I would call it a lack of optimism. But a cat seemingly can't be optimistic. A dog, seeing his favorite activity about to be initiated, can be optimistic. Even a fish can seem optimistic upon being fed.
But no one thinks of these animals as being depressed. I saw my cat Iggy, who eventually became genetically blind, wander around in circles in the apartment, yowling.
My father died of depression and I don't know why. Everyone loved him and he loved everyone.
I'm hoping it was all the Nazis he killed who depressed him. Because he failed to kill more of them. That in itself would depress me.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Driving in Montreal
Driving in Montreal is a major gamble. Like I keep telling Brigitte, Crackerjack is making a fortune out of selling licenses in their boxes in Montreal.
It's easily the worst city I have driven in. Pedestrians (I'm usually one of them) are lunatics. Bicyclists are suicidal. Taxi drivers just basically decide where and when they want to drive and just do it.
I'm amazed each day that I drive in Montreal to come home in two pieces -- brain and body, let alone one piece.
It's easily the worst city I have driven in. Pedestrians (I'm usually one of them) are lunatics. Bicyclists are suicidal. Taxi drivers just basically decide where and when they want to drive and just do it.
I'm amazed each day that I drive in Montreal to come home in two pieces -- brain and body, let alone one piece.
What Is A Blog?
A "blog" is a shortened version of "Weblog."
What is a "weblog?" A weblog was originally meant to be be a sort of online diary. You'd suddenly come up with a thought, maybe take a picture or two, and voilà, here was your daily thought.
This is and was a good idea. However, as is natural in the real world, it got perverted.
This blog, from square one, was meant to be a continuation of montrealfood.com. However, as others in Montreal began posting reviews of restaurants with pictures (most by the wayside, I'll have you know) I decided that since I'd started it, why change the name? It's just a familiar iteration for people who know me, many, many who do not live in Montreal and will probably never come here.
So I post whatever I want. Just what I see in the news or whatever occurs to me. Sometimes it's a hilarious joke but sometimes it's deadly serious (well, it always has to be sarcastic if it's serious).
But lately trolls have been dropping by and leaving "sarcastic" comments -- really, they couldn't write to save their lives -- kind of like cyber graffitists -- and I just want to get an IED and plant it under their fucking spaghetti bolognese from President's Choice and detonate it remotely with a cell phone.
But you know I won't do that. Yet. Just delete the fucker and move on. Blork insisted that I leave the posts and comments up there for posterity's sake but I just don't like vitriol on my blog unless it's from my own mouth.
What is a "weblog?" A weblog was originally meant to be be a sort of online diary. You'd suddenly come up with a thought, maybe take a picture or two, and voilà, here was your daily thought.
This is and was a good idea. However, as is natural in the real world, it got perverted.
This blog, from square one, was meant to be a continuation of montrealfood.com. However, as others in Montreal began posting reviews of restaurants with pictures (most by the wayside, I'll have you know) I decided that since I'd started it, why change the name? It's just a familiar iteration for people who know me, many, many who do not live in Montreal and will probably never come here.
So I post whatever I want. Just what I see in the news or whatever occurs to me. Sometimes it's a hilarious joke but sometimes it's deadly serious (well, it always has to be sarcastic if it's serious).
But lately trolls have been dropping by and leaving "sarcastic" comments -- really, they couldn't write to save their lives -- kind of like cyber graffitists -- and I just want to get an IED and plant it under their fucking spaghetti bolognese from President's Choice and detonate it remotely with a cell phone.
But you know I won't do that. Yet. Just delete the fucker and move on. Blork insisted that I leave the posts and comments up there for posterity's sake but I just don't like vitriol on my blog unless it's from my own mouth.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The First Pages of the Adventures of Bock's Misfits!
日本人ようこそ！どうやって来ましたか分からないけど、お楽しみにして下さい！
Open each page in a new window to see them full size -- just clicking on them puts them in the Blogger interface which is next to useless
Open each page in a new window to see them full size -- just clicking on them puts them in the Blogger interface which is next to useless
Above: Private second class Heinz Guderian. Crime: absent without leave, possession of twenty cases of Kimmel Schnapps.
Below: Corporal Gerhardt Smeiss. Crime: Cowardice and dereliction of duty.
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Below: Gestapo agent Specialist Larsen. Able to kill with a small twist to the neck. Crime: in a drunken rage, killing his regimental commander with a small twist to the neck because the commander would not light his cigarette properly.
Below: Russian Lieutenant Ivanov. Hopeless drunk who crashed an L-15 truck into an ammo dump and set the entire base afire. Only his drunkenness allowed him to wander away in a daze instead of being consumed by the inferno.
Above: Hiroshi Sakamoto. Guard in prisoner of war camp for the Allies. Personally murdered six Australian prisoners.
Below: Mike Becker, outfitter who worked on the Golden Gate Bridge. Drafted. Killed a man in a bar who called his mother a "Bat from Hell."
But now there's a new addition: Major Konig: sniper (below). Crime: killing 25 Russian servicemen. No remorse. Sentence: death.
And finally . . . the enemy.
(Click on the Jpeg to enlarge in your browser)
But now there's a new addition: Major Konig: sniper (below). Crime: killing 25 Russian servicemen. No remorse. Sentence: death.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Gumby Wars
I know you too well, my flock, my faithful flock. You do not trust your Dear Leader to deliver on his promises of months, even years ago.
But building a castle does not involve two, or even two thousand bricks. However, it always starts with one, as the philosopher Mike2MikegotchaZEE! used to say.
But my saga of G.I Joe versus Gumby WILL COME TO FRUITION. Mistake me not, flock. My mind is teeming (mostly with beer, but sometimes with neurons) and I WILL PULL THIS OFF.
(Warning: spoilers ahead):
Commander Alden Benjamin Bock (Al B. Bock) assembles a motley crew of misfits who have been AWOL or in the brig for a long time. There is no funding from the Pentagon and these are no special forces. Just a bunch of losers from World War II -- from all sides, Axis and Allies. There is even a character from the future, No matter. They are all losers.
Bock has to assemble them and get them shipshape for an important mission that is not approved by the Pentagon: eliminate Gumby and his trusty but perverse horse and notorious torturer, Pokey.
It turns out that there are hundreds of millions of Gumbys and Pokeys and in reality, the Exalted Gumby (see below) presides over a socialist terrorist state which threatens the world.
Thus, the CSTON-Team (pronounced "SEE-Ston for "Can't Spell Their Own Names") must be assembled from the raggedy ass bunch of wretched but extremely talented specialists to take out Exalted Gumby and remove the threat of eternal Gumby-hatched terror from the civilized world.
(See? I told you it was a spoiler.)
Commander Bock is on the job. Look for the first exciting episode soon.
Meanwhile, here is a covert snapshot of the perpetrators/targets taken from an X-Fire Laser-guided High Density Camera Satellite Drone (XFLGHDCSD, or X-Drone for short):
But building a castle does not involve two, or even two thousand bricks. However, it always starts with one, as the philosopher Mike2MikegotchaZEE! used to say.
But my saga of G.I Joe versus Gumby WILL COME TO FRUITION. Mistake me not, flock. My mind is teeming (mostly with beer, but sometimes with neurons) and I WILL PULL THIS OFF.
(Warning: spoilers ahead):
Commander Alden Benjamin Bock (Al B. Bock) assembles a motley crew of misfits who have been AWOL or in the brig for a long time. There is no funding from the Pentagon and these are no special forces. Just a bunch of losers from World War II -- from all sides, Axis and Allies. There is even a character from the future, No matter. They are all losers.
Bock has to assemble them and get them shipshape for an important mission that is not approved by the Pentagon: eliminate Gumby and his trusty but perverse horse and notorious torturer, Pokey.
It turns out that there are hundreds of millions of Gumbys and Pokeys and in reality, the Exalted Gumby (see below) presides over a socialist terrorist state which threatens the world.
Thus, the CSTON-Team (pronounced "SEE-Ston for "Can't Spell Their Own Names") must be assembled from the raggedy ass bunch of wretched but extremely talented specialists to take out Exalted Gumby and remove the threat of eternal Gumby-hatched terror from the civilized world.
(See? I told you it was a spoiler.)
Commander Bock is on the job. Look for the first exciting episode soon.
Meanwhile, here is a covert snapshot of the perpetrators/targets taken from an X-Fire Laser-guided High Density Camera Satellite Drone (XFLGHDCSD, or X-Drone for short):
 |
| Exalted Gumby and Commissar Pokey in a playful moment at Gumpoke Castle |
Friday, September 24, 2010
Noise
When I lived in Africa, the nights were filled with noise. Not just cars -- there weren't many of those. But bugs, frogs, birds, bats, dogs, you name it. (Double that and you might get an idea).
A symphony of life. Never any peace.
Montreal is constant ambulances and buses and traffic.
I just want to go where there is not a single murmur of anything. No roar of the ocean, no crickets chirping, just NOTHING. An ABSENCE OF SOUND.
I''m beginning to believe deaf people actually have something on us.
A symphony of life. Never any peace.
Montreal is constant ambulances and buses and traffic.
I just want to go where there is not a single murmur of anything. No roar of the ocean, no crickets chirping, just NOTHING. An ABSENCE OF SOUND.
I''m beginning to believe deaf people actually have something on us.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Why I'm a Bad Cook
Number one, I have a pathetic appetite at the best of times. Put a burger in front of me and I'll be MAYBE able to finish half, even if it's the best burger in town. I have to take an anti-depressant pill 40 minutes before dinner called Buspar, because for me, it has a side-effect that makes me hungry. How pathetic can that be for a "food critic?"
I rarely eat lunch. I never eat breakfast, unless it's at five a.m. I have no idea why, but five a.m. is when I get the hungriest.
I can't cook if I'm not hungry, or at least, not full. I have no interest in cooking if I have a full stomach, at all. The few times I've done it, I just went through the motions. The results were not good.
I taste too much. So when the actual deed is done, I'm so sick of tasting and looking at it and smelling it that I just want to be anywhere else. This is frequently after hours and hours of planning, cooking, tasting and preparing.
This is why a dinner of charcuterie is great. There is no cooking or tasting, nothing hot, only cold and I don't get full before I even start eating.
Brigitte sometimes ridicules me (in a kind way) for ridiculing HER portion sizes. She's right. She eats normally and I eat weirdly. I've been like that since I was very young . . . come home after junior college and band practice, everyone is asleep, there is no dinner, I haven't eaten a thing all day and I still say "Fuck it" and go to bed in my clothes without even a chip.
So I try to make up for it by loving and thinking about food, all day, every day.
Life is very, very weird.
I rarely eat lunch. I never eat breakfast, unless it's at five a.m. I have no idea why, but five a.m. is when I get the hungriest.
I can't cook if I'm not hungry, or at least, not full. I have no interest in cooking if I have a full stomach, at all. The few times I've done it, I just went through the motions. The results were not good.
I taste too much. So when the actual deed is done, I'm so sick of tasting and looking at it and smelling it that I just want to be anywhere else. This is frequently after hours and hours of planning, cooking, tasting and preparing.
This is why a dinner of charcuterie is great. There is no cooking or tasting, nothing hot, only cold and I don't get full before I even start eating.
Brigitte sometimes ridicules me (in a kind way) for ridiculing HER portion sizes. She's right. She eats normally and I eat weirdly. I've been like that since I was very young . . . come home after junior college and band practice, everyone is asleep, there is no dinner, I haven't eaten a thing all day and I still say "Fuck it" and go to bed in my clothes without even a chip.
So I try to make up for it by loving and thinking about food, all day, every day.
Life is very, very weird.
Montreal: Kill Kill Kill!
Believe it or not, Montreal is NUMBER 22 of the most dangerous cities in Canada.
My God, people, you could have fooled me. I call the intersection at Cote des Neiges and Gatineau Suicide Alley.
My God, people, you could have fooled me. I call the intersection at Cote des Neiges and Gatineau Suicide Alley.
No, No No and No!
How on Earth would anyone even dare to CONSIDER delaying their departure for the Commonwealth Games? Who would even THINK about not being in the front row when the Games begin? Shame on them! And shame on you if you're not right up there in the stadium with me as we take part in this grand event!
Cockroaches! Collapsing buildings! Stray dogs! Stray bombs! Threats of horrendous massacres by Jamaa-e-Islam in luxury hotels by dozens of masked gunmen! Dengue fever! Hostages brutally beheaded on YouTube! Stray dogs! (Oh, I said that already).
WHAT people, is there exactly not to like?
Cockroaches! Collapsing buildings! Stray dogs! Stray bombs! Threats of horrendous massacres by Jamaa-e-Islam in luxury hotels by dozens of masked gunmen! Dengue fever! Hostages brutally beheaded on YouTube! Stray dogs! (Oh, I said that already).
WHAT people, is there exactly not to like?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Into the Bar Jokes
I've always loved the "Into the Bar" jokes. Here are a couple:
A white horse walks into a bar and orders a drink.
The barman says, "We have a bottle of whisky here with the same name as you."
The horse replies "What, Eric?"
A penguin goes into a bar and goes up to the bartender and says "I can't find my dad. Have you seen him?"
And the bartender says "I don't know, what's he look like?"
An atom goes into a bar and tells the bartender "I think I've lost an electron." Bartender says "Are you sure?"
Atom says "Yes, I'm positive."
A skeleton walks into a bar and says, "Gimme a beer, and a mop."
An amnesiac comes into a bar and asks a pretty girl, "Do I come here often?"
A piece of rope walks into a bar and the bartender says, "we don't serve your kind." The rope goes outside, ties himself in a knot and frays one end of himself. He walks back into the bar and the bartender says, "Weren't you just in here?" The rope replies, "Nope, I'm a frayed knot."
An Irishman walks out of a bar.
And one I just made up:
An alcoholic mummy goes back to a bar he's been in eight times today. Goes up to the bar and says "One for the road."
Bartender says "Tut, tut, tut."
A white horse walks into a bar and orders a drink.
The barman says, "We have a bottle of whisky here with the same name as you."
The horse replies "What, Eric?"
A penguin goes into a bar and goes up to the bartender and says "I can't find my dad. Have you seen him?"
And the bartender says "I don't know, what's he look like?"
An atom goes into a bar and tells the bartender "I think I've lost an electron." Bartender says "Are you sure?"
Atom says "Yes, I'm positive."
A skeleton walks into a bar and says, "Gimme a beer, and a mop."
An amnesiac comes into a bar and asks a pretty girl, "Do I come here often?"
A piece of rope walks into a bar and the bartender says, "we don't serve your kind." The rope goes outside, ties himself in a knot and frays one end of himself. He walks back into the bar and the bartender says, "Weren't you just in here?" The rope replies, "Nope, I'm a frayed knot."
An Irishman walks out of a bar.
And one I just made up:
An alcoholic mummy goes back to a bar he's been in eight times today. Goes up to the bar and says "One for the road."
Bartender says "Tut, tut, tut."
Tai-chan's Care Package
I'm sending my nine-year-old in Japan a care package of stuff. I found my Prismacolor pencils and so I drew him a couple of pictures, quite at random.
Next up: Halloween care package.
Gays! In the MILITARY!
Oh my FUCKING GOD! There are GAYS in the ARMY! This means that the enemy(ies) will specially target the fucking faggots! And lesbians!
Yes, they'll spot them just by the way their EYES look, not because they're sitting in a FUCKING TANK BAY on a road in Aid-el-Fitr, Baghdad, looking for IEDs that will possibly blow their arms off.
Yes, "Don't ask, don't tell!" This is the most intelligent, rational policy I've ever come across. Imagine the wisdom of all our hard-working politicians. Imagine the thousands of meetings of our leaders in the military who are there to serve our country.
Don't Ask! Don't tell!
But fucking get your head blown off with an RPG while you're at it. Free flag for your fucking gay and lesbian coffin, you shithead gay bastards!
Fuck. Sometimes you just have to say fuck. Sometimes you even have to say it twice.
Yes, they'll spot them just by the way their EYES look, not because they're sitting in a FUCKING TANK BAY on a road in Aid-el-Fitr, Baghdad, looking for IEDs that will possibly blow their arms off.
Yes, "Don't ask, don't tell!" This is the most intelligent, rational policy I've ever come across. Imagine the wisdom of all our hard-working politicians. Imagine the thousands of meetings of our leaders in the military who are there to serve our country.
Don't Ask! Don't tell!
But fucking get your head blown off with an RPG while you're at it. Free flag for your fucking gay and lesbian coffin, you shithead gay bastards!
Fuck. Sometimes you just have to say fuck. Sometimes you even have to say it twice.
Backwards Montreal
Okay, okay, okay. Montreal is the culinary capital of North America blah blah blah. My GOD man, the amount of amazing restaurants, the amazing range of flavors BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Well, how come they can't seem to make a decent fucking hamburger here? A decent fucking pizza? A decent fucking sushi plate? This town has a fucking LOUSY food scene and this is COMING FROM THE CREATOR OF MONTREALFOOD.COM.
Fucking rubes, most of them. Their so-called "elite" restaurants are pale and pathetic imitations of places in New York, Paris, London BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Schwartz's. Yep, SCHWARTZ'S PUTS US ON THE CULINARY MAP, people. That and ST. VIATEUR BAGEL.
This is a culinary scene? THIS IS A CULINARY SCENE? Oh, forgot that old standby, the Montreal Pool Room.
FUCKING EXCELLENT HOT DOGS THERE. Pieces of shit bought from the grocery store and steamed and THAT IS MONTREAL'S REPUTATION?
Montreal has one of the most pathetic food scenes of entire North America that I can think of. Most of the Chinese food is shit, most of the Japanese food is shit, most of the Italian food is shit, most of the Indian food is shit . . . need I go on?
Montreal's ONLY SAVING GRACE is that MOST RESTAURANTS ARE EMPTY MOST OF THE TIME.
Yup. Try going out to dinner in Oakland, California on a Friday night at 7 p.m. There'll be standing room only at the lowliest juke joint in town and you'll have to wait at least 20 minutes.
Not here.
There IS no food scene in Montreal except for the Tourist Bureau's version of it.
How come New York, with its huge assortment of clods, can come up with a website like Grub Street New York and, OH-SO COSMOPOLITAN MONTREAL has nothing of the sort?
Martiniboys. That's the level of communication we have about the dismal food scene here. Martiniboys. (Sorry, the link to this sorry site doesn't seem to be working. Perhaps they're under their desks with a bottle of Troika vodka to suck on).
I started montrealfood.com to try to get the message across about food in Montreal but it's failed miserably . . . possibly because the food in Montreal is so miserable.
I've been doing this for 25 years but Montreal is still in the Dark Ages compared to other cities in the world in all facets of food.
Have a bagel, some poutine and smoked meat, people. That's about all you're going to find in Montreal. Check out this place in New York and you'll see how provincial we are.
++++++++++
Postscript/bonus features rant
Oh, and add to the fact that Montreal forbids street food in any form except on private property. Yes, you read that right. Add to that that only a few years ago, they instituted a stupid law that allowed only FOUR PEOPLE to work at large grocery stores after nine o'clock to prevent harm to convenience stores. Or for grocery stores to be forced to be closed between 5 and 6 on weekends. CLOSED FOR AN HOUR IN PEAK TRAFFIC TIME ON WEEKENDS.
So what you got was a huge human traffic jam, lines hundreds long, waiting to buy a head of lettuce.
What a bunch of cretins work in Montreal's city hall. (That's pronounced "kreu-tahn." Learn it. Apply it to any politician in Montreal if you ever happen upon one).
Well, how come they can't seem to make a decent fucking hamburger here? A decent fucking pizza? A decent fucking sushi plate? This town has a fucking LOUSY food scene and this is COMING FROM THE CREATOR OF MONTREALFOOD.COM.
Fucking rubes, most of them. Their so-called "elite" restaurants are pale and pathetic imitations of places in New York, Paris, London BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Schwartz's. Yep, SCHWARTZ'S PUTS US ON THE CULINARY MAP, people. That and ST. VIATEUR BAGEL.
This is a culinary scene? THIS IS A CULINARY SCENE? Oh, forgot that old standby, the Montreal Pool Room.
FUCKING EXCELLENT HOT DOGS THERE. Pieces of shit bought from the grocery store and steamed and THAT IS MONTREAL'S REPUTATION?
Montreal has one of the most pathetic food scenes of entire North America that I can think of. Most of the Chinese food is shit, most of the Japanese food is shit, most of the Italian food is shit, most of the Indian food is shit . . . need I go on?
Montreal's ONLY SAVING GRACE is that MOST RESTAURANTS ARE EMPTY MOST OF THE TIME.
Yup. Try going out to dinner in Oakland, California on a Friday night at 7 p.m. There'll be standing room only at the lowliest juke joint in town and you'll have to wait at least 20 minutes.
Not here.
There IS no food scene in Montreal except for the Tourist Bureau's version of it.
How come New York, with its huge assortment of clods, can come up with a website like Grub Street New York and, OH-SO COSMOPOLITAN MONTREAL has nothing of the sort?
Martiniboys. That's the level of communication we have about the dismal food scene here. Martiniboys. (Sorry, the link to this sorry site doesn't seem to be working. Perhaps they're under their desks with a bottle of Troika vodka to suck on).
I started montrealfood.com to try to get the message across about food in Montreal but it's failed miserably . . . possibly because the food in Montreal is so miserable.
I've been doing this for 25 years but Montreal is still in the Dark Ages compared to other cities in the world in all facets of food.
Have a bagel, some poutine and smoked meat, people. That's about all you're going to find in Montreal. Check out this place in New York and you'll see how provincial we are.
++++++++++
Postscript/bonus features rant
Oh, and add to the fact that Montreal forbids street food in any form except on private property. Yes, you read that right. Add to that that only a few years ago, they instituted a stupid law that allowed only FOUR PEOPLE to work at large grocery stores after nine o'clock to prevent harm to convenience stores. Or for grocery stores to be forced to be closed between 5 and 6 on weekends. CLOSED FOR AN HOUR IN PEAK TRAFFIC TIME ON WEEKENDS.
So what you got was a huge human traffic jam, lines hundreds long, waiting to buy a head of lettuce.
What a bunch of cretins work in Montreal's city hall. (That's pronounced "kreu-tahn." Learn it. Apply it to any politician in Montreal if you ever happen upon one).
Line Up, Line Up, No Shoving
Okay, folks, don't shove each other in line to get tickets to the Commonwealth Games! You're only undermining each others' chances of getting prime seats.
You there, at the back . . . is that a 10,000 rupee note you have folded in your squalid little pocket?
You there, at the back . . . is that a 10,000 rupee note you have folded in your squalid little pocket?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Two Heads
Just imagine if you were unfortunate enough to have two heads. In my case, it would be a disaster.
"Fuck you, roll over, you fuckhead, and let me sleep and stop fucking with the remote control."
"Hey, fuck you! I didn't fucking stay up till 4:30 last night typing drunken emails. What's with the white wine at dawn, anyway?"
"You're such an asshole. When are you going to call that surgeon? I really need a separation here."
"M-O-N-E-Y, dickwad. If you actually WORKED for a living we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Hey fuck you, watch the fucking news, dude, everyone's fucking homeless! You empty the dishwasher and you demand respect?"
"What's for dinner, anyway?"
"How about hot dogs?"
"Fuck you, roll over, you fuckhead, and let me sleep and stop fucking with the remote control."
"Hey, fuck you! I didn't fucking stay up till 4:30 last night typing drunken emails. What's with the white wine at dawn, anyway?"
"You're such an asshole. When are you going to call that surgeon? I really need a separation here."
"M-O-N-E-Y, dickwad. If you actually WORKED for a living we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Hey fuck you, watch the fucking news, dude, everyone's fucking homeless! You empty the dishwasher and you demand respect?"
"What's for dinner, anyway?"
"How about hot dogs?"
A Lonely Wait
Someone has calculated that the odds of your child being snatched off the street by a random kidnapper would entail that he would have to stand there for 750,000 hours.
Umm, that's 85 years.
That is an AWFUL long time to wait to be kidnapped.
Umm, that's 85 years.
That is an AWFUL long time to wait to be kidnapped.
No End to Perversity
There really isn't.
But I want one. (To spit on, revile, hate during my sleepless hours . . . you get the picture.)
Meanwhile, Brigitte is going to kill me . . .
But I want one. (To spit on, revile, hate during my sleepless hours . . . you get the picture.)
Meanwhile, Brigitte is going to kill me . . .
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Case for Multi-Scales, and others, and not hiking in Iran
That was the title of an email from the guy I buy all my guitars from and here is my reply:
"Umm . . . that's weird, Kurt, because I had just lined up a hike along the Iraq/Iran border. Would you like to join us? Maybe we can bring a guitar or two to bribe the border guards of both sides.
"Can you imagine it? Sitting by the campfire with our SX guitars and the border guards singing "ALLLLAHUUU AKHBAR!" in A minor and scaring the mountain raccoons.
"Would you want to do that? Let me know because I'm in touch with my travel agent and he says he can at least "get you to Kandahar, cheap, but you have to be embedded." Then we're on our own and I don't have a spare AK-47, but I know we can do it if we only have our guitars! They'll come in handy in solitary at Evin prison between beatings and torture. Fun fun fun! Can you sing?
"Cheers
"Nick"
"Umm . . . that's weird, Kurt, because I had just lined up a hike along the Iraq/Iran border. Would you like to join us? Maybe we can bring a guitar or two to bribe the border guards of both sides.
"Can you imagine it? Sitting by the campfire with our SX guitars and the border guards singing "ALLLLAHUUU AKHBAR!" in A minor and scaring the mountain raccoons.
"Would you want to do that? Let me know because I'm in touch with my travel agent and he says he can at least "get you to Kandahar, cheap, but you have to be embedded." Then we're on our own and I don't have a spare AK-47, but I know we can do it if we only have our guitars! They'll come in handy in solitary at Evin prison between beatings and torture. Fun fun fun! Can you sing?
"Cheers
"Nick"
Ahh, Weekend Fun
Last night I went into some kind of slump, because I just fell asleep at 5 or so and couldn't wake up. Maybe it was the movie I was watching alone: Urban Cowboy.
But Brigitte really wanted to take advantage of the minestrone and charcuterie so she roused me, bleary-eyed, and we had dinner at ten or so. I'd been snacking all day making the soup so I wasn't so hungry, but she sure thought it was the best soup on the planet! I swear, that's the best result of cooking anything.
But then the fun started: I made her watch The Shining. She'd been putting it off for years because she isn't a horror fan, but I carefully explained that it was a "landmark film" and a "masterwork" by Stanley Kubrick, so we watched it all the way through. I had promised there was to be no gore or blood but unfortunately there was that axe murder at the end that I forgot about.
"Complete WASTE OF TIME!" she wailed. "I HATED IT! Why do you make me watch these things? I could go to Value Village and have more fun!"
But I secretly know that she loved it. She protested, but under duress would admit that "It was a fine film, with magnificent cinematography, a strong cast and a solid plot."
See? Vindicated. Unfortunately for me, next up is "You've Got Mail."
Today we both reluctantly roused ourselves for the apartment sale at her mother's old apartment. We started to drive but then her leg hurt so much that she said "I can't drive."
So guess who, after 22 years not on the road and with no driver's license, terrified of all traffic in Montreal, took the wheel.
In spite of one turn on an unexpected bifurcation I did an absolutely magnificent job, with Brigitte's expert direction, and even managed (AFTER 22 YEARS) to ONE-POINT (that is, in only one try) PARALLEL PARK with only three inches from the sidewalk between two cars.
SO THERE, disbelievers. It was hell of fun, and now I think I want a driver's license. A good Montreal pedestrian is a dead Montreal pedestrian!
Just thought I'd share that with you.
But Brigitte really wanted to take advantage of the minestrone and charcuterie so she roused me, bleary-eyed, and we had dinner at ten or so. I'd been snacking all day making the soup so I wasn't so hungry, but she sure thought it was the best soup on the planet! I swear, that's the best result of cooking anything.
But then the fun started: I made her watch The Shining. She'd been putting it off for years because she isn't a horror fan, but I carefully explained that it was a "landmark film" and a "masterwork" by Stanley Kubrick, so we watched it all the way through. I had promised there was to be no gore or blood but unfortunately there was that axe murder at the end that I forgot about.
"Complete WASTE OF TIME!" she wailed. "I HATED IT! Why do you make me watch these things? I could go to Value Village and have more fun!"
But I secretly know that she loved it. She protested, but under duress would admit that "It was a fine film, with magnificent cinematography, a strong cast and a solid plot."
See? Vindicated. Unfortunately for me, next up is "You've Got Mail."
Today we both reluctantly roused ourselves for the apartment sale at her mother's old apartment. We started to drive but then her leg hurt so much that she said "I can't drive."
So guess who, after 22 years not on the road and with no driver's license, terrified of all traffic in Montreal, took the wheel.
In spite of one turn on an unexpected bifurcation I did an absolutely magnificent job, with Brigitte's expert direction, and even managed (AFTER 22 YEARS) to ONE-POINT (that is, in only one try) PARALLEL PARK with only three inches from the sidewalk between two cars.
SO THERE, disbelievers. It was hell of fun, and now I think I want a driver's license. A good Montreal pedestrian is a dead Montreal pedestrian!
Just thought I'd share that with you.
The Death of Religion
Just reading about the Pope just drives me nuts. Just reading about Islam drives me nuts. Just reading about some cult that is "sacrificing all twelve members, women and children" to be with God drives me nuts.
Christ, give me aliens instead. Give me Scientology. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE THAT THEY CAN'T ACCEPT THAT THEY'RE BORN ALONE AND WILL DIE ALONE?
There will be no virgins. No harps. No Holy Trinity. NO SALVATION AND REDEMPTION. You will DIE and BE NO MORE. There will be no soul, no resurrection, no rebirth in another form as a bird or a fly, YOU WILL JUST DIE.
What is it about this equation that people don't understand? It's really starting to bug me, in my old age.
Do I really think my father's up there in the sky, drinking martinis and smoking his cigarettes and jamming with my dead brother and dead uncle and dead nephew?
WELL, NO. It's a NICE THOUGHT and it entertains me but I really know that they are JUST DEAD and have been reabsorbed into the universe with their atoms and will never feel anything again, just like before I was born.
THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT.
There is no God, there is no heaven and if there's a Hell, how do I make a reservation? That'll be Infinity, please, on the lowest floor you have. Champagne and hookers every night, if you please. Just no fucking Popes and Islamists.
Christ, give me aliens instead. Give me Scientology. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE THAT THEY CAN'T ACCEPT THAT THEY'RE BORN ALONE AND WILL DIE ALONE?
There will be no virgins. No harps. No Holy Trinity. NO SALVATION AND REDEMPTION. You will DIE and BE NO MORE. There will be no soul, no resurrection, no rebirth in another form as a bird or a fly, YOU WILL JUST DIE.
What is it about this equation that people don't understand? It's really starting to bug me, in my old age.
Do I really think my father's up there in the sky, drinking martinis and smoking his cigarettes and jamming with my dead brother and dead uncle and dead nephew?
WELL, NO. It's a NICE THOUGHT and it entertains me but I really know that they are JUST DEAD and have been reabsorbed into the universe with their atoms and will never feel anything again, just like before I was born.
THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT.
There is no God, there is no heaven and if there's a Hell, how do I make a reservation? That'll be Infinity, please, on the lowest floor you have. Champagne and hookers every night, if you please. Just no fucking Popes and Islamists.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Why I Am Not A "Foodie"
Well, number one, I hate that fucking term. It's pretentious beyond belief. It implies that one possesses certain knowledge that mere plebeians have no concerns with, because they're too dumb to begin with.
But Blork brought that one up in a recent Facebook post when I actually called him a foodie -- I was kidding but he obviously feels the same way I do.
I used to be an artist. I used to be a musician. And I say this because I was a professional at both disciplines.
But when I saw the heights of pretentiousness that could be attained by people who did either, I was severely disappointed. There must be such a thing as "faux-knowledge." The term must exist.
Recently I decided that if con men can exist, so can I. Sitting beside someone on an airplane who asks you "What do YOU do?" . . . why the fuck not say "I race cars for a living."
"NOOOOO . . . . really?"
"Yep, that's what I do. I finished fifth in the Monaco Grand Prix in 2007. Marco Guardi cut me off on the last lap."
"No kidding!"
"Nope. Really happened."
So misrepresenting yourself is very, very easy. I like food, I love to cook, I love to think about food, I love to eat food, but I am SO FAR FROM BEING A "FOODIE" that I resent the term and resent the concept.
Say "I'm a foodie" to a small 8-year-old Namibian child and you'll get some sense of what I'm talking about.
But Blork brought that one up in a recent Facebook post when I actually called him a foodie -- I was kidding but he obviously feels the same way I do.
I used to be an artist. I used to be a musician. And I say this because I was a professional at both disciplines.
But when I saw the heights of pretentiousness that could be attained by people who did either, I was severely disappointed. There must be such a thing as "faux-knowledge." The term must exist.
Recently I decided that if con men can exist, so can I. Sitting beside someone on an airplane who asks you "What do YOU do?" . . . why the fuck not say "I race cars for a living."
"NOOOOO . . . . really?"
"Yep, that's what I do. I finished fifth in the Monaco Grand Prix in 2007. Marco Guardi cut me off on the last lap."
"No kidding!"
"Nope. Really happened."
So misrepresenting yourself is very, very easy. I like food, I love to cook, I love to think about food, I love to eat food, but I am SO FAR FROM BEING A "FOODIE" that I resent the term and resent the concept.
Say "I'm a foodie" to a small 8-year-old Namibian child and you'll get some sense of what I'm talking about.
Things That Piss Me Off
Oh, there aren't many, flock! Not so many. But the things that do ROYALLY piss me off.
Case A: you buy home theater. Nice home theater! Sound good home theater. Plasma wall-mounted HDMI 1080p TV! Amazing stereo sound system! 6 speakers, subwoofer, two DVD players, one a combo VHS!
But all of a sudden you now have five remote controls. Fucking five little plastic fuckers you have to have around at all times, usually lost in the middle of the quilt.
Case B: DVD makers. These fuckers have it in for you, they really do. I know, because I've made many a cinematic DVD from scratch.
See, the deal is, you turn on Home Theater, switch to DVD mode, see opening images, and there's no sound. You have no idea whether there's no sound because the remote is on the wrong setting, or there's no sound on the title sequence of the DVD.
So you click and click and all of a sudden there is a BLAST of sound because all their title sequences were completely silent and you've turned all the remotes to maximum.
THERE IS NO WAY TO KNOW THIS IN ADVANCE. So your significant other comes in, shaking, saying "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT????" when you happen to turn on Saving Private Ryan.
Why do DVD makers do this? Is it a perverse wish to encourage divorce?
Case D: (I skipped Case C because it's too annoying even to mention and because I know you're reading this at work and your boss is "hovering.")
The horrendous perversity of making things black. Yes, black. So, in the deepening dusk of your happy bedroom, you can't read a SINGLE FUCKING BUTTON on your remote control.
So that when you go in the back of your $4,500 sound system you can't read a SINGLE FUCKING THING on the all-black jack inputs. The perversity of this is almost too much to mention; it's like cockfighting or watching beheading videos on YouTube.
My simple question to all these things is
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????"
Case A: you buy home theater. Nice home theater! Sound good home theater. Plasma wall-mounted HDMI 1080p TV! Amazing stereo sound system! 6 speakers, subwoofer, two DVD players, one a combo VHS!
But all of a sudden you now have five remote controls. Fucking five little plastic fuckers you have to have around at all times, usually lost in the middle of the quilt.
Case B: DVD makers. These fuckers have it in for you, they really do. I know, because I've made many a cinematic DVD from scratch.
See, the deal is, you turn on Home Theater, switch to DVD mode, see opening images, and there's no sound. You have no idea whether there's no sound because the remote is on the wrong setting, or there's no sound on the title sequence of the DVD.
So you click and click and all of a sudden there is a BLAST of sound because all their title sequences were completely silent and you've turned all the remotes to maximum.
THERE IS NO WAY TO KNOW THIS IN ADVANCE. So your significant other comes in, shaking, saying "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT????" when you happen to turn on Saving Private Ryan.
Why do DVD makers do this? Is it a perverse wish to encourage divorce?
Case D: (I skipped Case C because it's too annoying even to mention and because I know you're reading this at work and your boss is "hovering.")
The horrendous perversity of making things black. Yes, black. So, in the deepening dusk of your happy bedroom, you can't read a SINGLE FUCKING BUTTON on your remote control.
So that when you go in the back of your $4,500 sound system you can't read a SINGLE FUCKING THING on the all-black jack inputs. The perversity of this is almost too much to mention; it's like cockfighting or watching beheading videos on YouTube.
My simple question to all these things is
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????"
Ruminations Upon Death
Sorry, flock, to have such a horrific subject matter, but it's really been occurring to me, more in a clinical, detached way than a philosophical one, recently. I wish to represent a balanced, unworrisome view.
We all wonder: what the hell is going to happen to me when I die?
It's a really hard one, but if you think of it in a concrete manner, it's far, far worse than if you don't die but someone else you know does. You're left to contemplate it.
My first experience with death was when a small two-year-old named Robin (I'll never forget her name) decided she wanted to climb a fire escape with her brother and me. We were just five years old; we couldn't have had a clue, but no one was looking after any of us.
She fell off the fire escape and suffered fatal head trauma. You know the phrase "blood everywhere?" But that's what it was, and I was maybe 5. Looking down at that baby in the white frock with a ten-foot pool of blood on the tarmac is engraved in my mind like you etched it in acid. Who knew that even babies were just basically bags of blood?
So my dad died. But he died very slowly, like an aging plant just running out of steam. I would love to say that I lived to 87 years old. No pain, just deterioration.
But in the end, what is death? I'll tell you, my flock, what death is, and why you don't have to be afraid about it.
Remember when you were two weeks old? I thought so. That is death. There is no problem with it other than the regret of not continuing life. Your life. Your mother's life. Your friend's life.
But death is quite friendly; it means never reading the news again. As if you needed to read the news in the first place. The universe is very, very slow, so when you slap that fly's life out of existence, recognize that it only had about 28 days to live.
We have about 70 years, but bristlecone pines live for thousands. And who dares to say they have no consciousness? Only one we may not know about.
I'm facing a number of people who are going to check out/have checked out so I just get to thinking about it. Sure, easy to say at 4 a.m. but: don't be afraid. It'll be just like going back to Mummy's stomach. And you liked that.
I promise it so.
We all wonder: what the hell is going to happen to me when I die?
It's a really hard one, but if you think of it in a concrete manner, it's far, far worse than if you don't die but someone else you know does. You're left to contemplate it.
My first experience with death was when a small two-year-old named Robin (I'll never forget her name) decided she wanted to climb a fire escape with her brother and me. We were just five years old; we couldn't have had a clue, but no one was looking after any of us.
She fell off the fire escape and suffered fatal head trauma. You know the phrase "blood everywhere?" But that's what it was, and I was maybe 5. Looking down at that baby in the white frock with a ten-foot pool of blood on the tarmac is engraved in my mind like you etched it in acid. Who knew that even babies were just basically bags of blood?
So my dad died. But he died very slowly, like an aging plant just running out of steam. I would love to say that I lived to 87 years old. No pain, just deterioration.
But in the end, what is death? I'll tell you, my flock, what death is, and why you don't have to be afraid about it.
Remember when you were two weeks old? I thought so. That is death. There is no problem with it other than the regret of not continuing life. Your life. Your mother's life. Your friend's life.
But death is quite friendly; it means never reading the news again. As if you needed to read the news in the first place. The universe is very, very slow, so when you slap that fly's life out of existence, recognize that it only had about 28 days to live.
We have about 70 years, but bristlecone pines live for thousands. And who dares to say they have no consciousness? Only one we may not know about.
I'm facing a number of people who are going to check out/have checked out so I just get to thinking about it. Sure, easy to say at 4 a.m. but: don't be afraid. It'll be just like going back to Mummy's stomach. And you liked that.
I promise it so.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Random Notes XVIII
Did you know that your hair is growing at a rate of 8.6465 billionths of a meter PER SECOND? That's a lot of billionths.
WHY, not WHAT is Twitter?
Is it for people with extremely short attention spans? What, can't read more than 30 words at a time? Can't TYPE more than 30 words at a time? Keyboard too tough, huh? When was the last time you actually WROTE anything longer than your name? You know, with a PEN?
In my (as-usual)-measured, balanced opinion, it's a perverse waste of the Internet, just like Facebook is.
Hey, DOOODS, remember Friendster? No? DON'T REMEMBER THAT PIECE OF SHIT?
Twitter is a ludicrous application for people who barely grazed through high school, so sorry. Facebook is just one step above that. GET A GODDAMN BLOG OR AN EMAIL ACCOUNT and stop wasting all this bandwidth on your pathetic trivial observations of the moment.
Just a thought.
I ate some cheese today.
In my (as-usual)-measured, balanced opinion, it's a perverse waste of the Internet, just like Facebook is.
Hey, DOOODS, remember Friendster? No? DON'T REMEMBER THAT PIECE OF SHIT?
Twitter is a ludicrous application for people who barely grazed through high school, so sorry. Facebook is just one step above that. GET A GODDAMN BLOG OR AN EMAIL ACCOUNT and stop wasting all this bandwidth on your pathetic trivial observations of the moment.
Just a thought.
I ate some cheese today.
The Future is Here
If you can believe it -- wait for it, and this is not a joke -- these stools were printed. I kid you not, my flock. Printed .
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Endlessness
Why is it that I saw this headline in the Herald Tribune in 1970?:
Israel and Palestinian Leaders Extend Egypt Talks
What the fuck is wrong with these people? It's like the feuding neighbours, the McCoys and the Hatfields . . . just out for a fight every time they walk the street.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? Does Sweden constantly bicker with Denmark?
WHY THE FUCK NOT?
Does Belgium have a huge problem with China? WHY THE FUCK NOT???
What is mentally wrong with these people that they have to be SO FUCKED UP?
Fucking soccer hoodlums make more sense to me.
Israel and Palestinian Leaders Extend Egypt Talks
What the fuck is wrong with these people? It's like the feuding neighbours, the McCoys and the Hatfields . . . just out for a fight every time they walk the street.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? Does Sweden constantly bicker with Denmark?
WHY THE FUCK NOT?
Does Belgium have a huge problem with China? WHY THE FUCK NOT???
What is mentally wrong with these people that they have to be SO FUCKED UP?
Fucking soccer hoodlums make more sense to me.
New Novel!
And you can be a part of it! Just post a comment to continue the story! As usual, it's a Thriller. Here's the first paragraph:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reinhard, despite his initial distaste, took to this job of gravedigging with eventual enthusiasm. What’s good for the muscles is good for the mind, he murmured to himself as his spade dug into the the dark, rich Bavarian earth.
Roots are your future, he told the corpse silently, and worms your new best friends.
Finally, much later, he staggered backwards and looked at his handiwork. Six feet is so much more than just six feet! he marveled with not a little pride.
Then he rolled the corpse of Lieutenant Messner into the grave.
“Bye, Fritzie,” Reinhard muttered, “We’re going to miss you.” Messner fell face up and his sightless eye, the one that had not been shot, stared into the deepening twilight of the wooded grove, not at Reinhard.
Reinhard found it hard to look at and immediately emptied a shovelful of moist, root entangled soil onto Messner’s reproachful face.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reinhard, despite his initial distaste, took to this job of gravedigging with eventual enthusiasm. What’s good for the muscles is good for the mind, he murmured to himself as his spade dug into the the dark, rich Bavarian earth.
Roots are your future, he told the corpse silently, and worms your new best friends.
Finally, much later, he staggered backwards and looked at his handiwork. Six feet is so much more than just six feet! he marveled with not a little pride.
Then he rolled the corpse of Lieutenant Messner into the grave.
“Bye, Fritzie,” Reinhard muttered, “We’re going to miss you.” Messner fell face up and his sightless eye, the one that had not been shot, stared into the deepening twilight of the wooded grove, not at Reinhard.
Reinhard found it hard to look at and immediately emptied a shovelful of moist, root entangled soil onto Messner’s reproachful face.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Holy Moses
Sorry. Just pulled the subject line from the song I'm listening to by Elton John.
But it probably describes my past 5 or so days.
As I write I'm pretty incoherent . . . PTSD if you will. So forgive me if passages don't make sense sometimes.
I'm in a half-world at the moment. Quarter world?
But I did Japan and it was the worst, worst ever. When I go to pick up Taishi I kind of get a candy at the end of of the 40-hour trip when I see him and he says "I love you, Daddy," but when I drop him back off it's just such a desolate feeling that you just can't imagine.
I try to medicate and sometimes it doesn't work so well. "You're not boarding this flight, sir." But all I want to go is to my seat and go to sleep, not fondle flight attendants' ample asses and insult the fellow passengers.
No-can do. 7-hour prolongation. I made the flight in first class but they denied me "alcohol services.' Yep, as you can imagine, I was a raving, crazed idiot bashing flight attendants right and left.
I just went to sleep and refused their "Top sirloin entrée." Fuck them. First class these days is like Greyhound 50 years ago.
But what made it so positive was all the sweet and interesting people I encountered. The bartender that made me the most bizarre Bloody Mary I've ever had . . . includes a block of cheddar on a toothpick! I am simply going to have to remember that one! Made my fucking day.
Such a sweetie. And in Japan,, I went to a sushi shop in the airport and I was the only customer. I had a namazake (cold saké) and a helping of maguro and unagi and it was the FUCKING BEST MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD!
Then I get to Detroit and make my 6 a.m. white wine stop at a place I've never been and she makes a nice pour, the dear, and I see a jar in the cabinet. Are those dill pickles? No, they're olives.
Umm, could you make me a dill pickle? What, like . . . like a spear? YES!
That white wine and that dill pickle were the BEST FUCKING MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD. Yeah, okay, so I have pretty competing BEST FUCKING MEALS. They're all equal.
So last leg, Detroit-Metro>; Montreal. I could barely stand, I was so tired. This young attendant gently roused me and said, "Can I get you something?" I said, yes, darling, a can of Bloody Mary mix would be good.
At the risk of offending my dearest and most beautiful wife, at the end, as I managed to somehow stagger off the plan (NOT DRUNK!!!!!! TIRED) I said to her in front of the cockpit door, ,"You know, I hate to be cheesy and steal from Elton John, but you have the sweetest eyes I've ever seen."
The fucking pilots laughed me off the plane. "Nice one, dude! A Player! Diidja hear that, Don? Gotta perfect my schtick from now on! Hey, nice tie, dude!"
It was all fun and I'm so glad to be home with my darlimg Brigitte.
But it probably describes my past 5 or so days.
As I write I'm pretty incoherent . . . PTSD if you will. So forgive me if passages don't make sense sometimes.
I'm in a half-world at the moment. Quarter world?
But I did Japan and it was the worst, worst ever. When I go to pick up Taishi I kind of get a candy at the end of of the 40-hour trip when I see him and he says "I love you, Daddy," but when I drop him back off it's just such a desolate feeling that you just can't imagine.
I try to medicate and sometimes it doesn't work so well. "You're not boarding this flight, sir." But all I want to go is to my seat and go to sleep, not fondle flight attendants' ample asses and insult the fellow passengers.
No-can do. 7-hour prolongation. I made the flight in first class but they denied me "alcohol services.' Yep, as you can imagine, I was a raving, crazed idiot bashing flight attendants right and left.
I just went to sleep and refused their "Top sirloin entrée." Fuck them. First class these days is like Greyhound 50 years ago.
But what made it so positive was all the sweet and interesting people I encountered. The bartender that made me the most bizarre Bloody Mary I've ever had . . . includes a block of cheddar on a toothpick! I am simply going to have to remember that one! Made my fucking day.
Such a sweetie. And in Japan,, I went to a sushi shop in the airport and I was the only customer. I had a namazake (cold saké) and a helping of maguro and unagi and it was the FUCKING BEST MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD!
Then I get to Detroit and make my 6 a.m. white wine stop at a place I've never been and she makes a nice pour, the dear, and I see a jar in the cabinet. Are those dill pickles? No, they're olives.
Umm, could you make me a dill pickle? What, like . . . like a spear? YES!
That white wine and that dill pickle were the BEST FUCKING MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD. Yeah, okay, so I have pretty competing BEST FUCKING MEALS. They're all equal.
So last leg, Detroit-Metro>; Montreal. I could barely stand, I was so tired. This young attendant gently roused me and said, "Can I get you something?" I said, yes, darling, a can of Bloody Mary mix would be good.
At the risk of offending my dearest and most beautiful wife, at the end, as I managed to somehow stagger off the plan (NOT DRUNK!!!!!! TIRED) I said to her in front of the cockpit door, ,"You know, I hate to be cheesy and steal from Elton John, but you have the sweetest eyes I've ever seen."
The fucking pilots laughed me off the plane. "Nice one, dude! A Player! Diidja hear that, Don? Gotta perfect my schtick from now on! Hey, nice tie, dude!"
It was all fun and I'm so glad to be home with my darlimg Brigitte.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Pain
An animal can't feel pain. Let me rephrase that. IT MOST TERRIBLY CAN feel pain.
But the pain that it feels cannot be thought about, at least in the realm of our senses. We, as humans, have the extraordinary capacity to not only feel pain, but question WHY we feel pain.Do you think the cat that has just been run over by a car says to itself. "Oh my God? I might die! This hurts so much."
Believe me, it doesn't.
And believe me, it applies to humans as well. When two-year-old Robin plunged off a two-floor fire escape, blood pooling four feet from her little head in front of my astonished eyes on the tarmac, she felt no real pain. She just lived a little, and then died.
But sometimes the pain is worse; it's in OUR HEADS. A bird dying of agrifungus AF has no idea why it feels so bad. It just feels bad.
But WE know why we feel bad.
Too bad.
Sorry. Bad mood.
But the pain that it feels cannot be thought about, at least in the realm of our senses. We, as humans, have the extraordinary capacity to not only feel pain, but question WHY we feel pain.Do you think the cat that has just been run over by a car says to itself. "Oh my God? I might die! This hurts so much."
Believe me, it doesn't.
And believe me, it applies to humans as well. When two-year-old Robin plunged off a two-floor fire escape, blood pooling four feet from her little head in front of my astonished eyes on the tarmac, she felt no real pain. She just lived a little, and then died.
But sometimes the pain is worse; it's in OUR HEADS. A bird dying of agrifungus AF has no idea why it feels so bad. It just feels bad.
But WE know why we feel bad.
Too bad.
Sorry. Bad mood.