Is this really what it's come down to? Is this the beginning of the end of the beginning of the end?
Twitter: some guy named Nelly Mo (name already a thoughtcrime):
"S/o 2 lilhomie jamie gold did his 13bday 2day!also s/o 2 mr n mrs gold cuzz $ wasn't a thang !its nothen like maybac money 4 15mn damm!lol"
Is this what the end of existence feels like? Is this truly it? My eyes are growing dim . . . but there is no light . . . goodbye, Flock, goodbye . . . .
Monday, January 31, 2011
Bugs XVMCCXIV
My sister is in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, doing a month-long stint for our beloved Homeland Security (interviewing refugee claimants). Apparently the other day she discovered a tick attached to her thigh (I know: eww). She’s pretty hyper-aware of tropical infectious diseases (we’ve both lived in ultra-high-risk areas for long periods of time) so of course she’s afraid of dengue.
I told her that she probably won’t get dengue from a tick, but she very well might from a mosquito.
You know, I just don’t get mosquitos. What function do they serve? Houseflies regurgitate onto things and make them decay — their maggots even clean infected tissue — but mosquitoes, as far as I can see, have absolutely no function in life other than to spread disease and be food for other things.
But you would simply not believe what a masterful piece of work a mosquito is. And if you look at it one way, it’s not their fault that parasites and viruses hitch a ride with them, so they’re actually getting a bit of a bad rap.
But what a piece of work they are. If an insect could possibly be cunning, sinister, sneaky, greedy and vicious, that insect would be a mosquito. I kind of get why people are afraid of spiders. No, really, I do. If there’s one on the ceiling in my bedroom, do you think I’m going to turn out the lights and go to sleep? Uh-uh. But a spider can’t KILL you. In fact, there are very, very few insects that can actually KILL an adult human being. Scorpions can make you have an awful bad day, tarantulas are kind of a drag, hornets, well, let’s not get into them, but they can’t KILL you.
But skeeters can.
I remember a night, long ago, in a hotel in Rwanda (no really, I do) when it was pitch black and mosquitoes were swarming as I tried to sleep. We were all taking anti-malarials at the time but just the sheer annoyance of that dentist-drill buzz . . . like tiny little Stukas dive-bombing your ear — had me insane with anger. I wanted to smash their chitinous little bodies into little pieces with a samurai sword and then cut up the pieces.
But mosquitoes have changed the course of human history as long as there have been humans. Flies haven’t. Scorpions haven’t. But whole boatloads, no, fleetloads of explorers were killed by one of the hundreds (seems like) of diseases that mosquitoes carry. Who knows, someone might have discovered America 2,000 years earlier if they weren’t killed by yellow fever first.
The Panama Canal was almost never finished. The French actually gave up on it because they were all dying at such high rates. And no one had a clue that this buzzing little bastard was the cause.
I told Laurie that if I were her, I’d “take a shampoo in DEET” every day I was there.
Let’s keep our proboscises crossed.
It it Quacks . . .
And then there was light at the end of the tunnel.
Doing a magret de canard is childishly simple. You simply can't ruin it unless you cook it into shoe leather, which I do NOT advise. Duck should be eaten rare, or at most, medium rare. It is not like chicken. It is not like turkey. It is strikingly similar in taste and texture to a very tender filet mignon of beef.
I brined mine in a salt and sugar solution overnight, but it appears not to have really affected the taste, as it would chicken breasts.
So:
Magret de Canard Wrapped in Bacon
Ingredients
1 large duck breast, about 1-inch thick, including fat
3 strips thick-cut bacon
Salt
Pepper
Method
With a very sharp knife, score the fat of the duck breast without cutting all the way through in a criss-cross fashion. Salt and pepper both sides. Wrap the breast with the bacon slices.
In a non-stick frying pan preheated to medium, set the duck, fat-side down. Don't move it around. Cook about 8 minutes, occasionally draining the duck fat (or saving it to fry some potatoes!). Turn the breast over and cook approximately six to eight minutes for rare. It's always better to cook it less than you think, because you can't uncook it if it's too well done.
Remove from pan and let rest on a warm plate tented in aluminum foil. If not eating soon, put in a 100-degree oven.
Serve sliced thinly. I removed the fat from the slices but it's not necessary, unless you're watching your waistline, in which case you wouldn't be eating duck.
Serve with scalloped potatoes and superfine green beans with a nice Sauvignon Blanc.
Doing a magret de canard is childishly simple. You simply can't ruin it unless you cook it into shoe leather, which I do NOT advise. Duck should be eaten rare, or at most, medium rare. It is not like chicken. It is not like turkey. It is strikingly similar in taste and texture to a very tender filet mignon of beef.
I brined mine in a salt and sugar solution overnight, but it appears not to have really affected the taste, as it would chicken breasts.
So:
Magret de Canard Wrapped in Bacon
Ingredients
1 large duck breast, about 1-inch thick, including fat
3 strips thick-cut bacon
Salt
Pepper
Method
With a very sharp knife, score the fat of the duck breast without cutting all the way through in a criss-cross fashion. Salt and pepper both sides. Wrap the breast with the bacon slices.
In a non-stick frying pan preheated to medium, set the duck, fat-side down. Don't move it around. Cook about 8 minutes, occasionally draining the duck fat (or saving it to fry some potatoes!). Turn the breast over and cook approximately six to eight minutes for rare. It's always better to cook it less than you think, because you can't uncook it if it's too well done.
Remove from pan and let rest on a warm plate tented in aluminum foil. If not eating soon, put in a 100-degree oven.
Serve sliced thinly. I removed the fat from the slices but it's not necessary, unless you're watching your waistline, in which case you wouldn't be eating duck.
Serve with scalloped potatoes and superfine green beans with a nice Sauvignon Blanc.
 |
| Duck breast, scored and seasoned |
 |
| Duck breast, wrapped in bacon |
 |
| Magret de Canard with scalloped potatoes, green beans and shiitake-pleurot sauce |
A Better Duck I have Yet to Eat
It all came together like a symphony orchestra after a long tuning. Frankly, I don't know what I was agonizing about. The duck itself was the easiest thing out of everything to make. I literally had to cool my heels most of the afternoon, because making it ahead was not an option.
As I mentioned before, the sauce was fantastic, after the addition of some wild honey and mustard:
Sauce for Magret de Canard
Ingredients
2 large cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 small onion, finely chopped
1/2 lb. Shiitake mushrooms (about six large ones) stemmed and sliced
1/2 lb. Pleurot mushrooms (about 2 large ones) stemmed and sliced
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon flour
Handful Italian parsley, chopped
Handful fresh tarragon, chopped
1 cup good white wine
1 ½ cups veal or chicken stock
1 teaspoon wildflower honey
1 tablespoon piment espelette mustard (any dijon-style will do)
3/4 cup heavy cream (35%)
Salt and pepper to taste
Love
Method
Sauté the mushrooms in butter on medium heat until browned and have lost their liquid. Set aside. Sauté onions and garlic in butter until done; approximately 8 minutes.
Add wine and reduce to approximately half; add broth and reduce further, maybe 15-20 minutes all together. Add back the onion mixture, parsley and tarragon, cook a couple of minutes further. Purée everything with a hand blender and return to pan.
When ready to finish the sauce, reheat on medium. Add honey and mustard and combine well. Add back mushrooms. Add cream and reduce on medium low heat, about 7 minutes. Adjust for seasonings. Serve!
As I mentioned before, the sauce was fantastic, after the addition of some wild honey and mustard:
Sauce for Magret de Canard
Ingredients
2 large cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 small onion, finely chopped
1/2 lb. Shiitake mushrooms (about six large ones) stemmed and sliced
1/2 lb. Pleurot mushrooms (about 2 large ones) stemmed and sliced
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon flour
Handful Italian parsley, chopped
Handful fresh tarragon, chopped
1 cup good white wine
1 ½ cups veal or chicken stock
1 teaspoon wildflower honey
1 tablespoon piment espelette mustard (any dijon-style will do)
3/4 cup heavy cream (35%)
Salt and pepper to taste
Love
Method
Sauté the mushrooms in butter on medium heat until browned and have lost their liquid. Set aside. Sauté onions and garlic in butter until done; approximately 8 minutes.
Add wine and reduce to approximately half; add broth and reduce further, maybe 15-20 minutes all together. Add back the onion mixture, parsley and tarragon, cook a couple of minutes further. Purée everything with a hand blender and return to pan.
 |
| Tastes a lot better than it looks |
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Ze Sauce, Boss! Ze Sauce!
Oh
My
God
Don't you just love it when serendipity rears its welcome head, when a situation you thought was definitely going to be fucked turns out to be exactly the opposite?
It was the time that many cooks dread: time to make the sauce. One mistake and you're twisting in the breeze, 9 feet up. A hair too much salt and the table will fall silent. A hair too much sweetness and a vague rumbling will sweep the room. Too thick, too thin, too dark, too floury, too heavy . . .
But get it right, OOOOooooo . . . . . you've just won the chef's lottery. I cursed when I tasted it and it was too damn salty, but then I thought, wait a minute -- don't you dare put sugar in it. Half a teaspoon of wildflower honey and those sweet onions . . . that's all you're going to need! And I was luckily right.
I started by sautéeing onions and garlic, knowing I'm just going to liquidize them later. Remove. Then a tiny roux, some unsalted butter and some flour. Not too thick. Then some white wine. Reduce. Then some veal broth. Reduce. Then add back the onions/garlic, and some chopped fresh tarragon and parsley. Taste. Add a little more wine.
Christ alive. We haven't even come to the heavy cream, a dab of duck fat and the brilliantly sautéed shiitakes and pleurots . . . this duck is going to be the happiest duck on Planet Earth.
PS. Never underestimate the power of tarragon! I bought a whole bottle of Pernod thinking I was going to use it for the sauce but in the end decided to use tarragon and drink the Pernod instead. Life is swwwweeet.
My
God
Don't you just love it when serendipity rears its welcome head, when a situation you thought was definitely going to be fucked turns out to be exactly the opposite?
It was the time that many cooks dread: time to make the sauce. One mistake and you're twisting in the breeze, 9 feet up. A hair too much salt and the table will fall silent. A hair too much sweetness and a vague rumbling will sweep the room. Too thick, too thin, too dark, too floury, too heavy . . .
But get it right, OOOOooooo . . . . . you've just won the chef's lottery. I cursed when I tasted it and it was too damn salty, but then I thought, wait a minute -- don't you dare put sugar in it. Half a teaspoon of wildflower honey and those sweet onions . . . that's all you're going to need! And I was luckily right.
I started by sautéeing onions and garlic, knowing I'm just going to liquidize them later. Remove. Then a tiny roux, some unsalted butter and some flour. Not too thick. Then some white wine. Reduce. Then some veal broth. Reduce. Then add back the onions/garlic, and some chopped fresh tarragon and parsley. Taste. Add a little more wine.
 |
| The mushrooms shrink ten-fold |
 |
| Waiting for the cream |
A New Beginning
It's amazing to me that out of all the books in my cookbook shelf I don't have a single one with a recipe for magret de canard. I have two books written in French, but one is Quebecois and written on behalf of the farm lobby and another one is Quebecois and a translation of some English-speaking Canadian. And neither of them have anything resembling magret de canard.
I guess I'll just have to do what I've always avoided: buy a book on classic French cooking.
Meanwhile, thank God for the Internet. I just can not imagine what we would do without it.
Okay, time to make the sauce. I'm getting there, people, getting there.
I guess I'll just have to do what I've always avoided: buy a book on classic French cooking.
Meanwhile, thank God for the Internet. I just can not imagine what we would do without it.
Okay, time to make the sauce. I'm getting there, people, getting there.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Defeat
After going down in my greatcoat, beer in hand, starting Brigitte's car and listening to the Phantom Blues Band for fifteen minutes, then cleaning all the snow off her car from top to bottom, I'm beat. I'm throwing in the towel.
With no one to ooh and ahh at my cooking prowess and only me to soak in my sorry misery as I eat green beans that will easily wait till tomorrow, I officially give up. It's yesterday's pasta and my almost week-old pomodoro sauce to get me through the day. So after all, I will still weigh only 164 and not the 264 I was counting on.
Besides, I needed the cast iron pan for the duck anyway.
Brigitte, wontcha please come home?
With no one to ooh and ahh at my cooking prowess and only me to soak in my sorry misery as I eat green beans that will easily wait till tomorrow, I officially give up. It's yesterday's pasta and my almost week-old pomodoro sauce to get me through the day. So after all, I will still weigh only 164 and not the 264 I was counting on.
Besides, I needed the cast iron pan for the duck anyway.
Brigitte, wontcha please come home?
The Hump, the Hump
Oh, God, I'm running out of steam . . . should I just give it up and have the pasta I made last night? What should I do? I have a million green beans to trim, a duck to dress, a mushroom sauce . . . should I just give it up and do it all tomorrow? Who the hell is going to eat it except me? I might be too tired to eat my own meal.
No.
No.
I will carry it through. I'll go down and run Brigitte's car, have a beer and come right back up and get to work.
I will not fail my flock.
No.
No.
I will carry it through. I'll go down and run Brigitte's car, have a beer and come right back up and get to work.
I will not fail my flock.
Why Cooking is Like Playing Music
It's very, very odd. If you sit at your piano or guitar, and play some tunes, if you're alone, you get satisfaction, you can fuck up and not worry about it, you can experiment, but at the end of it, it's only you. If no one is listening, then you get this weird feeling that you really haven't accomplished anything. No one is there to pat you on the back and say "well played!"
It's the same with cooking. Most sane people, left alone, would just take the easiest route to satisfying their hunger. What single person in their right mind would go to elaborate lengths to complicate things, whether by making everything more expensive, more laborious, or generally just more difficult? Why not just take the fastest route from A to B instead of going through A-, A+, B- and B+ to satisfy one's urge? Why not skip making some experimental dinner and just go have a hamburger at the local diner instead? Christ, sure beats trimming 65 green beans.
I have no answer. I complicate my life unnecessarily routinely, with absolutely no logical reason to back me up.
You know you. You know that sometimes you ask yourself, at 4 a.m. as you toss and turn, why did I do that? Why DO I DO that?
Well, Flock, as you all must know by now, through reading all these ramblings past and present, the answer is simple.
You do it
Because
You
Can.
It's the same with cooking. Most sane people, left alone, would just take the easiest route to satisfying their hunger. What single person in their right mind would go to elaborate lengths to complicate things, whether by making everything more expensive, more laborious, or generally just more difficult? Why not just take the fastest route from A to B instead of going through A-, A+, B- and B+ to satisfy one's urge? Why not skip making some experimental dinner and just go have a hamburger at the local diner instead? Christ, sure beats trimming 65 green beans.
I have no answer. I complicate my life unnecessarily routinely, with absolutely no logical reason to back me up.
You know you. You know that sometimes you ask yourself, at 4 a.m. as you toss and turn, why did I do that? Why DO I DO that?
Well, Flock, as you all must know by now, through reading all these ramblings past and present, the answer is simple.
You do it
Because
You
Can.
Holy Indigenous Varietals, Batman!
I'm Blooking! Yes, blogging while I'm cooking. I can't believe the mess I'm in (wasn't there a rock song about that? Something to do with Doctor, Doctor, Please) but at least the first mess is behind me.
I'd drive you nuts if I posted three recipes in one shot, so let me do it post-by-post.
Twelve-Cheese Scalloped Potatoes with Bacon and Heavy Cream
Okay, I lost count of how many cheeses there are in this dish. Let's just say "lots." Right click to save and print for the attending cardiologist when you check in to ER.
Step one: The Mandoline
4 slices thick bacon, preferably applewood-smoked, briefly broiled in the toaster oven and cut into one-inch slabs
Internal cheese
1 cup grated Gruyère cheese
1/2 cup aged cheddar
1/2 cup good goat cheese, sliced into rounds
1/2 cup Provolone cheese, chopped
2 tablespoons chopped garlic, mixed into the cheese
Parsley
Topping
1/2 cup Pecorino Romano cheese, grated, mixed into 1 cup crushed Italian-style croutons
3/4 cup heavy (35%) cream
Method
Ripple-cut the potatoes at about 1/8" thick. If not using immediately, immerse in cold water. Mix the garlic and parsley with the grated cheese
When ready to assemble dish, preheat oven to 350º (an oven thermometer is very handy).
Dry potato slices thoroughly with paper towels.
In a large cast iron pan, or baking dish, layer in the following order:
Potatoes to completely cover the bottom of the pan/dish
Bacon
Onions
Internal cheese, generously sprinkled
Cream, generously applied
REPEAT in same order
After the last layer of potatoes, sprinkle the remaining soft cheese mixture. Then sprinkle thoroughly with Romano/bread crumb mixture.
Bake, uncovered, at about 250-300 degrees for half an hour. Check every ten minutes to make sure the top is not getting burned.
Cover pan/dish with lid or aluminum foil and bake one hour longer. Let rest. Serve.
I'd drive you nuts if I posted three recipes in one shot, so let me do it post-by-post.
Twelve-Cheese Scalloped Potatoes with Bacon and Heavy Cream
Okay, I lost count of how many cheeses there are in this dish. Let's just say "lots." Right click to save and print for the attending cardiologist when you check in to ER.
Step one: The Mandoline
 |
| The "Ripple Cutter." If it seems to be grinning, it is. |
See, you need a mandoline for this dish. Anything else and it will be a Fail, unless you're an expert potato slicer with an extremely sharp knife. So get one, a quality one. I have a Matfer.
Ingredients
2-3 large Idaho potatoes (don't use new or waxy Yukon Gold-type potatoes) depending on how many people you are going to serve
1 mid-sized red onion, very thinly sliced4 slices thick bacon, preferably applewood-smoked, briefly broiled in the toaster oven and cut into one-inch slabs
Internal cheese
1 cup grated Gruyère cheese
1/2 cup aged cheddar
1/2 cup good goat cheese, sliced into rounds
1/2 cup Provolone cheese, chopped
2 tablespoons chopped garlic, mixed into the cheese
Parsley
Topping
1/2 cup Pecorino Romano cheese, grated, mixed into 1 cup crushed Italian-style croutons
3/4 cup heavy (35%) cream
Method
Ripple-cut the potatoes at about 1/8" thick. If not using immediately, immerse in cold water. Mix the garlic and parsley with the grated cheese
When ready to assemble dish, preheat oven to 350º (an oven thermometer is very handy).
Dry potato slices thoroughly with paper towels.
In a large cast iron pan, or baking dish, layer in the following order:
Potatoes to completely cover the bottom of the pan/dish
Bacon
Onions
Internal cheese, generously sprinkled
Cream, generously applied
REPEAT in same order
After the last layer of potatoes, sprinkle the remaining soft cheese mixture. Then sprinkle thoroughly with Romano/bread crumb mixture.
Bake, uncovered, at about 250-300 degrees for half an hour. Check every ten minutes to make sure the top is not getting burned.
Cover pan/dish with lid or aluminum foil and bake one hour longer. Let rest. Serve.
 |
| Mandolined potatoes |
 |
| The Suspects |
 |
| The first layer |
 |
| Ready to go into the oven |
 |
| Eh voilà, your ticket to bump up to the head of the line to see Reza Pahlavi, your new cardiologist |
Have I Bitten Off More Than I Can Chew?
Hmm . . . it's Cooking Saturday. In case you didn't know, it's when I tune in PBS and watch all the cooking shows and cook right along all day.
Brigitte's not here and I have no one to impress, so it's experimentation time . . . if it's lousy I'll just dump it and no one will be the wiser.
But on today's menu is duck breast in Shiitake and Pleurot Tarragon-cream sauce with three-cheese scalloped potatoes and superfine green beans . . . well, all good and well, until the bacon came along.
Yep, you read it right. My little eye espied the bacon, sitting frozen forlornly in its extra-thick glory, and I vowed to myself and it that I would not leave it there a minute longer. (Hell, I don't mind being dead and sliced up, but dead and sliced up AND frozen? Mercy).
So dinner has become BACON-WRAPPED Duck Breast with three-cheese scalloped potatoes WITH BACON and superfine green beans.
I'm up to my neck in it as I type. I'm documenting all with the camera, so look for a juicy update later today. I weighed 163 yesterday, but I'm going to weigh 263 tomorrow.
Brigitte's not here and I have no one to impress, so it's experimentation time . . . if it's lousy I'll just dump it and no one will be the wiser.
But on today's menu is duck breast in Shiitake and Pleurot Tarragon-cream sauce with three-cheese scalloped potatoes and superfine green beans . . . well, all good and well, until the bacon came along.
Yep, you read it right. My little eye espied the bacon, sitting frozen forlornly in its extra-thick glory, and I vowed to myself and it that I would not leave it there a minute longer. (Hell, I don't mind being dead and sliced up, but dead and sliced up AND frozen? Mercy).
So dinner has become BACON-WRAPPED Duck Breast with three-cheese scalloped potatoes WITH BACON and superfine green beans.
I'm up to my neck in it as I type. I'm documenting all with the camera, so look for a juicy update later today. I weighed 163 yesterday, but I'm going to weigh 263 tomorrow.
Resentment
You know, I resent being pigeon-holed. Bracketed. Targeted. By companies, organizations, focus groups . . . I don't like it. Officially, I'm a "post-boomer." I'm 35 (yay 1972!) but they all treat me like I'm 53.
Sometimes Brigitte comments that "Y'know, you look around 28. I married a kid." Well, I'm not, Brigitte, I'm 35. Just because I have all my hair (and lots of it!) doesn't mean I'm a young punk.
Okay, so I might behave like a boomer. Take up man-boy activities such as collecting dolls (uhh, action figures), building model planes, getting heavily into WWII and thinking up what neat electric train I should get my son, but I'm really not.
I love my iPod, iPad and iPod Touch, Facebook, Twitter, Crash Test Dummies (oh, sorry, were they last year?) and grunge fashions from Seattle. I love the old reruns of Murphy Brown and Fresh Prince and I grew up on Duran Duran (the band so bad they named it twice to remind them that the first time wasn't just a nightmare).
But I do get targeted. So what if I have mature tastes? I'm a mature 35-year old. Okay, so my hands, feet and elbows kill me in the morning when I get up and I take a daily regimen of about 16 pills for pain, cholesterol, lack of vitamins, triglyceride levels and anxiety, but hey, 35 is the new 90.
I've been drinking like a snaggle-toothed sand shark for, like 30 years now, but I was always precocious as a child. (At least credit me for giving up smoking when I was 8).
So, Frito-Lay, Proctologists and Gamble, Hasbro and Lionel Trains: quit pegging me in your brackets. I've had just about enough.
LOL.
Sometimes Brigitte comments that "Y'know, you look around 28. I married a kid." Well, I'm not, Brigitte, I'm 35. Just because I have all my hair (and lots of it!) doesn't mean I'm a young punk.
Okay, so I might behave like a boomer. Take up man-boy activities such as collecting dolls (uhh, action figures), building model planes, getting heavily into WWII and thinking up what neat electric train I should get my son, but I'm really not.
I love my iPod, iPad and iPod Touch, Facebook, Twitter, Crash Test Dummies (oh, sorry, were they last year?) and grunge fashions from Seattle. I love the old reruns of Murphy Brown and Fresh Prince and I grew up on Duran Duran (the band so bad they named it twice to remind them that the first time wasn't just a nightmare).
But I do get targeted. So what if I have mature tastes? I'm a mature 35-year old. Okay, so my hands, feet and elbows kill me in the morning when I get up and I take a daily regimen of about 16 pills for pain, cholesterol, lack of vitamins, triglyceride levels and anxiety, but hey, 35 is the new 90.
I've been drinking like a snaggle-toothed sand shark for, like 30 years now, but I was always precocious as a child. (At least credit me for giving up smoking when I was 8).
So, Frito-Lay, Proctologists and Gamble, Hasbro and Lionel Trains: quit pegging me in your brackets. I've had just about enough.
LOL.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Hmmm . . . What Are They Going to Call This?
Well, there was the Velvet Revolution . . . there was Glasnost . . . what will this be? The Shawarma Revolution? If so, put me down! Extra harissa!
Update: Good. Very good. Iran, pay very close attention. You're bound to be next. There are only so many people you can oppress and kill before you're overrun. Ask Nicolae Ceaucescu. He knows ALL about it. Oh, and Manny Noriega, and Idiot Amin, and Chuck Taylor . . . ask THEM.
Update: Good. Very good. Iran, pay very close attention. You're bound to be next. There are only so many people you can oppress and kill before you're overrun. Ask Nicolae Ceaucescu. He knows ALL about it. Oh, and Manny Noriega, and Idiot Amin, and Chuck Taylor . . . ask THEM.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I Sing The Grays!
Brigitte bin gon' most's I's figurin' goin' on six DAYS now, least's how's'n I count.
I gots mo'n four DAYS till she done brung herself back here these parts. Four DAYS be a lon' TIME when you gots ta keep Brigitte's car a-runnin'.
Ev'y day I sits myself in that car, roun' 'bout, ninish, I'd say, with my can o' hooch, and I crank her up (so she won't be dyin' coz of MINUS TEMPCHEERS, y'know) and I sits there and listens to THE GRAYS.
Coz it be GRAY outside, y'know? Gray ev'where. So it be the BLUES I be listening to on the CeeDee, but it be the GRAYS outside.
That be the BEST TIME to start singin. Joe Bonnamassa, he be singin' them blues BIG TIME.
It really is the best way to practice your blues voice. You can shriek at the top of your lungs and NOBODY KNOW.
Thank you, Brigitte. It's the new Janov Scream Therapy. I'll make a bundle.
All you need is a car, a winter's night, a can of hooch and Joe Bonnamassa.
I takes PayPal.
I gots mo'n four DAYS till she done brung herself back here these parts. Four DAYS be a lon' TIME when you gots ta keep Brigitte's car a-runnin'.
Ev'y day I sits myself in that car, roun' 'bout, ninish, I'd say, with my can o' hooch, and I crank her up (so she won't be dyin' coz of MINUS TEMPCHEERS, y'know) and I sits there and listens to THE GRAYS.
Coz it be GRAY outside, y'know? Gray ev'where. So it be the BLUES I be listening to on the CeeDee, but it be the GRAYS outside.
That be the BEST TIME to start singin. Joe Bonnamassa, he be singin' them blues BIG TIME.
It really is the best way to practice your blues voice. You can shriek at the top of your lungs and NOBODY KNOW.
Thank you, Brigitte. It's the new Janov Scream Therapy. I'll make a bundle.
All you need is a car, a winter's night, a can of hooch and Joe Bonnamassa.
I takes PayPal.
Mars MISSIONNNN!
 |
| The Beach!!!!!! |
Soil Samples! SOILLLLL SAMPLES! Well, let me crap into this here crater and then take a steaming sample! LIFE ON MARS! Voila. Can I go home now?
 |
| I spear the blonde Mars Whore! LIFE ON MARS! |
In reality it would start before blastoff. "Fuck, how do they expect someone to go 100 miles into space with a chair this big? Fuck, then another six months? How come you got the command chair? No, no no, I spent EIGHT months at Denver Base, not seven and a half like YOU. I should get the fucking command chair. Okay, you're commander. Keep the fucking command chair, see if I care."
Then I'd jettison the rest of the goobers through the hatch and drink all the Piña Coladas they'd been saving for the landing celebration.
Somebody, Shoot This Man
Don't you just hate it when a punny editor gets a hold of a news story and just massacres the hell out of it with what he thinks are absolutely world-smacking puns? You can see him chortling as he writes the article, going to his "Best Puns" dictionary and guffawing to the poor staff around him as he comes up with clinker after clinker.
HA HA HA, I'm just LAUGHING MY SOCKS OFF.
HA HA HA, I'm just LAUGHING MY SOCKS OFF.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Addendum to Last Post
But bear in mind, though I'm in no way a religious man, for some folk, Waking Up To the Nurse will engender an entirely different experience.
Release
There's a science fiction story, and I wish one of you could tell me what it was, in which the protagonist is having an ordinary, but bad life . . . things like his mother dies when he's 9 years old but lingers a long time before, and misfortune strikes him at every turn . . . ruined jobs, devastating calamities, failed relationships, addictions, depression, then unending suffering in an unending illness like his mother, and then . . . a lonely death.
Then he wakes up in a bed of sorts, and a nurse of sorts says to him "Congratulations, Mr. Smith, your penal sentence on Earth has been completed. You are free to go."
Brigitte's sister-in-law died at 56 on Thursday of a brutal, long-lasting cancer. She was the fullest-of-life person I ever met.
But now she's finally been released. I'm glad one day they'll let me go, too.
Then he wakes up in a bed of sorts, and a nurse of sorts says to him "Congratulations, Mr. Smith, your penal sentence on Earth has been completed. You are free to go."
Brigitte's sister-in-law died at 56 on Thursday of a brutal, long-lasting cancer. She was the fullest-of-life person I ever met.
But now she's finally been released. I'm glad one day they'll let me go, too.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Winter Reds
No blues here.
Some of you might know that Brigitte is out of town for a week or so, so I'm taking advantage by making food I know she won't (or can't) eat.
Eh voilà. As usual, click on the pic to get the 3-D version!
Some of you might know that Brigitte is out of town for a week or so, so I'm taking advantage by making food I know she won't (or can't) eat.
Eh voilà. As usual, click on the pic to get the 3-D version!
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| Thai Chicken curry with bamboo shoots . . . and chilies. |
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| Cucumber/red onion/cilantro/lime/Ghost Pepper salsa: "The road to Heaven always involves a stopover in Hell." - Confusious |
What I Had For Dinner Part XVII
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| What else would a bachelor make when his wife is on a ten-day trip? Why, garlic shrimp with spaghettini all' pomodoro, of course. |
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Today's Population?
Uhh . . . how many Germans are there in Germany today?
What do you think six million in today's population counting for inflation would be?
I'd warrant hardly a dent. I say Stuttgart. What? Munich? Naah. Too small.
Let's do Berlin.
What do you think six million in today's population counting for inflation would be?
I'd warrant hardly a dent. I say Stuttgart. What? Munich? Naah. Too small.
Let's do Berlin.
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| The hopeful future: shopping in Berlin's trendy new Aaschlochplatz district |
Reminiscing With Genesis
Yeah, you've heard of that band, haven't you? Must have.
I have a book written by them called Chapter and Verse. In fact the one I have was one of the first and was signed (very sloppily) by the guitarist, Steve Hackett.
But one thing truly interesting about it (at least to me) is that all the founding members went to a place called Charterhouse.
And I followed them, only four years later. Would you like to hear what each one of them said about the same school that I attended only four years after them? Would you like to know how little it had changed in my time? I KNEW YOU WOULD.
TONY BANKS (Keyboards):
"From prep school I went to Charterhouse. My brother had gone there; I don't know why. He didn't like the place and although he was a bright guy, I remember seeing old school lists where it looked like he was at the bottom of the bottom class.
"When you attended prep school and you turned thirteen you were going to public (private) school; that was what happened. Again, Charterhouse was a boarding school, so I didn't like that aspect of it."
MIKE RUTHERFORD (Bass, guitars, of Mike and the Mechanics):
"And then it was Charterhouse. Big school was a bit scary at first: 800 boys. It was a shock, and I didn't really enjoy the first year at all (tell me about it, Mikey).
I was always in trouble at Charterhouse, whereas I never had been at prep school. My housemaster was a massive downer on me (me too, Mikey)."
ANTHONY PHILLIPS (founding guitarist -- I was best friends with his brother):
"Going to public school is pretty terrifying. At prep school (which I also attended) the masters had been frightening but at Charterhouse it was less the masters who worried me than the boys." (No shit, Ant).
PETER GABRIEL (Lead singer, flute):
"Going to Charterhouse was a family tradition. But I hated it. I had started boarding school to get a year's preparation for the big board exam and i actually enjoyed that quite a lot because I could cycle home at weekends. And then at Charterhouse, suddenly I was stuck there, trapped in this dormitory." (Me too, Pete, me too).
I remember my first night at the school very well. There were no curtains and it was near a road, whereas I'd grown up on a farm. So I could hear the noise of cars going past and see their headlights moving across the ceiling like anti-aircraft lights, and the air was full of the sounds of boys either crying or masturbating, or both. It was 'Welcome to grown-up school.'"
THREE FUCKING YEARS OF CHARTERHOUSE.
NOW YOU KNOW WHY I'M A FUCKING DRUNK.
I have a book written by them called Chapter and Verse. In fact the one I have was one of the first and was signed (very sloppily) by the guitarist, Steve Hackett.
But one thing truly interesting about it (at least to me) is that all the founding members went to a place called Charterhouse.
And I followed them, only four years later. Would you like to hear what each one of them said about the same school that I attended only four years after them? Would you like to know how little it had changed in my time? I KNEW YOU WOULD.
TONY BANKS (Keyboards):
"From prep school I went to Charterhouse. My brother had gone there; I don't know why. He didn't like the place and although he was a bright guy, I remember seeing old school lists where it looked like he was at the bottom of the bottom class.
"When you attended prep school and you turned thirteen you were going to public (private) school; that was what happened. Again, Charterhouse was a boarding school, so I didn't like that aspect of it."
MIKE RUTHERFORD (Bass, guitars, of Mike and the Mechanics):
"And then it was Charterhouse. Big school was a bit scary at first: 800 boys. It was a shock, and I didn't really enjoy the first year at all (tell me about it, Mikey).
I was always in trouble at Charterhouse, whereas I never had been at prep school. My housemaster was a massive downer on me (me too, Mikey)."
ANTHONY PHILLIPS (founding guitarist -- I was best friends with his brother):
"Going to public school is pretty terrifying. At prep school (which I also attended) the masters had been frightening but at Charterhouse it was less the masters who worried me than the boys." (No shit, Ant).
PETER GABRIEL (Lead singer, flute):
"Going to Charterhouse was a family tradition. But I hated it. I had started boarding school to get a year's preparation for the big board exam and i actually enjoyed that quite a lot because I could cycle home at weekends. And then at Charterhouse, suddenly I was stuck there, trapped in this dormitory." (Me too, Pete, me too).
I remember my first night at the school very well. There were no curtains and it was near a road, whereas I'd grown up on a farm. So I could hear the noise of cars going past and see their headlights moving across the ceiling like anti-aircraft lights, and the air was full of the sounds of boys either crying or masturbating, or both. It was 'Welcome to grown-up school.'"
THREE FUCKING YEARS OF CHARTERHOUSE.
NOW YOU KNOW WHY I'M A FUCKING DRUNK.
Where Uncle Joe Lives Now
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| Since Brigitte forbade me to put Uncle Joe Stalin's head on an action figure, he lives in my pencil case. |
Friday, January 21, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Model to End All Models?
Well, I've got to find something to do with myself in between ruining filet mignon roasts and rebuilding montrealfood in the prison of my imagination.
But coming off Japan and being with Tai-chan (my son) has of course resurrected the Fawning Father in me, so bear with me for at least a few more posts while I sing his praises.
When I was a kid I used to be into building plastic models; usually airplanes, but a few rockets too. When I was at boarding school in England I didn't have any plastic models, so I literally made Gemini Seven capsules out of stiff paper, cellophane windows and lots of scotch tape. The teachers were extremely impressed. Between canings, they effusively voiced their enthusiasm for my model-building talents.
Apparently Tai-chan has inherited the building streak. A few years ago I bought a model of a Messerschmitt BF-109, intending to build it with the colors of the very squadron of Messerschmitts that used to try to shoot my father to pieces every time he went to bomb the fuck out of them in his B-24 (an exact replica of which I built), but like lots of things, it just got left on the shelf.
So imagine my surprise when I wake up one morning to find that Tai-chan has taken it OFF the shelf, and has MADE THE ENTIRE MODEL IN ONE NIGHT.
Okay, so it's not painted, there are no decals on it (the markings that come with the model) and it has stray glue here and there, but he built it all by himself just by following some complicated instructions which he can't read anyway, all in one night. I was flabbergasted.
But no one -- not even my own son, out-models ME.
My crowning glory so far has been the 1/72 Pan Am 707 I took six months to build, in honor of my father's service with Pan American, but I have now bought an extremely expensive Trumpeter Messerschmitt, the manufacturer of which I have never heard, but apparently it's the Rolls Royce of modelling companies. I mean, this little bastard actually has rubber tires. I kid you not.
But I'm going to be sneaky. I'll build it with all the expertise and detail I can muster, but then when Tai-chan comes in July (about which time I'll just about be finishing it up) I'll just tell him "Hey, look at the Messerschmitt you built! See? I painted it!"
He'll freak.
Wish me luck.
But coming off Japan and being with Tai-chan (my son) has of course resurrected the Fawning Father in me, so bear with me for at least a few more posts while I sing his praises.
When I was a kid I used to be into building plastic models; usually airplanes, but a few rockets too. When I was at boarding school in England I didn't have any plastic models, so I literally made Gemini Seven capsules out of stiff paper, cellophane windows and lots of scotch tape. The teachers were extremely impressed. Between canings, they effusively voiced their enthusiasm for my model-building talents.
Apparently Tai-chan has inherited the building streak. A few years ago I bought a model of a Messerschmitt BF-109, intending to build it with the colors of the very squadron of Messerschmitts that used to try to shoot my father to pieces every time he went to bomb the fuck out of them in his B-24 (an exact replica of which I built), but like lots of things, it just got left on the shelf.
So imagine my surprise when I wake up one morning to find that Tai-chan has taken it OFF the shelf, and has MADE THE ENTIRE MODEL IN ONE NIGHT.
Okay, so it's not painted, there are no decals on it (the markings that come with the model) and it has stray glue here and there, but he built it all by himself just by following some complicated instructions which he can't read anyway, all in one night. I was flabbergasted.
But no one -- not even my own son, out-models ME.
My crowning glory so far has been the 1/72 Pan Am 707 I took six months to build, in honor of my father's service with Pan American, but I have now bought an extremely expensive Trumpeter Messerschmitt, the manufacturer of which I have never heard, but apparently it's the Rolls Royce of modelling companies. I mean, this little bastard actually has rubber tires. I kid you not.
But I'm going to be sneaky. I'll build it with all the expertise and detail I can muster, but then when Tai-chan comes in July (about which time I'll just about be finishing it up) I'll just tell him "Hey, look at the Messerschmitt you built! See? I painted it!"
He'll freak.
Wish me luck.
Damn, Must it be the Germans Yet Again?
Well, as you know here on mtlfoodblog, the blog that actually has rarely anything to do with food and even more rarely, Montreal, the heat is still heavily on for who are the most vicious bastards in the world, or rather, who have been and still have the capability now.
I'm sorry, I can't remember the last total, but the new total is Germans 12, Japanese 10.5 and Soviets just deluded clods with a score of nothing.
Every time I cast my gaze to that Ernst the SS guard on my shelf, or Becker, the Gestapo guy my heart melts. Or rather, THEIR hearts are going to literally melt when I burn them screaming in plastic alive as the cockroaches they were.
I'm beginning to think more and more that the Japanese were drunken misguided twits with delusions of heighthood, the Soviets were just drunk, but the Germans were the most gratuitously, willfully violent murderous mantids the World has ever seen.
They may or may have not seen spades, but that's what I'll pay them back in.
A burning plastic human effigy is a marvelous thing to behold.
I'm sorry, I can't remember the last total, but the new total is Germans 12, Japanese 10.5 and Soviets just deluded clods with a score of nothing.
Every time I cast my gaze to that Ernst the SS guard on my shelf, or Becker, the Gestapo guy my heart melts. Or rather, THEIR hearts are going to literally melt when I burn them screaming in plastic alive as the cockroaches they were.
I'm beginning to think more and more that the Japanese were drunken misguided twits with delusions of heighthood, the Soviets were just drunk, but the Germans were the most gratuitously, willfully violent murderous mantids the World has ever seen.
They may or may have not seen spades, but that's what I'll pay them back in.
A burning plastic human effigy is a marvelous thing to behold.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The Dreaded "Ghost Pepper"
So called. In actuality, it's the Bhut or Naga Jolokia, or Morich . . . it's all the same for the hottest chile in the world, by far. I guess, like some dreaded mafia guys, ya gotta have seven nicknames to match your reputation.
I'm not normally a masochist, but I definitely like hot food. I was a little suspicious when watching a youtube movie of some clown eating an entire Jolokia but I quickly realised that this man was very sincerely sorry he had done what he'd done.
I was foolish in my youth but I realise now that it is not at all hard to find some noxiously incendiary pepper to crash your mouth. I actually quite enjoy my habanero salsa, which involves finely chopping habaneros and mixing with tomato, onions, cucumbers, you name it.
But the Jolokia actually makes the habanero pale into green pepper territory. It will and can put you in a hospital.
So naturally, the other day while buying my Indian munchies at a place on Victoria, I was suddenly inspired to ask if they had any Jolokia.
Turns out they do. I mixed up some salsa to have with some curry I made the other day and I put a teaspoon of this stuff in it. I tasted a smidgeon but now I'm going to have the curry, with much more than a smidgeon. Wish me luck.
Here are the pics if you want to pick some up.
I'm not normally a masochist, but I definitely like hot food. I was a little suspicious when watching a youtube movie of some clown eating an entire Jolokia but I quickly realised that this man was very sincerely sorry he had done what he'd done.
I was foolish in my youth but I realise now that it is not at all hard to find some noxiously incendiary pepper to crash your mouth. I actually quite enjoy my habanero salsa, which involves finely chopping habaneros and mixing with tomato, onions, cucumbers, you name it.
But the Jolokia actually makes the habanero pale into green pepper territory. It will and can put you in a hospital.
So naturally, the other day while buying my Indian munchies at a place on Victoria, I was suddenly inspired to ask if they had any Jolokia.
Turns out they do. I mixed up some salsa to have with some curry I made the other day and I put a teaspoon of this stuff in it. I tasted a smidgeon but now I'm going to have the curry, with much more than a smidgeon. Wish me luck.
Here are the pics if you want to pick some up.
Nothing Better to Do
I swear, those folks at Immigration Canada have really nothing to do. Used to be, they'd pull the full-frontals out of girlie magazines, but now they seem to be in the business of confiscating spaghetti sauce. Yes, you read it right.
Our finest, Humpty Dempster of the RCMP saw fit to remove at least 7 completely hermetically sealed pouches of Japanese spaghetti "meat sauce," as they like to call it, which is actually quite delicious, from my bag, ignoring the doll I bought as a belated birthday present for Brigitte, and a nice bottle of soy sauce and mirin and several Japanese mayonnaises.
Why, you ask, on a late (late!) Friday night at customs and immigration, did they decide to pull my exhausted self aside just to check for contraband spaghetti sauce?
Ah, you've already answered the question, I see.
Because they can, flock, BECAUSE THEY CAN. So out it went, no doubt to the trash. No, I pointedly told them to take it home, it was good, but they just smirked and said "No, we won't be taking it home, sir."
Land of the Free and the Brave and the Spaghetti-sauce Confiscating!
But behold what they did NOT take, including the 478 grammes of pure Colombian cocaine contained therein (oh, that I went all the way to Japan for!):
Isn't that doll a doll? It's Brigitte's birthday present. The rest is ingredients in the best food you ever saw.
Minus the toxic spaghetti sauce.
Yes, I'm home, safe and sound, after a killer trip meeting really nice people, all except for Humpty Dempster, RCMP. You, sir, are a cad.
Our finest, Humpty Dempster of the RCMP saw fit to remove at least 7 completely hermetically sealed pouches of Japanese spaghetti "meat sauce," as they like to call it, which is actually quite delicious, from my bag, ignoring the doll I bought as a belated birthday present for Brigitte, and a nice bottle of soy sauce and mirin and several Japanese mayonnaises.
Why, you ask, on a late (late!) Friday night at customs and immigration, did they decide to pull my exhausted self aside just to check for contraband spaghetti sauce?
Ah, you've already answered the question, I see.
Because they can, flock, BECAUSE THEY CAN. So out it went, no doubt to the trash. No, I pointedly told them to take it home, it was good, but they just smirked and said "No, we won't be taking it home, sir."
Land of the Free and the Brave and the Spaghetti-sauce Confiscating!
But behold what they did NOT take, including the 478 grammes of pure Colombian cocaine contained therein (oh, that I went all the way to Japan for!):
Isn't that doll a doll? It's Brigitte's birthday present. The rest is ingredients in the best food you ever saw.
Minus the toxic spaghetti sauce.
Yes, I'm home, safe and sound, after a killer trip meeting really nice people, all except for Humpty Dempster, RCMP. You, sir, are a cad.
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| For Brigitte |
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| What Humpty Didn't Get |
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Japanagain
Hullo, flock, from room 4705 of the ANA Gate Tower Hotel, 47th floor, in the town of Rinku, Osaka, Japan. Wish you were all here. No really, I wish you were. We could throw some chairs out the window or something.Yesterday was actually a walk in the park. It usually is, when I have Tiny Tornado with me. He got to see the cockpit of the 767 that brought us from Seattle; I should have shoved him aside and said "No! It's MY TURN!"
But instead I stole a Delta blanket. Oh, sorry, two.
It's very sunny here on the 47th floor and we can see Osaka Bay as far as the eye can see. We hopped the shuttle and went to the airport, because that's where all the action is, and I loaded up on souvenirs and stuff.
It's off to the 25th floor to have lunch.
See you guys later.
Monday, January 3, 2011
May Be Twisted
. . . but it's not good to re-read posts that indicate that I could be seriously mentally impaired . . .
Cold
Someone, some wag from somewhere, I hope not here anywhere near me, said "Revenge is a dish best served cold."
Think about it . . . it's an unequivocal reproach to sanity.
Of course, we all know, revenge is a dish best served hot.
But you know, in the end, why the fuck bother? Muslims, Israelis, Turks, Greeks, Hatfields, McCoys . . . in the end, if we spent the energy wasted on producing an atomic bomb or supporting Lindsey Lohan's lifestyle, god. All that energy, for such waste.
That's except you. You even dare to come here, I'll kick your fuckin' ass.
Think about it . . . it's an unequivocal reproach to sanity.
Of course, we all know, revenge is a dish best served hot.
But you know, in the end, why the fuck bother? Muslims, Israelis, Turks, Greeks, Hatfields, McCoys . . . in the end, if we spent the energy wasted on producing an atomic bomb or supporting Lindsey Lohan's lifestyle, god. All that energy, for such waste.
That's except you. You even dare to come here, I'll kick your fuckin' ass.
Sick
It's hard when we hurt. I don't know -- maybe you smashed your toe on Friday and it hurts like a son of a bitch.
But when we wake up, what we have is our mind. It has nothing, really, to do with our body. Only me, myself and moi. Just me here, ain't done nothing spectacular, and at the end of the day it will still only be me.
But what if somehow, you WEREN'T you? What if somehow, all your circuits went haywire? If it wasn't hurting, but just damned strange?
There are probably ten trillion circuits in your brain. If any single one of them goes awry, well, tell that to a 747 pilot at 37,000 feet with a sudden alarm of smoke in the cockpit.
There are no doctors. No ER, no bullshit. You hurt, take twenty-eight Advil. But your mind hurts . . . you are doomed.
I'm reading a book about the famous bass player, Jaco Pastorius, and I seriously wonder whether it's better to have a horribly painful cancer that screams you torture to your dying moment . . . or just lose yourself in a strange world that only the human brain can do.
I mean, think about it. Fido, faithful as he is . . . if he has leukemia, or is feeling bad, he just can't express it, at least in your terms. But you know he's hurting.
My brother, older than me, died at 48 years of age, almost five years younger than I am now, of muscular dystrophy, but he had every single brain cell intact at the moment he died.
Trust me, I've done my share of hallucinogens, and it ain't pretty.
But I haven't quite decided which is a worse fate . . . Jaco was beaten to death by a crazed maniac, but JACO was ALREADY a crazed maniac . . . through not a single whit of fault of his own. God, what the world would be like if he were only still alive.
Please, burn off my fingernails, but don't make me lose my mind . . .
But when we wake up, what we have is our mind. It has nothing, really, to do with our body. Only me, myself and moi. Just me here, ain't done nothing spectacular, and at the end of the day it will still only be me.
But what if somehow, you WEREN'T you? What if somehow, all your circuits went haywire? If it wasn't hurting, but just damned strange?
There are probably ten trillion circuits in your brain. If any single one of them goes awry, well, tell that to a 747 pilot at 37,000 feet with a sudden alarm of smoke in the cockpit.
There are no doctors. No ER, no bullshit. You hurt, take twenty-eight Advil. But your mind hurts . . . you are doomed.
I'm reading a book about the famous bass player, Jaco Pastorius, and I seriously wonder whether it's better to have a horribly painful cancer that screams you torture to your dying moment . . . or just lose yourself in a strange world that only the human brain can do.
I mean, think about it. Fido, faithful as he is . . . if he has leukemia, or is feeling bad, he just can't express it, at least in your terms. But you know he's hurting.
My brother, older than me, died at 48 years of age, almost five years younger than I am now, of muscular dystrophy, but he had every single brain cell intact at the moment he died.
Trust me, I've done my share of hallucinogens, and it ain't pretty.
But I haven't quite decided which is a worse fate . . . Jaco was beaten to death by a crazed maniac, but JACO was ALREADY a crazed maniac . . . through not a single whit of fault of his own. God, what the world would be like if he were only still alive.
Please, burn off my fingernails, but don't make me lose my mind . . .
Time
Sometimes I get worried. (Yes, even me). Well, of course I worry about the usual stuff, like what horseradish tastes like on a hot dog, but lots of times I worry about time.
I mean, my concerns in general are about the usual time -- the time it takes to go take a shower or watch a lousy episode of Doctor Fill, but occasionally I get to thinking, and that is not normally a good thing.
Namely, and I've said it many times before, we, us humans, just proceed in the blink of an eye, much as bugs scuttling under the sink.
In a way, we're very lucky that we perceive it in that way, because it seems to give us just enough time to do what we need to do.
Just.
But if you consider 100 years -- already you're going back to your great-grandfather -- that's a long time.
Now think of a thousand.
Now think of a million.
Now think of 150 million.
Now think of a billion.
Years, not days, not minutes, not hours.
Years.
Think.
I mean, my concerns in general are about the usual time -- the time it takes to go take a shower or watch a lousy episode of Doctor Fill, but occasionally I get to thinking, and that is not normally a good thing.
Namely, and I've said it many times before, we, us humans, just proceed in the blink of an eye, much as bugs scuttling under the sink.
In a way, we're very lucky that we perceive it in that way, because it seems to give us just enough time to do what we need to do.
Just.
But if you consider 100 years -- already you're going back to your great-grandfather -- that's a long time.
Now think of a thousand.
Now think of a million.
Now think of 150 million.
Now think of a billion.
Years, not days, not minutes, not hours.
Years.
Think.
. . . but . . . Not.
Failure. I thought I was good, but this dude John Byner, he of a Canadian comedy show called "Bizarre" fucking kicks ass. Look it up on youtube or something. He lampoons EVERYBODY. Fuckin' Japs? Shellacked. Black? Ditto. Eyeties, spics, wops, gays, People from Azerbaizhan (fuck, that's a toughie), Bosnia and and everybody else in the universe who can get insulted, he does it.
this is old school.
I'm totally outclassed.
That's a first.
this is old school.
I'm totally outclassed.
That's a first.
Oh, That Lovin' Feelin'
Do you ever get the feeling that you actually don't know what the fuck's going on? You know, when everyone else except you seems clued in, but you happen to be the moron in the room.
Like when you're watching a movie that is hilariously famous, but you just can't understand why. Oh fuck, Steve McQueen! Fuck! James Dean! Faye Goneaway! But I still don't understand! Marlon Brando mumbling his drunken way through Mutiny On the Bounty!
Is it wrong to not understand?
Fuck, the music is there! Billy Mantovani wrote the music! SHE, yes, SHE was in it it! But you still don't understand and you just want to commit foul harm on someone who appears to.
Fuckin give me Transformers in 4D.
Like when you're watching a movie that is hilariously famous, but you just can't understand why. Oh fuck, Steve McQueen! Fuck! James Dean! Faye Goneaway! But I still don't understand! Marlon Brando mumbling his drunken way through Mutiny On the Bounty!
Is it wrong to not understand?
Fuck, the music is there! Billy Mantovani wrote the music! SHE, yes, SHE was in it it! But you still don't understand and you just want to commit foul harm on someone who appears to.
Fuckin give me Transformers in 4D.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
I Don't Like It
But I do it anyway. If Brigitte said to me "You need to go to the Moon right now, and fetch a carton of Blue Milk," well, to tell you the truth, I'd probably do it. Under considerable pressure, but once I make up my mind, I'll fucking climb Mount Goddamn Fuji. I'll not only climb it, I'll personally dispatch every fucking Japanese tourist I see atop of it.
And I'll feel good when I get to my bed, in my familiar room, on my familiar bed, having massacred several people who speak a different language than mine while snatching Zs..
Trust me. Once you make up your mind and steel yourself, a trip to Japan is a stroll to the corner store.
Just don't make a habit out of it.
And I'll feel good when I get to my bed, in my familiar room, on my familiar bed, having massacred several people who speak a different language than mine while snatching Zs..
Trust me. Once you make up your mind and steel yourself, a trip to Japan is a stroll to the corner store.
Just don't make a habit out of it.
I Gotta Feeling
You know, curse me if I'm bad but I get fascinated by Bad Things. It's in no way pathological, but I just end up wondering WHY. It drives Brigitte nuts, my obsession with Goebbels and why on earth a human being could put to death six of his own children, but indulge me. Why anyone does anything.
My questing mind always asks WHY? WHY? What the fuck possessed you to chew the face off your best friend?
So there you have it. Hitler and the Nazis. The Japs. It drives Brigitte absolutely nuts. Don't matter too much. True-crime junkie.
But sometimes I get pissed off. I get pissed off when animals pretend to be human beings. Child molesters. Priests. You know. I'm the guy who's going to give you the shank between number three and number four ribs while you serve your 100 years for each count.
But some creatures are simply too despicable for words. I watched a documentary on Jeffrey Dahmer, the insane serial killer, but part of my heart went out to him. He didn't truly MEAN to dismember fifteen young men and eat some of them. . . it was an IMPULSE. No mitigating factors whatever.
Well, let it just be said that he got his. A good dose of the best medicine.
But you know, even serial killers can go out with style. He was miserably murdered, but there's one fucking human skank that I would personally call the hit on, in the most gruesome way imaginable, and it isn't Paul Bernardo, in case you were wondering.
You know, I know Hitler smirked as he ate his vegetarian supper and relished another massacre of 12,000 Jews, but if anything pisses me off it's a fucking killer who smiles when he describes his deeds.
Joran Van der Sloot, just pray I never have to be in the same prison as you, ya laughing fuck. It will be extremely unpleasant.
My questing mind always asks WHY? WHY? What the fuck possessed you to chew the face off your best friend?
So there you have it. Hitler and the Nazis. The Japs. It drives Brigitte absolutely nuts. Don't matter too much. True-crime junkie.
But sometimes I get pissed off. I get pissed off when animals pretend to be human beings. Child molesters. Priests. You know. I'm the guy who's going to give you the shank between number three and number four ribs while you serve your 100 years for each count.
But some creatures are simply too despicable for words. I watched a documentary on Jeffrey Dahmer, the insane serial killer, but part of my heart went out to him. He didn't truly MEAN to dismember fifteen young men and eat some of them. . . it was an IMPULSE. No mitigating factors whatever.
Well, let it just be said that he got his. A good dose of the best medicine.
But you know, even serial killers can go out with style. He was miserably murdered, but there's one fucking human skank that I would personally call the hit on, in the most gruesome way imaginable, and it isn't Paul Bernardo, in case you were wondering.
You know, I know Hitler smirked as he ate his vegetarian supper and relished another massacre of 12,000 Jews, but if anything pisses me off it's a fucking killer who smiles when he describes his deeds.
Joran Van der Sloot, just pray I never have to be in the same prison as you, ya laughing fuck. It will be extremely unpleasant.
You know, it really seems that there were three assassins that killed JFK. No, really. There is a sinister Jewish Zionist power that secretly controls the world's government. Yes, THOSE Jews. The bad, brushy-faced hook-nosed semi-cannibals that held the world hostage for actually, ever since fucking David nailed Abraham. Oh, sorry. Goliath. Same difference.
Did I mention that the whole fucking moon shot thingy was all an elaborate hoax? No Shit, Sherlock, Fuckin' Francis Ford Coppola directed the whole fucking thing. Right on Pad 9 in Hollywood. Neil Armstrong was a standup comic hired by Irving Veivovitz (again, the Zionist plotter) and, believe it or not, Jerry Lewis (France's beloved comic) was heavily involved.
Fuckin' A, let's not stop there. George W. Bush Jr. PERSONALLY orchestrated the Twin Towers attack. Like he could fucking orchestrate his own fucking boiled egg on a fucking Sunday morning at Camp David..
Yep, thousands of Zionist conspirators went down in a blaze of sacrifice so that the rest of the fucking six million could live.
Oh, wait. No. No Jewish person checked into the Twin Towers that day; they knew beforehand from emissaries from George Bush that "Mohammed Atta" was a pseudonym for the vicious perpetrators of mercilous destruction. Can you say "Cantor"? I know you can if you only put a little fucking effort into it. No, can you say "Cantor" and "Fitzgerald" at the same time? I knew you could. Guess, no, seriously, guess WHO FUCKING OCCUPIED THREE STOREYS OF WTC. I think you may have guessed right. I think you can count, and if you can, you'll realize that a FUCKING THOUSAND JEWISH PEOPLE DIED THAT DAY. Just do the fucking Google. I know you can. Finger, point, press, press again.
Did you know that GW personally hired a team of explosive experts who strategically planted seven thousand carefully-placed explosives to personally assure that 1.86 billion people could be deceived? To this day?
The Jews fucking did it. Them and the gays. I say nuke 'em all.
Oh, yeah, what was my point again?
Fucking Facebook has your fucking number and if you think sending a drunken email and regretting it the next morning was a a Bad Thing, boy, you have another think coming.
Did I mention that the whole fucking moon shot thingy was all an elaborate hoax? No Shit, Sherlock, Fuckin' Francis Ford Coppola directed the whole fucking thing. Right on Pad 9 in Hollywood. Neil Armstrong was a standup comic hired by Irving Veivovitz (again, the Zionist plotter) and, believe it or not, Jerry Lewis (France's beloved comic) was heavily involved.
Fuckin' A, let's not stop there. George W. Bush Jr. PERSONALLY orchestrated the Twin Towers attack. Like he could fucking orchestrate his own fucking boiled egg on a fucking Sunday morning at Camp David..
Yep, thousands of Zionist conspirators went down in a blaze of sacrifice so that the rest of the fucking six million could live.
Oh, wait. No. No Jewish person checked into the Twin Towers that day; they knew beforehand from emissaries from George Bush that "Mohammed Atta" was a pseudonym for the vicious perpetrators of mercilous destruction. Can you say "Cantor"? I know you can if you only put a little fucking effort into it. No, can you say "Cantor" and "Fitzgerald" at the same time? I knew you could. Guess, no, seriously, guess WHO FUCKING OCCUPIED THREE STOREYS OF WTC. I think you may have guessed right. I think you can count, and if you can, you'll realize that a FUCKING THOUSAND JEWISH PEOPLE DIED THAT DAY. Just do the fucking Google. I know you can. Finger, point, press, press again.
Did you know that GW personally hired a team of explosive experts who strategically planted seven thousand carefully-placed explosives to personally assure that 1.86 billion people could be deceived? To this day?
The Jews fucking did it. Them and the gays. I say nuke 'em all.
Oh, yeah, what was my point again?
Fucking Facebook has your fucking number and if you think sending a drunken email and regretting it the next morning was a a Bad Thing, boy, you have another think coming.
Jesus Christ
God, I hate Christians. Umm, is there any worse gang? Hmm, well let me tally . . . the Muslims . . . the Scientologists . . . Heaven's Gate Baptist Emporium (and Gift Shop!) . . . oh, and all those nice folk that think there are seventy-two virgins waiting for them. Anywhere.
I just have one word for them: "Shove Off".
The preceding message may have been disturbing for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
I just have one word for them: "Shove Off".
The preceding message may have been disturbing for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Big
Have you ever seen one of those World War II fighters? No, really, in the flesh? Reason I mention is because (as you know) Taishi and I (mostly Taishi) have been building the little plastic models. That's what you think of them -- these little plastic things that look even tinier on TV.
But if you have ever had the experience to actually see these things in reality, you understand the word "Cadillac" or "Monte Carlo." These things were huge! Just as big as the bastards could make them.
Then imagine this small little pilot in this huge death factory . . . it boggles the mind.
You know, humanity is insane. World War II to some is just one big goddamn soccer match. My battleship . . POW! 1349 lives lost. GOAAAAAALLLL!
In spite of all the euphemisms to disguise them, these things, then and now, were designed to do only one thing: exact the maximum mayhem possible.
I mean, what the fuck do we need a flight of 4,760 Phantom H-19s and a Carrier Battle Group South any more for?
Who the fuck is there left to bomb into dust?
Osama, step up to the plate and be counted, you dastardly villain. Don't make us come over there.
But if you have ever had the experience to actually see these things in reality, you understand the word "Cadillac" or "Monte Carlo." These things were huge! Just as big as the bastards could make them.
Then imagine this small little pilot in this huge death factory . . . it boggles the mind.
You know, humanity is insane. World War II to some is just one big goddamn soccer match. My battleship . . POW! 1349 lives lost. GOAAAAAALLLL!
In spite of all the euphemisms to disguise them, these things, then and now, were designed to do only one thing: exact the maximum mayhem possible.
I mean, what the fuck do we need a flight of 4,760 Phantom H-19s and a Carrier Battle Group South any more for?
Who the fuck is there left to bomb into dust?
Osama, step up to the plate and be counted, you dastardly villain. Don't make us come over there.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Guys
Look, guys, I joke around a lot. It's just me. Fuck it. It's the way I talk in real life, if you were ever to meet me. But I wouldn't be much.
If you came across me on the street, you would not have a double-take. Not even.
I look so much like the average Joe that you'd mistake me for a shadow. I'm in my mind a bit better looking than a shadow, but then again, I have a tendency to exaggerate.
But it's okay. There are bargains we all make with ourselves. One of mine is a mantra that I kind of sorta pretty much try to make every single day of my life.
No, seriously. Put a stop on it. Learn when someone has just had enough of you. Shut the hell up, because in the end, your voice is going to be the last thing you hear. You have a lot of goddamn time to think about that, if you prefer to be optimistic.
Trust me.
But please do appreciate that I really don't know who you are, but you've had the patience to come by this spot and I do cry and scream but in reality, I most certainly do think of every single one of you.
Like they say, life is tough, and then you die.
But you know what? Flock?
I'll drag all of you kicking and screaming down with me when I go.
(And Christ, where on Earth did all you 44 silent people come from?)
If you came across me on the street, you would not have a double-take. Not even.
I look so much like the average Joe that you'd mistake me for a shadow. I'm in my mind a bit better looking than a shadow, but then again, I have a tendency to exaggerate.
But it's okay. There are bargains we all make with ourselves. One of mine is a mantra that I kind of sorta pretty much try to make every single day of my life.
No, seriously. Put a stop on it. Learn when someone has just had enough of you. Shut the hell up, because in the end, your voice is going to be the last thing you hear. You have a lot of goddamn time to think about that, if you prefer to be optimistic.
Trust me.
But please do appreciate that I really don't know who you are, but you've had the patience to come by this spot and I do cry and scream but in reality, I most certainly do think of every single one of you.
Like they say, life is tough, and then you die.
But you know what? Flock?
I'll drag all of you kicking and screaming down with me when I go.
(And Christ, where on Earth did all you 44 silent people come from?)
But I Didn't
Okay, so don't slash me with several machine guns. I'm listening to Donald Fagen, Brigitte has just retired and my tiny boy is pretending to be asleep.
So all is right with the world.
So it was disturbing when Brigitte came out here and asked why I was crying.
How do you tell someone you're really all right, it just seems necessary to cry? For me, music is the trigger -- it just kills me. It's ingrained in my DNA. It's so hard to explain. Christ, just talking about it makes me tired.
But let me tell you, you bastards, every loving one of you, that there is no better place to be on this earth than Donald Fagen singing from way back when, when I used to be young, back in 1982.
I could be wrong about dates, but then, you can
uhh
kiss my ass.
So all is right with the world.
So it was disturbing when Brigitte came out here and asked why I was crying.
How do you tell someone you're really all right, it just seems necessary to cry? For me, music is the trigger -- it just kills me. It's ingrained in my DNA. It's so hard to explain. Christ, just talking about it makes me tired.
But let me tell you, you bastards, every loving one of you, that there is no better place to be on this earth than Donald Fagen singing from way back when, when I used to be young, back in 1982.
I could be wrong about dates, but then, you can
uhh
kiss my ass.
I Thought I Lost My Mind
I really did ... Holy Goddamn Fuck, someone saw Fit to Make a Remake . . . Better than the fucking original . . . FUCKING A, this is already shaping up to be a good year. I love you all dearly.
Put on the fucking headphones, just forget everything you just learned, and call me in the morning after the two Aspirin.
Put on the fucking headphones, just forget everything you just learned, and call me in the morning after the two Aspirin.
Hip 'n Now Now
Sometimes . . . these times, my dearest flock of the New Year -- you just wax nostalgic. No, it's something not quite under control, kind of like watching Tom Hanks in the same movie as Whoopi Goldberg.
Yeah, yeah, n'er the twain shall meet.
But think, for instance, in this, our New Year, of forgotten wayfarers who went before us.
Who fucking blazed a trail a mile deep, only we were collectively too fucking stoned to notice it.
LOTS of people blazed that trail . . . hey, remember Debbie Gibson? Katrina and the Waves?
Well, fuck me with a bent spoon, neither do I.
But . . . there's always that "but."
Here's one for the "Forgotten but Not Gone" record books . . . best enjoyed on Eleven with very large headphones. The future's so bright I need shades.
Yeah, yeah, n'er the twain shall meet.
But think, for instance, in this, our New Year, of forgotten wayfarers who went before us.
Who fucking blazed a trail a mile deep, only we were collectively too fucking stoned to notice it.
LOTS of people blazed that trail . . . hey, remember Debbie Gibson? Katrina and the Waves?
Well, fuck me with a bent spoon, neither do I.
But . . . there's always that "but."
Here's one for the "Forgotten but Not Gone" record books . . . best enjoyed on Eleven with very large headphones. The future's so bright I need shades.