You know, I finally figured this out today (Eureka moment!):
I have a habit of intimidating people. I think I must have learned it from boarding school, because, as we all know, in boarding school, as in many other prisons, you just don't fuck around.
But my habit of intimidating is not the type, for example, of the irate guy at the checkin counter who demands to see your manager, or sends the wine back because it's corked, blah blah blah.
No, I have a decidedly subversive manner of intimidating people.
First, I test them. It's always the same. I say or do something that's unexpected.
They're immediately thrown off guard. This is good! This is a GOOD thing! NO ONE expects a customer at the cash register to casually remark "How's your day going? How 'bout them Habs, huh? That Wayne Gretzky! All muscle, no power!"
The poor Philipina has absolutely no clue what I'm talking about, and I don't either, but she looks at me like I just landed from Mars.
This is called immediate respect. Like in Japan, when I go, they really don't expect a foreigner to speak Japanese, let alone speak perfect, casual Japanese at the convenience cash register, offering to pay them in American dollars. They freak! It's great.
Yesterday when I went to my GP, I decided, out of my perverse brain, to fuck with him. "Fentanyl," I said. "Prescribe Fentanyl, please," knowing that Fentanyl is a potentially lethal anesthetic.
"That's what killed Michael Jackson," he says, incredulous. Okay, I've got my jollies! Because I know that it wasn't Fentanyl that killed Michael Jackson, but Profolol!
And then the kicker: when I go into the next room to wait for him to take my blood pressure, he says to Brigitte, apparently, out of my hearing, "That guy is bizarre. Where did you find him?"
This is a GOOD thing! Who wants to be a leopard, with the same spots all all the other leopards? You know, in the same way as a hissing cockroach is fascinating, I like to be distinguished from all the OTHER hissing cockroaches.
But I got in my parting shot with the doc. "How come you haven't found a wife yet, doc?" I said, as I put on my coat.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Didja Know? Just checking.
That Earth holds 366 million TRILLION gallons of water? Can you even count to six million trillions? Case closed.
But did you know that the planetoid Ganymede has an estimated THIRTY-SIX more times water than Earth?
Hmm. How many computers would have to sit there and calculate that math for a thousand years . . .
But did you know that the planetoid Ganymede has an estimated THIRTY-SIX more times water than Earth?
Hmm. How many computers would have to sit there and calculate that math for a thousand years . . .
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Hey! I Have a Humor of Sense!
I was reminded, in my abstract-professor mode, of something I thought I should share with my ever-burgeoning flock.
Do any of you below the age of ninety remember a show called "The Lone Ranger"? Well, the premise was this big, white, masked Good Samaritan who basically Ranged The West with his trusty servant Indian fellow, a guy named Tonto.
Tonto was required to respectfully address his master as "Kemo Sabe." I have no idea what lunatic Hollywood coke addict came up with that concept, but God knows, there were enough of them in the forties and fifties.
But one day, so the story goes, The Lone Ranger and his trusty native servant were camped out just above a ridge, at night, above a vast assembly of teepees and Native Folk.
The Lone Ranger observed the situation carefully, and said "Tonto," and Tonto said "Yes, kemo sabe?" and The Lone Ranger said "Tonto, we're going to invade the camp tomorrow morning, kill the native hordes, and round up their children."
And Tonto said "Kemo sabe, what you mean, 'we'?"
Do any of you below the age of ninety remember a show called "The Lone Ranger"? Well, the premise was this big, white, masked Good Samaritan who basically Ranged The West with his trusty servant Indian fellow, a guy named Tonto.
Tonto was required to respectfully address his master as "Kemo Sabe." I have no idea what lunatic Hollywood coke addict came up with that concept, but God knows, there were enough of them in the forties and fifties.
But one day, so the story goes, The Lone Ranger and his trusty native servant were camped out just above a ridge, at night, above a vast assembly of teepees and Native Folk.
The Lone Ranger observed the situation carefully, and said "Tonto," and Tonto said "Yes, kemo sabe?" and The Lone Ranger said "Tonto, we're going to invade the camp tomorrow morning, kill the native hordes, and round up their children."
And Tonto said "Kemo sabe, what you mean, 'we'?"
My Day!
Yo yo ma.
I actually got out today! I saw a round thing in the sky that I thought was a UFO until Brigitte pointed out that it was THE SUN.
Who would have suspected that the sun was SO BRIGHT???? And ROUND? And 98 million miles away? Who on Earth except for Giovanni Vespucci (the minor 15th-century explorer) would suspect THAT?
Who but the ancient Mayans would have understood that the sun is round, and a Mexican virgin had to be tortured on the altar every single day to satisfy its wrath?
I sure didn't.
Hey, and we went to the MALL. There were SO MANY PEOPLE at the mall. Probably half the population in Montreal was at the mall. Kids, adults, skanks, dudes, YOU NAME IT.
How can so many people exist without adequate drinking water and renewable resources? Let alone competent law enforcement?
Anyway, it was GREAT. I actually got stuck in traffic! Imagine the concept! Imagine the concept of torturing small mammals to death with blowtorches!
So that was my day. How was your day?
I actually got out today! I saw a round thing in the sky that I thought was a UFO until Brigitte pointed out that it was THE SUN.
Who would have suspected that the sun was SO BRIGHT???? And ROUND? And 98 million miles away? Who on Earth except for Giovanni Vespucci (the minor 15th-century explorer) would suspect THAT?
Who but the ancient Mayans would have understood that the sun is round, and a Mexican virgin had to be tortured on the altar every single day to satisfy its wrath?
I sure didn't.
Hey, and we went to the MALL. There were SO MANY PEOPLE at the mall. Probably half the population in Montreal was at the mall. Kids, adults, skanks, dudes, YOU NAME IT.
How can so many people exist without adequate drinking water and renewable resources? Let alone competent law enforcement?
Anyway, it was GREAT. I actually got stuck in traffic! Imagine the concept! Imagine the concept of torturing small mammals to death with blowtorches!
So that was my day. How was your day?
Snake Charmers
I'm sure you've heard of them. It's part of the popular lexicon. You know, like Whirling Dervishes.
But have you ever actually seen a snake charmer? I know you haven't, because I know you didn't live in India for ten years in the 60s.
But I saw it. I saw it in front of my own eyes, and it was horrible. It was like watching your sister being raped and then killed in real time. The guy would come by the house, maybe once a month.
This guy was a real snake charmer. Trouble is, he was a REAL snake charmer. He came equipped with a fucking six-foot cobra. The biggest fucking snake you have ever seen. Right in front of your eyes. A King Cobra, not on National Geographic Channel.
A poor fucking snake that only wanted to wander about the cane fields, eating an occasional rat.
But that was only half of the deal. Then, there was a mongoose. You probably don't really know what a mongoose is, but think of a tiny raccoon, or maybe a large rat. But this little fucker, in real life, was a cobra killer. That was its specialty.
Yeah, you've heard of cockfights, or even dogfights. But this was brutal. The mongoose always won. The cobra never had a chance. There was no possibility of parole for the snake. It didn't matter that it was ten times the size of the mongoose -- the snake always -- always -- lost.
I saw a full-grown, almost eight-foot King Cobra try to escape this little mammal's wrath. It moved so fast across the lawn that you practically couldn't see it. It was in screaming mode to escape with its life. But it could never win.
That was the name of the game.
The owner would pack up, drag the dead snake away, and go to the next job.
On this, good people, I kid you not.
The only reason I mention this is because I think I'm being snake-charmed by a con man. The game in which you can never win. More on this later.
But have you ever actually seen a snake charmer? I know you haven't, because I know you didn't live in India for ten years in the 60s.
But I saw it. I saw it in front of my own eyes, and it was horrible. It was like watching your sister being raped and then killed in real time. The guy would come by the house, maybe once a month.
This guy was a real snake charmer. Trouble is, he was a REAL snake charmer. He came equipped with a fucking six-foot cobra. The biggest fucking snake you have ever seen. Right in front of your eyes. A King Cobra, not on National Geographic Channel.
A poor fucking snake that only wanted to wander about the cane fields, eating an occasional rat.
But that was only half of the deal. Then, there was a mongoose. You probably don't really know what a mongoose is, but think of a tiny raccoon, or maybe a large rat. But this little fucker, in real life, was a cobra killer. That was its specialty.
Yeah, you've heard of cockfights, or even dogfights. But this was brutal. The mongoose always won. The cobra never had a chance. There was no possibility of parole for the snake. It didn't matter that it was ten times the size of the mongoose -- the snake always -- always -- lost.
I saw a full-grown, almost eight-foot King Cobra try to escape this little mammal's wrath. It moved so fast across the lawn that you practically couldn't see it. It was in screaming mode to escape with its life. But it could never win.
That was the name of the game.
The owner would pack up, drag the dead snake away, and go to the next job.
On this, good people, I kid you not.
The only reason I mention this is because I think I'm being snake-charmed by a con man. The game in which you can never win. More on this later.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Hoods vs. Thugs
Look, we all aspire to something, right? We want Mother to be proud of us, right? Get a good job, get an education, right?
But just imagine being an eternal asshole. Please, just imagine it. With all the bells and whistles. The gang tatoos, the assholish attitude.
Whoops, sorry, you don't have to imagine.
But there is a difference between hoodlums and thugs. I'll just go ahead and tell you the difference, shall I?
A hood is Frank Sinatra. Cheap suits, but style. A thug is a cheap dude with 'tude, like Pablo Escobar, Noriega or Idi Amin.
Oh, forgot the most notorious thug of mankind, Good ol' Adolf. But there's a reason they called him "The Paperhanger" and they never said that of Sam Giancana or Bugsy.
Because an asshole is an asshole, whatever you want to call him.
But an asshole with class is never a thug.
I thought I'd just pass that by.
But just imagine being an eternal asshole. Please, just imagine it. With all the bells and whistles. The gang tatoos, the assholish attitude.
Whoops, sorry, you don't have to imagine.
But there is a difference between hoodlums and thugs. I'll just go ahead and tell you the difference, shall I?
A hood is Frank Sinatra. Cheap suits, but style. A thug is a cheap dude with 'tude, like Pablo Escobar, Noriega or Idi Amin.
Oh, forgot the most notorious thug of mankind, Good ol' Adolf. But there's a reason they called him "The Paperhanger" and they never said that of Sam Giancana or Bugsy.
Because an asshole is an asshole, whatever you want to call him.
But an asshole with class is never a thug.
I thought I'd just pass that by.
Going Camping? Thirsty?
Aww, Johnny drained the water bottle? Oh Christ, the 7/11 is 3.5 hours away. Well, there's always the Shewanee Preserve Mill Pond.
Oh Christ. What is that? FISH? Fish droppings in my water?
NO panic. Uncle Nick is here. Really. Put the pond water in the empty water bottle and leave in full sun for over six hours. (Obviously, then, cool it).
But by then, the UV rays will have killed every single bacteria, virus and parasite in the water. Believe it or not, brown or not, it will be entirely safe to drink with no fear of any harmful water-borne illnesses.
This is Uncle Nick checking out.
Oh Christ. What is that? FISH? Fish droppings in my water?
NO panic. Uncle Nick is here. Really. Put the pond water in the empty water bottle and leave in full sun for over six hours. (Obviously, then, cool it).
But by then, the UV rays will have killed every single bacteria, virus and parasite in the water. Believe it or not, brown or not, it will be entirely safe to drink with no fear of any harmful water-borne illnesses.
This is Uncle Nick checking out.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
You Better not Shout, You Better not Cry
Santa Claus is com-eeen to town.
He sees the snow in April,
It gets him all confused,
His Prozac has all run out
And Blitzen ate his shoes.
Ahh, don't worry about it. I hear there's a sale on at Globo.
Hello, Gentle People! It's Time for Nick's best Movie Quotes of All Time!
All you have to do is guess which movie it's from! And don't let the children read over your shoulder! This is not for my gentle faint-of-heart readers.
Ready? Here we go!
"And chico, if anything happens to that buy-money, eee pobreci... my boss is gonna stick your heads up your asses faster than a rabbit gets fucked!"
“Why don't you try stickin' jou head up jour ass -- see if it fits.”
“Why don't you go fuck yourself, Tommy?”
“What's the fuckin' matter with you? What - what is the fuckin' matter with you? What are you, stupid or what? Tommy, Tommy, I'm not kidding with you. What the fuck are you doin'? What are you, a fuckin' sick maniac?”
“Oh, oh, Anthony. He's a big boy, he knows what he said. What did ya say? Funny how?“
“Frankie, was he shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Henry . . . you may fold under questioning!”
“Now go home and get your fuckin' shinebox.“
“You, too, Mel. You fucked up too.”
“20, 30 grand. In small bills, cash. In that little silk purse. If this were somebody else's wedding... Sfortunato!”
“Shoot him! What are you doing, you fool? SHOOT HIM!”
“I like you, Tony. There is no lying in you.”
“Don't fuck me, Tony. Don't you ever try to fuck me.”
“Fuck Gaspar Gomez, and fuck the fuckin' Diaz brothers! Fuck'em all! I bury those cock-a-roaches!”
“I went to that fleabag of yours! I'll tell you something! I am insulted!”
“Could I have another drink, please?”
“Relax, Mikhael. Here. Have another drink.”
“No drugs. That's the main thing. You just ran a stop sign.”
"Can't you stop saying 'fuck' all the time?"
“Ja! How'd jou like that, eh? Jou fuckin' maricon! Ja!”
"Say 'ello to my little friend!"
Ready? Here we go!
"And chico, if anything happens to that buy-money, eee pobreci... my boss is gonna stick your heads up your asses faster than a rabbit gets fucked!"
“Why don't you try stickin' jou head up jour ass -- see if it fits.”
“Why don't you go fuck yourself, Tommy?”
“What's the fuckin' matter with you? What - what is the fuckin' matter with you? What are you, stupid or what? Tommy, Tommy, I'm not kidding with you. What the fuck are you doin'? What are you, a fuckin' sick maniac?”
“Oh, oh, Anthony. He's a big boy, he knows what he said. What did ya say? Funny how?“
“Frankie, was he shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Henry . . . you may fold under questioning!”
“Now go home and get your fuckin' shinebox.“
“You, too, Mel. You fucked up too.”
“20, 30 grand. In small bills, cash. In that little silk purse. If this were somebody else's wedding... Sfortunato!”
“Shoot him! What are you doing, you fool? SHOOT HIM!”
“I like you, Tony. There is no lying in you.”
“Don't fuck me, Tony. Don't you ever try to fuck me.”
“Fuck Gaspar Gomez, and fuck the fuckin' Diaz brothers! Fuck'em all! I bury those cock-a-roaches!”
“I went to that fleabag of yours! I'll tell you something! I am insulted!”
“Could I have another drink, please?”
“Relax, Mikhael. Here. Have another drink.”
“No drugs. That's the main thing. You just ran a stop sign.”
"Can't you stop saying 'fuck' all the time?"
“Ja! How'd jou like that, eh? Jou fuckin' maricon! Ja!”
"Say 'ello to my little friend!"
Monday, April 26, 2010
Good Morning, SRI
Um, I don't really know how many of you are on anti-depressants, because frankly, you never write or call every week like you should.
But should, GOD FORBID, you be taking an anti-depressant, hey, what the fuck's the matter, you afraid to walk to the store? BE AWARE.
I have done drugs you really don't want to know about. They don't involve heroin or absolutely life-threatening drugs like li'l buddy Mikey Jackson was into, but I have done some serious drugs.
Just for the record, these involved barbiturates, opiates, amphetamines, hallucinogenics (up the wazoo) stimulants, sedatives, liqueurs (up the wazoo) but it's very happy to report that unlike Heath Asshole or John Belushi, I Survived Them All. All of that shit. I survived.
But you know what? Look down at yourself, right now, as you're reading this. You are basically a bag of flesh, water, bacteria, viruses and MANY, too many to count reasonably, chemicals. Oh, sorry, forgot the waste materials.
But guess what I came up against in this career (so to speak) of drugdom? Hey, despite what you think, I KNEW what cocaine was going to do to me. When I did acid, approximately, by my count, 70 times, I KNEW what it was going to do to me. I took it and I accepted it. Mandrax? Methaqualone? Methamphetamine? Morphine? Datura Stramonium? (the worst of the worst) -- history.
Until I met Effexor. THIS is the drug that has conquered me. This drug is your worst nightmare. It's in the literature. "Takes two weeks to take effect." Oh, really? When a hit of acid sidelines you in one and a half hours? TWO WEEKS????? You know it has to be insidious.
And it's official: from a former party animal, Effexor is the most disturbing drug I have ever experienced. By a category of thousands. It turned me first into a fucking zombie and then it made me a screaming maniac when I tried to stop it. I'm still in its grasp, but let the warning go out -- perhaps heroin is a better bet to cure your anxiety than Paxil, Effexor, Prozac, and all those serotonin-reuptake Inhibitors (SRIs)
Weird, eh?
But should, GOD FORBID, you be taking an anti-depressant, hey, what the fuck's the matter, you afraid to walk to the store? BE AWARE.
I have done drugs you really don't want to know about. They don't involve heroin or absolutely life-threatening drugs like li'l buddy Mikey Jackson was into, but I have done some serious drugs.
Just for the record, these involved barbiturates, opiates, amphetamines, hallucinogenics (up the wazoo) stimulants, sedatives, liqueurs (up the wazoo) but it's very happy to report that unlike Heath Asshole or John Belushi, I Survived Them All. All of that shit. I survived.
But you know what? Look down at yourself, right now, as you're reading this. You are basically a bag of flesh, water, bacteria, viruses and MANY, too many to count reasonably, chemicals. Oh, sorry, forgot the waste materials.
But guess what I came up against in this career (so to speak) of drugdom? Hey, despite what you think, I KNEW what cocaine was going to do to me. When I did acid, approximately, by my count, 70 times, I KNEW what it was going to do to me. I took it and I accepted it. Mandrax? Methaqualone? Methamphetamine? Morphine? Datura Stramonium? (the worst of the worst) -- history.
Until I met Effexor. THIS is the drug that has conquered me. This drug is your worst nightmare. It's in the literature. "Takes two weeks to take effect." Oh, really? When a hit of acid sidelines you in one and a half hours? TWO WEEKS????? You know it has to be insidious.
And it's official: from a former party animal, Effexor is the most disturbing drug I have ever experienced. By a category of thousands. It turned me first into a fucking zombie and then it made me a screaming maniac when I tried to stop it. I'm still in its grasp, but let the warning go out -- perhaps heroin is a better bet to cure your anxiety than Paxil, Effexor, Prozac, and all those serotonin-reuptake Inhibitors (SRIs)
Weird, eh?
Old School Montreal
I'm sorry. For you more delicate types, maybe it's time to get a cup of coffee or some orange juice.
I don't know where you come from. Me, I wasn't raised on the street. Very far from it. I was a privileged boy from a not so tough neighborhood called Calcutta. Yep, that state in East Bengal.
But when I came to Montreal, I was practically newly minted. I had that adolescent sheen of being eighteen years old, and Montreal was as bizarre as the moon.
It was so fucking totally cool that I practically freaked. But what was cool about it was the time -- it was the mid-seventies and Montreal had a slightly seedy side of itself. But that's what made it cool.
That's when I joined the band, I'd looked it up, frankly, in the music section of the Montreal Star (now long defunct) and somehow, I found myself in tow with four young Montreal assholes. Truly, what you can imagine from the 70s . . . young dipshits in a mood to party. Montreal-style.
So, true to form, I became one of them. Ahh, what is it now? Parade down Ste. Catherine on Saturday night in George's Cougar? Yo, babes! Not that they were interested.
With me, at least, they were never interested.
That was, like . . . a lifetime ago.
But guess what: I recently actually finally found old George from our band days. I actually picked up the phone and talked to that maniac who raised me in Montreal in the 70s. He raised me well. He was a hell-raising maniac and I've never met a guy like him since. If you could put Montreal in the 70s in a basket, George would have been the ribbon on the bow at the top.
I'll tell you about George later.
I don't know where you come from. Me, I wasn't raised on the street. Very far from it. I was a privileged boy from a not so tough neighborhood called Calcutta. Yep, that state in East Bengal.
But when I came to Montreal, I was practically newly minted. I had that adolescent sheen of being eighteen years old, and Montreal was as bizarre as the moon.
It was so fucking totally cool that I practically freaked. But what was cool about it was the time -- it was the mid-seventies and Montreal had a slightly seedy side of itself. But that's what made it cool.
That's when I joined the band, I'd looked it up, frankly, in the music section of the Montreal Star (now long defunct) and somehow, I found myself in tow with four young Montreal assholes. Truly, what you can imagine from the 70s . . . young dipshits in a mood to party. Montreal-style.
So, true to form, I became one of them. Ahh, what is it now? Parade down Ste. Catherine on Saturday night in George's Cougar? Yo, babes! Not that they were interested.
With me, at least, they were never interested.
That was, like . . . a lifetime ago.
But guess what: I recently actually finally found old George from our band days. I actually picked up the phone and talked to that maniac who raised me in Montreal in the 70s. He raised me well. He was a hell-raising maniac and I've never met a guy like him since. If you could put Montreal in the 70s in a basket, George would have been the ribbon on the bow at the top.
I'll tell you about George later.
The Dep
The guy I met in the dep. It's a typical Nick scene. I go to pay for my beer. The guy's sitting with his laptop at the table near the window. I'm kind of greasy, with a hangover face and sunglasses. I make some stupid remark to Joseph, the owner behind the counter. You know, the typical Nick-shit remark. I just want to get home and drink a beer.
Then Dude actually gets out of his chair. Young guy, maybe 33-34. "Are you an actor?" he says. Well, natch, that gets my attention. I say "Why, are you?"
He looks me up and down, kind of, and I can see his tiny brain processing. "Hmm. Nice Jacket. Buying beer at 11 a.m. Greasy hair. Sunglasses. Kind of loud. Staggering a little bit."
"Gotta be an actor."
So we get into a conversation. As soon as I realise he's a human being, and not some goddamn Montreal zombie, I go into "Alert" Mode. "Who do you want me to be?" I ask, and he says, "Well, I kind of liked Robert de Niro in Raging Bull." I say, "How about Bobby in Mean Streets?"
Now I've got his attention. "Yeah, do Bobby in Mean Streets."
Not knowing Mean Streets, I switch to Goodfellas, the Tommy shoeshine box thing that I do, but his ears light up like a box of candles on Hanukkah.
"Okay Tommy," I say, "now go home and get your shine box."
The guy reels! He's really impressed! I bask in the acclaim. I think twice about doing my Three Stooges routine. That might be pushing it.
Anyway, I thought I would share that part of my day with you.
Then Dude actually gets out of his chair. Young guy, maybe 33-34. "Are you an actor?" he says. Well, natch, that gets my attention. I say "Why, are you?"
He looks me up and down, kind of, and I can see his tiny brain processing. "Hmm. Nice Jacket. Buying beer at 11 a.m. Greasy hair. Sunglasses. Kind of loud. Staggering a little bit."
"Gotta be an actor."
So we get into a conversation. As soon as I realise he's a human being, and not some goddamn Montreal zombie, I go into "Alert" Mode. "Who do you want me to be?" I ask, and he says, "Well, I kind of liked Robert de Niro in Raging Bull." I say, "How about Bobby in Mean Streets?"
Now I've got his attention. "Yeah, do Bobby in Mean Streets."
Not knowing Mean Streets, I switch to Goodfellas, the Tommy shoeshine box thing that I do, but his ears light up like a box of candles on Hanukkah.
"Okay Tommy," I say, "now go home and get your shine box."
The guy reels! He's really impressed! I bask in the acclaim. I think twice about doing my Three Stooges routine. That might be pushing it.
Anyway, I thought I would share that part of my day with you.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
What Do You Do . . .
. . . when you walk into the microwave and then decide the toaster oven is the next best option?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Worst Nightmare
I swear, I'm still reeling. Is what this what they call post-traumatic stress disorder? Is that what this is? How can it get you so far down the line? How can it be so perversely detailed, almost like a script from GOD HIMSELF, written just to fuck you up?
I've not had anything special to drink, although I'm drinking now to come out of this horror, and didn't take any special medicine beyond the usual.
But here is my nightmare. I swear it went beyond two hours, real time.
I'm on a plane. The plane is taking me to Tokyo. Except where I want to go is Osaka. There, no problem. But now I'm in that nebulous half-real world, speaking Japanese, fumbling for my passport, and oh, shit, where is my carry-on?
And then all of a sudden I'm at Narita. But I realize that my journey is far from over. I still have to make it to Osaka.
I can read the signs, but they're perversely all in Japanese, with no English translations. So I have to pay special attention. This is still okay. But I'm walking the walkway and going through this maze of halls and all of a sudden I realise that I have my house shoes on and I'm walking onto ice. I'm chatting in Japanese with people around me, but now I forgot what I did with my carry-on. Do I have my ticket?
I'm sliding on the ice, really worried, now, but all of a sudden I'm running. But running on a highway, in the middle lane. I know there are cars behind me but I can't run any faster. I try to follow the Japanese signs saying "Osaka".
Somehow I make it -- transition back to airport. I'm on a walkway again but now being funneled to a tiny passageway, which all travellers to Osaka have to walk through. I shrug and joke with my fellow travellers in Japanese but the passageway is getting narrower and all of a sudden I realise that there are no signs any more. Am I still going to Osaka? Am I going to miss my plane?
I can tell you, the first sight that greeted my eyes was the alarm-radio's unblinking blink. And then Brigitte going to the bathroom. And the sun shining somewhere outside. I have categorically never been happier to see those sights in this entire world.
God, if this is what post-traumatic stress disorder is all about I can fully understand why people just go off the rails. How can a nightmare about flying to Osaka be so bad? No one died. I didn't kill bad guys. But it was SO BAD.
Like one continuing movie you just can't turn off. I'm really scared of going back to sleep. It's like some giant hand came and decided to slap me and say, "Hey, you know what? Everything is really NOT okay."
I'll try. All that can save me from the nightmare is the daymare, and all that can save me from that is the night. So that is where I will try to go again.
I've not had anything special to drink, although I'm drinking now to come out of this horror, and didn't take any special medicine beyond the usual.
But here is my nightmare. I swear it went beyond two hours, real time.
I'm on a plane. The plane is taking me to Tokyo. Except where I want to go is Osaka. There, no problem. But now I'm in that nebulous half-real world, speaking Japanese, fumbling for my passport, and oh, shit, where is my carry-on?
And then all of a sudden I'm at Narita. But I realize that my journey is far from over. I still have to make it to Osaka.
I can read the signs, but they're perversely all in Japanese, with no English translations. So I have to pay special attention. This is still okay. But I'm walking the walkway and going through this maze of halls and all of a sudden I realise that I have my house shoes on and I'm walking onto ice. I'm chatting in Japanese with people around me, but now I forgot what I did with my carry-on. Do I have my ticket?
I'm sliding on the ice, really worried, now, but all of a sudden I'm running. But running on a highway, in the middle lane. I know there are cars behind me but I can't run any faster. I try to follow the Japanese signs saying "Osaka".
Somehow I make it -- transition back to airport. I'm on a walkway again but now being funneled to a tiny passageway, which all travellers to Osaka have to walk through. I shrug and joke with my fellow travellers in Japanese but the passageway is getting narrower and all of a sudden I realise that there are no signs any more. Am I still going to Osaka? Am I going to miss my plane?
I can tell you, the first sight that greeted my eyes was the alarm-radio's unblinking blink. And then Brigitte going to the bathroom. And the sun shining somewhere outside. I have categorically never been happier to see those sights in this entire world.
God, if this is what post-traumatic stress disorder is all about I can fully understand why people just go off the rails. How can a nightmare about flying to Osaka be so bad? No one died. I didn't kill bad guys. But it was SO BAD.
Like one continuing movie you just can't turn off. I'm really scared of going back to sleep. It's like some giant hand came and decided to slap me and say, "Hey, you know what? Everything is really NOT okay."
I'll try. All that can save me from the nightmare is the daymare, and all that can save me from that is the night. So that is where I will try to go again.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Jamie, Bill
You know, in spite of their public personas, Billy Gates and Jamie Oliver are actually true heroes.
The motherfuckers have millions. Billy Boy has billions. They both have fabulous mansions everywhere in every Riviera. But what the fuck?
Steve Jobs is still peddling iPods, not helping malaria victims. Where is his pancreatic cancer millions?
Like him or not, Bill Gates is one smart asshole. And he's decided, like any other SMART asshole, that HE CAN'T TAKE IT WITH HIM. I don't care who he voted for or what his religion is, but spending 500 million out of his admittedly ample funds to help kids with malaria in Africa can't possibly be bad.
Bill Gates doesn't go around trumpeting his bullshit like Bono or "Sir" Bob Geldof. Or whatever his dwarfish name is.
Jamie Oliver USES HIS FAME to benefit others. To some, he would seem a tired Cockney clown, and sure, he merchandises his ass out the window. To many, he would seem a huge joke. But last time I checked, was Rachel Ray doing anything except merchandising a new talk show and looking fucking as goofy as a ratball in a haystack?
It's these people, who hover under the radar, despised or beloved, who use their trillions to help people they don't know, never will and whatever else Martha Stewart doesn't do.
Rant over. But pay attention to Bill Gates and Jamie Oliver . . . they're doing what I would do if I were (gods forbid) in their position.
The motherfuckers have millions. Billy Boy has billions. They both have fabulous mansions everywhere in every Riviera. But what the fuck?
Steve Jobs is still peddling iPods, not helping malaria victims. Where is his pancreatic cancer millions?
Like him or not, Bill Gates is one smart asshole. And he's decided, like any other SMART asshole, that HE CAN'T TAKE IT WITH HIM. I don't care who he voted for or what his religion is, but spending 500 million out of his admittedly ample funds to help kids with malaria in Africa can't possibly be bad.
Bill Gates doesn't go around trumpeting his bullshit like Bono or "Sir" Bob Geldof. Or whatever his dwarfish name is.
Jamie Oliver USES HIS FAME to benefit others. To some, he would seem a tired Cockney clown, and sure, he merchandises his ass out the window. To many, he would seem a huge joke. But last time I checked, was Rachel Ray doing anything except merchandising a new talk show and looking fucking as goofy as a ratball in a haystack?
It's these people, who hover under the radar, despised or beloved, who use their trillions to help people they don't know, never will and whatever else Martha Stewart doesn't do.
Rant over. But pay attention to Bill Gates and Jamie Oliver . . . they're doing what I would do if I were (gods forbid) in their position.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
As if You Had To Ask . . .
Yep. As if you did. If you did, you came to the right place.
Let's get one thing straight, right on the table, here. Can we do that? See? It isn't that difficult! What is black? Is black gray? What color is it if painted on a wall? Is it "Shades of black?" Nope. It's just black.
What is sunshine? Is sunshine a concept? Or is it gamma rays bursting through 98 million miles of space? Or is it hearts and flowers and buzzing bees in a meadow? WHAT IS SUNSHINE?
Now let me ask: WHAT IS DEATH? Oh, now, stop it, your little instinctive shying away.
Here's the reality, and if you don't understand it, you NEED to see a professional. Death is the ABSENCE OF LIFE. BLACK IS THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT.
There are no twenty dancing virgins. There are no amazing beams of light dancing on clouds with a munificent bearded God smiling softly at the pearly gates.
Trust me, you may see some "brilliant white light" as you descend into the abyss, but it's only your cerebral cortex descending into panic mode.
Negative viewpoint? You might say. But short of trusting some bearded stranger hanging around in the Cosmos idly creating galaxies, what more am I expected to believe?
Let's get one thing straight, right on the table, here. Can we do that? See? It isn't that difficult! What is black? Is black gray? What color is it if painted on a wall? Is it "Shades of black?" Nope. It's just black.
What is sunshine? Is sunshine a concept? Or is it gamma rays bursting through 98 million miles of space? Or is it hearts and flowers and buzzing bees in a meadow? WHAT IS SUNSHINE?
Now let me ask: WHAT IS DEATH? Oh, now, stop it, your little instinctive shying away.
Here's the reality, and if you don't understand it, you NEED to see a professional. Death is the ABSENCE OF LIFE. BLACK IS THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT.
There are no twenty dancing virgins. There are no amazing beams of light dancing on clouds with a munificent bearded God smiling softly at the pearly gates.
Trust me, you may see some "brilliant white light" as you descend into the abyss, but it's only your cerebral cortex descending into panic mode.
Negative viewpoint? You might say. But short of trusting some bearded stranger hanging around in the Cosmos idly creating galaxies, what more am I expected to believe?
There Was This Guy
There was this guy called Bob. No, he wasn't just Bob, he was BOB.
You knew, when the word came up, exactly the picture of BOB. You never had to ask. You might have snickered, from time to time, but Bob was JUST BOB. Not Robert. Never a schmuck. Somehow you knew it, although you may have privately thought "Bob is a schmuck."
But you know what? You always knew that Bob was not a schmuck. Bob actually never fucked you. Think back. He was there when it counted, even in his lame way, according to you. Yeah, sure, he fucked you when you were out of cash and he gave you $100 for what now is a $2,000 guitar.
Yeah, sure, he was an arrogant jerk a lot of the time. He always beat you at chess and bragged about it. Bob was an asshole. But he was YOUR asshole. He was better than you at a lot of things and you knew it. How could he not be an asshole? But guess what: now you know he was never an asshole. Bob was a close friend who would have kicked someone's ass for your ass.
That's who Bob is. Think about it. Process it. Find your Bob.
You knew, when the word came up, exactly the picture of BOB. You never had to ask. You might have snickered, from time to time, but Bob was JUST BOB. Not Robert. Never a schmuck. Somehow you knew it, although you may have privately thought "Bob is a schmuck."
But you know what? You always knew that Bob was not a schmuck. Bob actually never fucked you. Think back. He was there when it counted, even in his lame way, according to you. Yeah, sure, he fucked you when you were out of cash and he gave you $100 for what now is a $2,000 guitar.
Yeah, sure, he was an arrogant jerk a lot of the time. He always beat you at chess and bragged about it. Bob was an asshole. But he was YOUR asshole. He was better than you at a lot of things and you knew it. How could he not be an asshole? But guess what: now you know he was never an asshole. Bob was a close friend who would have kicked someone's ass for your ass.
That's who Bob is. Think about it. Process it. Find your Bob.
Why
Why do you sleep
When Time, ever the Liar
Commands you that you have more of it,
When in fact you always have less of it.
N. Robinson, 2010
When Time, ever the Liar
Commands you that you have more of it,
When in fact you always have less of it.
N. Robinson, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Funny
About 1950s movies and before.
We've gotten so used to the Strasberg method and reality TV, we just don't realize quite how bizarre the movies back then were. The dialogue, the contrived scenarios.
Example: James Stewart riding a horse (a ridiculous scenario in itself) talking to some blonde babe on another horse. "They're out to kill you, Mike," (Babe) "Why?" (spoken by Jimmy in a fraction of a second later. As if he's known all along Babe was going to say this). Not a moment's reflection! "Whaaa?"
Well asshole, I guess you read the script 500 times too many. You should know whaaa by now.
We've gotten so used to the Strasberg method and reality TV, we just don't realize quite how bizarre the movies back then were. The dialogue, the contrived scenarios.
Example: James Stewart riding a horse (a ridiculous scenario in itself) talking to some blonde babe on another horse. "They're out to kill you, Mike," (Babe) "Why?" (spoken by Jimmy in a fraction of a second later. As if he's known all along Babe was going to say this). Not a moment's reflection! "Whaaa?"
Well asshole, I guess you read the script 500 times too many. You should know whaaa by now.
Oh, Is That Really So?
Let's forget the possible effects of Effexor withdrawal (my bitter 2-month experiment terminating in voluntary cold turkey), but hearing from someone close to home that she would gladly "Die for my country" hit hard.
Really? You'd die for your country, really? Really? Let me hold a gun to your son's head and ask you: do you want me to kill your son for your country? Let alone you -- I don't particularly care about you -- but are you willing for ANYONE to die for something as nebulous as a "country"?
No. Let's change the scenario. Now the gun is at YOUR head. Are you still willing to "die for my country?" I'm going to pull the trigger now, there is going to be NO COUNTRY, no NOTHING any more for you, just a fucking carcass.
Is that what you want to die for?
if so, you're a FUCKING BETTER HUMAN BEING THAN I AM.
Or maybe just stupider.
Really? You'd die for your country, really? Really? Let me hold a gun to your son's head and ask you: do you want me to kill your son for your country? Let alone you -- I don't particularly care about you -- but are you willing for ANYONE to die for something as nebulous as a "country"?
No. Let's change the scenario. Now the gun is at YOUR head. Are you still willing to "die for my country?" I'm going to pull the trigger now, there is going to be NO COUNTRY, no NOTHING any more for you, just a fucking carcass.
Is that what you want to die for?
if so, you're a FUCKING BETTER HUMAN BEING THAN I AM.
Or maybe just stupider.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Yay! It's up!
Ooo de la wee, I am so happEEEEE! (God, doesn't that just sound like some kind of Twitty Facebook post? I must be careful of being overrun here).
My website, the first I've done in about two years, has just gone up and is live! It's here!
Don't bother with the French version just yet, though -- the photons containing the French version have been delayed by the ash cloud (no, not the one from Iceland -- the one from all those Gitanes and Gallias that everyone smokes over there).
But yay yay yay! Aren't I just the bee's knees?
My website, the first I've done in about two years, has just gone up and is live! It's here!
Don't bother with the French version just yet, though -- the photons containing the French version have been delayed by the ash cloud (no, not the one from Iceland -- the one from all those Gitanes and Gallias that everyone smokes over there).
But yay yay yay! Aren't I just the bee's knees?
Words You Don't Want to Hear Part MMCCXVIII
"It's time to get up"
"The tip of the finger and part of the fingernail"
"Well, do YOU see any way out of this?"
"I think it's fungus."
"What did you expect? That's what wasps do."
"Yeah, I know. It's so disgusting. Brrr."
"You do realise that tomorrow's Monday, don't you?"
"What? You didn't bring your Visa card?"
"It's going to be a fantastic weekend, folks, weatherwise."
"The tip of the finger and part of the fingernail"
"Well, do YOU see any way out of this?"
"I think it's fungus."
"What did you expect? That's what wasps do."
"Yeah, I know. It's so disgusting. Brrr."
"You do realise that tomorrow's Monday, don't you?"
"What? You didn't bring your Visa card?"
"It's going to be a fantastic weekend, folks, weatherwise."
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Physicist Among Me
Oh, didn't know that I was a physicist, among all my other talents, one of them being able to spell "physicist" without batting an eye?
Well then, buckle down, flock.
There are two thermodynamic theories, both highly successful at predicting heat phenomena. One, the phenomenological (I got an Abner prize in a spelling bee for that), is more abstract and generalized. The other, the statistical (Homer Prize, 1976) is based on an atomic model and corresponds more to physical reality. In particular, the statistical theory depicts thermal equilibrium as a state of random motions of atoms. (Science Top Whiz, Scouts, 1978).
Einstein got in there slightly before me and described Brownian motion. I thought Brownian motion was either the the speed in which chocolate cake managed to desert a flat ceramic disc, or, er, something best left to proctologists to describe.
But nothing in all my studies, which I reluctantly abandoned before my first marijuana cross-country road trip, ever described how the scissors in the little plastic container on my desk always seem to make it into Brigitte's container across the way.
Never solved it. And she's not about to tell me the secret.
Well then, buckle down, flock.
There are two thermodynamic theories, both highly successful at predicting heat phenomena. One, the phenomenological (I got an Abner prize in a spelling bee for that), is more abstract and generalized. The other, the statistical (Homer Prize, 1976) is based on an atomic model and corresponds more to physical reality. In particular, the statistical theory depicts thermal equilibrium as a state of random motions of atoms. (Science Top Whiz, Scouts, 1978).
Einstein got in there slightly before me and described Brownian motion. I thought Brownian motion was either the the speed in which chocolate cake managed to desert a flat ceramic disc, or, er, something best left to proctologists to describe.
But nothing in all my studies, which I reluctantly abandoned before my first marijuana cross-country road trip, ever described how the scissors in the little plastic container on my desk always seem to make it into Brigitte's container across the way.
Never solved it. And she's not about to tell me the secret.
The Office de la langue Française
Last night we had a dinner party of sorts; Brigitte made some fabulous salmon (I'm not one for cooked fish, but now I'm a convert -- just that, now _I_ have to learn how to make it).
But around the table were three couples . . . admittedly, in the " . . . is the new Thirty!" range, and the language range was all over the place. Every single person at the table spoke at least three languages, probably almost fluently.
Half the table was babbling in French and the other half in English. Parts of the table would interject in Hebrew. Those of us who didn't understand the topic language would be given a quick, friendly, hurried translation and then the multilingual chaos would resume. No one cared or took offense that they might not understand parts of some joke or little whispered side-to-side.
I was speaking to Anna, who is Polish and probably fluent in half a dozen eastern European languages, is married to an Israeli who speaks French, English and probably a half-dozen Middle-Eastern languages and we were talking about my son, who is Japanese (and American, and Canadian).
And lo and behold, the phone rang and I was talking to my son in Japanese, from Japan. But no one was amazed. I speak almost perfect conversational Japanese, like Anna does English, Brigitte does Hebrew, and all the other participants probably more than four languages apiece.
And then we have the Office de la langue Française, that bastion of Frenchdom in this sea of "Anglodom" who are truly just a small bunch of bullies all wanting to lash out at the most pathetic slight.
When we (two of the couples present last night) went to eat at Basi, an incredibly good Italian place near Jean-Talon market, we learned from the owner that someone, some little vindictive jerk, was targeting him because of some imagined slight, and had reported him to the OLF about some tiny imperfection on his menu, something about maybe the "Appetizers" title not being 50% smaller than the "Entrées" title. Or whatever.
But our brave restaurateur was genuinely captivated by our Calgarian (multilingual) guests' tales of no language hassles back west, and now I fear we're going to lose him.
Much as I love Montreal, I despise the backwater provincialism that even to this day seems to penetrate everday life.
Christ, most born-and-bred Americans can barely speak their own language. French from France: they're so consumed with their own Frenchness that most don't even bother to speak anything else.
And here, in this huge, friendly melting pot, we have the Language Police just to make sure the "Natives Don't Get Out Of Hand."
Pathetic.
But around the table were three couples . . . admittedly, in the " . . . is the new Thirty!" range, and the language range was all over the place. Every single person at the table spoke at least three languages, probably almost fluently.
Half the table was babbling in French and the other half in English. Parts of the table would interject in Hebrew. Those of us who didn't understand the topic language would be given a quick, friendly, hurried translation and then the multilingual chaos would resume. No one cared or took offense that they might not understand parts of some joke or little whispered side-to-side.
I was speaking to Anna, who is Polish and probably fluent in half a dozen eastern European languages, is married to an Israeli who speaks French, English and probably a half-dozen Middle-Eastern languages and we were talking about my son, who is Japanese (and American, and Canadian).
And lo and behold, the phone rang and I was talking to my son in Japanese, from Japan. But no one was amazed. I speak almost perfect conversational Japanese, like Anna does English, Brigitte does Hebrew, and all the other participants probably more than four languages apiece.
And then we have the Office de la langue Française, that bastion of Frenchdom in this sea of "Anglodom" who are truly just a small bunch of bullies all wanting to lash out at the most pathetic slight.
When we (two of the couples present last night) went to eat at Basi, an incredibly good Italian place near Jean-Talon market, we learned from the owner that someone, some little vindictive jerk, was targeting him because of some imagined slight, and had reported him to the OLF about some tiny imperfection on his menu, something about maybe the "Appetizers" title not being 50% smaller than the "Entrées" title. Or whatever.
But our brave restaurateur was genuinely captivated by our Calgarian (multilingual) guests' tales of no language hassles back west, and now I fear we're going to lose him.
Much as I love Montreal, I despise the backwater provincialism that even to this day seems to penetrate everday life.
Christ, most born-and-bred Americans can barely speak their own language. French from France: they're so consumed with their own Frenchness that most don't even bother to speak anything else.
And here, in this huge, friendly melting pot, we have the Language Police just to make sure the "Natives Don't Get Out Of Hand."
Pathetic.
Umm . . . a Little Followup . . .
. . . on this post.
I really don't want to be theosophically dramatic here, but do you realise that ninety-nine -- count them once and then twice again -- percent of all things ever alive on Earth are no longer here? That in the Ordovician extermination alone, 95% of all living things that had existed at the time were completely wiped off the face of the Earth?
What, you say, surely the creatures in the ocean were all protected? You'd be wrong.
This laughable little volcano in Iceland is causing a lot of stress, but just imagine that laughable little volcano the SIZE OF FRANCE. And not erupting for a few weeks, but for 10,000 years! You're looking at a little time bomb called Yellowstone.
All life, perhaps 99%, as we know it, would be erased from the face of the Earth. Under, over and inside it.
Global warming is like termites in a termite mound causing a small sand problem compared to what could hit us at any given time. You think the tsunami of 2004 was big? You think the Haitian earthquake was big? You think World War II was big?
You really wouldn't even have time to blink, if all my calculations are correct.
Get out those metal hats and gasmasks now! Duck and cover!
I really don't want to be theosophically dramatic here, but do you realise that ninety-nine -- count them once and then twice again -- percent of all things ever alive on Earth are no longer here? That in the Ordovician extermination alone, 95% of all living things that had existed at the time were completely wiped off the face of the Earth?
What, you say, surely the creatures in the ocean were all protected? You'd be wrong.
This laughable little volcano in Iceland is causing a lot of stress, but just imagine that laughable little volcano the SIZE OF FRANCE. And not erupting for a few weeks, but for 10,000 years! You're looking at a little time bomb called Yellowstone.
All life, perhaps 99%, as we know it, would be erased from the face of the Earth. Under, over and inside it.
Global warming is like termites in a termite mound causing a small sand problem compared to what could hit us at any given time. You think the tsunami of 2004 was big? You think the Haitian earthquake was big? You think World War II was big?
You really wouldn't even have time to blink, if all my calculations are correct.
Get out those metal hats and gasmasks now! Duck and cover!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Getting Something Done
Have you ever been to the post office, the bank, you know, some store, big lineup, whaddever.
I recently had a brilliant idea: the lunatic stare. It's not overly threatening, but if you can manage it without doing the other crazy stuff -- muttering, fumbling or shuffling your feet, and just act in a normal manner EXCEPT FOR THIS STARE . . . people are going to be pulling their children away from you and begging you to go first.
The key is, you have to act totally normal, but maintain the stare. Count out your money while staring at the clerk, not the money. ACT TOTALLY NORMAL.
But maintain the stare.
I GUARANTEE results! Practice it in the mirror.
I recently had a brilliant idea: the lunatic stare. It's not overly threatening, but if you can manage it without doing the other crazy stuff -- muttering, fumbling or shuffling your feet, and just act in a normal manner EXCEPT FOR THIS STARE . . . people are going to be pulling their children away from you and begging you to go first.
The key is, you have to act totally normal, but maintain the stare. Count out your money while staring at the clerk, not the money. ACT TOTALLY NORMAL.
But maintain the stare.
Ode to a Bamboo Shoot
O Bamboo Shoot (Také no ko;
In Japanese, which you should know)
You are so small and seem so shy
So why so tasty, I ask: Why?
Your fluted crunchiness invites
A perfect mouthful of two bites.
Your parents with their sky-high stalks
Would never taste as good, in woks
Of coconut sauce, basil, too
All steeping in a spicy stew
With chicken or some wondrous fish
Your crunch and zest my hungry wish
You try to hide, in sauce submersed
But I just want to eat you first.
O Bamboo Shoot, your fate is sealed
In “Kaeng Phet” your crunch, revealed.
So do not try to hide away
And skulk within some bland Satay
It’s I who loves your juicy crunch.
Upon your munchy crispness lunch.
Please save a chile, garlic too
But no brave sauce can live sans you
O Bamboo Shoot who strives to hide
You must reveal the love inside.
In Japanese, which you should know)
You are so small and seem so shy
So why so tasty, I ask: Why?
Your fluted crunchiness invites
A perfect mouthful of two bites.
Your parents with their sky-high stalks
Would never taste as good, in woks
Of coconut sauce, basil, too
All steeping in a spicy stew
With chicken or some wondrous fish
Your crunch and zest my hungry wish
You try to hide, in sauce submersed
But I just want to eat you first.
O Bamboo Shoot, your fate is sealed
In “Kaeng Phet” your crunch, revealed.
So do not try to hide away
And skulk within some bland Satay
It’s I who loves your juicy crunch.
Upon your munchy crispness lunch.
Please save a chile, garlic too
But no brave sauce can live sans you
O Bamboo Shoot who strives to hide
You must reveal the love inside.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Should Africa Be Removed?
AP -- Lagos, Nigeria
Debate grows as to whether Africa should just be eliminated as a "basket case" (European Union quote) or just simply shoveled into the Atlantic with vast bulldozers.
"The resulting void would indeed provide the developed world with much-needed resources that could positively benefit humanity. Africa has been, in spite of being the wellspring of civilization, a major sore on the face of the planet."
A number of refugee camps will be set up in Iceland and Nunavut for the survivors of the initial groundbreaking effort.
Debate grows as to whether Africa should just be eliminated as a "basket case" (European Union quote) or just simply shoveled into the Atlantic with vast bulldozers.
"The resulting void would indeed provide the developed world with much-needed resources that could positively benefit humanity. Africa has been, in spite of being the wellspring of civilization, a major sore on the face of the planet."
A number of refugee camps will be set up in Iceland and Nunavut for the survivors of the initial groundbreaking effort.
As if This Were Your Last
You know. You've seen those episodes of "Eaten Alive" or "Mayday", in which survivors end up pretty much stirred and shaken. And what do they all, without exception, have to give for advice?
"Friends and family. Nothing else matters. Live every day as if it were your last."
Hmm. Notwithstanding that I'm not about to be going hiking in the Sierras with a pack of boy scouts in lightning season or motorcycling around Colombia solo or smuggling hashish into Turkey any time soon, how can I live today as if it were my last?
I mean, if I knew I were about to jump into enemy territory tomorrow from a DC-6 with twelve other comrades, perhaps six of whom would come back to grow grandchildren, make a small living on the stock market, and die peacefully in bed with benign heart failure, well, I'd start making my bed before I made my bed.
Live every day as if it were your last?
Really?
Fuck. Up at three a.m. Break out the champagne. What. No gourmet shops open yet? Assholes. Get on the phone. Call everyone I know, or even don't know. Tell them I have a terminal disease, with a "best buy" date of tomorrow evening. Tell them the doctor told me I had one day to live, but when I protested that I couldn't pay him, told me he'd give me another day.
If or when all the sponging idiots show up, looking for a free good time, kick everyone out who didn't bring champagne or extra-special caviar.
Start smoking again, even though the first few are evil and horribly nasty. You have 24 hours to get used to them.
Call the airlines and say you want to charter a Lear Jet to Turks and Caicos, taking off at 2 p.m. Use and max out your credit card, or call your accountant and promise him a huge Christmas bonus if he can arrange this and max out your credit card.
Invite twelve of your best friends/devoted relatives and tell them to fly in immediately, as you have only a few hours to live.
Go lie down in your bedroom and watch "Deal or no Deal," have a few beers, ignore the phone and door bell and take a late afternoon nap.
Repeat.
"Friends and family. Nothing else matters. Live every day as if it were your last."
Hmm. Notwithstanding that I'm not about to be going hiking in the Sierras with a pack of boy scouts in lightning season or motorcycling around Colombia solo or smuggling hashish into Turkey any time soon, how can I live today as if it were my last?
I mean, if I knew I were about to jump into enemy territory tomorrow from a DC-6 with twelve other comrades, perhaps six of whom would come back to grow grandchildren, make a small living on the stock market, and die peacefully in bed with benign heart failure, well, I'd start making my bed before I made my bed.
Live every day as if it were your last?
Really?
Fuck. Up at three a.m. Break out the champagne. What. No gourmet shops open yet? Assholes. Get on the phone. Call everyone I know, or even don't know. Tell them I have a terminal disease, with a "best buy" date of tomorrow evening. Tell them the doctor told me I had one day to live, but when I protested that I couldn't pay him, told me he'd give me another day.
If or when all the sponging idiots show up, looking for a free good time, kick everyone out who didn't bring champagne or extra-special caviar.
Start smoking again, even though the first few are evil and horribly nasty. You have 24 hours to get used to them.
Call the airlines and say you want to charter a Lear Jet to Turks and Caicos, taking off at 2 p.m. Use and max out your credit card, or call your accountant and promise him a huge Christmas bonus if he can arrange this and max out your credit card.
Invite twelve of your best friends/devoted relatives and tell them to fly in immediately, as you have only a few hours to live.
Go lie down in your bedroom and watch "Deal or no Deal," have a few beers, ignore the phone and door bell and take a late afternoon nap.
Repeat.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Benefits of a Hot Dog
You know, I just can’t imagine being a culinary school graduate. In the here and now, that must be quite the conundrum. I liken it to art school. Some people (like me) were mainstream, painting/drawing ordinary subjects, while others, in the throes of their addictions/delusions, just went wild. Needless to say, we ignored them.
Well, being a “culinary school graduate” these days means trying to do stuff no one has ever done before. This does not sit well on my stomach.
I’m a fairly conservative eater, as I think most of us are. I don’t go for terrines or reductions of essence of asparagus foams, much like you don’t.
So, watching some of these “Top Chef” shows, you just wonder what these people are thinking. Candied scallops fired with wasabi-honey glaze on a mint risotto on a bed of Rocky Farms mizuno-chard?
What . . . is . . . this? This is no longer food. It’s pretentious crap.
There just has to be a middle ground.
Well, being a “culinary school graduate” these days means trying to do stuff no one has ever done before. This does not sit well on my stomach.
I’m a fairly conservative eater, as I think most of us are. I don’t go for terrines or reductions of essence of asparagus foams, much like you don’t.
So, watching some of these “Top Chef” shows, you just wonder what these people are thinking. Candied scallops fired with wasabi-honey glaze on a mint risotto on a bed of Rocky Farms mizuno-chard?
What . . . is . . . this? This is no longer food. It’s pretentious crap.
There just has to be a middle ground.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Movies for Gerbils
Just imagine a world in which there was a movie tailor-made for each and every one of us. A world in which Brigitte wouldn't throw her hands up at the first signs of violence, even though I plead "That's just the beginning! The rest is very peaceful!" And one of her movies starts with that worst of harbingers, Sarah-Jessica-Parker-Ryan-Roberts-Aniston-Kudrow-Hudson yada yada.
She obviously can't stand the explosions of "The Longest Day" or -- well, according to her lust after a particular star, in this case, Matt Damon, she actually wades through the gratuitous homicides and stilettos up the nose in order to swoon when Matt fills the screen.
So where shall the twain meet? Movies for gerbils. A gerbil director and a gerbil cast. Tagline: "Under the Human Heel and Wheel." Location: a gerbil cage, with gerbils driven to slave labor by tormentor child.
Romance, as girl gerbil meets reluctant hamster escapee from across the street. Explosions as children set off firecrackers in the streets below. Tension. Romance. Interracial marriage.
Now that the Meg Ryan Meg-Ryan-fest is over, can I go back to the bedroom?
She obviously can't stand the explosions of "The Longest Day" or -- well, according to her lust after a particular star, in this case, Matt Damon, she actually wades through the gratuitous homicides and stilettos up the nose in order to swoon when Matt fills the screen.
So where shall the twain meet? Movies for gerbils. A gerbil director and a gerbil cast. Tagline: "Under the Human Heel and Wheel." Location: a gerbil cage, with gerbils driven to slave labor by tormentor child.
Romance, as girl gerbil meets reluctant hamster escapee from across the street. Explosions as children set off firecrackers in the streets below. Tension. Romance. Interracial marriage.
Now that the Meg Ryan Meg-Ryan-fest is over, can I go back to the bedroom?
My Mind Drifts
So what else is new?
Constantly imagining things. Oh shutup, of course without dope. That was a LONG time ago.
But imagine being born blind, and suddenly, at age, say 25, becoming able to see, just like everyone else.
Deaf. Same thing.
British. Same thing.
But all seriousness aside, just image being born in a brutal concentration camp very similar to Auschwitz, escaping at age 25 or so and suddenly confronting the world beyond.
It's like certain remote Amazonian tribes who have no words for any numbers past ten; everything above that is "many." They have no clue how old they are. It just doesn't occur to them. It's not NECESSARY to occur to them.
So this guy escapes from a North Korean prison camp in his 20s, not having known anything else . . .
To this day, he says he has no concept of "freedom" . . . he just doesn't have any way to understand it. Like we probably can't imagine what the "edge of the universe" is like, he can't -- really has no concept of -- things like "love" and "choice." His parents didn't "love" him. He was raised like a farm animal. All these concepts that we take for granted are truly beyond him. It would be like trying to understand what purple is to someone blind from birth.
However, it seems that he IS aware of one feeling . . . and actually, only one. Loneliness. I guess no one needs an education in that, huh.
Constantly imagining things. Oh shutup, of course without dope. That was a LONG time ago.
But imagine being born blind, and suddenly, at age, say 25, becoming able to see, just like everyone else.
Deaf. Same thing.
British. Same thing.
But all seriousness aside, just image being born in a brutal concentration camp very similar to Auschwitz, escaping at age 25 or so and suddenly confronting the world beyond.
It's like certain remote Amazonian tribes who have no words for any numbers past ten; everything above that is "many." They have no clue how old they are. It just doesn't occur to them. It's not NECESSARY to occur to them.
So this guy escapes from a North Korean prison camp in his 20s, not having known anything else . . .
To this day, he says he has no concept of "freedom" . . . he just doesn't have any way to understand it. Like we probably can't imagine what the "edge of the universe" is like, he can't -- really has no concept of -- things like "love" and "choice." His parents didn't "love" him. He was raised like a farm animal. All these concepts that we take for granted are truly beyond him. It would be like trying to understand what purple is to someone blind from birth.
However, it seems that he IS aware of one feeling . . . and actually, only one. Loneliness. I guess no one needs an education in that, huh.
Pecorino Romano
Must do something about my lack of knowledge of this cheese. *quiet, almost inaudible muttering*
Must do something about it.
Must do something about it.
Benefits of First Class
I remember that several years ago most of my and my extended families were supposed to fly somewhere for some family thing. Can't for the life of me remember what any more, but there they were: 7-10 of my immediate family and closest relatives on one plane. I remember joking cynically that if the plane went down, I would literally be the lord of all they surveyed, but they wouldn't listen (and that damned Yemeni got caught lighting his dhoti).
But one would wonder why a head of state, his wife and high advisers would all go somewhere all together in one plane these days.
Wouldn't one.
But one would wonder why a head of state, his wife and high advisers would all go somewhere all together in one plane these days.
Wouldn't one.
Samosa Day
I spent 5 hours on my feet yesterday making two kinds of samosas. Mind you me, these are not hard at all to make, but the way I like to cook, everything is slow and methodical. I did the dishwasher three times during the job.
But it was worth it. First I made a potato filling and then a ground chicken filling (ground from scratch, of course!) and then a special dipping sauce. Dough from scratch, of course.
Brigitte berates me that we can go down to Devi restaurant and buy 6 superb ones for $10 but that is not the point! As it never will be. I made the samosas.
Tomorrow (I made 16 and at least 3/4 have been scarfed down already) I'll try to do a photo shoot.
But I definitely need one of those Gel-pro mats. 6 hours on my feet was murder . . .
But it was worth it. First I made a potato filling and then a ground chicken filling (ground from scratch, of course!) and then a special dipping sauce. Dough from scratch, of course.
Brigitte berates me that we can go down to Devi restaurant and buy 6 superb ones for $10 but that is not the point! As it never will be. I made the samosas.
Tomorrow (I made 16 and at least 3/4 have been scarfed down already) I'll try to do a photo shoot.
But I definitely need one of those Gel-pro mats. 6 hours on my feet was murder . . .
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Most Hideous Design . . . .
What are these La Presse design guys on, like, craque? This WHOLE PAGE screams puke . . . "Colors Of Nausea" reversed and inversed . . . the square, Naziish boxes with the utilitarian, workman-like sans-serif typeface that just screams (*hideous Swiss designer shriek*) "I am not Post-Modern! I vaass Pre-Modarnn baat my baaasses Made Me Design It Like Ziss!"
God alive, Jean-préserve.
I thought the Gazette was bad, but La Presse needs a Hysteriectomy, quick. Maybe merge with Allo Police.
The Life of an Atom
Do atoms have lives? Think about it. They're pretty small, but so are crawfish. Are you going to deny that crawfish have lives?
So if they do, what are they like? Well, to start with, atoms have busy lives. Just consider this: ATOMS NEVER DIE. They just get another job. "Okay, I was a schlep in the body of a raccoon until he died, then I became a schlep in the body of a maggot. What a goddamn existence. Whatever happened to the stuff of stars, anyway?"
But just because they're so small doesn't mean they can't have a family life. Just because we're big, does that mean that only we can work, wake up, have lunch, get bored and wonder what's on TV?
No. Atoms have lives. They're just a bit too tiny for us to understand. And that's the way they want it. After all, they're making me type this.
So how does it go, the atomic day? "Aww, honey, not again. I just woke up. Do I have to split yet again? I'll make us an omelette. Just let me go back to spin."
"Baby, honey, you spun, like, fourteen trillion times last night. You're really going to have to learn to go to bed earlier."
"I'm so sorry, honey. Hey, whaddya say, a little makeup . . ."
"Not today dear, I'm not feeling so good. I think I lost a neutron."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, dear, I'm . . . positive."
So if they do, what are they like? Well, to start with, atoms have busy lives. Just consider this: ATOMS NEVER DIE. They just get another job. "Okay, I was a schlep in the body of a raccoon until he died, then I became a schlep in the body of a maggot. What a goddamn existence. Whatever happened to the stuff of stars, anyway?"
But just because they're so small doesn't mean they can't have a family life. Just because we're big, does that mean that only we can work, wake up, have lunch, get bored and wonder what's on TV?
No. Atoms have lives. They're just a bit too tiny for us to understand. And that's the way they want it. After all, they're making me type this.
So how does it go, the atomic day? "Aww, honey, not again. I just woke up. Do I have to split yet again? I'll make us an omelette. Just let me go back to spin."
"Baby, honey, you spun, like, fourteen trillion times last night. You're really going to have to learn to go to bed earlier."
"I'm so sorry, honey. Hey, whaddya say, a little makeup . . ."
"Not today dear, I'm not feeling so good. I think I lost a neutron."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, dear, I'm . . . positive."
Friday, April 9, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I Will Always Love You . . . .
. . . Cocaine!
I rarely post on celebutrash but this one takes the coke . . . er, cake. Whitney Houston has to postpone a number of concerts due to a "respiratory ailment" . . .
Uh-huh.
What she needs is a plumber, not a doctor, to clear her nasal passages.
I rarely post on celebutrash but this one takes the coke . . . er, cake. Whitney Houston has to postpone a number of concerts due to a "respiratory ailment" . . .
Uh-huh.
What she needs is a plumber, not a doctor, to clear her nasal passages.
Nick's Stuffed Mushrooms
That'll be stuffed deep-fried mushrooms, to you folks!
I used to go to a bar-restaurant called Pacific Fresh in Alameda, California, after my racquetball marathons (which now have given me arthritis in my right elbow) and I used to have what I think they called "poppers" -- breaded, deep-fried mushrooms with a buttermilk-based dip. Man, I could eat a thousand of them.
But now that I think about it, they weren't stuffed with anything. They were too small. But that's why they were called poppers -- you *carefully* popped them in your mouth after dipping them. You could get quite a scalded roof-of-mouth if you weren't careful.
But I decided to make these, except stuff them at the same time.
INGREDIENTS
Don't go nuts. Plan for about three mushrooms for everyone there. It's not dinner. But no doubt there will be a pig present, so plan on an extra two for him.
LET'S SAY TWELVE medium cremini mushrooms, about 1.5 inches wide.
They pack them cunningly so you can't see the undersides, but ideally you'd get them with none of the inside brown ribs showing. No holes, just unbroken mushroom throughout.
Boursin cheese of choice (Rondele will work)
Ham, chopped fine
Shallots, chopped fine
Stems of mushrooms (see below) chopped fine
Buttermilk
Flour
Japanese Panko (breadcrumbs)
Peanut oil
METHOD
Sauté the shallots, ham and the chopped stems in butter until done, approximately five minutes.
Mix in with entire container of Boursin to form a creamy paste.
Fill the empty mushrooms with the Boursin mix, level with the bottoms.
IMPORTANT: FREEZE MUSHROOMS FOR THREE HOURS at this stage. This will prevent the filling spewing forth the moment it's put in the hot oil.
Heat at least two inches of oil on medium/hot -- about 5 o'clock on most ovens, until a drop of water sizzles.
Enter frozen mushrooms slowly, maybe four at a time, turning occasionally. When they're golden brown, remove with spider and place in paper towels. Do next batch until finished. If not eating right away, place on baking tray at 150• uncovered,
Serve with dip of choice.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Shrimp Tempura (Ebi-Fry)
INGREDIENTS
12 E-Z Peel frozen jumbo shrimp (16/20)/lb.
1 egg
1 cup ice water
Flour, seasoned with cayenne, garlic powder, black pepper and salt (if desired)
Good soy sauce
Mirin
Japanese bread crumbs (panko) -- no substitute
Peanut oil for deep frying
METHOD
Brine the frozen shrimp for about an hour. They should be thoroughly thawed.
Peel but leave tail on. Rinse, douse with soy sauce and mirin and put in refrigerator. Assemble three fairly flat containers; one with the egg-water mixture, one with the flour mixture and one with the panko. With the last two I like to use flat plastic containers with lids so I can shake the flour and panko all over the shrimp.
Start about two inches of peanut oil heating in a medium sauce pan, on medium high heat (around 5 o'clock) and then bring out the shrimp.
Prepare a small flat baking sheet and turn the oven on to about 200. Here is where the finished shrimp will rest and stay warm while the rest of the dinner is being assembled.
Now put three shallow cuts in the bellies of each shrimp so that they resist curling while being fried.
Working assembly-line, dip the first shrimp in the egg mixture, holding it by the tail, then put it in the flour mixture. Close the lid and shake up the container to well-coat the shrimp. Dust off any extra, then dunk in the egg mixture again. Now place in panko, cover, shake up and make sure the shrimp is entirely coated with panko.
Proceed similarly with rest of shrimp. When the oil has reached a point where a drop of water will bubble vigorously, start gently laying in the shrimp, three or four at a time maximum. Set your timer for about 8 minutes. The first batch will fry much faster than the following batches, so don't wander away from the stove.
When done, remove to paper towels. Serve immediately or place on baking sheet and place in oven to keep warm.
Suggested dips: Japanese gyoza dip, some mayonnaise/soy dip or traditional red seafood dip.
You'll never eat tempura in a Japanese place again!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
My Mai-Tai: No Lie
I might tie my tie and eye my mai-tai. You might eye my tie I tied eyeing my mai-tai.
I might eye you eyeing my tie I tied, and also eye my mai-tai.
My mai-tai is dry. I eye my dry mai-tai and die to try my dry mai-tai, but *sigh* you try my dry mai-tai before I try my mai-tai and leave me dry.
Bye to my dry mai-tai.
Bye.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Panko Man!
I just met my new best friend. He is called panko. It means "children of bread" in Japanese and just means special bread crumbs.
Last night I made shrimp tempura, but what shrimp tempura! It was the first I'd ever made, but it was possibly the best thing I've ever made! And I'm not a big fry guy.
It's amazing how we seem to get intimidated by deep frying. We buy (I've been a victim) these mechanical rotating, easy-draining blah blah blah electric deep fryers, but they're next to useless. All you need for most food is a medium pan and two inches of oil on medium heat. Then, tongs and a spider (a mesh food retriever).
Oh, but the panko! The shrimp last night were too small to really get good pics of but tonight is round two, with the recipe. You like tempura, you'll never have to go to a Japanese restaurant for it again.
Update at eleven!
Last night I made shrimp tempura, but what shrimp tempura! It was the first I'd ever made, but it was possibly the best thing I've ever made! And I'm not a big fry guy.
It's amazing how we seem to get intimidated by deep frying. We buy (I've been a victim) these mechanical rotating, easy-draining blah blah blah electric deep fryers, but they're next to useless. All you need for most food is a medium pan and two inches of oil on medium heat. Then, tongs and a spider (a mesh food retriever).
Oh, but the panko! The shrimp last night were too small to really get good pics of but tonight is round two, with the recipe. You like tempura, you'll never have to go to a Japanese restaurant for it again.
Update at eleven!