are on the roster at Upstairs, you should run, not walk over there.
At any rate, though I'm sure New York has some top-notch players, I don't think there is a place like Upstairs Jazz Bar and Grill, an intimate (maybe fifty people max?) setting where you're rarely more than fifty feet from the "stage," which is on the same level as you. And, apart from usually charging $5 or $10 cover, is usually FREE. Open seven days a week.
Some of the awesome players who play there (if they have MySpace pages, check out their tunes -- you won't be disappointed):
An extraordinary piano player named Eric Harding.
An equally extraordinary piano player named Steve Amirault.
Two monster (and I mean monster) bass players: Remi-jean LeBlanc and Nic Bedard.
And my favorite, crazed sax player Ben Henriques.
If any of these guys are on the roster at Upstairs, you should run, not walk over there.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Gestapo Guy #2
Isn't this guy cool? I put a tiny cigarette in one hand, gave him a leather raincoat, and gave him a head transplant. This guy is modeled after Sebastian Koch of "The Lives of Others."
But it's insane -- the buttons they give you on the clothing are real buttons, with really buttonholes. WAAAY too tiny for me to refasten. So he's missing his vest, which you wouldn't be able to see, anyway. But ain't he cool?
But it's insane -- the buttons they give you on the clothing are real buttons, with really buttonholes. WAAAY too tiny for me to refasten. So he's missing his vest, which you wouldn't be able to see, anyway. But ain't he cool?
Poem For The Day
Isn't it fun
Nazi hiding from the sun
With his tiny umbrella
What a poor little fella
With some preparation
He'll get some "irrigation"
With a pin or two
Just like voodoo
And a last cigarette
With a last anisette
Then it's up against a wall
For his last roll call
Then again, I might just hang him with dental floss.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Der Liebe Gott
There was certainly no Loving God for these people. Trust me, all my Nazi action figures will one day go to the oven. I just have to figure out how to not set off the fire alarms.
The Ultimate BLT
Hmm . . . I'm thinking of food projects (watch out, World!)
You have all these gimmicky chefs making these gimmicky dishes and charging fortunes for them, but what would the ULTIMATE BLT consist of?
I'm thinking it would be the world's most expensive bacon, to start with. It would have to be, of course smoked by a trusted smokehouse.
Then there would be the tomatoes.
Then there would be the cheese (I like cheese in my BLTs).
Then there would be the onion (sacrilege, I know). Then, there would be the lettuce. And then the bread.
And there would have to be a pinch of salt and pepper.
And don't forget the condiments.
I am sincerely wondering how hard it would be to assemble all the ingredients, and what it would finally cost to make just one sandwich.
I'm on the job, people.
Meanwhile, you can just swallow this.
You have all these gimmicky chefs making these gimmicky dishes and charging fortunes for them, but what would the ULTIMATE BLT consist of?
I'm thinking it would be the world's most expensive bacon, to start with. It would have to be, of course smoked by a trusted smokehouse.
Then there would be the tomatoes.
Then there would be the cheese (I like cheese in my BLTs).
Then there would be the onion (sacrilege, I know). Then, there would be the lettuce. And then the bread.
And there would have to be a pinch of salt and pepper.
And don't forget the condiments.
I am sincerely wondering how hard it would be to assemble all the ingredients, and what it would finally cost to make just one sandwich.
I'm on the job, people.
Meanwhile, you can just swallow this.
Yes, Yes, Yes, Enough Already
Okay, I know I look good in my new skinny red tie, but don't rub it in. Just wait until I put on my new skinny pink tie.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Honey! #III
"Honey! What shall we do this spring for our vacation? Shall we go rent a room in the Ice Hotel and drink iceberg vodka from square cups made of ice and sleep on reindeer skins?"
"Aaaah, no, dearest! That's so nineteen-nineties. Let's go hiking in Iran! It'll be even better than Yemen or Somalia!"
"Hiking in Iran? Last I heard they were a rabidly-anti-Western Islamic semi-superpower! What on earth would we do there?"
"Oh, dearest, we could explore the cells of notorious Evin prison! That's where all the political prisoners go to get tortured and murdered! It's an Iranian hobby! Wouldn't you want to see that?"
"You're right, Honey, you're always right! Fuck Ice Hotels! What's IranAir's number?"
"Aaaah, no, dearest! That's so nineteen-nineties. Let's go hiking in Iran! It'll be even better than Yemen or Somalia!"
"Hiking in Iran? Last I heard they were a rabidly-anti-Western Islamic semi-superpower! What on earth would we do there?"
"Oh, dearest, we could explore the cells of notorious Evin prison! That's where all the political prisoners go to get tortured and murdered! It's an Iranian hobby! Wouldn't you want to see that?"
"You're right, Honey, you're always right! Fuck Ice Hotels! What's IranAir's number?"
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Pizza Acolyte!
WOW! Check out this photo from Arlette Martinez's pizza effort! She of the budding future restaurateur! I am officially disturbed! No one is allowed to make better pizza than me!
But this pizza looks like it kicks ass on mine! Yow wow wow. If it tastes even half as good as it looks, I'm going to be begging, cup in hand, outside Arlette's apartment, even imitating barking dogs so she'll pay attention and throw me a crumb as I develop frostbite and numbness in my extremities.
LOOK
AT
DAT
ARUGULA!
My only consolation here is that she borrowed my pizza screens to make it!
Holy all-dressed, Batman! I surrender my throne. But not until I've tasted it.
But this pizza looks like it kicks ass on mine! Yow wow wow. If it tastes even half as good as it looks, I'm going to be begging, cup in hand, outside Arlette's apartment, even imitating barking dogs so she'll pay attention and throw me a crumb as I develop frostbite and numbness in my extremities.
LOOK
AT
DAT
ARUGULA!
My only consolation here is that she borrowed my pizza screens to make it!
Holy all-dressed, Batman! I surrender my throne. But not until I've tasted it.
Abandoning Blogs
Ah, how the dream fades!
I'm very not surprised that 90% of bloggers just abandon their blogs. Fuck, what are they, anyway, except for online diaries, for the most part? Or online diarrheas -- I'm not quite sure yet.
But I learned long, long ago that expecting people to beat a path to your door because your diary is so fascinating is like finding water on Mercury. I was "blogging" before the word existed but no one beat a path to my door. But I don't give a sweet flying fuck.
I "blog" purely to amuse one person: me -- and I couldn't give a rat's ass how many people come to comment. And anyone who does care is severely mentally impaired, or regularly buys things As Seen On TV.
The moment your blog starts meaning something is the moment you stop caring whether or not it means something. The moment you couldn't give a shit who or who does not read it. That's how I started out in 1995 and that's how I proceed now. There is going to be no book deal, no Julie/Julia bullshit. I know that! YOU, on the other hand, are just going to be victim to whatever zany thought comes into my head. The good thing for you, maybe, is to know that I'm not going to be one of the 90% who abandons their blog. On the contrary, I'm tempted to start ten more blogs, JUST BECAUSE I CAN.
Brigitte complains sometimes that I random-babble to excess -- don't get me started, because I already am -- but it seems to amuse HER, and, dear faithful, it seems to amuse YOU, as you're still reading (at least I think you are. You may have hung up the Internet in disgust, but then you wouldn't be reading this. See? I'm a philosopher as well as a charlatan).
Just write and All Will Be Well. I know you're reading this because you are (duh!) but frankly, if you decide to stop reading, guess what? What was that they asked Abraham Lincoln's wife . . . "Other than that, Madam, how did you like the play?"
I'm very not surprised that 90% of bloggers just abandon their blogs. Fuck, what are they, anyway, except for online diaries, for the most part? Or online diarrheas -- I'm not quite sure yet.
But I learned long, long ago that expecting people to beat a path to your door because your diary is so fascinating is like finding water on Mercury. I was "blogging" before the word existed but no one beat a path to my door. But I don't give a sweet flying fuck.
I "blog" purely to amuse one person: me -- and I couldn't give a rat's ass how many people come to comment. And anyone who does care is severely mentally impaired, or regularly buys things As Seen On TV.
The moment your blog starts meaning something is the moment you stop caring whether or not it means something. The moment you couldn't give a shit who or who does not read it. That's how I started out in 1995 and that's how I proceed now. There is going to be no book deal, no Julie/Julia bullshit. I know that! YOU, on the other hand, are just going to be victim to whatever zany thought comes into my head. The good thing for you, maybe, is to know that I'm not going to be one of the 90% who abandons their blog. On the contrary, I'm tempted to start ten more blogs, JUST BECAUSE I CAN.
Brigitte complains sometimes that I random-babble to excess -- don't get me started, because I already am -- but it seems to amuse HER, and, dear faithful, it seems to amuse YOU, as you're still reading (at least I think you are. You may have hung up the Internet in disgust, but then you wouldn't be reading this. See? I'm a philosopher as well as a charlatan).
Just write and All Will Be Well. I know you're reading this because you are (duh!) but frankly, if you decide to stop reading, guess what? What was that they asked Abraham Lincoln's wife . . . "Other than that, Madam, how did you like the play?"
Monday, January 25, 2010
Why I Don't Have To Worry
I really, really, never have to worry about being overweight. Hey, if I ever get over 165 I start worrying. But I don't have to. My portion size and appetite is the stuff of jokes with all my friends. It's really pitiful, especially for someone who loves cooking and loves food.
And I've always been that way. I remember many times coming home from school and there was nothing prepared to eat and I didn't know how to cook so I just said "Fuck it. I'll lose some weight." I wish I could put all the pounds I lost that way into a package! (BTW, don't worry, I found them all under my couch the other day).
I'm the guy who cuts his hamburger in half, the remainder to be . . . uhh . . . donated to someone (there's always someone!) who'll microwave it into oblivion.
I'm the guy who hesitates before eating the delicious bread at the restaurant, fearful that I won't have enough room for the main course, let alone the appetizer.
I'm the guy who, having eaten the bread, declares a truce after four forkfuls of the main course and gestures the waiter over and says "Can I take this home?"
I'm the guy who ends up never eating anything I take home from the restaurant. I have trouble eating anything, let alone used food from a restaurant.
So when I eat, I don't mind an extremely high calorie count. Because I know I'm just getting thinner.
And I've always been that way. I remember many times coming home from school and there was nothing prepared to eat and I didn't know how to cook so I just said "Fuck it. I'll lose some weight." I wish I could put all the pounds I lost that way into a package! (BTW, don't worry, I found them all under my couch the other day).
I'm the guy who cuts his hamburger in half, the remainder to be . . . uhh . . . donated to someone (there's always someone!) who'll microwave it into oblivion.
I'm the guy who hesitates before eating the delicious bread at the restaurant, fearful that I won't have enough room for the main course, let alone the appetizer.
I'm the guy who, having eaten the bread, declares a truce after four forkfuls of the main course and gestures the waiter over and says "Can I take this home?"
I'm the guy who ends up never eating anything I take home from the restaurant. I have trouble eating anything, let alone used food from a restaurant.
So when I eat, I don't mind an extremely high calorie count. Because I know I'm just getting thinner.
Fishy-fish
Ever since Mr. Blue went to the Hereafter and met his 20 virgins, I've been thinking about upping the ante.
Like, tank, filtration system, fake corals, lights blah blah blah.
But is this something I really want to do? Maybe I should just breed fruit flies.
Like, tank, filtration system, fake corals, lights blah blah blah.
But is this something I really want to do? Maybe I should just breed fruit flies.
Why . . .
. . . is this headline about as yawn-inducing as "Bus Plunge in Peru"?
"Ethiopian Airliner Crashes Near Beirut."
Yawwwwwnnnnnn. Hey, doesn't it just kill you about those Habs? Two to nothing in the first quarter. Go figure.
"Ethiopian Airliner Crashes Near Beirut."
Yawwwwwnnnnnn. Hey, doesn't it just kill you about those Habs? Two to nothing in the first quarter. Go figure.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Restasis
The Restasis woman needs a head transplant. Okay, maybe just a face transplant. She is seriously ugly. Please stop showing her in Restasis commercials. We'll rest easier and won't have her face surfacing in our nightmares.
Please. My pumpkin, that I've had since Halloween sitting on the balcony, looks better than her.
Please. My pumpkin, that I've had since Halloween sitting on the balcony, looks better than her.
Another Rant (You Knew It Wouldn't Be Long!)
(Warning: rough language ahead! Turn back at this intersection if the red light is not enough!)
I hate foodies. Yeah, yeah, yeah, so I started montrealfood.com. Big fucking deal. These clowns, they're all over the Food Network (which I once loved, but now eye with the same fascination as watching a cockroach trying to hide).
Foodies. Foodie porn. Who knew that there was a species called "Foodies?" But there is. These pretentious assholes who seem to have more money than they can ever call home, they strut about telling everyone else what "good food" is all about.
Fuck you, Gael Greene! Fuck you, Ruth Reichl! Fuck you, Gordon Ramsay! Fuck you, Daniel Boulud! Even, and I hesitate to say it, Fuck you, Anthony Bourdain!
Go get yourself a fucking hot dog or a pizza slice and STOP POLLUTING MY MINDSPACE with your food-porn nonsense. Christ alive, these people aren't artists who paint lovely pictures -- they're conmen (and women) who want to persuade you that their bizarre concoctions and weird food extravaganzas are worth paying attention to.
Fucking get a fucking life. Have yourself a fucking hot dog. Hold the ketchup.
Yeah yeah yeah, I know, but what do I REALLY think?
I hate foodies. Yeah, yeah, yeah, so I started montrealfood.com. Big fucking deal. These clowns, they're all over the Food Network (which I once loved, but now eye with the same fascination as watching a cockroach trying to hide).
Foodies. Foodie porn. Who knew that there was a species called "Foodies?" But there is. These pretentious assholes who seem to have more money than they can ever call home, they strut about telling everyone else what "good food" is all about.
Fuck you, Gael Greene! Fuck you, Ruth Reichl! Fuck you, Gordon Ramsay! Fuck you, Daniel Boulud! Even, and I hesitate to say it, Fuck you, Anthony Bourdain!
Go get yourself a fucking hot dog or a pizza slice and STOP POLLUTING MY MINDSPACE with your food-porn nonsense. Christ alive, these people aren't artists who paint lovely pictures -- they're conmen (and women) who want to persuade you that their bizarre concoctions and weird food extravaganzas are worth paying attention to.
Fucking get a fucking life. Have yourself a fucking hot dog. Hold the ketchup.
Yeah yeah yeah, I know, but what do I REALLY think?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Why Do I Bother
Dear Beneficiary,
>
>Having reviewed all the obstacles and problems surrounding the transfer of your (USD$1,800,000..00) and your inability to meet up with some charges levied against you due to the past transfer options, We the Board of Directors, Bank Of Africa (BOA) has ordered our Foreign Payment Remittance Unit to issue you a CORPORATE VISA CARD where your payment will be uploaded and today, we got notice that your Payment has been uploaded into this CORPORATE VISA CARD and also have registered it with DHL for delivery to you.
>
>For your information, The delivery charges has been paid and they were supposed to have shipped your packaged ATM CARD but they insisted that you must re-confirm to them your current delivery address to ensure accurate Delivery.
>MOST IMPORTANT: Due to the content of the package, DHL mandated that before your package will be shipped, A Tax/Stamp Duty MUST be procured according to the New Customs Creed and the importance of such Document is to ensure a hitch-free delivery and the amount is $185.00USD.
>
>Therefore re-confirm your current delivery address (i.e 1. Full Names, 2. Delivery Address and 3. Telephone Number) to DHL.
>
>
>MIKE BAYO
>
>DHL International Nigeria
>Lot No. 5 crecent awolowo road
>lagos
>Email: barrjamesobot@in.com
>
>Tel: +234-8071-808-398
>
>Please hurry now as your package might incure demurrages if it stays more than 3days with DHL.
>
>Thanks,
>Barrister james obot
>For the Management of BOA.
------------------------------------------------------------
Mikey, Mikey, Mikey!
Has it ever occurred to you to learn my name? My name is not Beneficiary! It's Peter!
I'm so sorry that so many "obstacles" have gotten in the way of your delivering to me one-million-eight-*hundred* messhuginahs, direct to my personal bank account! It must keep you up nights thinking "Jeez, there's all that money burning a hole in my threadbare pocket and this guy, whose name I don't know, doesn't want it! How's about _I_ take the whole bunch and forget this loser who doesn't think one-million-eight-*hundred* messhuginahs is worth anything!"
I sympathize! Hey, the economy is on a downward spiral and we all need the sparse millions that are floating around. I myself have had to give up my island in Turks and Caicos and Peter Frampton, the singer, has sued me for not providing enough toilet paper in his private cabin. Twenty-five dollars! Twenty-five dollars, it costs for a roll of the finest, and he's suing me! For twenty-five dollars! To each his own.
UPLOAD AWAY! I'm hurting, hurting hurting, all my resort properties are DOING BADLY and I could really use an 18,000,000 dollar hit right about now!
What do you want first -- my personal information, or all my credit card information and bank accounts? Could I interest you in what school I take my kid to day care? You don't have a kid? Shit, let me tell you, it can be tough! First you have to get the diapers together and then you have to make sure he doesn't have his socks on backwards. No, really, you do!
Anyway, Spikey-Spike, get back to me ASAP and I will GLADLY wire you every single personal detail you want through that bastion of good sense, Western Union, and then I'll be wining and dining in the finest restaurants throughout western Nigeria!
All my treasured best, Mikey, thanks for taking the time out to write me!
Yours always,
Beneficiary
>
>Having reviewed all the obstacles and problems surrounding the transfer of your (USD$1,800,000..00) and your inability to meet up with some charges levied against you due to the past transfer options, We the Board of Directors, Bank Of Africa (BOA) has ordered our Foreign Payment Remittance Unit to issue you a CORPORATE VISA CARD where your payment will be uploaded and today, we got notice that your Payment has been uploaded into this CORPORATE VISA CARD and also have registered it with DHL for delivery to you.
>
>For your information, The delivery charges has been paid and they were supposed to have shipped your packaged ATM CARD but they insisted that you must re-confirm to them your current delivery address to ensure accurate Delivery.
>MOST IMPORTANT: Due to the content of the package, DHL mandated that before your package will be shipped, A Tax/Stamp Duty MUST be procured according to the New Customs Creed and the importance of such Document is to ensure a hitch-free delivery and the amount is $185.00USD.
>
>Therefore re-confirm your current delivery address (i.e 1. Full Names, 2. Delivery Address and 3. Telephone Number) to DHL.
>
>
>MIKE BAYO
>
>DHL International Nigeria
>Lot No. 5 crecent awolowo road
>lagos
>Email: barrjamesobot@in.com
>
>Tel: +234-8071-808-398
>
>Please hurry now as your package might incure demurrages if it stays more than 3days with DHL.
>
>Thanks,
>Barrister james obot
>For the Management of BOA.
------------------------------------------------------------
Mikey, Mikey, Mikey!
Has it ever occurred to you to learn my name? My name is not Beneficiary! It's Peter!
I'm so sorry that so many "obstacles" have gotten in the way of your delivering to me one-million-eight-*hundred* messhuginahs, direct to my personal bank account! It must keep you up nights thinking "Jeez, there's all that money burning a hole in my threadbare pocket and this guy, whose name I don't know, doesn't want it! How's about _I_ take the whole bunch and forget this loser who doesn't think one-million-eight-*hundred* messhuginahs is worth anything!"
I sympathize! Hey, the economy is on a downward spiral and we all need the sparse millions that are floating around. I myself have had to give up my island in Turks and Caicos and Peter Frampton, the singer, has sued me for not providing enough toilet paper in his private cabin. Twenty-five dollars! Twenty-five dollars, it costs for a roll of the finest, and he's suing me! For twenty-five dollars! To each his own.
UPLOAD AWAY! I'm hurting, hurting hurting, all my resort properties are DOING BADLY and I could really use an 18,000,000 dollar hit right about now!
What do you want first -- my personal information, or all my credit card information and bank accounts? Could I interest you in what school I take my kid to day care? You don't have a kid? Shit, let me tell you, it can be tough! First you have to get the diapers together and then you have to make sure he doesn't have his socks on backwards. No, really, you do!
Anyway, Spikey-Spike, get back to me ASAP and I will GLADLY wire you every single personal detail you want through that bastion of good sense, Western Union, and then I'll be wining and dining in the finest restaurants throughout western Nigeria!
All my treasured best, Mikey, thanks for taking the time out to write me!
Yours always,
Beneficiary
Friday, January 22, 2010
My Fish
My fish died today. I didn't know him very well. He was a gift from a friend. While he was alive he was a bit sullen, because he was a Siamese Fighting Fish. They have a reputation, so everyone says they have to be alone.
So he was alone. He was alone his whole life, except when I tapped on his tiny tank to wake him up for some little fish pellets. Then his tiny fins would go into action and he'd be ready to go conquer the world.
But he died.
I'm very sorry that he died. I miss him very much. Goodbye, Mr. Blue. May your tank always be bigger.
Counting to Ten in German
You know, it's really not hard to learn how to count to ten in German! I learned it this morning, really easily!
1 = ein
2 = zwei
3 = drei
4 = fry
5 = schwein
6 = achtung
7 = schnell
8 = schnell
9 = raus
10 = raus raus
You see? Isn't it cool that "seven" and "eight" are the same word? And that to make "ten" you simply repeat "nine" twice?
I must admit, "five" is a little hard to remember but I'll get it down with a little practice.
1 = ein
2 = zwei
3 = drei
4 = fry
5 = schwein
6 = achtung
7 = schnell
8 = schnell
9 = raus
10 = raus raus
You see? Isn't it cool that "seven" and "eight" are the same word? And that to make "ten" you simply repeat "nine" twice?
I must admit, "five" is a little hard to remember but I'll get it down with a little practice.
Oh, Honey . . . Part II
"Oh, honey, what should we do for our summer vacation? Shall we go to the cottage in the Cotswolds and feed Mr. Wilson's sheep every day and drive into town for a pint at the pub and some bangers and mash and then maybe trundle back to the cottage and make a roaring fire and have a cognac and watch a movie? Shall we do that?"
"Oh, dear, how boring! I was thinking of Yemen but it's not got a lot of pubs. How's about we get into the sailboat and go right around that area where they're hijacking ships! Somalia, isn't it? Wouldn't it be fun to spend some time with terrorist kidnapping murderers? Just think of the tales we could tell!"
"Oh, darling, you're so right, and so romantic! I'll go right away and pack your captain's sweater!"
"Oh, dear, how boring! I was thinking of Yemen but it's not got a lot of pubs. How's about we get into the sailboat and go right around that area where they're hijacking ships! Somalia, isn't it? Wouldn't it be fun to spend some time with terrorist kidnapping murderers? Just think of the tales we could tell!"
"Oh, darling, you're so right, and so romantic! I'll go right away and pack your captain's sweater!"
Thanking my Icelandic Readers
Ég vildi réttlátur eins og til þakka allur minn Íslenska lesendahópur fyrir stífla við minn blog. Langur lifandi the ættjörð af - thorax!
On a Röll
Hitler was infuriated by the anti-Nazi jokes that were popular in Germany as soon as he came to power. He issued an order to the Gestapo:
"Find out who's responsible and bring him to me!"
So a Jewish comedian, Yossel von Goldbloom, was dragged into the Fuhrer's presence.
Hitler roared: "Did you invent the one about me and the ass?"
"Yes," admitted Goldbloom.
"What about the one about me and the swine?"
"Yes, me too," nodded Goldbloom glumly.
"And the one that says the day I die will be a Jewish holiday?"
"That too, I'm afraid," confessed Goldbloom.
"You pig of a Jew!" screamed Hitler.
"Don't yöu realise I'm the Füehrer of the Thïrd Rëich - a great ëmpire that will läst ä thoüsand yeärs?"
Goldbloom had to stifle a guffaw, knowing he'd be shot for it. "That's a great joke! But you can't blame me for that one!"
"Find out who's responsible and bring him to me!"
So a Jewish comedian, Yossel von Goldbloom, was dragged into the Fuhrer's presence.
Hitler roared: "Did you invent the one about me and the ass?"
"Yes," admitted Goldbloom.
"What about the one about me and the swine?"
"Yes, me too," nodded Goldbloom glumly.
"And the one that says the day I die will be a Jewish holiday?"
"That too, I'm afraid," confessed Goldbloom.
"You pig of a Jew!" screamed Hitler.
"Don't yöu realise I'm the Füehrer of the Thïrd Rëich - a great ëmpire that will läst ä thoüsand yeärs?"
Goldbloom had to stifle a guffaw, knowing he'd be shot for it. "That's a great joke! But you can't blame me for that one!"
Six Million #2 (Nick Original!)
Six million Germans go into a bar. Bartender says "What can I do for you fine folk?"
German says "Vee reelly need to use ze restroom."
Bartender says "The showers are out back."
German says "Vee reelly need to use ze restroom."
Bartender says "The showers are out back."
Six Million #1 (Nick Original!)
Six million Germans go into a bar. Bartender asks, "What can I do for you folks today?"
German says "Vee'd like to have a beer. Vee're really, really thirsty."
Bartender says "Sorry, we only take shekels."
German says "Vee'd like to have a beer. Vee're really, really thirsty."
Bartender says "Sorry, we only take shekels."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
ChefNick Action Figure?
Knatolee Has suggested that I get myself a CHEFNICK action figure! Now just think about that, folks! Maybe I just will do that!
Whaddya think, this picture of me in a brooding, Nazi-ish mood -- you think I'll look good as a Nazi with all the guys on the shelf? Or maybe I could have them make me a mafioso. Flashy suit . . . it could work!
Imagine ChefNick as an action figure, people! I could merchandise it! Great suggestion, Knatolee!
Place your orders NOW!
Whaddya think, this picture of me in a brooding, Nazi-ish mood -- you think I'll look good as a Nazi with all the guys on the shelf? Or maybe I could have them make me a mafioso. Flashy suit . . . it could work!
Imagine ChefNick as an action figure, people! I could merchandise it! Great suggestion, Knatolee!
Place your orders NOW!
Monday, January 18, 2010
Okay Okay Okay, But Check It Out
Okay, I know I'm getting slightly obsessed by these Action Figures, as they're called, but check this one out. Bear in mind that they're only TWELVE INCHES TALL. It's incredible. Like Madame Toussaud's in miniature. See if you recognize the second one.
Thai Duck Curry . . .
. . . is there such a thing? I'm very intrigued with the idea that there are ducks in Thailand. I've only ever made duck in magret de canard, but maybe putting it into a curry would be amazing.
I guess I'm going to find out! Any suggestions?
I guess I'm going to find out! Any suggestions?
Things I will Not Eat
Brigitte always comments on how picky I am, and she's right. But just let me explain why I think this is so: until about age nine my parents basically fed us what we wanted. Spaghetti or rice with ketchup (I was born and raised in Calcutta, India) and other stuff I can't remember. There were hardly any vegetables except the usual: onions, garlic, potatoes etc. and none of the unusual, ie. squash, artichokes, asparagus and so on.
There was no fish at all, since my father disliked all forms of it. Chicken was rarely on the menu. It was usually beef, if I recall correctly. My nanny, who lived with us, used to mainly make simple things like flatbreads, rice, and simple sauces. So that's what I ate until about age nine. No hot dogs. No hamburgers. No sandwiches. No American food at all.
Then, The Horror: British boarding school. The food there was barely better than prison food; think of every cliché you've ever heard about bad British food and that was it. The worst food I've ever eaten. The worst food I've ever been FORCED to eat, as we were forced to clean our plates and there were no other choices. I was a very thin little boy, almost skin and bones.
You have to put quote marks around everything we ate: "Fish." "Roast Beef." "Pudding." "Rice." (They even had a dish called Chocolate Rice! It was VILE!)
So . . . I developed a serious allergy to food I did not like.
I don't think I ever ate a shrimp until I was age 25 or so (now I love them) but the list of what I won't eat is still long:
Any type of squash
Asparagus
Artichokes
Eggplant
Beets
Turnips
Parsnips
Rutabagas
Sweet potatoes
Most cooked fish, with the exception of salmon
Lamb (I'll eat it, but I'm not very fond of it)
Anything that I can't identify
But on the plus side, I like a whole lot of other things! And being a vegetable for eight months opened my eyes to a lot of possibilities.
There was no fish at all, since my father disliked all forms of it. Chicken was rarely on the menu. It was usually beef, if I recall correctly. My nanny, who lived with us, used to mainly make simple things like flatbreads, rice, and simple sauces. So that's what I ate until about age nine. No hot dogs. No hamburgers. No sandwiches. No American food at all.
Then, The Horror: British boarding school. The food there was barely better than prison food; think of every cliché you've ever heard about bad British food and that was it. The worst food I've ever eaten. The worst food I've ever been FORCED to eat, as we were forced to clean our plates and there were no other choices. I was a very thin little boy, almost skin and bones.
You have to put quote marks around everything we ate: "Fish." "Roast Beef." "Pudding." "Rice." (They even had a dish called Chocolate Rice! It was VILE!)
So . . . I developed a serious allergy to food I did not like.
I don't think I ever ate a shrimp until I was age 25 or so (now I love them) but the list of what I won't eat is still long:
Any type of squash
Asparagus
Artichokes
Eggplant
Beets
Turnips
Parsnips
Rutabagas
Sweet potatoes
Most cooked fish, with the exception of salmon
Lamb (I'll eat it, but I'm not very fond of it)
Anything that I can't identify
But on the plus side, I like a whole lot of other things! And being a vegetable for eight months opened my eyes to a lot of possibilities.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Success!
Well, it went swimmingly! The pizzas were very well received and a great time was had by all! Dawg was a whirling dynamo (she eats almonds!) (?) and everybody had a great time. Best of all, by nefariously priming everyone with multifarious appetizers, we precluded all the pizzas being eaten, so we're left with four! Bwa-hah-hah-ha!
Dawg!
Munch time
Two solitudes
Davey Dave plays the guitar
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Can You Count to Eight?
Well, I can't believe I pulled off the whole thing! In my galley of a kitchen, and with no one else's help, no less!
In preparation for tomorrow night's festivities (there will be eight people, including Brigitte and me) I made eight 12" pizzas! Yes, onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight!
The actual baking of them took all afternoon yesterday, but the prep was done the day before, and I was very, very careful to do it all methodically, since this was a huge task. I cut most of the vegetables and the meats and grated most of the cheeses Friday, and Saturday I took care of everything I'd forgotten on Friday (lots) and then I prepared the kitchen like a mini-O.R. (scalpels -- on right -- CHECK!) and then, since I know by now that I always forget a step or an ingredient, I prepared an ingredient list for each pizza. I made a couple vegetarian in case someone doesn't like meat (like Brigitte's mother, to whom we'll bring some) but as usual I screwed up and DID forget some ingredients on some pizzas (like the garlic on the first one) but it really, really helped in the organization of the actual cooking. Here's the hastily-scrawled list (as usual, click to enlarge):
The plan
Then I made the "custom" sauce. I know Blork is a purist in all things pizza, as in, simple tomato sauce, simple ingredients, but I like to make a complex tomato sauce made from fresh tomatoes, some red peppers, onions and garlic with a bit of sugar and lots of spice, and then I purée it. It turned out remarkably well:
The custom sauce
Then I prepared what I like to call "The Sterile Field." Namely, all shit wired tight, dishwasher empty, sink empty, tools collected, counters clean etc. I preheated the oven with a large pizza stone in it on 550 for an hour (thank god it's not summer -- it can be an oven in there!) and assembled all my cooling racks, then got my "meez" out (mise en place, or sundry ingredients). I had prepared my dough (from an excellent place at Atwater Market) and let it come to room temperature, and I divided it into eight individual balls, which I wrapped in plastic wrap to rest while I prepared everything else. (The resting, I've found, is a crucial step).
And as you consider my culinary genius, please admire also my twist, of which Blork will be very jealous: I like to brush a mix of olive and truffle oil on the dough before the ingredients (you can just see it in the glass bowl) which gives the pizzas an excellent aroma.
Here's my meez (notice the OCD Nick-labelled spice rack):
The "Meez"
Then I went to work. I went very methodically, like an assembly line. I've gotten quite good in stretching the dough. On not one pizza did I get a tear. Blork will be jealous to see my badda-bing-badda-boom technique. And they're all somewhat round and not misshapen LIKE BLORK'S any more. (Just kidding, Blork, yours look fabulous, and the roundness rarely affects the taste).
I assembled each pizza according to the list, put it in the 550 oven for six and a half minutes (underdoing them because I knew they'd be reheated tomorrow and didn't want eight large cookies) and prepared the dough for the next one while the first one was cooking . . . in such a manner, I got them all out! It took about an hour to do them all, and I screwed up on the last one and had to make it the "kitchen sink" pizza because I had so many ingredients left, but . . . ta-daaa!
I assembled them (in order) on the dining table for the photo and then stacked them carefully (in order), put the stacks in small plastic bags and put them on the balcony, which doubles as a refrigerator.
I'm so proud of myself I could burst, and I know you are too!
You're all invited! they look MAHVELOUS and I'm sure they're going to please the attending hordes! Closeups etc. to follow.
Eight of the bastards!
In preparation for tomorrow night's festivities (there will be eight people, including Brigitte and me) I made eight 12" pizzas! Yes, onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight!
The actual baking of them took all afternoon yesterday, but the prep was done the day before, and I was very, very careful to do it all methodically, since this was a huge task. I cut most of the vegetables and the meats and grated most of the cheeses Friday, and Saturday I took care of everything I'd forgotten on Friday (lots) and then I prepared the kitchen like a mini-O.R. (scalpels -- on right -- CHECK!) and then, since I know by now that I always forget a step or an ingredient, I prepared an ingredient list for each pizza. I made a couple vegetarian in case someone doesn't like meat (like Brigitte's mother, to whom we'll bring some) but as usual I screwed up and DID forget some ingredients on some pizzas (like the garlic on the first one) but it really, really helped in the organization of the actual cooking. Here's the hastily-scrawled list (as usual, click to enlarge):
Then I made the "custom" sauce. I know Blork is a purist in all things pizza, as in, simple tomato sauce, simple ingredients, but I like to make a complex tomato sauce made from fresh tomatoes, some red peppers, onions and garlic with a bit of sugar and lots of spice, and then I purée it. It turned out remarkably well:
Then I prepared what I like to call "The Sterile Field." Namely, all shit wired tight, dishwasher empty, sink empty, tools collected, counters clean etc. I preheated the oven with a large pizza stone in it on 550 for an hour (thank god it's not summer -- it can be an oven in there!) and assembled all my cooling racks, then got my "meez" out (mise en place, or sundry ingredients). I had prepared my dough (from an excellent place at Atwater Market) and let it come to room temperature, and I divided it into eight individual balls, which I wrapped in plastic wrap to rest while I prepared everything else. (The resting, I've found, is a crucial step).
And as you consider my culinary genius, please admire also my twist, of which Blork will be very jealous: I like to brush a mix of olive and truffle oil on the dough before the ingredients (you can just see it in the glass bowl) which gives the pizzas an excellent aroma.
Here's my meez (notice the OCD Nick-labelled spice rack):
Then I went to work. I went very methodically, like an assembly line. I've gotten quite good in stretching the dough. On not one pizza did I get a tear. Blork will be jealous to see my badda-bing-badda-boom technique. And they're all somewhat round and not misshapen LIKE BLORK'S any more. (Just kidding, Blork, yours look fabulous, and the roundness rarely affects the taste).
I assembled each pizza according to the list, put it in the 550 oven for six and a half minutes (underdoing them because I knew they'd be reheated tomorrow and didn't want eight large cookies) and prepared the dough for the next one while the first one was cooking . . . in such a manner, I got them all out! It took about an hour to do them all, and I screwed up on the last one and had to make it the "kitchen sink" pizza because I had so many ingredients left, but . . . ta-daaa!
I assembled them (in order) on the dining table for the photo and then stacked them carefully (in order), put the stacks in small plastic bags and put them on the balcony, which doubles as a refrigerator.
I'm so proud of myself I could burst, and I know you are too!
You're all invited! they look MAHVELOUS and I'm sure they're going to please the attending hordes! Closeups etc. to follow.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Boys Will Be Boys!
Over the holidays, no fewer than THREE people messed with my boys -- Tai-chan (my eight-year-old son), Brigitte, and my Peacekeeper friend Crazy Dave. They manipulated, articulated, posed, dressed (you can't see it, but I got Tai-chan a Frogman -- he's in there somewhere) and equipped, and this is currently the tableau on my shelf.
If you look, the Blade Runner guy on the far left is saying "Like, what the fuck? Where's Harrison Ford when I need him?", the Japanese corporal (I did that!) is pointing a gun at the head of the Nazi Oberleutnant, who's (as usual) doing the Sieg Heil (again, me), and the other guys are all in various states of bewilderment at their predicament (the American sailor is desperately looking through his binoculars to get rescued off this shelf by an allied submarine).
Well, they're about to be joined by an Australian jungle fighter and an ACTION SOLDIER! (As opposed to a lazy soldier!) I wonder how they're all going to like that!
(PS. Tai-chan, in his inimitable Japanese fashion, had the Japanese guy with his sword half-out of his scabbard to begin with, which looked great, but I decided it would look better if he were about to kill the Nazi with a shot to the temple. Justice! Then maybe Rutger Hauer will kill the Japanese guy in the next installment!)
DON'T I HAVE FUN????? The kicker is, everyone except me did the detailed work (Brigitte has a love/hate relationship with them). I loves 'em! They my boys! Click to enlarge!
If you look, the Blade Runner guy on the far left is saying "Like, what the fuck? Where's Harrison Ford when I need him?", the Japanese corporal (I did that!) is pointing a gun at the head of the Nazi Oberleutnant, who's (as usual) doing the Sieg Heil (again, me), and the other guys are all in various states of bewilderment at their predicament (the American sailor is desperately looking through his binoculars to get rescued off this shelf by an allied submarine).
Well, they're about to be joined by an Australian jungle fighter and an ACTION SOLDIER! (As opposed to a lazy soldier!) I wonder how they're all going to like that!
(PS. Tai-chan, in his inimitable Japanese fashion, had the Japanese guy with his sword half-out of his scabbard to begin with, which looked great, but I decided it would look better if he were about to kill the Nazi with a shot to the temple. Justice! Then maybe Rutger Hauer will kill the Japanese guy in the next installment!)
DON'T I HAVE FUN????? The kicker is, everyone except me did the detailed work (Brigitte has a love/hate relationship with them). I loves 'em! They my boys! Click to enlarge!
Verbal Affectations
I'm sure you know people who punctuate everything they say with "Y'know?" I knew one guy who was truly bizarre. He would preface everything with ". . . go ahead and . . ." as in, "Well, I'll just go ahead and read the book. Why don't you go ahead and sit down and I'll go ahead and get us a cup of coffee." It was nerve-wracking.
Of course, some people say things like "Know what I'm saying?" or "Know what I mean?" to punctuate every sentence, and that's equally annoying. Or, as I've mentioned before, the rising intonation at the end of every sentence, as in "I don't want to go out today? Because it's really cold? That's what I told my boss?" which REALLY bugs the hell out of me.
But the topper has to be the Brits. "Yeah". "This is what you gotta do, yeah? You understand, yeah? You heard what I said, yes?"
Me, I like "Hellooo, (*rap on own head*) anybody hoooome???"
Of course, some people say things like "Know what I'm saying?" or "Know what I mean?" to punctuate every sentence, and that's equally annoying. Or, as I've mentioned before, the rising intonation at the end of every sentence, as in "I don't want to go out today? Because it's really cold? That's what I told my boss?" which REALLY bugs the hell out of me.
But the topper has to be the Brits. "Yeah". "This is what you gotta do, yeah? You understand, yeah? You heard what I said, yes?"
Me, I like "Hellooo, (*rap on own head*) anybody hoooome???"
Haven't Cried in a While
Until I watched something on CNN . . . yesterday one of the reporters was reporting on an 11-year-old girl trapped in the rubble in Haiti and how he was holding her hand because she hurt so badly.
Then today, I see an update. They got her out. But after she got to the makeshift hospital she died. Her last words were "Maman, ne me laisse pas mourir." (Mother, don't let me die).
Christ, this is so awful. I just can't watch it any more -- the thought of it is just too overwhelming. But watching anything else seems like a betrayal. Just having a TV and a flush toilet and running water seems like a travesty when such horror is occurring just a four-hour plane ride away. So I'm just going to stop watching. Or I'm going to have to start crying.
Then today, I see an update. They got her out. But after she got to the makeshift hospital she died. Her last words were "Maman, ne me laisse pas mourir." (Mother, don't let me die).
Christ, this is so awful. I just can't watch it any more -- the thought of it is just too overwhelming. But watching anything else seems like a betrayal. Just having a TV and a flush toilet and running water seems like a travesty when such horror is occurring just a four-hour plane ride away. So I'm just going to stop watching. Or I'm going to have to start crying.
Devastation
Wow, pretty amazing images from space of Haiti before and after. The after pictures just look like piles of grey dust.
Well, Now We Know!
Why the Challenger and the Columbia vaporised with all aboard! All the techs at NASA are doing cocaine!
Man on Moon! Cocaine! Man on Mars! Red Cocaine! The Space Station probably has a special drawer somewhere filled with some pure flake. But how do you snort cocaine in weightlessness? It would be an interesting experiment. Maybe THAT's what these endless high-school science classes should be conjuring up.
Fuck "How do fruitflies grow in space?" . . . how does one inhale cocaine in space? I'm sure Richard Branson will be happy to tell you.
Man on Moon! Cocaine! Man on Mars! Red Cocaine! The Space Station probably has a special drawer somewhere filled with some pure flake. But how do you snort cocaine in weightlessness? It would be an interesting experiment. Maybe THAT's what these endless high-school science classes should be conjuring up.
Fuck "How do fruitflies grow in space?" . . . how does one inhale cocaine in space? I'm sure Richard Branson will be happy to tell you.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Ay Yi Yi -- PIZZA DUTY!
I'm up for pizza duty this weekend! Six, count 'em, six pizzas! In my tiny galley-slave kitchen that's quite a tall order. But at least eight people are coming and I must summon all my jet-lagged energy to put them together.
I wish I had Blork to help me!
I wish I had Blork to help me!
Scary
God, it's so scary to think how quickly everything can come crashing down, figuratively and literally.
I've mainly known Haitians through taking cabs in Montreal, but they've all been good guys. Astonishing to think that a country that's already barely tottering along is erased by Mother Nature.
But you know, it COULD happen here . . .
I've mainly known Haitians through taking cabs in Montreal, but they've all been good guys. Astonishing to think that a country that's already barely tottering along is erased by Mother Nature.
But you know, it COULD happen here . . .
Boris Beckhah!!!
There is a page here where people can ask Boris Becker, the former tennis giant, questions. A lot are like "Boris, how did you develop your forehand game and what was the pivotal match in your career?"
Well, I refrained from commenting, so I'll do so here instead. "Boris, how was that whore in Bangkok? Was she as expensive as the handlers said she'd be? Hey, what the fuck ever happened with your ex-wife anyway? OOOOHH, reconciled for a whole THREE MONTHS, huh?"
"And how many times did you snort coke with John McEnroe? C'mon, give us THE MONEY. Yo-Yo-Ma, Boris, was your grandfather a Nazi slave-camp guard? AAAH c'mon, how many Jews were . . .uhh . . . "expelled" from your hometown? Tell us truly, dear Boris, we faithful readers want to know."
These are questions I would ask him in person, but only after getting hammered on Neuenschlager (which is pisswater, anyway).
What, troops? Is there a problem? Am I entertaining you sufficiently?
Well, I refrained from commenting, so I'll do so here instead. "Boris, how was that whore in Bangkok? Was she as expensive as the handlers said she'd be? Hey, what the fuck ever happened with your ex-wife anyway? OOOOHH, reconciled for a whole THREE MONTHS, huh?"
"And how many times did you snort coke with John McEnroe? C'mon, give us THE MONEY. Yo-Yo-Ma, Boris, was your grandfather a Nazi slave-camp guard? AAAH c'mon, how many Jews were . . .uhh . . . "expelled" from your hometown? Tell us truly, dear Boris, we faithful readers want to know."
These are questions I would ask him in person, but only after getting hammered on Neuenschlager (which is pisswater, anyway).
What, troops? Is there a problem? Am I entertaining you sufficiently?
Illusions Upon Being A Musician
If I have any illusions about being a better musician now than I was when I was 25, they must be dispelled here. I CAN'T BELIEVE WE DID THAT.
Remembering Being a Musician
Keep the scotch away!!!!!
When I get nostalgic I tend to gravitate to that golden pond.
But I was listening to some tunes I wrote and I heard this and read the lyrics and I must say, it was pretty fucking good.
I remember that I went into a small rehearsal space in a garage in Berkeley, California, and did this tune for the very, very first time unrehearsed (you can hear me shouting commands like "Chorus" etc.) and all I was doing was singing, so everyone else was completely improvising. I had a vicious cold and you can hear it, but what I hear now, when I read the lyrics that I wrote for it, was that it's a fucking great tune and for the first take, it was amazing, mistakes and all.
I must have been in a remarkably bad mood when I wrote the lyrics. You can see it. But basically, it has a lot of potential, if I can ever sing that many words at one time in a straight line.
But here it is, and below are the lyrics, which I seriously fucked up singing on.
But I'll do it better in the studio. Christ, I must have been in a seriously bad mood when I wrote that one.
====================================================================
STARRING ROLE
You took your feelings off the shelf
Turned around and kept them for yourself
Said that I was no good for your health
Couldn’t play the hand that you were dealt
Now I get the feeling I’ve been had
Days that you pretended you were sad
All an act ‘cause you were in your starring role
On a roll
You just don’t seem to have a clue
You hurt with everything you do
All the rage that you were priming grew
Can’t you feel your scheming eating you
So now you try a different tack
Close your eyes and turn your back
All an act ‘cause you are in your starring role
On a roll
CH.
The words you say that you feel
The cards you play when you deal
The smoke that flies in your eyes
The thoughtlessness in your lies
No loving glance when you’re cold
Emotions all controlled
No bitter secrets unhid
It wouldn’t suit what you did
You ooh ooh ooh your starring role
On a roll
Yeah on a roll
You see the curtain coming down
All the folks you knew are going uptown
Now it’s time to gather up your gown
Nice to know you’ve been around
Giving up this gig will be a drag
Don’t forget your pancake and your bag
Won’t be easy giving up your starring role
Now you gotta roll
When I get nostalgic I tend to gravitate to that golden pond.
But I was listening to some tunes I wrote and I heard this and read the lyrics and I must say, it was pretty fucking good.
I remember that I went into a small rehearsal space in a garage in Berkeley, California, and did this tune for the very, very first time unrehearsed (you can hear me shouting commands like "Chorus" etc.) and all I was doing was singing, so everyone else was completely improvising. I had a vicious cold and you can hear it, but what I hear now, when I read the lyrics that I wrote for it, was that it's a fucking great tune and for the first take, it was amazing, mistakes and all.
I must have been in a remarkably bad mood when I wrote the lyrics. You can see it. But basically, it has a lot of potential, if I can ever sing that many words at one time in a straight line.
But here it is, and below are the lyrics, which I seriously fucked up singing on.
But I'll do it better in the studio. Christ, I must have been in a seriously bad mood when I wrote that one.
====================================================================
STARRING ROLE
You took your feelings off the shelf
Turned around and kept them for yourself
Said that I was no good for your health
Couldn’t play the hand that you were dealt
Now I get the feeling I’ve been had
Days that you pretended you were sad
All an act ‘cause you were in your starring role
On a roll
You just don’t seem to have a clue
You hurt with everything you do
All the rage that you were priming grew
Can’t you feel your scheming eating you
So now you try a different tack
Close your eyes and turn your back
All an act ‘cause you are in your starring role
On a roll
CH.
The words you say that you feel
The cards you play when you deal
The smoke that flies in your eyes
The thoughtlessness in your lies
No loving glance when you’re cold
Emotions all controlled
No bitter secrets unhid
It wouldn’t suit what you did
You ooh ooh ooh your starring role
On a roll
Yeah on a roll
You see the curtain coming down
All the folks you knew are going uptown
Now it’s time to gather up your gown
Nice to know you’ve been around
Giving up this gig will be a drag
Don’t forget your pancake and your bag
Won’t be easy giving up your starring role
Now you gotta roll
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Brigitte Turns 39!
My flock, I am in a particularly good mood! No rant today! The Germans and Japanese are hereby forgiven! For today! The WHOLE DAY!
For it is Brigitte's birthday, the day when she turns 39 (I know it is sometimes difficult for you, my faithful to comprehend, but after a certain age, on EVERY birthday we turn 39! I had my 39th birthday last year and it was muchly celebrated, and this year, I will turn 39 old years again! And the year after that too! Do not even THINK about putting less than 39 candles on my cake, because I know I still have all my hair, but I'm really NOT 38 or however young you think I look because of my smooth, unwrinkled features. I'm exactly 39! And today, so is Brigitte!)
May the festivities get underway! How about a BYOB Vietnamese place to start (must be under $45 -- I'll take the garlic shrimp) and maybe a café Espagnol at Bistro Figaro after?
Sounds hell of good to me!
For it is Brigitte's birthday, the day when she turns 39 (I know it is sometimes difficult for you, my faithful to comprehend, but after a certain age, on EVERY birthday we turn 39! I had my 39th birthday last year and it was muchly celebrated, and this year, I will turn 39 old years again! And the year after that too! Do not even THINK about putting less than 39 candles on my cake, because I know I still have all my hair, but I'm really NOT 38 or however young you think I look because of my smooth, unwrinkled features. I'm exactly 39! And today, so is Brigitte!)
May the festivities get underway! How about a BYOB Vietnamese place to start (must be under $45 -- I'll take the garlic shrimp) and maybe a café Espagnol at Bistro Figaro after?
Sounds hell of good to me!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Germans
Okay, ratchet it up, folks . . . or should I say volk . . . as I type I'm watching a doc about the Einsatzgruppen and it just confirms what I already somehow knew but couldn't quite grasp: the Germans are now in close competition in my mind for the most despicable pieces of shit who ever lived.
Hey, it's a tossup at the moment, but the Germans are winning tonight! If I didn't ever have to go to Japan again, (which I do) I would studiously ignore every Japanese national who exists. But thank God for small favors: I can studiously ignore every German who exists! Imagine that! I NEVER HAVE TO TALK TO A GERMAN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! Ahh, the small joys in life. My memories of Germany are only the places my father bombed! The pleasure I take in that thought is indescribable. All those little German schnitzels vaporising in a 1,000 degree conflagration, withering into tiny wizened unidentifiable cinders . . . well, ask me, How Do I Really Feel? "That there are rules even for killing, and there should be . . ." Nahh, dispose of that. No rules for Germans.
That these people could massacre so many for so little removes any compunction or forgiveness that I might find it in my cold heart to have.
In my mind, every German is Heinrich Himmler.
Sorry about that, meine kleine nachtmusik freunde.
You're off my list. I'm so glad my father's task was to bomb you fuckers into the Stone Age. If he were here now he'd agree that it was a lot of fun.
Long live Dresden, assholes!
Hey, it's a tossup at the moment, but the Germans are winning tonight! If I didn't ever have to go to Japan again, (which I do) I would studiously ignore every Japanese national who exists. But thank God for small favors: I can studiously ignore every German who exists! Imagine that! I NEVER HAVE TO TALK TO A GERMAN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! Ahh, the small joys in life. My memories of Germany are only the places my father bombed! The pleasure I take in that thought is indescribable. All those little German schnitzels vaporising in a 1,000 degree conflagration, withering into tiny wizened unidentifiable cinders . . . well, ask me, How Do I Really Feel? "That there are rules even for killing, and there should be . . ." Nahh, dispose of that. No rules for Germans.
That these people could massacre so many for so little removes any compunction or forgiveness that I might find it in my cold heart to have.
In my mind, every German is Heinrich Himmler.
Sorry about that, meine kleine nachtmusik freunde.
You're off my list. I'm so glad my father's task was to bomb you fuckers into the Stone Age. If he were here now he'd agree that it was a lot of fun.
Long live Dresden, assholes!
So This Is Christmas (and what have you done?)
Here are some pics from Christmas. Look how oafy the dog is and how big Tai-chan is getting. He's now 50 pounds and I can't carry him from bed to the couch in the morning any more.
I Know What You Want
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Why the fuck can't he stop fucking ranting about everything? Why can't he be POSITIVE about something? Can't he stop saying "fuck?" for once in his seemingly-miserable life? Christ, I can't stand reading this any more."
But guess what: you ARE reading it.
If it's any consolation, I just looked out the window (sometimes I do that) and the snow looks beautiful on the rooftops. It's a new day, people, and the Christmas tree has to go to the garbage.
Whosa gonna do it? Youse?
(Note to self: chill the beer a bit more tomorrow morning).
But guess what: you ARE reading it.
If it's any consolation, I just looked out the window (sometimes I do that) and the snow looks beautiful on the rooftops. It's a new day, people, and the Christmas tree has to go to the garbage.
Whosa gonna do it? Youse?
(Note to self: chill the beer a bit more tomorrow morning).
Facebook AGAIN
I swear, Facebook is just downright creepy. I can just go to someone's page and see personal messages from someone I don't know to someone I DO know and it's like going on someone's computer and reading their email.
It is downright fucking creepy. If I didn't have a bunch of people (with whom I could communicate by email, let me just say) who are using this bizarre way to communicate, I would just shut it down forever. It's a pernicious form of communication that seemingly no one fully understands (hey, if I can't, no one can) and it's just frankly strange to be reading messages between people that I don't really know.
It has to be eliminated. I've done it now, oh, five times? But the creep-factor is quite alarming.
So I guess I'll just HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. Goodbye, Facebook denizens, YET a-FUCKING-gain.
Kiss my Facebook ass and then shove it somewhere the sun NEVER shines.
Thank you for SHARING THAT WITH ME WITH THE GREY BUTTON.
It is downright fucking creepy. If I didn't have a bunch of people (with whom I could communicate by email, let me just say) who are using this bizarre way to communicate, I would just shut it down forever. It's a pernicious form of communication that seemingly no one fully understands (hey, if I can't, no one can) and it's just frankly strange to be reading messages between people that I don't really know.
It has to be eliminated. I've done it now, oh, five times? But the creep-factor is quite alarming.
So I guess I'll just HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. Goodbye, Facebook denizens, YET a-FUCKING-gain.
Kiss my Facebook ass and then shove it somewhere the sun NEVER shines.
Thank you for SHARING THAT WITH ME WITH THE GREY BUTTON.
In Passing
Over the holidays Brigitte was able to snag the Lord of the Rings trilogy and we watched it with Tai-chan on our 42-inch plasma with surround sound.
These have to be the most amazing movies ever made, without exception. And I'm putting the Godfathers, Goodfellas and Casablanca in there. The sheer SCOPE of them is mind-boggling. I saw them in the theater when they came out, but seeing them again reminds me: hands-down, the best movies of All Time.
These have to be the most amazing movies ever made, without exception. And I'm putting the Godfathers, Goodfellas and Casablanca in there. The sheer SCOPE of them is mind-boggling. I saw them in the theater when they came out, but seeing them again reminds me: hands-down, the best movies of All Time.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Yeah, People, Maybe Getting a Fucking Clue would be Nice
Brigitte forwarded me THIS ARTICLE. It should be a fucking TEXTBOOK for airports ALL OVER NORTH AMERICA.
Trouble is, so many Americans are morons. THEY JUST DON'T AND WON'T GET IT. So, welcome to 9/12!!!!
Trouble is, so many Americans are morons. THEY JUST DON'T AND WON'T GET IT. So, welcome to 9/12!!!!
The Power of Love
Oh, I forgot to mention . . . if you go back in this blog and search for "First Class" you'll see how many time I've mentioned it.
But on the very last leg of my flight this time, from Minneapolis to Montreal, I
got
first
class.
I was so crazy tired I couldn't enjoy it, but the sweet lady at the checkin counter in Minneapolis obviously took pity on me (and noticed my tie) and we babbled for a couple of minutes and she suddenly said "Can I have your boarding pass?"
And I, puzzled, gave it to her and she took it and tore it up, to my astonishment, and then pushed a button and out came a new one, marked "4A".
That's pronounced "Four Fucking-A."
Lessons to be learned, my flock, lessons to be learned. BE NICE AND DRESS WELL AND THE WORLD IS YOURS.
Too bad I was too trashed to enjoy the champagne.
But on the very last leg of my flight this time, from Minneapolis to Montreal, I
got
first
class.
I was so crazy tired I couldn't enjoy it, but the sweet lady at the checkin counter in Minneapolis obviously took pity on me (and noticed my tie) and we babbled for a couple of minutes and she suddenly said "Can I have your boarding pass?"
And I, puzzled, gave it to her and she took it and tore it up, to my astonishment, and then pushed a button and out came a new one, marked "4A".
That's pronounced "Four Fucking-A."
Lessons to be learned, my flock, lessons to be learned. BE NICE AND DRESS WELL AND THE WORLD IS YOURS.
Too bad I was too trashed to enjoy the champagne.
Slap Chop
I love this commercial. Now you can watch it in Spanish!
And then you watch this even funnier commercial (French language would be handy).
And then you watch this even funnier commercial (French language would be handy).
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Side Benefits
I know, I know -- how many positives can there be to having to fly to Japan? What? What are you looking at? Wanna take my place?
But there are.
I have no idea what route Captain Pilot took back from Tokyo to Minneapolis St. Paul (Twin Cities!) but, for about three hours -- remember we're traveling at 500 miles per hour -- we flew over a vast iceland. Snow, snow, more snow.
At 37,000 feet there aren't many things you can see in detail, but I saw huge networks of wormlike rivers, and I kept saying to myself, How would you like to be THERE, in that EXACT SPOT, RIGHT NOW, instead of being in this pressurized 747 cabin?
But the weird thing was, that it was such an alien landscape, almost like looking at a map of Pluto, that I didn't expect to see any sign of human habitation.
But there was! All of a sudden, you would see a road, as straight as a ruler, stretching as far as the horizon, and we're talking curvature of the Earth here, buddy.
Who the fuck lives in those places? Huh? What, it was Kamchatka? What's it like to be shivering under an overpass in Kamchatka anyway? I'm afraid I will never know, but at least I'll be having a strawberry daiquiri tonight.
Yes indeedy siree Bob.
COLLECTION FOR THE HOMELESS IN KAMCHATKA. You have my PayPal address.
But there are.
I have no idea what route Captain Pilot took back from Tokyo to Minneapolis St. Paul (Twin Cities!) but, for about three hours -- remember we're traveling at 500 miles per hour -- we flew over a vast iceland. Snow, snow, more snow.
At 37,000 feet there aren't many things you can see in detail, but I saw huge networks of wormlike rivers, and I kept saying to myself, How would you like to be THERE, in that EXACT SPOT, RIGHT NOW, instead of being in this pressurized 747 cabin?
But the weird thing was, that it was such an alien landscape, almost like looking at a map of Pluto, that I didn't expect to see any sign of human habitation.
But there was! All of a sudden, you would see a road, as straight as a ruler, stretching as far as the horizon, and we're talking curvature of the Earth here, buddy.
Who the fuck lives in those places? Huh? What, it was Kamchatka? What's it like to be shivering under an overpass in Kamchatka anyway? I'm afraid I will never know, but at least I'll be having a strawberry daiquiri tonight.
Yes indeedy siree Bob.
COLLECTION FOR THE HOMELESS IN KAMCHATKA. You have my PayPal address.
Words (You Knew They Was Coming)
You know what the dialogue is to my son (in theory, not in practice) when we're on the road?:
Get your shit wired tight. Lock and load. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Daddy is the controller of everything you Have Done, everything you are Going to Do, and everyt'ing you are Considering Doing.
Don't look there, look here, I'm talking. Does it look like I'm not talking? When does it look like I'm not talking? When the bad guy comes and picks you up because you're not paying attention, takes you to his house and kills you after a couple of hours?
No, don't do that. Do this. No, don't do this, do that. Yes, what I said ten times a minute ago, except now I forget.
No, NO BATHROOM. Oh, okay, bathroom. Bathroom NOW. Now DADDY BATHROOM. No, my name is not Daddy. What's my name? What? Robinson? Goood . . . and what's the rest of it? What? DADDY ROBINSON? Who raised you, kid? You my kid or that guy's kid? Noooo, that guy in the corner looking angry's kid. You his kid?
Oh, okay, you're still my kid? No, you can't get a juice, because GUESS WHY: I HAVE ZERO MONEY.
A toy? What are you, fuckin' kidding??? Since when did I become Santee Claus? Huh? Look front, don't move, move now, and MOVE IT and don't lose Daddy's passport because Daddy lost it already.
That's the Theory.
The Reality is, "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you, Tai-chan, you can't possibly imagine how much."
Get your shit wired tight. Lock and load. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Daddy is the controller of everything you Have Done, everything you are Going to Do, and everyt'ing you are Considering Doing.
Don't look there, look here, I'm talking. Does it look like I'm not talking? When does it look like I'm not talking? When the bad guy comes and picks you up because you're not paying attention, takes you to his house and kills you after a couple of hours?
No, don't do that. Do this. No, don't do this, do that. Yes, what I said ten times a minute ago, except now I forget.
No, NO BATHROOM. Oh, okay, bathroom. Bathroom NOW. Now DADDY BATHROOM. No, my name is not Daddy. What's my name? What? Robinson? Goood . . . and what's the rest of it? What? DADDY ROBINSON? Who raised you, kid? You my kid or that guy's kid? Noooo, that guy in the corner looking angry's kid. You his kid?
Oh, okay, you're still my kid? No, you can't get a juice, because GUESS WHY: I HAVE ZERO MONEY.
A toy? What are you, fuckin' kidding??? Since when did I become Santee Claus? Huh? Look front, don't move, move now, and MOVE IT and don't lose Daddy's passport because Daddy lost it already.
That's the Theory.
The Reality is, "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you, Tai-chan, you can't possibly imagine how much."
I Gotta Say
I'm getting to despise flying, but only when I'm not on the plane.
Folks, these people have it tough, the ones who serve you your chickenorbeef. You think slinging burgers at Harvey's is bad, you should see what THEY do. They basically work their fucking asses off. I simply cannot imagine moving food carts about a cabin 37,000 feet above the Pacific and encountering sudden turbulence -- hey, like it or not, there's no turbulence at a McDonald's -- and fearing your head is going to be the new ceiling ornament of the day.
Pilots. schmilots -- okay, so they're actually FLYING the fucking thing, but at least they're strapped in at all times and don't have to give nobody the time of day if they don't want.
So next time you fly, don't give the cabin crew any hassles -- I MIGHT BE SITTING BEHIND YOU AND YOUR HEAD WILL BE THE NEW CEILING ORNAMENT.
Folks, these people have it tough, the ones who serve you your chickenorbeef. You think slinging burgers at Harvey's is bad, you should see what THEY do. They basically work their fucking asses off. I simply cannot imagine moving food carts about a cabin 37,000 feet above the Pacific and encountering sudden turbulence -- hey, like it or not, there's no turbulence at a McDonald's -- and fearing your head is going to be the new ceiling ornament of the day.
Pilots. schmilots -- okay, so they're actually FLYING the fucking thing, but at least they're strapped in at all times and don't have to give nobody the time of day if they don't want.
So next time you fly, don't give the cabin crew any hassles -- I MIGHT BE SITTING BEHIND YOU AND YOUR HEAD WILL BE THE NEW CEILING ORNAMENT.
Please Open Your Passport at the Information Page . . .
NOT! I'm actually home!
What a nightmare it was getting from Osaka to Montreal. I still can't believe I'm actually in my bed with Brigitte next to me.
You do NOT -- repeat, NOT -- want to do what I just did. All sorts of bad stuff could happen to you if you did. Only qualified professionals should attempt WHAT I JUST DID.
But I'm back.
What a nightmare it was getting from Osaka to Montreal. I still can't believe I'm actually in my bed with Brigitte next to me.
You do NOT -- repeat, NOT -- want to do what I just did. All sorts of bad stuff could happen to you if you did. Only qualified professionals should attempt WHAT I JUST DID.
But I'm back.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Hard
Leaving Tai-chan was, I swear, in the scheme of things, this time, the hardest thing I've ever done. I still see, like in Technicolor, his surprised face as the elevator doors close.
I hate crying, you hate crying, everyone hates seeing anyone cry but I couldn't help it -- I broke down and couldn't stop crying for the life of me after I got back to my hotel room. I guess sometimes you just gotta cry. No way around it, people.
Now I have to put a break on the tears, which are threatening to be many, and get on several planes to Brigitte and home. It's a daunting thought, here, as I sit with this tower actually swaying as I speak, but it must be done.
But it was not a happy thing. No, it was not happy at all. Could you please invent a duplicate of me and make him go through this instead? I would be very grateful if you could.
I hate crying, you hate crying, everyone hates seeing anyone cry but I couldn't help it -- I broke down and couldn't stop crying for the life of me after I got back to my hotel room. I guess sometimes you just gotta cry. No way around it, people.
Now I have to put a break on the tears, which are threatening to be many, and get on several planes to Brigitte and home. It's a daunting thought, here, as I sit with this tower actually swaying as I speak, but it must be done.
But it was not a happy thing. No, it was not happy at all. Could you please invent a duplicate of me and make him go through this instead? I would be very grateful if you could.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
HellOOOOO Sailor
My dear band of dedicated, bleary-eyed Adventure Travellers, well, guess the fuck what?
I'm sitting in a goddamn hotel room in Osaka, drinking something called a chuu-hai (a kind of lemony beer) and REGRETTING THAT I JUST DIDN'T STAY HOME.
But you know me for my powers of exaggeration! (They will TRANSFIX YOU!)
It wasn't so bad. Almost nothing that I "foresaw" came to pass. Par for the course.
Montreal: mayhem. Detroit: extremely fine, considering it was the hub of terrorist action just a few days before. Tokyo: BORING as usual. Sterile airport, nothing to do. Osaka/Kansai just a relief to be here.
I was telling Tai-chan every step of the way, actually was telling MYSELF "We're here. We're getting there. Just do THAT and maybe do This. Okay, almost to the gate. Just one more step . . ." the whole way. That got me through it.
He's trashed, but I can't afford to be. I have to do it all again tomorrow in reverse, ALONE.
What
a
fucking
nightmare
that's going to be. At least with Tai-chan everything was fun, every other thing was a game, everything was a pleasure. Now it's just going to be a chore.
Oh well. I'm trashed. But let me tell you, my darling group of sociopathic ingrates (there MUST be a Wikipedia entry for that), I'm going to get MORE TRASHED today.
Joy to the World and Hallelujah to you all.
I'm sitting in a goddamn hotel room in Osaka, drinking something called a chuu-hai (a kind of lemony beer) and REGRETTING THAT I JUST DIDN'T STAY HOME.
But you know me for my powers of exaggeration! (They will TRANSFIX YOU!)
It wasn't so bad. Almost nothing that I "foresaw" came to pass. Par for the course.
Montreal: mayhem. Detroit: extremely fine, considering it was the hub of terrorist action just a few days before. Tokyo: BORING as usual. Sterile airport, nothing to do. Osaka/Kansai just a relief to be here.
I was telling Tai-chan every step of the way, actually was telling MYSELF "We're here. We're getting there. Just do THAT and maybe do This. Okay, almost to the gate. Just one more step . . ." the whole way. That got me through it.
He's trashed, but I can't afford to be. I have to do it all again tomorrow in reverse, ALONE.
What
a
fucking
nightmare
that's going to be. At least with Tai-chan everything was fun, every other thing was a game, everything was a pleasure. Now it's just going to be a chore.
Oh well. I'm trashed. But let me tell you, my darling group of sociopathic ingrates (there MUST be a Wikipedia entry for that), I'm going to get MORE TRASHED today.
Joy to the World and Hallelujah to you all.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Umm . . . Why I Wouldn't
Can you say "disgruntled," my ever-burgeoning flock of disciples? Let's say it after Group Hug:
"I KNOW YOU CAN!"
We can all say it! Yes, year-round, round-and-round, square-round!
"Disgruntled!"
Christ, no wonder I would NEVER get a job in the service industry. And I've never seen a more hostile group of individuals than the people who serve and the people who are served.
Please Mr. Waiter, don't ejaculate on my pizza! Please, Mr. Flashy Tie, don't tip me a dollar on a $78 meal!
MEEEEOOOOWWW!
"I KNOW YOU CAN!"
We can all say it! Yes, year-round, round-and-round, square-round!
"Disgruntled!"
Christ, no wonder I would NEVER get a job in the service industry. And I've never seen a more hostile group of individuals than the people who serve and the people who are served.
Please Mr. Waiter, don't ejaculate on my pizza! Please, Mr. Flashy Tie, don't tip me a dollar on a $78 meal!
MEEEEOOOOWWW!
Futurists and Why They Should All Be Lined Up and Shot
Ahh, the usual crap from the usual crap scientists.
Where do these people get their pay, anyway? Fucking crackpot idiots. If I could draw (which I can, but I can't be bothered) I would draw the classic slightly-shrunken egghead with the oversized glasses with the lecturing stick. This is not a stereotype without a reason, people.
It's amazing what these lunatics come up with: SPACE ELEVATOR MADE FROM CARBON NANOTUBES WILL CARRY PEOPLE INTO SPACE AT NEARLY NO COST! (Oh, and exactly why? So we can make it to the 200,987th floor? OOH, look at the view, Marthaa! This is what cruising is all about! Yes, another mojito, please!)
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENT REFRIGERATORS WILL TELL YOU WHEN TO BUY MILK! TOURISTS WILL CIRCLE EARTH ON NEW SPACELINER! BIOCHIPS MADE OF BACTERIA WILL DOWNLOAD ILLEGAL MP3S 10,000,000 TIMES FASTER THAN BROADBAND!
Guess what, fuckwads, it's not happening, and it's not GOING TO HAPPEN.
There are NO PERSONAL air transport devices. There are NO robot maids. There are NO men terraforming Mars. There are NO ASTEROID-DEFLECTING solar sails. Just a bunch of asshole terrorists in training camps thinking of ways to kill everything for Allah. DID YOU PREDICT THAT????
Fucking A, what are these fucking jokers smoking? Can I have some?
Where do these people get their pay, anyway? Fucking crackpot idiots. If I could draw (which I can, but I can't be bothered) I would draw the classic slightly-shrunken egghead with the oversized glasses with the lecturing stick. This is not a stereotype without a reason, people.
It's amazing what these lunatics come up with: SPACE ELEVATOR MADE FROM CARBON NANOTUBES WILL CARRY PEOPLE INTO SPACE AT NEARLY NO COST! (Oh, and exactly why? So we can make it to the 200,987th floor? OOH, look at the view, Marthaa! This is what cruising is all about! Yes, another mojito, please!)
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENT REFRIGERATORS WILL TELL YOU WHEN TO BUY MILK! TOURISTS WILL CIRCLE EARTH ON NEW SPACELINER! BIOCHIPS MADE OF BACTERIA WILL DOWNLOAD ILLEGAL MP3S 10,000,000 TIMES FASTER THAN BROADBAND!
Guess what, fuckwads, it's not happening, and it's not GOING TO HAPPEN.
There are NO PERSONAL air transport devices. There are NO robot maids. There are NO men terraforming Mars. There are NO ASTEROID-DEFLECTING solar sails. Just a bunch of asshole terrorists in training camps thinking of ways to kill everything for Allah. DID YOU PREDICT THAT????
Fucking A, what are these fucking jokers smoking? Can I have some?
Shifting Moods
Hey, that's a great name for a song. I'm sure it's been done, though.
But my moods always seem to be ruled by what book I'm reading . . . now it's a Mafia book. Yesterday it was a Hitler book. I wish I was in the mood for cookbooks but I'm going through a really, really dry cooking period. I just don't feel like it.
Of course it's the looming dread of having to go to Japan and leave my son there -- the awesome thought of what is coming up in two days -- it's like I want to contact my future self and tell him that's it's going to be okay, that you can do it, you WILL do it. You bargain with yourself, I swear. "It's going to be okay if you wear the green tie."
That kind of stuff. Or, "Well, you're not going to prison, are you? Just a couple of planes and a hotel, then you'll be back! How's about that?" But the dread never seems to leave and it paralyses you, stops you from operating on all cylinders. Like going to the dentist or going through surgery.
You rationalise everything and stay in a state of stasis just by saying "Well, I have to do THAT, so why should I be doing THIS?" So you end up doing nothing.
And I guess that's exactly what I'm doing on a snowy January day . . . reading a Mafia book, drinking scotch and doing nothing.
But brighten up, people! There's leftover pizza for dinner and Lord of the Rings III on the menu!
Yay! (See how I do it?)
But my moods always seem to be ruled by what book I'm reading . . . now it's a Mafia book. Yesterday it was a Hitler book. I wish I was in the mood for cookbooks but I'm going through a really, really dry cooking period. I just don't feel like it.
Of course it's the looming dread of having to go to Japan and leave my son there -- the awesome thought of what is coming up in two days -- it's like I want to contact my future self and tell him that's it's going to be okay, that you can do it, you WILL do it. You bargain with yourself, I swear. "It's going to be okay if you wear the green tie."
That kind of stuff. Or, "Well, you're not going to prison, are you? Just a couple of planes and a hotel, then you'll be back! How's about that?" But the dread never seems to leave and it paralyses you, stops you from operating on all cylinders. Like going to the dentist or going through surgery.
You rationalise everything and stay in a state of stasis just by saying "Well, I have to do THAT, so why should I be doing THIS?" So you end up doing nothing.
And I guess that's exactly what I'm doing on a snowy January day . . . reading a Mafia book, drinking scotch and doing nothing.
But brighten up, people! There's leftover pizza for dinner and Lord of the Rings III on the menu!
Yay! (See how I do it?)
I Can't Remember
I swear, I can't remember half the things I've written on this blog. It's like "What the hell was I on about that day?" Like looking in a mirror and seeing nobody.
But I was always like that about writing. Before blogs, before computers, indeed without so much as a typewriter I would compose poems, or try to write a novel, just to entertain myself. Out of all the teachers in British boarding school, my English teachers loved me most. I was always number one in spelling and essay-writing and creativity, which means writing crazy stuff.
But my math teachers hated me.
Ergo cogito est! Or something like that.
But I was always like that about writing. Before blogs, before computers, indeed without so much as a typewriter I would compose poems, or try to write a novel, just to entertain myself. Out of all the teachers in British boarding school, my English teachers loved me most. I was always number one in spelling and essay-writing and creativity, which means writing crazy stuff.
But my math teachers hated me.
Ergo cogito est! Or something like that.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Imagine This
Imagine this:
Picking up the phone.
Dialing a hotel in Japan where for them it's 5:44 a.m.
Making a hotel reservation entirely in Japanese, from top to bottom, including credit card details, pleasantries about New Year's and chit-chat.
I'm not trying to brag, but I can't believe I just did that. And it was as familiar to me as a worn suit.
I guess I'm now in Travel Mode, Faithful Few . . . it's only the tick-tock clock to countdown the time where I'm Going To Be On The Big Planes.
Yo-Yo-Ma.
Picking up the phone.
Dialing a hotel in Japan where for them it's 5:44 a.m.
Making a hotel reservation entirely in Japanese, from top to bottom, including credit card details, pleasantries about New Year's and chit-chat.
I'm not trying to brag, but I can't believe I just did that. And it was as familiar to me as a worn suit.
I guess I'm now in Travel Mode, Faithful Few . . . it's only the tick-tock clock to countdown the time where I'm Going To Be On The Big Planes.
Yo-Yo-Ma.
I Know I Said I Love Montreal
Yes, but that was the earlier me, only accessible by time travel, which I've invented but haven't yet returned to the present to deliver. (I'll be back soon, please put all future plans on hold and buy sunglasses: it's going to be bright!)
But FUCKIN'A, FUCKIN'B and elephants in a living room, I SO did not want to go get Brigitte her Croissantes à l'amande at Duc de Lorraine or however you say it in Basque THIS MORNING.
WHAT
A
FUCKING
NIGHTMARE
it was on the street. Yeah, Montreal used to be charming but it's all washed out now.
Therefore, I hereby reneg, retract and declare my previous statement INEPT (Please present your passport on boarding) that I love Montreal.
I actually have discovered that I unequivocally HATE Montreal, at least, the version that's described on the carton.
Don't ask.
Don't tell.
But FUCKIN'A, FUCKIN'B and elephants in a living room, I SO did not want to go get Brigitte her Croissantes à l'amande at Duc de Lorraine or however you say it in Basque THIS MORNING.
WHAT
A
FUCKING
NIGHTMARE
it was on the street. Yeah, Montreal used to be charming but it's all washed out now.
Therefore, I hereby reneg, retract and declare my previous statement INEPT (Please present your passport on boarding) that I love Montreal.
I actually have discovered that I unequivocally HATE Montreal, at least, the version that's described on the carton.
Don't ask.
Don't tell.
They Didn't Like Me
I remember that at art school, no one particularly much liked me. First of all, I was a chain smoker, including in all my classes. That pretty much had it in for me.
But they especially didn't like my pointillism. No one liked it; not the teachers, not my fellow students, not my pals. They didn't like how I would obsessively ensconce myself in my closet-sized drawing room for literally hour upon hour, smoke, and use the tiniest-possible rapidograph and, with infinite patience, go dot-dot-dot-dot-dot to make insane drawings known only to me. They especially didn't like it when I presented them in class. Their drawings were fairly traditional, done in traditional ways, but mine were WEIRD.
So they didn't like me. Not the teachers, who I always seemed to argue with about the concept of "composition" (still, what the fuck IS that?) or the students, because I was weird. I drank scotch and was the editor of the college newspaper, so then they ESPECIALLY didn't like me. THEY HAD TO GO THROUGH ME TO GET THEIR HUMANITIES CREDITS BY WORKING ON THE NEWSPAPER.
But what really got me to thinking about this was some other insane maniac -- really, these guys belong in small rooms with padded softwear.
A lunatic named Shigeo Fukuda, who chose to assemble FUCKING FORKS AND KNIVES TO MAKE A SHADOW PATTERN ON A WHITE BACKGROUND.
Just think of HOW MUCH HIS COLLEAGUES, TEACHERS, GIRLFRIENDS, FRIENDS, ENEMIES AND NUDE MODELS HATED HIM.
Thank you for your attention in this urgent matter.
Please press "9" for English NOW, followed by the "pound" key.
But they especially didn't like my pointillism. No one liked it; not the teachers, not my fellow students, not my pals. They didn't like how I would obsessively ensconce myself in my closet-sized drawing room for literally hour upon hour, smoke, and use the tiniest-possible rapidograph and, with infinite patience, go dot-dot-dot-dot-dot to make insane drawings known only to me. They especially didn't like it when I presented them in class. Their drawings were fairly traditional, done in traditional ways, but mine were WEIRD.
So they didn't like me. Not the teachers, who I always seemed to argue with about the concept of "composition" (still, what the fuck IS that?) or the students, because I was weird. I drank scotch and was the editor of the college newspaper, so then they ESPECIALLY didn't like me. THEY HAD TO GO THROUGH ME TO GET THEIR HUMANITIES CREDITS BY WORKING ON THE NEWSPAPER.
But what really got me to thinking about this was some other insane maniac -- really, these guys belong in small rooms with padded softwear.
A lunatic named Shigeo Fukuda, who chose to assemble FUCKING FORKS AND KNIVES TO MAKE A SHADOW PATTERN ON A WHITE BACKGROUND.
Just think of HOW MUCH HIS COLLEAGUES, TEACHERS, GIRLFRIENDS, FRIENDS, ENEMIES AND NUDE MODELS HATED HIM.
Thank you for your attention in this urgent matter.
Please press "9" for English NOW, followed by the "pound" key.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Ya Know
Ya know, as much as I despise having to go to Japan, being on planes, trains and assholes, I do have some amazing memories. I generally don't mind at all being on planes -- it's a very reassuring feeling to hear those engines going, to hear the weird sounds of various gears and flaps whirring. Since I was very, very tiny I've always been on planes.
But the best of all was flying into Tokyo . . . the way the clouds flew past the wings. And then Osaka . . . the amazing sight of deep blue, somewhat angry Osaka bay as we descended. It's hard to describe in mere words, but at moments like those, you forget your problems (and lose your glasses) but these are the things we live for, aren't they, these private moments of sheer amazement.
And when the plane thunders to a halt on that final runway, the feeling of relief is scarily overwhelming, but in my case, not because I hate flying. Just that the journey is done, there are a few bureaucrats ahead of me, but AT LEAST I'M THERE and there's a convenience store in my future.
Just thought I'd let you know.
But the best of all was flying into Tokyo . . . the way the clouds flew past the wings. And then Osaka . . . the amazing sight of deep blue, somewhat angry Osaka bay as we descended. It's hard to describe in mere words, but at moments like those, you forget your problems (and lose your glasses) but these are the things we live for, aren't they, these private moments of sheer amazement.
And when the plane thunders to a halt on that final runway, the feeling of relief is scarily overwhelming, but in my case, not because I hate flying. Just that the journey is done, there are a few bureaucrats ahead of me, but AT LEAST I'M THERE and there's a convenience store in my future.
Just thought I'd let you know.
Phrase For The Day
Here's the phrase for the day, taken from "Prisoners of the Japanese" by Gavan Daws:
"Mukden was crawling with drunk Russians"
Croist aloive, maitey, can you imagine ANYTHING crawling with drunk Russians? I'd rather be chopping carrots all day for the rest of my days than be cooped up with crawling drunk Russians.
Yes indeedy.
"Mukden was crawling with drunk Russians"
Croist aloive, maitey, can you imagine ANYTHING crawling with drunk Russians? I'd rather be chopping carrots all day for the rest of my days than be cooped up with crawling drunk Russians.
Yes indeedy.
I Do So Love Montreal
I so love this city, in spite of the moaning I do about its drivers. I love that someone can just come up to you and you really don't care what language you speak in; it doesn't matter to either of you and there's never a fuss.
I go to Pharmaprix to get my prescription and we start in French. Then I find something a little too annoying to have to remember in French so I switch to English. Not a blink. Now we're in English. Then we finish up in French. Who cares: bank guys, convenience-store people, taxi drivers . . . it doesn't seem to matter where they come from (another good thing about Montreal) . . . we all have this weird ability to shift Worldviews in one sentence. Where else, except Belgium, does that happen? Besides, the Wallons hate the Flamands.
It's just so casual, you don't even realise it half the time. It's a surreal culture, but it works. I know people (well, my wife is among them) who sound totally different when they speak French -- like, hey, instant actors! Because they're just so good, and then they switch back to English like it was just a minor brain-glitch.
Yes, even in the slush of the new year, I love my Montreal.
I go to Pharmaprix to get my prescription and we start in French. Then I find something a little too annoying to have to remember in French so I switch to English. Not a blink. Now we're in English. Then we finish up in French. Who cares: bank guys, convenience-store people, taxi drivers . . . it doesn't seem to matter where they come from (another good thing about Montreal) . . . we all have this weird ability to shift Worldviews in one sentence. Where else, except Belgium, does that happen? Besides, the Wallons hate the Flamands.
It's just so casual, you don't even realise it half the time. It's a surreal culture, but it works. I know people (well, my wife is among them) who sound totally different when they speak French -- like, hey, instant actors! Because they're just so good, and then they switch back to English like it was just a minor brain-glitch.
Yes, even in the slush of the new year, I love my Montreal.
Oh, Shut Up
To all these food bloggers or wannabe restaurant critics and "foodie" (I hate that term, it should be banned) idiots:
Christ alive, get thee into a kitchen. I don't care if it's McDonald's or Chez Daniel, but GET THE FUCK INTO A KITCHEN.
Make the fucking rice for yourselves. BUS THE FUCKING TABLES FOR YOURSELVES, YOU UNGRATEFUL BUNCH OF SELF-SEEKING IDIOTS. Serve the wine, pour the water, burn your fucking fingers on the hot pan, break the fucking glass to a grateful smattering of snide applause. Wow, man, ten dollars an hour? This is Las Vegas! Sin City, here we come!
What, you think these people are in it for the fucking money? Oh, yeah, right, they'll retire to Casamance with a private yacht. GET A FUCKING CLUE.
YOU WRITE, THEY COOK. How's about THEY WRITE, YOU COOK???
There is definitely no shortage of assholes on earth. It JUST DEPENDS WHICH SIDE OF THE GLASS THEY'RE ON.
Christ alive, get thee into a kitchen. I don't care if it's McDonald's or Chez Daniel, but GET THE FUCK INTO A KITCHEN.
Make the fucking rice for yourselves. BUS THE FUCKING TABLES FOR YOURSELVES, YOU UNGRATEFUL BUNCH OF SELF-SEEKING IDIOTS. Serve the wine, pour the water, burn your fucking fingers on the hot pan, break the fucking glass to a grateful smattering of snide applause. Wow, man, ten dollars an hour? This is Las Vegas! Sin City, here we come!
What, you think these people are in it for the fucking money? Oh, yeah, right, they'll retire to Casamance with a private yacht. GET A FUCKING CLUE.
YOU WRITE, THEY COOK. How's about THEY WRITE, YOU COOK???
There is definitely no shortage of assholes on earth. It JUST DEPENDS WHICH SIDE OF THE GLASS THEY'RE ON.
Hey, HAPPY headline!
Compared to the unremitting bad news that seems to be prevalent everywhere these days, how's about this little happy news item?
"Pastoralism Unraveling in Mongolia."
Well, isn't that a darned shame. The thought that nomadic yak-herders could be unraveling at the seams warms the very cockles of my heart.
Sure beats "246 Killed In Suicide Bomb Attack In Basra," no? Or "Iran"-anything?
"Pastoralism Unraveling in Mongolia." How much better can news get?
"Pastoralism Unraveling in Mongolia."
Well, isn't that a darned shame. The thought that nomadic yak-herders could be unraveling at the seams warms the very cockles of my heart.
Sure beats "246 Killed In Suicide Bomb Attack In Basra," no? Or "Iran"-anything?
"Pastoralism Unraveling in Mongolia." How much better can news get?
Okay, Troops
Welcome, Wilkommen, dozo sumimasen domo, bienvenue, xyyxrr(click)-hssh-zzyzzyx, to 2010!
Can you believe we actually made it to 2010? Now you don't have to go around thinking about the dilemma of how to say "The oh-ohs" or some other such nonsense. No, now you can say "Yes, back in the Tens . . ."
Twenty-ten, Twenty-ten, Look at Me, I lived then! See, a rhyme can be made with just about anything.
As for ushering in die neue jahre, (sorry, too many GI Joes and Hitler books -- I've had enough, there must be some final solution to the German problem, get Osama on the case, speedo. His minions will wipe the earth clean and destroy many planes going to Detroit within minutes) we passed (such a Frenchy expression!) an extremely good evening at the loving, capable hands of the crew at Basi, indeed, until the witching hour had come.
It's going to have to become a tradition, this New Years' at Basi, because they're simply SO NICE.
I was green! Yes, green! I wore my best black suit and black shirt (pics to follow!) and dayglo green tie and greased back my unruly hair and just pretended I was a Mafia dude, and it got me everywhere!
Brigitte and Tai-chan were exemplary, the restaurant was "pcked" to the gills, and the service was fantastic. It's amazing what these people do, and how they do it.
I poked my head into the kitchen at some point to see Maurizio working, and can you say "galley slave?" I know you can. He could be basking on a nice white sandy beach in Cuba with his wife and lovely young son, but no he's not.
He's making my wonderful linguine with sausage, making sure my wine is properly cold, taking care of my wife and son with various delights, and all on top of it, burning his fingers on hot frying pans! What could be a better way to pass the New Year's revelries? Can you think of one? I can't.
Anyway, it was marvelous, and the ball descended in Times Square and Dick Clark came out of his semi-coma one more time and, here's the kicker: WE MADE IT HOME IN ONE PIECE! Yes, I checked! Fingers, breastbones, skulls all intact! Believe me, dodging DRUNKEN morons in Montreal as opposed to just MORONS is an Extreme Sport! Qualifies for the Vancouver Olympics! Get your tickets here NOW and save big in this new year of ours.
But we're alive, and I suppose that matters, doesn't it, my faithful few. Because then who else would write this drivel?
HAPPY NEW YEAR'S, MY GODDAMN TROOPS; WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO BAND TOGETHER TO MAKE IT A BETTER ONE.
Can you believe we actually made it to 2010? Now you don't have to go around thinking about the dilemma of how to say "The oh-ohs" or some other such nonsense. No, now you can say "Yes, back in the Tens . . ."
Twenty-ten, Twenty-ten, Look at Me, I lived then! See, a rhyme can be made with just about anything.
As for ushering in die neue jahre, (sorry, too many GI Joes and Hitler books -- I've had enough, there must be some final solution to the German problem, get Osama on the case, speedo. His minions will wipe the earth clean and destroy many planes going to Detroit within minutes) we passed (such a Frenchy expression!) an extremely good evening at the loving, capable hands of the crew at Basi, indeed, until the witching hour had come.
It's going to have to become a tradition, this New Years' at Basi, because they're simply SO NICE.
I was green! Yes, green! I wore my best black suit and black shirt (pics to follow!) and dayglo green tie and greased back my unruly hair and just pretended I was a Mafia dude, and it got me everywhere!
Brigitte and Tai-chan were exemplary, the restaurant was "pcked" to the gills, and the service was fantastic. It's amazing what these people do, and how they do it.
I poked my head into the kitchen at some point to see Maurizio working, and can you say "galley slave?" I know you can. He could be basking on a nice white sandy beach in Cuba with his wife and lovely young son, but no he's not.
He's making my wonderful linguine with sausage, making sure my wine is properly cold, taking care of my wife and son with various delights, and all on top of it, burning his fingers on hot frying pans! What could be a better way to pass the New Year's revelries? Can you think of one? I can't.
Anyway, it was marvelous, and the ball descended in Times Square and Dick Clark came out of his semi-coma one more time and, here's the kicker: WE MADE IT HOME IN ONE PIECE! Yes, I checked! Fingers, breastbones, skulls all intact! Believe me, dodging DRUNKEN morons in Montreal as opposed to just MORONS is an Extreme Sport! Qualifies for the Vancouver Olympics! Get your tickets here NOW and save big in this new year of ours.
But we're alive, and I suppose that matters, doesn't it, my faithful few. Because then who else would write this drivel?
HAPPY NEW YEAR'S, MY GODDAMN TROOPS; WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO BAND TOGETHER TO MAKE IT A BETTER ONE.
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