Okay, so the rant-of-the-month is out of the way and it's time to get back to food. Recently, to aid our critical faculties with regards to just how good this Indian restaurant we've been working for is in comparison with others, we've been hitting up a few.
Recently we went to Le Taj, which bills itself as the most popular Indian restaurant in Montreal. Well, indeed it was packed, but it just goes to show that Montrealers are pretty ignorant about just what constitutes good Indian food. It failed the samosa test and the naan test, and to me, the most important one: the rice test.
It also failed the spice test. These people just don't believe you when you request extra-spicy. I just can't account for it. It was extremely ho-hum.
Then it was Malhi Sweet. I realise that this is not in the same category as dévi, but its menu had literally about 6 pages of ultra-laudatory articles from virtually every news entity in Montreal (well, admittedly there wasn't one from Street Sweeper's Weekly).
Again, it failed all four tests.
Brigitte brought home some samosas from Pushap on Paré. Disgusting. I keep telling her how good my samosas-from-scratch are, but she doesn't believe me. When I end up making them, I'll definitely document it.
But this weekend is a welcome break from Indian; it's Pizza Night! Yes, I'll make eight 12" pizzas.
I think this time I'll try to be a bit more "out there" this time. Boursin, caramelised onions and three kinds of mushrooms, anyone?
But first, tomorrow is teriyaki steak with shrimp tempura, for which I bought panko breadcrumbs today at Atwater Market.
Update tomorrow!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Japanese vs Germans Part XCCMXL
Anyone here for a laugh, go away now, please!
It's really getting difficult in my mind these days keeping score with which of the two are/were/still are the most brutish examples of human existence in recent times, what with various revelations here and there.
Five years in Japan, with an uncomfortably intimate experience of the Japanese psyche at least gave me a basis of something to see where they were coming from. Germans, not much.
And I don't know why I obsess about these things. Well, all I can say is that I simply want to be able to understand it. I want to know why people do the things they do, but above all, I want to know why particular groups of people do what they do. Is it their culture? Their education? Mass-induced psychosis?
Here, let's start with the Germans. Or rather, the Americans. Just admit that this picture is almost a cliché of how Americans behaved in WWII:
It's really getting difficult in my mind these days keeping score with which of the two are/were/still are the most brutish examples of human existence in recent times, what with various revelations here and there.
Five years in Japan, with an uncomfortably intimate experience of the Japanese psyche at least gave me a basis of something to see where they were coming from. Germans, not much.
And I don't know why I obsess about these things. Well, all I can say is that I simply want to be able to understand it. I want to know why people do the things they do, but above all, I want to know why particular groups of people do what they do. Is it their culture? Their education? Mass-induced psychosis?
Here, let's start with the Germans. Or rather, the Americans. Just admit that this picture is almost a cliché of how Americans behaved in WWII:
American soldiers handing out candy to children
Now let's look at a typical image of German soldiers:
German soldiers humiliating a Jewish man by cutting his hair off before taking him away to be shot
Look at the thuggish grins of outright glee on the face of every soldier . . . can you in your right mind ever imagine that the same scenario was ever played out among allied troops? It's downright horrifying.
The Japanese: I don't need pictures. Let's just say that through my five years of living among them, I discovered a host of repressed perversions and aberrant behaviour patterns that would fill a library of scholarly psychological research.
Between the two cultures, I'd have to say that at least the Germans have semi-owned up to their monstrous crimes, not that even doing hair-shirt penance and being flogged every day for the rest of their lives for each and every German citizen living today, for the sins of their fathers, would ever make up for it, but at least they plead guilty.
Not so the Japanese. They prefer to play the victims, the "viciously A-bombed innocents," basically not denying anything but not admitting to anything either, and their prime ministers still go every year to worship at the Yasukuni Shrine, in which are interred several of the worst war criminals ever to have existed. We're talking the Heinrich Himmlers of Japan, my flock. Truly evil individuals.
My ex-wife, who used to work in what they call "hostess clubs" used to tell me about WWII veterans sitting around and laughing and reminiscing about their experiences perpetrating mass murder in China. These old farts in their 80s joking about the "good old days."
But what I also noticed in Japan was a streak of ultra-perversion among Japanese males; a streak so ugly that only when I had to admit I wasn't just imagining it did I accept its true horror.
Many, many Japanese men are sadistic, woman-hating perverts; perverts so twisted and repressed that one wonders how the society as a whole manages to lurch along from day to day.
To wit: this delightful video game.
To think: there are organized gangs of men who swarm rush-hour trains in the morning to do what they call "chikan" . . . or now, with the advent of cell-phone cameras, take so-called "upskirt" videos.
To the point where the authorities have actually segregated trains with the front cars for women only. Can you imagine that happening in, say, San Francisco?
I know I've muddled a whole bunch into one pot but it just shows me that the older I get, the less I actually understand why people do what they do, or more importantly, why whole distinct cultures do what they do.
So far, with this new bit of news from Japan, Japanese 2, Germans 2. A tie!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sleep
What's your sleep setup? Just how do you sleep? How much does it matter to you? How did you sleep when you were a child?
I think our sleep history has a lot to do with our sleep needs now.
Since I was born, until the age of ten, I slept in a room with an air conditioner with the heavy curtains drawn. I heard nothing except for the changing hum of the air conditioner. It was exceedingly comforting.
Then I had a brief (5-year) interlude at British boarding school. We were forced out of bed at 7 for cold showers but I won't dwell on that.
In Zaire, Africa, us kids painted our windows black from inside and slept with the air conditioner going full blast.
In Dakar, Senegal, we had metal shutters on the windows and we slept with them shut every night with the air conditioner going full blast. The king waterbed helped.
Here in Montreal I have blackout blinds which can keep the bedroom as dark as a coffin at high noon. No air conditioner in winter, but ear plugs keep out the relentless traffic.
Toss in a few nice dreams of beaches, and I can sleep all day. Which I think I will. Good day.
I think our sleep history has a lot to do with our sleep needs now.
Since I was born, until the age of ten, I slept in a room with an air conditioner with the heavy curtains drawn. I heard nothing except for the changing hum of the air conditioner. It was exceedingly comforting.
Then I had a brief (5-year) interlude at British boarding school. We were forced out of bed at 7 for cold showers but I won't dwell on that.
In Zaire, Africa, us kids painted our windows black from inside and slept with the air conditioner going full blast.
In Dakar, Senegal, we had metal shutters on the windows and we slept with them shut every night with the air conditioner going full blast. The king waterbed helped.
Here in Montreal I have blackout blinds which can keep the bedroom as dark as a coffin at high noon. No air conditioner in winter, but ear plugs keep out the relentless traffic.
Toss in a few nice dreams of beaches, and I can sleep all day. Which I think I will. Good day.
Friday, March 26, 2010
In Praise of Younger Women
Apologies. I've been working on a website for an Indian restaurant and it's been taking up all my time. Go to bed at midnight. Wake up at six. Fire up a couple of beers and work in peace until nine. Go back to bed. Wake up at 4. Fire up a couple of beers and work until 9. Eat. Repeat.
So: no time to cook, although I did delve into the realm of breaded, deep-fried stuffed mushrooms the other day. I'm not a great deep-fry fanatic but these were just too damn good, if a bit finicky. I'll share next time -- I have a few ideas beyond mere Boursin stuffing.
But my real topic is that of Abigail, Brigitte's niece, who came to stay with us for a few weeks from her home in West Virginia. Abigail is a mere twenty years old.
From the start I did my usual, as did Brigitte, and made tasty stuff pretty much every day. Brigitte came up with a first: stuffed peppers.
But Abbie kept saying "While I'm here, I really should learn to cook from you guys." So I thought, fondly, "Yeah, right. A twenty-year old actually making something other than a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich."
But one morning (a rare morning in which I actually woke up) I detected the small of frying butter . . . Abbie had gone to the Metro, bought all the fixings and had made a mushroom/pepper omelette with a side of home fries. It was delicious! 20-year olds are not supposed to be able to do that. Her only mistake was that she left the burner on after doing the fries. Forgiven!
But she kept harping about her Philly cheese-steak sandwich. Yeah, right, thought I. She could barely put together Muesli and milk (I still stubbornly denied she could cook) so it was bound to be an unmitigated disaster.
And then one night, among the usual chaos of her new Montrealer-flake friends cancelling and whatnot, she suddenly decided to make the Abigail Philly cheese-steak sandwich.
Who was I to argue? I retreated to the bedroom and watched Nazis kill Russians and she went to work.
And what she came up with! Amazing. It was the first sandwich of which I've eaten the entirety in many years. And what did she do? She substituted goat cheese for the usual bland Jack or Mozzarella.
And she didn't make French fried potatoes, she made SWEET French-fried potatoes.
But the crowning glory was this morning, when we'd both stayed up all night, her packing, I sleepless, and we decided to make an omelette for Brigitte, who had to drive her to the bus station.
Abbie started making the omelette and I chopped vegetables, but then I smelled a powerful smell . . . truffle oil! She'd grabbed the truffle oil out of the cabinet to make the home fries with. "I'm sorry!" she apologized, when I told her what she'd done, but I was delighted! Home fries in truffle oil! I'm going to remember that. I love kitchen mistakes.
It's too bad she's gone, but she has a bright future in the kitchen. Our kitchen, at least.
I'll try to reverse-engineer her Philly cheese-steak but I fear it'll be a failure. We'll miss you, Abbie.
So: no time to cook, although I did delve into the realm of breaded, deep-fried stuffed mushrooms the other day. I'm not a great deep-fry fanatic but these were just too damn good, if a bit finicky. I'll share next time -- I have a few ideas beyond mere Boursin stuffing.
But my real topic is that of Abigail, Brigitte's niece, who came to stay with us for a few weeks from her home in West Virginia. Abigail is a mere twenty years old.
Dear Abbie
It was a bit weird, at first, as if if some random teenager had just crashed your pad. You know, crazy hours, hours on the phone, painted toenails, obscure alternative rock bands, tie-died shirts, split-second plan changes . . . well, you know the drill. I didn't.
From the start I did my usual, as did Brigitte, and made tasty stuff pretty much every day. Brigitte came up with a first: stuffed peppers.
Brigitte's Stuffed Peppers
I think I lamely made an old standby: stroganoff, but I tried to make strawberry daiquiris every other day, so that makes up for the lameness.
Nick's Steak Stroganoff
But Abbie kept saying "While I'm here, I really should learn to cook from you guys." So I thought, fondly, "Yeah, right. A twenty-year old actually making something other than a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich."
But one morning (a rare morning in which I actually woke up) I detected the small of frying butter . . . Abbie had gone to the Metro, bought all the fixings and had made a mushroom/pepper omelette with a side of home fries. It was delicious! 20-year olds are not supposed to be able to do that. Her only mistake was that she left the burner on after doing the fries. Forgiven!
But she kept harping about her Philly cheese-steak sandwich. Yeah, right, thought I. She could barely put together Muesli and milk (I still stubbornly denied she could cook) so it was bound to be an unmitigated disaster.
And then one night, among the usual chaos of her new Montrealer-flake friends cancelling and whatnot, she suddenly decided to make the Abigail Philly cheese-steak sandwich.
Who was I to argue? I retreated to the bedroom and watched Nazis kill Russians and she went to work.
And what she came up with! Amazing. It was the first sandwich of which I've eaten the entirety in many years. And what did she do? She substituted goat cheese for the usual bland Jack or Mozzarella.
Abigail's Philly Cheese-steak Sandwich
And she didn't make French fried potatoes, she made SWEET French-fried potatoes.
But the crowning glory was this morning, when we'd both stayed up all night, her packing, I sleepless, and we decided to make an omelette for Brigitte, who had to drive her to the bus station.
Abbie started making the omelette and I chopped vegetables, but then I smelled a powerful smell . . . truffle oil! She'd grabbed the truffle oil out of the cabinet to make the home fries with. "I'm sorry!" she apologized, when I told her what she'd done, but I was delighted! Home fries in truffle oil! I'm going to remember that. I love kitchen mistakes.
It's too bad she's gone, but she has a bright future in the kitchen. Our kitchen, at least.
I'll try to reverse-engineer her Philly cheese-steak but I fear it'll be a failure. We'll miss you, Abbie.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
To deal with the expanding case consider a scale invariant version
¯
λ(gij ) = λ(gij )V 2/n (gij ). The nontrivial expanding breathers will be ruled
out once we prove the following
Claim ¯
λ is nondecreasing along the Ricci flow whenever it is nonpositive;
moreover, the monotonicity is strict unless we are on a gradient soliton.
(Indeed, on an expanding breather we would necessarily have dV /dt > 0
for some t
∈[t1 , t2 ]. On the other hand, for every t, −
d
dt logV =
1
V
RdV
≥
λ(t), so ¯
λ can not be nonnegative everywhere on [t1 , t2 ], and the claim ap-
plies.)
Proof of the claim.
d¯
λ(t)/dt
≥ 2V
2/n
|
Rij +
∇i ∇j f |
2
e−f dV + 2
n V (2−n)/n λ
−
RdV
≥
2V 2/n [
|
Rij +
∇i ∇j f −
1
n (R +
△f )gij |
2
e−f dV +
1
n (
(R +
△f )
2
e−f dV
− ( (R + △f )e−
f
dV )2 )]
≥ 0,
where f is the minimizer for
F .
¯
λ(gij ) = λ(gij )V 2/n (gij ). The nontrivial expanding breathers will be ruled
out once we prove the following
Claim ¯
λ is nondecreasing along the Ricci flow whenever it is nonpositive;
moreover, the monotonicity is strict unless we are on a gradient soliton.
(Indeed, on an expanding breather we would necessarily have dV /dt > 0
for some t
∈[t1 , t2 ]. On the other hand, for every t, −
d
dt logV =
1
V
RdV
≥
λ(t), so ¯
λ can not be nonnegative everywhere on [t1 , t2 ], and the claim ap-
plies.)
Proof of the claim.
d¯
λ(t)/dt
≥ 2V
2/n
|
Rij +
∇i ∇j f |
2
e−f dV + 2
n V (2−n)/n λ
−
RdV
≥
2V 2/n [
|
Rij +
∇i ∇j f −
1
n (R +
△f )gij |
2
e−f dV +
1
n (
(R +
△f )
2
e−f dV
− ( (R + △f )e−
f
dV )2 )]
≥ 0,
where f is the minimizer for
F .
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Slow News Days
Aaah, why bother? Sometimes there just ain't nuthin' to write about. No new food projects. No new nothing.
Oh, I forgot work.
Well, fuck work. I'm not going to blog about work. Now that I have some, it's so tiresome that I just don't want to see it staring me in the face after it stared me in the face all fucking day.
How's about tonight's abortive attempt to go to a rock concert? I'm, like, so over that shit. The moment I got there I regretted not having bought earplugs this afternoon at Pharmaprix. And seeing the hordes of jolly ill-dressed morons milling about everywhere, downing their Molson Xes and sneaking out for a puff on their joints was beyond pathetic.
Yeah, so I might be old. But I've SO been there, done that. Watching other idiots repeat my idiotic youth is quite, shall we say, depressing.
There's only one redeeming forecast for this weekend: no car. We can't go anywhere, unless it's by bus or metro. Which means we aren't going anywhere.
Hail beer and the lord.
Oh, I forgot work.
Well, fuck work. I'm not going to blog about work. Now that I have some, it's so tiresome that I just don't want to see it staring me in the face after it stared me in the face all fucking day.
How's about tonight's abortive attempt to go to a rock concert? I'm, like, so over that shit. The moment I got there I regretted not having bought earplugs this afternoon at Pharmaprix. And seeing the hordes of jolly ill-dressed morons milling about everywhere, downing their Molson Xes and sneaking out for a puff on their joints was beyond pathetic.
Yeah, so I might be old. But I've SO been there, done that. Watching other idiots repeat my idiotic youth is quite, shall we say, depressing.
There's only one redeeming forecast for this weekend: no car. We can't go anywhere, unless it's by bus or metro. Which means we aren't going anywhere.
Hail beer and the lord.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Treat Ideas (read: food porn) à la ChefNick!
ChefNick Ultra Baguette Toasts ©
Baguette slices drizzled with a mix of olive and truffle oil, toasted until just crusty (but still soft in the middle), with a layer of Boursin, slice of prosciutto, thin slice of English cucumber and topped with chopped fresh dill.
Chef Nick Oven Cheese Bombs ©
Home-made pastry shells filled with a mix of fondue of Gruyère and Maréchal du lait crû cheeses with a touch of Chardonnay, with finely chopped mild jalapenõ, finely chopped apple and Serrano ham, and toasted until golden, then sprinkled with Parmigiano Reggiano and topped with a chiffonade of fresh Basil.
Chef Nick Cigares Mignon Asiennes ©
Raw-seared thin slices of filet mignon, cooled to barely warm, rolled around julienne of carrots, cucumber, lightly blanched beansprouts and vermicelli rice noodles, then drizzled with soy sauce and mirin with ginger and garlic and topped with fresh cilantro.
I think I'll make every one!
Baguette slices drizzled with a mix of olive and truffle oil, toasted until just crusty (but still soft in the middle), with a layer of Boursin, slice of prosciutto, thin slice of English cucumber and topped with chopped fresh dill.
Chef Nick Oven Cheese Bombs ©
Home-made pastry shells filled with a mix of fondue of Gruyère and Maréchal du lait crû cheeses with a touch of Chardonnay, with finely chopped mild jalapenõ, finely chopped apple and Serrano ham, and toasted until golden, then sprinkled with Parmigiano Reggiano and topped with a chiffonade of fresh Basil.
Chef Nick Cigares Mignon Asiennes ©
Raw-seared thin slices of filet mignon, cooled to barely warm, rolled around julienne of carrots, cucumber, lightly blanched beansprouts and vermicelli rice noodles, then drizzled with soy sauce and mirin with ginger and garlic and topped with fresh cilantro.
I think I'll make every one!
The Top Chef/Kitchen Nightmares Channel
Have you noticed just how far down the "Food" channel has sunk? Imagine: once there were quality shows with people like Martin Yan, Mario Batali, Jacques Pepin, in other words, real people showing you how they cook, or how you can cook. Where are those shows now?
But then it started to degenerate, and I can tell you exactly when: the first episode of "Top Chef."
Then it started to wander away from food, but concentrate on entertainment. Now there are dozens of "Restaurant Makeover"-type shows (which should belong on the Renovation Network), "Opening Soon,""Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares," "Ace of Cakes" (who the fuck wants to watch a cake-making competition?), dozens of "Extreme-cuisine"-type shows, (eating worms is no longer the thrill it used to be, folks) and at least here in Canada, they seem to be in heavy rotation on at least three different channels. So you watch the Food Network, then you surf the Travel Channel or Fine Living or even Home and Garden and find the same loop of the same programs.
Oh, forgot to mention the cleavage programs: Nigella Lawson, Anna Olson, Susan Calder, and even if doesn't have one, Rachel Ray. The Babe Food Network.
Just like Arts & Entertainment has now become the "Dog the Bounty Hunter" channel, and National Geographic has now become the "Dog Whisperer" channel (what is it about all these dog show anyway?) now the Food Channel has become nearly unwatchable.
So much for the 500-channel universe. Pablum for the unwashed masses.
But then it started to degenerate, and I can tell you exactly when: the first episode of "Top Chef."
Then it started to wander away from food, but concentrate on entertainment. Now there are dozens of "Restaurant Makeover"-type shows (which should belong on the Renovation Network), "Opening Soon,""Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares," "Ace of Cakes" (who the fuck wants to watch a cake-making competition?), dozens of "Extreme-cuisine"-type shows, (eating worms is no longer the thrill it used to be, folks) and at least here in Canada, they seem to be in heavy rotation on at least three different channels. So you watch the Food Network, then you surf the Travel Channel or Fine Living or even Home and Garden and find the same loop of the same programs.
Oh, forgot to mention the cleavage programs: Nigella Lawson, Anna Olson, Susan Calder, and even if doesn't have one, Rachel Ray. The Babe Food Network.
Just like Arts & Entertainment has now become the "Dog the Bounty Hunter" channel, and National Geographic has now become the "Dog Whisperer" channel (what is it about all these dog show anyway?) now the Food Channel has become nearly unwatchable.
So much for the 500-channel universe. Pablum for the unwashed masses.
Don't be Hungry!
You can see my photos of Indian food (Devi restaurant, downtown) here. No, it wasn't a night on the town for a party of 20!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Nick's Words For The Day!
Of all the shitholes on earth Nigeria must be the worst. To call it a "developing nation" is like calling a cockroach "Sir."
Ahh, Those Krazy Krauts
What is it I find about Germans so offensive? It can't just be that my father bombed the fuck out of them during World War II. Could it be their insane bureaucratic bent, their swaggering latent Naziish manner?
Maybe the fact that they started and lost two world wars? Managed to kill 21 million people? What is it about the German mindset that seems determined to commit sui-and humanicide?
Could it be their language? Which I kind of understand, but have come to hate to the point that anything I ever hear in German sounds like a fucking war speech?
What is it about Germans? So far, Germans 2, Japanese 1! I'll keep you posted.
Maybe the fact that they started and lost two world wars? Managed to kill 21 million people? What is it about the German mindset that seems determined to commit sui-and humanicide?
Could it be their language? Which I kind of understand, but have come to hate to the point that anything I ever hear in German sounds like a fucking war speech?
What is it about Germans? So far, Germans 2, Japanese 1! I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Boys
Last week, Brigitte and I, uhh . . . had a DISAGREEMENT. She pointed to my "Action Horde" (as it has grown to be) and said I had Nazi leanings. I was obsessed with Nazis and this was the result. Well, I did what any mature person would do and swept them ALL off the shelf.
Thank god, there are solutions to every problem and tonight we took the time to put the boys back together after lying on the floor for almost a week. She bought special stands for them so that they don't fall over so often.
I'm sorry this picture is so awful but really, they're getting to be quite an army. Too big to be all in one photo.
But be afraid, my flock, be very afraid. Umbrella-man watches over us with his semi-dictatorial gaze and is now undisputed leader of the horde. But he's really a nice guy, aside from the Walther PPK in his overcoat.
I talk to the boys, from time to time. "How ya doin' Fritz, how's the wife been treatin ya?" "Ahoy there, matey, what's up for grub on this fine Aussie day, then?" "Well, Tanaka, so how really WAS Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Mighty bunch of fun, eh? Got any kamikazes to spare then, do ya?"
Anyway. Gaze in awe, because the boys are back in town.
Thank god, there are solutions to every problem and tonight we took the time to put the boys back together after lying on the floor for almost a week. She bought special stands for them so that they don't fall over so often.
I'm sorry this picture is so awful but really, they're getting to be quite an army. Too big to be all in one photo.
But be afraid, my flock, be very afraid. Umbrella-man watches over us with his semi-dictatorial gaze and is now undisputed leader of the horde. But he's really a nice guy, aside from the Walther PPK in his overcoat.
I talk to the boys, from time to time. "How ya doin' Fritz, how's the wife been treatin ya?" "Ahoy there, matey, what's up for grub on this fine Aussie day, then?" "Well, Tanaka, so how really WAS Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Mighty bunch of fun, eh? Got any kamikazes to spare then, do ya?"
Anyway. Gaze in awe, because the boys are back in town.
How Can The World
. . . just sit by and allow a fucking lunatic jerk like this to exist?
A toxic stain on humanity? I despised Saddam Hussein but unfortunately it had to be that lunatic George Bush to take him out. Oh sorry, AFTER the FIRST George Bush failed.
These people -- count them through history: Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Kim Jong-il . . . they're not armies. THEY'RE SINGLE PERSONS. How on earth can a person like Idi Amin be allowed to disappear into tranquil retirement in Egypt? How can the world stage just sit by and smoke their dope while Papa Doc or Fidel Castro lay waste to entire countries?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
Fuck, I wish I had a fucking Mossad team at my disposal for every one of them. At least there are some people getting the job done right.
A toxic stain on humanity? I despised Saddam Hussein but unfortunately it had to be that lunatic George Bush to take him out. Oh sorry, AFTER the FIRST George Bush failed.
These people -- count them through history: Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Kim Jong-il . . . they're not armies. THEY'RE SINGLE PERSONS. How on earth can a person like Idi Amin be allowed to disappear into tranquil retirement in Egypt? How can the world stage just sit by and smoke their dope while Papa Doc or Fidel Castro lay waste to entire countries?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?
Fuck, I wish I had a fucking Mossad team at my disposal for every one of them. At least there are some people getting the job done right.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Okay, I'm Back
Yeah, well you knew it wouldn't last long.
Schindler's List is a bag of shit. The decisions made upon making this movie are bad on every level. Black and white -- nice try. Such a fucking affectation. Pseudo Ashkenazi soundtrack . . . relentless in its intensity. We get it, Steven! Yes, the violin! We get the pain of the Jews! Now shut the fuck up! Bashing dead horses in this fashion is just plain wrong. Brigitte says she never wants to watch this movie again but SHE'S JUST PLAIN WRONG.
This is such a contrived piece of shit about the Holocaust that it DESERVES to be a joke on Seinfeld. It has all the saccharine sweetness of ET stamped like a giant trademark of Spielberg. Inc.
He considers himself a Jew, does he? Then why doesn't he go to Roman Polanski and ask HOW A FUCKING REAL FILM ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST SHOULD BE DONE?
Brigitte says she can't watch this piece of shit again. I WILL NEVER WATCH THE PIANIST AGAIN because of its horrific reality, not the little black-and-white painted fantasy of Steven Spielberg. Spielberg. FAILS. AGAIN.
Schindler's List is a bag of shit. The decisions made upon making this movie are bad on every level. Black and white -- nice try. Such a fucking affectation. Pseudo Ashkenazi soundtrack . . . relentless in its intensity. We get it, Steven! Yes, the violin! We get the pain of the Jews! Now shut the fuck up! Bashing dead horses in this fashion is just plain wrong. Brigitte says she never wants to watch this movie again but SHE'S JUST PLAIN WRONG.
This is such a contrived piece of shit about the Holocaust that it DESERVES to be a joke on Seinfeld. It has all the saccharine sweetness of ET stamped like a giant trademark of Spielberg. Inc.
He considers himself a Jew, does he? Then why doesn't he go to Roman Polanski and ask HOW A FUCKING REAL FILM ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST SHOULD BE DONE?
Brigitte says she can't watch this piece of shit again. I WILL NEVER WATCH THE PIANIST AGAIN because of its horrific reality, not the little black-and-white painted fantasy of Steven Spielberg. Spielberg. FAILS. AGAIN.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Gentle? Giants?
I will never forget one day of my life. You know, you always have those "Okay, I was only seven but I remember it clear as day."
I was in a car driving in Tanzania. Just a little fucking kid in a car on some dirt road in some African country.
And all of a sudden, the fucking biggest elephant you HAVE EVER SEEN appears in the windscreen. He's as startled as us, but he's huge! Think T-Rex.
Do you know how freaked out I was? This thing is five times the size of our car. My memory is that he stood at least 20-feet tall at the shoulder, and I don't think I'm wrong.
But in his slow, lumbering way, he just backed off the road, very quietly, if enormously. And we moved on.
Some things you just never forget. I wish I could meet him again, and maybe pat him, although that might be going a bit far.
I was in a car driving in Tanzania. Just a little fucking kid in a car on some dirt road in some African country.
And all of a sudden, the fucking biggest elephant you HAVE EVER SEEN appears in the windscreen. He's as startled as us, but he's huge! Think T-Rex.
Do you know how freaked out I was? This thing is five times the size of our car. My memory is that he stood at least 20-feet tall at the shoulder, and I don't think I'm wrong.
But in his slow, lumbering way, he just backed off the road, very quietly, if enormously. And we moved on.
Some things you just never forget. I wish I could meet him again, and maybe pat him, although that might be going a bit far.
Update on 9-year-old ATC
Really, when I heard the tiny voice directing air traffic in New York in person, and the obviously amused pilots' responses, I knew that all was right with this world. Everyone knew what everyone was doing, the pilots of massive jumbo jets were having fun, and that tiny little boy was doing a great job. Like, maybe ten times better than people three times his age.
Bravo, tiny one!
Bravo, tiny one!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
?
Why do you people never say ANYTHING about my action figures? Why? Isn't there some comment, good or bad, about New Australian In-country Warrior?
Is there some sort of cabal, where you're all conspiring behind my back to NEVER COMMENT on my action figures? Oh sure, go ahead and wander away blushing to get a croissant at Duc de Lorraine. Yeah, you did make one comment. Once.
But I'll just tell you this: my army is small, but vain. Small in stature, but strong in strength! (Hmm, maybe I should apply to the Office Of Slogans and put that one in there!). In point of fact, only 12 inches tall. But let me tell you, they'll shred the Mossad, CIA and MI5 combined with their tiny bayonets.
Let this serve as a warning, flock, and not yet a full-fledged attack. Even I fear them, the little plastic horde-devils.
Is there some sort of cabal, where you're all conspiring behind my back to NEVER COMMENT on my action figures? Oh sure, go ahead and wander away blushing to get a croissant at Duc de Lorraine. Yeah, you did make one comment. Once.
But I'll just tell you this: my army is small, but vain. Small in stature, but strong in strength! (Hmm, maybe I should apply to the Office Of Slogans and put that one in there!). In point of fact, only 12 inches tall. But let me tell you, they'll shred the Mossad, CIA and MI5 combined with their tiny bayonets.
Let this serve as a warning, flock, and not yet a full-fledged attack. Even I fear them, the little plastic horde-devils.
Roger, American Heavy 4411, Please include Froot Loops in That Delivery
Mind-frooting.
A 12-year old giving ground instructions to jumbo jets. The mind boggles! "American 445 heavy, what is the status on the inflight popcorn at this time? Say again, American 445 Heavy, did I hear "Pirates of the Caribbean" was the movie at this time? Please proceed to 24 Right and hold short of the runway for me. Be advised the traffic landing on 24 Left and advise crosswinds of 26 miles per hour. Say again, American 445 heavy? Spongebob In Tibet is the feature? You have yourself a good day, sir."
A 12-year old giving ground instructions to jumbo jets. The mind boggles! "American 445 heavy, what is the status on the inflight popcorn at this time? Say again, American 445 Heavy, did I hear "Pirates of the Caribbean" was the movie at this time? Please proceed to 24 Right and hold short of the runway for me. Be advised the traffic landing on 24 Left and advise crosswinds of 26 miles per hour. Say again, American 445 heavy? Spongebob In Tibet is the feature? You have yourself a good day, sir."
Please! Please!
Why, for the majority of my life, going on 50 years now, have the words "Muslim" and "Death" been part of the same sentence? What? What??? What is it that they're not GETTING?? They're not renegades on camels in the Sahel fighting for AAAALLLAHU AKBHAR any more! Allah can really, trust me on this, TAKE CARE OF HIMSELF. (Big "H,"people!)
He doesn't need a ragged band of losers holed up in some ravine in Afghanistan plotting some idiot mayhem to further his cause! THAT'S CALLED NEGATIVE ADVERTISING. It's like continually shooting the foot that you depend on to walk on.
It's just a band of idiot losers who just don't prefer to better themselves, like their "Arab Brothers in Dubai" or some such -- just the age-old "oppressed" against the "rich."
Hey, get with it, "Oppressed Muslim Peoples": the people doing the oppressing live right behind you in Apartment 2A.
He doesn't need a ragged band of losers holed up in some ravine in Afghanistan plotting some idiot mayhem to further his cause! THAT'S CALLED NEGATIVE ADVERTISING. It's like continually shooting the foot that you depend on to walk on.
It's just a band of idiot losers who just don't prefer to better themselves, like their "Arab Brothers in Dubai" or some such -- just the age-old "oppressed" against the "rich."
Hey, get with it, "Oppressed Muslim Peoples": the people doing the oppressing live right behind you in Apartment 2A.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Words For the Day XXVII
From my endless sludge of thoughtinventions:
"Shoot them all, sir, and then confiscate their curry."
"Shoot them all, sir, and then confiscate their curry."
My Adoring Throng . . .
. . . no, seriously, discard everything that you have ever read in this space. True terror, impossible-to-imagine terror has befallen all of us. The Day here, on our beloved earth, may have increased by 6.8 microseconds! That is not nano-seconds, but micro-seconds, orders of magnitude huger!
Mankind is threatened! The drive to work will take an unnoticeable but nonetheless measurable EXTRA 6.8 microseconds! Day in, day out! Plan your Saturdays accordingly, and make SURE you allow for those extra microseconds with the picnic basket! Hot things stay hot! Cold things stay cold! Mayonnaise attracts wasps!
Mankind is threatened! The drive to work will take an unnoticeable but nonetheless measurable EXTRA 6.8 microseconds! Day in, day out! Plan your Saturdays accordingly, and make SURE you allow for those extra microseconds with the picnic basket! Hot things stay hot! Cold things stay cold! Mayonnaise attracts wasps!
Not Welcome to my Nightmare
God, have you ever had a nightmare where you practically awake from shouting and sweating?
This is the second day in a row I've had these vast, complex, disturbing nightmares that almost seem to crouch in glee behind my back as they invent progressively more horrible twists and turns.
I know, I know. There's nothing more boring than hearing someone else's dreams. You just want to say "Aaah, wake the fuck up."
But these two in a row take the cake. Yesterday, I dreamed my ex-wife showed up at Brigitte's (not my, and I don't know why) house for no apparent reason other than to INVADE MY DREAM. Let's leave the fact that she's in Japan and would never, ever make the trip out of this.
Suddenly, as i'm still trying to figure out what she's doing here, in Brigitte's house, the DOOR OPENS; no knock! The massive front door! And it's a young female relative of Brigitte who I know I've met but can't quite recall the name of! And she sits down and sullenly gestures at my ex-wife and says "I know what you're up to." And I say, "No, no. no, you're completely wrong!"
But then three of her friends show up, all young teens with weird hair and tattoos and now they're sitting in a circle and muttering amongst themselves about my infidelity but by that time my ex-wife has long gone and I awake, panting and looking for Brigitte, who isn't there. (She's in the next room).
Nightmare: Part Deux: I'm somehow going to Japan with my son. (Imagine all this in wide-screen, Technicolor Surround-sound IMAX and you might just get an idea).
For some reason I'm taking both of Brigitte's cars. The one that was wrecked last week by hit and run, and the rental replacement. (In reality, dear readers). For some reason I somehow drive both of them onto the plane/ship/mode of conveyance. (Hey, what the fuck, talk to my Nightmare Cruise Director).
Somehow we get to Japan and are in this vast labyrinth of hotel/airport (often the sad reality in Japan, and an experience that my seasoned mind will sadly tell you I've only all to often been through before) and all of a sudden I have to park the first car. Never mind how I somehow am dragging both behind me with an 8-year-old boy in tow -- like I said, TALK TO THE NIGHTMARE DIRECTOR.
So I park it, and we're on our way. Never mind that I haven't driven a car in 25 years and that they drive upside-down in Japan. DETAILS, People, DETAILS. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE, not yours.
We check in, and all is rosy. We're in this huge, Spielbergian complex of flying shuttles and escalators and 18 levels and signs and thousands upon thousands of people walking, talking, going to Starbucks . . . the list is long! we go to eat something and suddenly I forget where I parked the car. (I think the second car deserted the scenario due to lack of top billing in the nightmare script).
I have no idea where I parked the car in this huge, endless maze of buildings and structures and yawning chasms of Industria, so, naturally, I take it out on Tai-chan (my litte boy). "Where is it, Bunny? Where did Daddy put the car?" (See where this fucking Nightmare Director is taking us?)
"I don't know, Daddy, I can't remember."
"Oh, for God's sakes, just stay right here and I'll go look for it."
. . .
Let alone the ludicrousness of leaving an 8-year-old boy alone in your nightmare, I do just that.
And guess what: thanks, Dream-Cruise-Whtchamacallit -- I come back with no car, no clue, and a disappeared son, in now this mind-bogglingly huge universe of endless mind-numbing details; escalators that go nowhere, signs I can't read, languages I can't speak and now there's only me, whistling my special whistle that Tai-chan and Brigitte always recognize when we're separated somehwhere.
Except this time, this story, I'm truly whistling in the dark . . .
As in most nightmares, there is no happy ending, except the time YOU FUCKING WAKE UP.
This is the second day in a row I've had these vast, complex, disturbing nightmares that almost seem to crouch in glee behind my back as they invent progressively more horrible twists and turns.
I know, I know. There's nothing more boring than hearing someone else's dreams. You just want to say "Aaah, wake the fuck up."
But these two in a row take the cake. Yesterday, I dreamed my ex-wife showed up at Brigitte's (not my, and I don't know why) house for no apparent reason other than to INVADE MY DREAM. Let's leave the fact that she's in Japan and would never, ever make the trip out of this.
Suddenly, as i'm still trying to figure out what she's doing here, in Brigitte's house, the DOOR OPENS; no knock! The massive front door! And it's a young female relative of Brigitte who I know I've met but can't quite recall the name of! And she sits down and sullenly gestures at my ex-wife and says "I know what you're up to." And I say, "No, no. no, you're completely wrong!"
But then three of her friends show up, all young teens with weird hair and tattoos and now they're sitting in a circle and muttering amongst themselves about my infidelity but by that time my ex-wife has long gone and I awake, panting and looking for Brigitte, who isn't there. (She's in the next room).
Nightmare: Part Deux: I'm somehow going to Japan with my son. (Imagine all this in wide-screen, Technicolor Surround-sound IMAX and you might just get an idea).
For some reason I'm taking both of Brigitte's cars. The one that was wrecked last week by hit and run, and the rental replacement. (In reality, dear readers). For some reason I somehow drive both of them onto the plane/ship/mode of conveyance. (Hey, what the fuck, talk to my Nightmare Cruise Director).
Somehow we get to Japan and are in this vast labyrinth of hotel/airport (often the sad reality in Japan, and an experience that my seasoned mind will sadly tell you I've only all to often been through before) and all of a sudden I have to park the first car. Never mind how I somehow am dragging both behind me with an 8-year-old boy in tow -- like I said, TALK TO THE NIGHTMARE DIRECTOR.
So I park it, and we're on our way. Never mind that I haven't driven a car in 25 years and that they drive upside-down in Japan. DETAILS, People, DETAILS. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE, not yours.
We check in, and all is rosy. We're in this huge, Spielbergian complex of flying shuttles and escalators and 18 levels and signs and thousands upon thousands of people walking, talking, going to Starbucks . . . the list is long! we go to eat something and suddenly I forget where I parked the car. (I think the second car deserted the scenario due to lack of top billing in the nightmare script).
I have no idea where I parked the car in this huge, endless maze of buildings and structures and yawning chasms of Industria, so, naturally, I take it out on Tai-chan (my litte boy). "Where is it, Bunny? Where did Daddy put the car?" (See where this fucking Nightmare Director is taking us?)
"I don't know, Daddy, I can't remember."
"Oh, for God's sakes, just stay right here and I'll go look for it."
. . .
Let alone the ludicrousness of leaving an 8-year-old boy alone in your nightmare, I do just that.
And guess what: thanks, Dream-Cruise-Whtchamacallit -- I come back with no car, no clue, and a disappeared son, in now this mind-bogglingly huge universe of endless mind-numbing details; escalators that go nowhere, signs I can't read, languages I can't speak and now there's only me, whistling my special whistle that Tai-chan and Brigitte always recognize when we're separated somehwhere.
Except this time, this story, I'm truly whistling in the dark . . .
As in most nightmares, there is no happy ending, except the time YOU FUCKING WAKE UP.
Monday, March 1, 2010
McDonald's. "I'm Loving It."
What whack-job, what corporate-cubicle-farm suit came up with that one? What's worse, what hack-ass musician came up with the fucking most annoying jingle on Earth?
How do these people actually gainfully employ themselves? I try to eke out a living with my graphic design skills but these people actually manage a global conglomerate idio-sinkrasy with THIS COMPLETE TOTAL CRAP?
How do they do it? And WHY DO WE ACCEPT IT? Do we all have to be wriggling small-headed blind worms squirming underground while "I'm Loving It" in fifty-five languages plays overhead?
What the fuck are we, after two goddamn million years? A civilisation of FUCKING HEADLESS WORMS???
Furthermore, I see this as none less than an ASSAULT on the future health of my 8-year-old son.
You fucking jihadis. You're totally misguided. Get rid of these jerks first, and maybe you'll get 27 fucking Big Macs in Paradise for your troubles. Who the fuck needs virgins. They're overrated.
How do these people actually gainfully employ themselves? I try to eke out a living with my graphic design skills but these people actually manage a global conglomerate idio-sinkrasy with THIS COMPLETE TOTAL CRAP?
How do they do it? And WHY DO WE ACCEPT IT? Do we all have to be wriggling small-headed blind worms squirming underground while "I'm Loving It" in fifty-five languages plays overhead?
What the fuck are we, after two goddamn million years? A civilisation of FUCKING HEADLESS WORMS???
Furthermore, I see this as none less than an ASSAULT on the future health of my 8-year-old son.
You fucking jihadis. You're totally misguided. Get rid of these jerks first, and maybe you'll get 27 fucking Big Macs in Paradise for your troubles. Who the fuck needs virgins. They're overrated.
Medal Count?
Medal count? WHO THE FUCK CARES? How about the "medal count" for a malarial kid screaming for his AIDS-dead mother and absent father in sub-Saharan wherever the fuck?
Medal count? It's by my last count, OBSCENE.
Hey, girl-scout cookies, anyone?
Medal count? It's by my last count, OBSCENE.
Hey, girl-scout cookies, anyone?
How To Reheat Almost Anything
This would be a book I would like to have. How do you reheat a pita, filled with rare steak slices, onions, lettuces and condiments? So that the lettuce won't be hot, the steak will still be rare, the pita will be crunchy and nothing, absolutely nothing, will be soggy?
Certainly not in the microwave. Perhaps this is a book that should be written. By me.
Certainly not in the microwave. Perhaps this is a book that should be written. By me.