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Monday, February 28, 2011
Shellebrities: A Breed Apart
I call them Shellebrities, but I really mean it. They're hollow representations of H. Sapiens. It's true, they do share 98.2% of our DNA, but in all other ways, they're completely alien. I'd call them closer genetically to H. Cro-Magnon, but hey, I don't want to insult even extinct versions of ourselves.
Chimps have better judgment than shellebrities. Consider: you have a tendency to drink far, far beyond your capabilities -- amounts which the rest of us would be copiously vomiting into our date's lap very early on in the evening, yet you insist on driving your own car at 3 a.m. down Toledo Canyon Rd. in Beverley Hills in spite of the fact that you have 6.8 millions dollars at your disposal to hire Mario Andretti Jr. if you see fit (see Tiger Woods, Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan, Nick Nolte, Jan-Michael Vincent yadda yadda) to be your round-the-clock chauffeur.
What, exactly, possesses Charlie Sheen to when, after 72 hours of snorting the best coke in North America, downing three liters of Vat 69, twenty-eight 8.5% Navigator ales, smoking 6.8% tetra-hydra-cannabinol-loaded Oregon bud the whole time while sandwiching himself between three $1,000/hr Buddha Lounge trannies, climb into his $135,000 Mercedes convertible and go on a joyride through Hollywood, and when pulled over by sniggering cops, proceeds to call them nigger-loving jews?
What possesses Michael Richards, a self-absorbed millionaire three times over, to start yelling "Nigger" over and over again in a packed nightclub? Winona Ryder to shoplift baubles when she has enough money to buy the entire store, let alone the building and the city block it sits on?
What possesses Lindsay Lohan to even admit she exists, let alone exist?
My holy fuckin' god, the list is very, very long. But tell me true, and this is the angle I don't get . . . the disproportionate Jew-hating facet of the whole thing. Shellebrities, let me remind you that you're attempting to be a part of some of the most vicious groups of humanity that have ever existed: Al Qaeda and the Nazis.
Yes, John Galliano, top designer at Dior: gas them all, indeed. In fact, do it yourself, and then have another 25,000 drinks.
Update: Have you ever, EVER been arrested? Have you ever been arrested for drunk driving? I thought not. Do you have 45.9 million dollars in your bank account? I thought not either. If you DID have 45.9 million dollars in your bank account, would you ever allow yourself to be arrested? For any reason? I mean, why mess up a good thing, right?
Tell that to Christina Aguilera.
Chimps have better judgment than shellebrities. Consider: you have a tendency to drink far, far beyond your capabilities -- amounts which the rest of us would be copiously vomiting into our date's lap very early on in the evening, yet you insist on driving your own car at 3 a.m. down Toledo Canyon Rd. in Beverley Hills in spite of the fact that you have 6.8 millions dollars at your disposal to hire Mario Andretti Jr. if you see fit (see Tiger Woods, Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan, Nick Nolte, Jan-Michael Vincent yadda yadda) to be your round-the-clock chauffeur.
What, exactly, possesses Charlie Sheen to when, after 72 hours of snorting the best coke in North America, downing three liters of Vat 69, twenty-eight 8.5% Navigator ales, smoking 6.8% tetra-hydra-cannabinol-loaded Oregon bud the whole time while sandwiching himself between three $1,000/hr Buddha Lounge trannies, climb into his $135,000 Mercedes convertible and go on a joyride through Hollywood, and when pulled over by sniggering cops, proceeds to call them nigger-loving jews?
What possesses Michael Richards, a self-absorbed millionaire three times over, to start yelling "Nigger" over and over again in a packed nightclub? Winona Ryder to shoplift baubles when she has enough money to buy the entire store, let alone the building and the city block it sits on?
What possesses Lindsay Lohan to even admit she exists, let alone exist?
My holy fuckin' god, the list is very, very long. But tell me true, and this is the angle I don't get . . . the disproportionate Jew-hating facet of the whole thing. Shellebrities, let me remind you that you're attempting to be a part of some of the most vicious groups of humanity that have ever existed: Al Qaeda and the Nazis.
Yes, John Galliano, top designer at Dior: gas them all, indeed. In fact, do it yourself, and then have another 25,000 drinks.
Update: Have you ever, EVER been arrested? Have you ever been arrested for drunk driving? I thought not. Do you have 45.9 million dollars in your bank account? I thought not either. If you DID have 45.9 million dollars in your bank account, would you ever allow yourself to be arrested? For any reason? I mean, why mess up a good thing, right?
Tell that to Christina Aguilera.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Duffalo Burgers!
I threatened it, and yesterday it came to pass. I bought a duck breast from the local butcher and some pre-ground bison at my local Metro. I wanted to grind the bison myself but they only had the pre-ground.
I wouldn't want to make a bison burger all by itself because it has not a fleck of fat in it -- it's probably 2% fat as opposed to the 20-odd percent we want. So the duck was a fantastic solution. Even then, I had to cut several ounces of fat off the duck before I saw fit to use it.
You can see those massive bands of fat still on the duck; those would be the mortar to hold the bricks together, so to speak.
I made a salsa to go with it, but I didn't want to make a Tex-Mex burger; just a nice spicy ketchup-type condiment. I roasted a few yellow cherry tomatoes, a few vine-ripened tomatoes, a few shallots, onions and garlic, then added cilantro and some vinegar.
Then I puréed it and added salt and pepper.
I wouldn't want to make a bison burger all by itself because it has not a fleck of fat in it -- it's probably 2% fat as opposed to the 20-odd percent we want. So the duck was a fantastic solution. Even then, I had to cut several ounces of fat off the duck before I saw fit to use it.
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| Ready for the grinder |
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| Ground Duckalo! Or is that Buffaluck? |
I formed it into neat patties which unfortunately only yield 5 quarter-pounders.
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| Ready to grill! |
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| Ready for a 450-degree oven |
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| Done |
I bought some smoked Gouda, on the advice of messrs. Chris "Zeke" Hand and his partner E.Coli of the Montreal Burger Report, and sautéed the burgers in a cast iron pan. They did not need fat, and required but three minutes per side.
I had previously buttered two onion rolls from Quality Kosher with garlic butter and had toasted them in the cast-iron pan. I smeared them with salsa on both sides, added the burgers (a double for my friend Daniel), added three slices of semi-crisp bacon, thin slices of vine-ripened tomatoes, smoked gouda and aged cheddar slices, and finely shredded onions coated in buttermilk and flour and deep fried in duck fat until crispy, topped it all off with hearts of romaine, served crispy oven fries alongside, and voilà.
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| Daniels' double burger! Click to enjoy! |
The Duffaluck Burger. Daniel completely demolished his and I managed three-quarters. I deem it an unqualified success! It tasted smoky, lean, sassy, not at all gamy and I will make it again TONIGHT.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
On the Mountain with HDR
Damned if, after scheming to get together with my friend Daniel to go up to the mountain this evening and take HDR photos with our Canon cameras and tripods, we go all the way there for me to realise that my battery had run out -- probably because I'd spent all afternoon dumping photos to free up space for more. So it was left to Daniel to actually take the photos.
Since we were in the same places, I probably would have taken almost exactly the same photos as he did, but the difference was evident when we came home and started processing them. Daniel has an inclination towards the, uh, cartoonish when it comes to processing, whereas I tend towards the surreal.
So here are some of my interpretations of HIS photos. But no matter how you slice it, some are quite amazing . . . when he gets his OWN blog I'm sure he'll show you his versions. Better get those eclipse-viewing glasses, though.
Since we were in the same places, I probably would have taken almost exactly the same photos as he did, but the difference was evident when we came home and started processing them. Daniel has an inclination towards the, uh, cartoonish when it comes to processing, whereas I tend towards the surreal.
So here are some of my interpretations of HIS photos. But no matter how you slice it, some are quite amazing . . . when he gets his OWN blog I'm sure he'll show you his versions. Better get those eclipse-viewing glasses, though.
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| Beaver Lake (click to enlarge) |
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| Chalet at Beaver Lake (I love those multi-exposure ghosts -- there were a lot of people skating!) |
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| More skater-ghosts |
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| Montreal from the Lookout |
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| More Montreal from the Lookout |
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| Stanley Street (left side) |
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| Gettin' weird |
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| Some ski resort in background; Eastern Townships? |
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| Very nice shot |
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| Even better shot |
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| The best shot of all |
Friday, February 25, 2011
The One-channel Universe
Hello, my friendly flock! As you probably know, those words usually precede a rant. And you probably know rightly!
As I've been cooped up in my hibernation chamber these last few weeks while the wind blows at -19 I've had a lot of opportunities to glance at my TV . . . namely, the much-vaunted 500-channel universe.
I believe I pay my local cable provider, Videotron, in the realm of $50 a month for the privilege of watching these channels.
Well, what I've figured out is, that once, there was a 12-channel universe. But in that 12-channel universe resided 500 different programs. Now we have a 500-channel universe, and in it resides 12 programs.
Witness the evidence: A&E, which once provided actual "Arts and Entertainment," in the form of documentaries and historical dramas, is now Dog the Bounty Hunter Channel, with the filler of every species of "C.S.I." ever recorded, peppered with the lively true-crime drama "48 hours." As far as I can discern, that is all they play, all day, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. (Oh wait -- now there's that huge influx of the "Hoarding" and "Intervention" shows, as well as all the Pawn Shop programs. Good move, A&E! Real kwality edutainment).
The National Geographic Channel is now The Dog Whisperer channel, with 24-hour repeats almost every weekend.
The Food Network is now the Top Chef and Iron Chef channel, with marathons every so often but likely as not, repeating one or the other any time of day or night.
The Space network is now the Stargate-SG channel. The Travel Channel is 24-hour Anthony Bourdain, except when that's on the Fine channel, The Outdoor Life Network or the History channel, which is actually the World War II in HD Channel, when that isn't on the Greatest Tank Battles channel, officially named the Military Channel.
Then there are the "movie" channels. MPIX. MRPIX. MXCE. M-fuck your mother. These people go around their neighbourhood video stores and pick from the absolute bottom of the barrels, the movies no one ever watched when they came out and never rented when they went straight to DVD. Maybe ONCE A MONTH, on ONE out of FIVE channels, is there actually a movie worth watching, and that's because it's a rerun (Goodfellas, say, or Superman III).
Take me back, PLEASE, to the old three channel universe. It cost nothing, thankfully turned itself off at midnight and actually featured commercials worth watching.
As I've been cooped up in my hibernation chamber these last few weeks while the wind blows at -19 I've had a lot of opportunities to glance at my TV . . . namely, the much-vaunted 500-channel universe.
I believe I pay my local cable provider, Videotron, in the realm of $50 a month for the privilege of watching these channels.
Well, what I've figured out is, that once, there was a 12-channel universe. But in that 12-channel universe resided 500 different programs. Now we have a 500-channel universe, and in it resides 12 programs.
Witness the evidence: A&E, which once provided actual "Arts and Entertainment," in the form of documentaries and historical dramas, is now Dog the Bounty Hunter Channel, with the filler of every species of "C.S.I." ever recorded, peppered with the lively true-crime drama "48 hours." As far as I can discern, that is all they play, all day, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. (Oh wait -- now there's that huge influx of the "Hoarding" and "Intervention" shows, as well as all the Pawn Shop programs. Good move, A&E! Real kwality edutainment).
The National Geographic Channel is now The Dog Whisperer channel, with 24-hour repeats almost every weekend.
The Food Network is now the Top Chef and Iron Chef channel, with marathons every so often but likely as not, repeating one or the other any time of day or night.
The Space network is now the Stargate-SG channel. The Travel Channel is 24-hour Anthony Bourdain, except when that's on the Fine channel, The Outdoor Life Network or the History channel, which is actually the World War II in HD Channel, when that isn't on the Greatest Tank Battles channel, officially named the Military Channel.
Then there are the "movie" channels. MPIX. MRPIX. MXCE. M-fuck your mother. These people go around their neighbourhood video stores and pick from the absolute bottom of the barrels, the movies no one ever watched when they came out and never rented when they went straight to DVD. Maybe ONCE A MONTH, on ONE out of FIVE channels, is there actually a movie worth watching, and that's because it's a rerun (Goodfellas, say, or Superman III).
Take me back, PLEASE, to the old three channel universe. It cost nothing, thankfully turned itself off at midnight and actually featured commercials worth watching.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Mouse Shall Play
Brigitte left this morning at some ungodly hour, Cancun-bound. She didn't particularly want to go -- her arthritis is particularly bad right now, for some reason, but I told her that the sun would be good for her, and she'd get some get some good exercise dodging bullets from drive-by narco-trafficantes.
She'll be gone until Monday, so it gives me time to plan another Brigitte-would-never-eat-this Nickstravaganza. I don't know why I keep coming up with duck for these things, but that's what will be on the menu. I would most definitely try pheasant, if I knew where to find one. I have memories of eating it at boarding school one Christmas dinner and even as a little boy I found it amazingly tasty.
So I was thinking duck burgers (I know -- again?) but maybe with a twist: mixing in some bison. So I'd have a Duffalo burger -- or would it be a Buffaluck burger? Of course, I'd grind all the meat myself.
I was thinking of making a special sauce just for the occasion -- perhaps a roasted jalapeño-cherry tomato-garlic ketchup. There would be pinot-noir caramelised onions and a 6-year-old cheddar and some sort of potato side dish. Twice-baked truffle-infused bacon potatoes with goat cheese and dill sounds good, but nah, overkill.
Last night I made a Caesar salad with home-made french bread croutons that Brigitte said was the best Caesar she'd ever eaten (how often does one rave about a Caesar salad? But she did) so maybe I'll just do that as a side dish.
The only problem is the roll. I found some onion rolls at Quality Kosher but they seem too dense, not light and fluffy like I like them. I was going to try Nancy Silverton's homemade hamburger buns, but hey, there's a limit even to a Nickstravaganza.
Whatever happens, I shall faithfully document it! Anyone and everyone is welcome to come over and join me.
She'll be gone until Monday, so it gives me time to plan another Brigitte-would-never-eat-this Nickstravaganza. I don't know why I keep coming up with duck for these things, but that's what will be on the menu. I would most definitely try pheasant, if I knew where to find one. I have memories of eating it at boarding school one Christmas dinner and even as a little boy I found it amazingly tasty.
So I was thinking duck burgers (I know -- again?) but maybe with a twist: mixing in some bison. So I'd have a Duffalo burger -- or would it be a Buffaluck burger? Of course, I'd grind all the meat myself.
I was thinking of making a special sauce just for the occasion -- perhaps a roasted jalapeño-cherry tomato-garlic ketchup. There would be pinot-noir caramelised onions and a 6-year-old cheddar and some sort of potato side dish. Twice-baked truffle-infused bacon potatoes with goat cheese and dill sounds good, but nah, overkill.
Last night I made a Caesar salad with home-made french bread croutons that Brigitte said was the best Caesar she'd ever eaten (how often does one rave about a Caesar salad? But she did) so maybe I'll just do that as a side dish.
The only problem is the roll. I found some onion rolls at Quality Kosher but they seem too dense, not light and fluffy like I like them. I was going to try Nancy Silverton's homemade hamburger buns, but hey, there's a limit even to a Nickstravaganza.
Whatever happens, I shall faithfully document it! Anyone and everyone is welcome to come over and join me.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Amazing Painting from a Photo
Jack Lee and his artists have done it again . . . check out their painting from a photo of my son:
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| Original (click for detail) |
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| Painting (click for detail) |
It completely blows me away . . .
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Don't You Hang Up on Me, Mister!
The other day I was on someone or other's blog that focuses on aviation when one of those sidebar Google ads caught my attention. It was for an outfit called Blue Star Jets, which has a private jet for all of your corporate or non-corporate needs.
Jeez, I thought, I wonder how much it would cost to fly from Montreal to Osaka with Tai-chan (my son) on a private jet? Thinking I'd find out, I filled in their form, thinking I'd get a rate quote at the end of it. Foolishly, I entered my real phone number, and when I pushed "Submit" I just got a page saying they would call me.
This is three o'clock in the morning, and lo and behold, the phone rings! I picked up and quickly hung up.
Next evening the phone rings and Brigitte gets it. She has no idea what the guy is saying and passes it to me. It's Randy from Blue Star Jets!
"So you're thinking of taking one of our jets from Montreal to Japan, I understand."
I kind of stuttered and said "Well, actually, I just wanted to find out what the possible rates were, I wasn't actually thinking of --"
CLICK.
Well, feller, you just lost yourself a customer. I'd rather be caught dead than be seen on one of Blue Star Jets' jets. Too bad, Britney and Hosni and Warren (Buffet), you won't be sitting next to me sipping '46 Chateauneuf du Pape anytime soon.
Nosirree Bob. Not moi.
Jeez, I thought, I wonder how much it would cost to fly from Montreal to Osaka with Tai-chan (my son) on a private jet? Thinking I'd find out, I filled in their form, thinking I'd get a rate quote at the end of it. Foolishly, I entered my real phone number, and when I pushed "Submit" I just got a page saying they would call me.
This is three o'clock in the morning, and lo and behold, the phone rings! I picked up and quickly hung up.
Next evening the phone rings and Brigitte gets it. She has no idea what the guy is saying and passes it to me. It's Randy from Blue Star Jets!
"So you're thinking of taking one of our jets from Montreal to Japan, I understand."
I kind of stuttered and said "Well, actually, I just wanted to find out what the possible rates were, I wasn't actually thinking of --"
CLICK.
Well, feller, you just lost yourself a customer. I'd rather be caught dead than be seen on one of Blue Star Jets' jets. Too bad, Britney and Hosni and Warren (Buffet), you won't be sitting next to me sipping '46 Chateauneuf du Pape anytime soon.
Nosirree Bob. Not moi.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Darling! I have a GREAT idea!
Jean: Darling, I have a GREAT idea! Now that we're a rich retired Christian couple, let's go hand out some cheap pamphlets praising our lord Jesus Christ to poor black savages who worship pagan symbols!
Adam: Well, gee, Jean, that sounds wonderful, but how do we do that?
Jean: Well, we spend our retirement years away from our families and pretend we know how to sail this $13M yacht you bought for me after I successfully had my hangnail removed last year! We spread the Word of God to ignorant tribespeople along the Somali coast! Doesn't that sound like fun, Adam?
Adam: You sure nailed it, Jean! THAT's what I want to do in my retirement years! *kiss kiss* *nuzzlenuzzle* Now you know why I married you, don't you, Jean!
Jean : *mmmmnuzzlenuzzle* I sure do!
Postscript: This did not turn out very well at all.
Adam: Well, gee, Jean, that sounds wonderful, but how do we do that?
Jean: Well, we spend our retirement years away from our families and pretend we know how to sail this $13M yacht you bought for me after I successfully had my hangnail removed last year! We spread the Word of God to ignorant tribespeople along the Somali coast! Doesn't that sound like fun, Adam?
Adam: You sure nailed it, Jean! THAT's what I want to do in my retirement years! *kiss kiss* *nuzzlenuzzle* Now you know why I married you, don't you, Jean!
Jean : *mmmmnuzzlenuzzle* I sure do!
Postscript: This did not turn out very well at all.
Howling at a Côte-des-Neiges Moon
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| Looking down Côte-des-Neiges towards downtown (HDR photo) |
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| Click to see stars! (HDR photo) |
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Nick’s Fiery Mahogany Baked Chicken with Stand-up Scalloped Potatoes with Bacon and 3 Cheeses
Made some of my favorite comfort food tonight. It's great for company because a lot of it is prep which can be prepped either the day before or some hours before guests come, and the great thing is that both dishes can be cooked in the same oven (albeit for different times). So you can basically sit around and drink wine with the guests while occasionally checking on the dishes.
On the chicken: you can up the ante with more chilies (I would normally use habaneros) but most people don't want a food challenge.
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| Click for more love |
Nick’s Fiery Mahogany Baked Chicken
Ingredients
8 chicken legs, 4 chicken thighs, featherless, skin-on, bone in
1/2 cup ketchup
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup teriyaki sauce
1/2 cup Japanese sake
1/2 cup Mirin (Japanese sweet rice wine)
5 large cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 cup finely-chopped onion
1 Tbsp. Zesty Italian salad dressing
Two finely-chopped very hot chilies
1/2 Tsp. each chili, cayenne, garlic, onion powders
1/2 Tsp. garlic salt
Splash rice-wine vinegar
Method
Mix all marinade ingredients together well in large bowl. Add chicken pieces, coat well. Marinate, refrigerated, 1-24 hours. Preheat oven to 350º. Remove chicken from bowl and place in greased baking pan. Bake for about 50 minutes, turning occasionally and basting frequently with marinade. Cover and let rest 10 minutes. (If there is marinade left over, reduce it on medium in a small pan to avoid contaminating anything with raw chicken juices. It's great spooned over the served chicken.) Serve with basmati rice or Stand-up Scalloped Potatoes with Bacon and 5 Cheeses.
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| Before adding the final cheeses and topping |
Nick's Stand-up Scalloped Potatoes with Bacon and 5 Cheeses
Ingredients
4 medium to large purple-skinned potatoes, peeled (if they are in exceptionally unscarred shape, omit peeling and just scrub and remove eyes or bruises)
1 cup each grated gruyère, old cheddar, aged gouda and mix-grated parmesan and romano (for topping)
1 medium onion, finely sliced
4 slices applewood-smoked bacon, thickly sliced and baked in a 500º toaster oven for about five minutes. Cut into two-inch lengths.
4 large cloves garlic, finely diced
Cracked pepper
1/2 cup chopped Italian parsley
Heavy cream
Bread crumbs
Method
Mandoline potatoes to approximately 1/8-inch thick slices. Soak in a bowl of ice water with 1/4 cup sugar for 20 minutes. Rinse, drain, and dry with paper towels.
Coat all sides of a rectangular baking dish with melted butter. Then carefully stand each slice of potato on its side (this is hard) and insert some onion slices between each slice until you have reached the other side of the dish and all are on their side. If you run out of onions, slice more. Continue standing slices up until the dish is filled. Insert bacon slices randomly until all the bacon is gone.
Mix all the cheeses except the parmesan/romano mix in a large bowl with the garlic, parsley and liberal amounts of cracked pepper. Combine thoroughly. Mix the parmesan and romano with some breadcrumbs and more cracked pepper.
Preheat oven to a solid 350º (use an oven thermometer like the one pictured).
Now sprinkle approximately half the gruyère mixture onto the potatoes, taking care to get it between the slices. Drizzle heavy cream up and down each row until well covered; perhaps 2/3 of a cup.
Place in oven, uncovered, for about thirty minutes. Remove, add the rest of the gruyère mixture evenly, then sprinkle with the parmesan/roman/bread crumb mixture. Bake, uncovered, an additional 30 minutes or so, taking care not to scorch.
Remove from oven and cover tightly with aluminum foil or baking pan lid if you have one. Bake another 30 minutes or so. Serve.
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| This Maverick thermometer in highly recommended. It measures the actual temperature of the inside of your oven, not your food, with a wire that leads to a sensor placed in the oven. Invaluable, since most ovens lie. |
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Brigitte's Leaving Me!
Yes, I'm being deserted by Brigitte for FOUR DAYS next week as she traipses down to Cancun for a VACATION. Leaving me in this barren wasteland (it got down to -17ºC/1.4ºF today, with wind chills of -30ºC/-22ºF)!!
So what am I to do? Why, do what I always do when she leaves me! Namely, make some dinner she would never eat!
Hmm . . . it has to be something very, very fussy, that takes two whole days to research and then one whole day to prepare . . . I'm thinking quail or Cornish game hens, but then again, too many goddamn bones and besides, they just taste like chicken at the end of it. Maybe an elaborate boeuf Bourguignon . . . nah, too easy . . . something exotic? Buffalo? Ostrich? Nah, tastes like chicken . . . maybe something drenched in duck fat with lots of bacon . . .
I'll have to ponder long and hard on this one, Flock! Any suggestions are welcome.
So what am I to do? Why, do what I always do when she leaves me! Namely, make some dinner she would never eat!
Hmm . . . it has to be something very, very fussy, that takes two whole days to research and then one whole day to prepare . . . I'm thinking quail or Cornish game hens, but then again, too many goddamn bones and besides, they just taste like chicken at the end of it. Maybe an elaborate boeuf Bourguignon . . . nah, too easy . . . something exotic? Buffalo? Ostrich? Nah, tastes like chicken . . . maybe something drenched in duck fat with lots of bacon . . .
I'll have to ponder long and hard on this one, Flock! Any suggestions are welcome.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Nick's Turbo-charged BLT
If I had my way, the BLT would be about six letters longer. I always love to stuff as many things as I can into an ordinary BLT. I love to mess with the concept. Therefore, no two of my BLTs will ever be the same. Even with the basic ingredients, there are half a million ways you can vary the composition. In this version, the odd man out is the cucumber; but it packs a welcome, crispy crunch. Next time I might do it with some sautéed shiitake mushrooms. The secret to a good BLT is the contrasts of the cold and the hot, the soft and the crunchy, the sweet and the salty. Only your imagination sets the limits. And though it might seem like a heart attack on a plate, indulge. Don't skimp on the fats. You're only going to be having one of these once in a blue moon.
Tonight's was a good one. Let's see what was done.
Ingredients
Country bread (pain à campagne), unsliced
6 slices thick-sliced applewood-smoked bacon
1/2 medium red onion, sliced thinly
4 slices thinly-sliced 6-year aged cheddar cheese (from the edge of a block)
1 slice Emmenthal cheese
4 slices thinly-sliced Italian tomato
4 thin slices English cucumber
1 cup chopped romaine lettuce, heart section preferred
Japanese mayonnaise, or a mixture of Hellman's and a little dijon mustard
Method
Cut two slices of the bread, at least 1/2 an inch thick. Set aside.
In a small nonstick skillet, sauté the onions on medium heat in some butter until brown and almost getting crisp; about 15 minutes.
Prepare a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Lay out the bacon. Bake at 500 degrees either in a toaster oven or a regular oven, about 7 minutes or to your desired doneness (I like mine still somewhat soft, not hard and brittle). Place in a bowl lined with paper towels.
Toast the bread until just showing some color; spread mayonnaise on both slices. On one slice, place the cheeses. Toast in a toaster oven until the cheese has melted.
Assemble the sandwich: layer the bacon first, then the the cucumber, then the caramelised onions, then the tomato, then a hefty bunch of lettuce.
Cut in half. Serve with a glass of Barolo.
Tonight's was a good one. Let's see what was done.
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| Waiting for lettuce |
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One hell of a good sandwich |
Ingredients
Country bread (pain à campagne), unsliced
6 slices thick-sliced applewood-smoked bacon
1/2 medium red onion, sliced thinly
4 slices thinly-sliced 6-year aged cheddar cheese (from the edge of a block)
1 slice Emmenthal cheese
4 slices thinly-sliced Italian tomato
4 thin slices English cucumber
1 cup chopped romaine lettuce, heart section preferred
Japanese mayonnaise, or a mixture of Hellman's and a little dijon mustard
Method
Cut two slices of the bread, at least 1/2 an inch thick. Set aside.
In a small nonstick skillet, sauté the onions on medium heat in some butter until brown and almost getting crisp; about 15 minutes.
Prepare a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Lay out the bacon. Bake at 500 degrees either in a toaster oven or a regular oven, about 7 minutes or to your desired doneness (I like mine still somewhat soft, not hard and brittle). Place in a bowl lined with paper towels.
Toast the bread until just showing some color; spread mayonnaise on both slices. On one slice, place the cheeses. Toast in a toaster oven until the cheese has melted.
Assemble the sandwich: layer the bacon first, then the the cucumber, then the caramelised onions, then the tomato, then a hefty bunch of lettuce.
Cut in half. Serve with a glass of Barolo.
Jumbo Shrimp II
I have to admit, I don't like peeling shrimp. But not for the reasons you might expect. Tonight, as I peeled these delicious monsters, I couldn't help thinking about them grazing across the ocean floor, going home at night after a hard days' work finding plankton, greeting their jumbo-shrimp wives and children, only to be plucked suddenly from their tranquil lives by an illegal Russian purse-seine operation.
Flash frozen! The sheer horror. And then to be brined in salt and sugar -- as if they needed more salt -- and peeled, headless and forever wriggle-less, in my kitchen sink. I gave them names as I peeled them . . . "Goodbye, Harvey . . . goodbye, Adolphus, goodbye Margaret and especially goodbye, Troy. You will be missed, and I promise to say a special prayer to the Shrimp God, Scuttillus Maximus, on your behalf, so you go to shrimp heaven."
And shrimp heaven it was tonight!
Check it out! If you look closely you can just see that extra-pink spot on Adolphus (third from left)!
Flash frozen! The sheer horror. And then to be brined in salt and sugar -- as if they needed more salt -- and peeled, headless and forever wriggle-less, in my kitchen sink. I gave them names as I peeled them . . . "Goodbye, Harvey . . . goodbye, Adolphus, goodbye Margaret and especially goodbye, Troy. You will be missed, and I promise to say a special prayer to the Shrimp God, Scuttillus Maximus, on your behalf, so you go to shrimp heaven."
And shrimp heaven it was tonight!
Check it out! If you look closely you can just see that extra-pink spot on Adolphus (third from left)!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
You are the 50s!
Thank you, Fifty, whoever you are, for choosing to follow this blog. You're in good company. But you've got a lot of seniors who precede you. Obey their commands without arguments.
You can start off your illustrious febrile servitude by memorizing just a couple of useful selections off a page from the hastily-scrawled pamphlet written just last week by the "Righteous 49" entitled Top 97 Precursors to Enlightenment for Those in the 50s: *
4. If it moves, kill it.
18. If it doesn't move, paint it.
That should start you off, but in the meantime, please memorize by heart our founding motto: "Say it. Think it. Quick, who has the old woman's purse." (This is one of the questions that might come up on the test.)
Welcome to the club. Postage and handling of your official badge is $1.44 US -- as is with no returns. However, I will provide a tracking number.
Number 51: NO CHARGE!
* List of all 97 rules to follow
You can start off your illustrious febrile servitude by memorizing just a couple of useful selections off a page from the hastily-scrawled pamphlet written just last week by the "Righteous 49" entitled Top 97 Precursors to Enlightenment for Those in the 50s: *
4. If it moves, kill it.
18. If it doesn't move, paint it.
That should start you off, but in the meantime, please memorize by heart our founding motto: "Say it. Think it. Quick, who has the old woman's purse." (This is one of the questions that might come up on the test.)
Welcome to the club. Postage and handling of your official badge is $1.44 US -- as is with no returns. However, I will provide a tracking number.
Number 51: NO CHARGE!
* List of all 97 rules to follow
50 Followers: Heed my Call!
Look, I can't hide the fact that 82,999,39 people in Egypt removed themselves from the yolk of tyrannic oppression in just 18 days, possibly because of Facebook.
But I have an idea . .. it's rather far-fetched, but it might just work! Now that this blog's followership has reached 50 in number (who the hell are you people, anyway? but I'll get to that) let's form our own band of repression-fighters! Yes, just with 50 of us, we form a superhuman, almost Marvel-comic-like force not unlike that guy who turns into lava when he's not cross-dressing.
My proposition is that we pay tribute to failing livers everywhere (and I'll bet that a good many of you who follow even half my gibberish have a failing liver -- after all, livers are our enemy, so we must destroy them) -- by naming our new social-networking social network "SerumglutamicoxaloacetictransminaseBook!"
See, that's the test (pronounced "Ess-got") that our repressive physicians perform on us when they want to find out what's destroying our liver.
Now that there are fifty of us, through posting on SerumglutamicoxaloacetictransminaseBook.com we can accost those accursed accusers of multi-cultural agrarianism and finally take back the Liver Transplant database.
What say ye, my horde of fifty loyal soldiers? Shall we smite them with our wrath o
But I have an idea . .. it's rather far-fetched, but it might just work! Now that this blog's followership has reached 50 in number (who the hell are you people, anyway? but I'll get to that) let's form our own band of repression-fighters! Yes, just with 50 of us, we form a superhuman, almost Marvel-comic-like force not unlike that guy who turns into lava when he's not cross-dressing.
My proposition is that we pay tribute to failing livers everywhere (and I'll bet that a good many of you who follow even half my gibberish have a failing liver -- after all, livers are our enemy, so we must destroy them) -- by naming our new social-networking social network "SerumglutamicoxaloacetictransminaseBook!"
See, that's the test (pronounced "Ess-got") that our repressive physicians perform on us when they want to find out what's destroying our liver.
Now that there are fifty of us, through posting on SerumglutamicoxaloacetictransminaseBook.com we can accost those accursed accusers of multi-cultural agrarianism and finally take back the Liver Transplant database.
What say ye, my horde of fifty loyal soldiers? Shall we smite them with our wrath o
Saturday, February 12, 2011
What a Week
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| Leader of the Clods |
Or didn't, until now.
When one considers, (and I know, I know, everyone tried, but obviously not hard enough) that if someone, ANYONE had taken out Adolf Hitler in the 30s, around 50 million more people would be living today.
It would be a completely, 180-degree different world. Oh well, so much for alternative histories. You can't make this fucking stuff up, some dude immolating himself leading to the Arab world's largest country turning democratic, I swear. Cecil B. DeMille would have laughed at your script.
Then again, as an American citizen, I clearly see Clod-power at work when observing a mental shrub (take away one letter and it spells Bush) elected for fucking eight long miserable years. HOW MANY fucking clods can there be to elect such maroons so often? Well, the same clods who elected Hitler. Yes, ELECTED. He didn't take over in a coup, he was ELECTED BY THE PEOPLE.
Well, I see that these were the same clods who, upon being confronted about whether they actually had any feelings when they lifted rifles and shot Jewish women and children to death into ditches less than 3 feet in front of them, still say to this day, "No, I had no feelings at all. They were Jews."
The human race is divided into 90% clods, 5% protesting against the clods, and 3% idiots for tolerating the clods.
The other 2%, I hope, dear flock, are you and me.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Buy my DVDs
I just realized that I never put a link on this blog to the DVDs I made. I started off with an old William Shatner flick that was only ever a TV movie, but at the time (1970) I was blown away by it -- and I was not alone. So, I found the best copy I could lay my hands on on Mini-DV that had been taped directly from cable TV, and made menus for it and chapters in Final Cut Pro and then offered it for sale. I think to date, over these seven years or so, I've sold 1,000 of that movie alone.
(Note that I never violate trademarks; if it's available on VHS or DVD commercially I would never try to sell it, and if something I sell becomes available on DVD I stop offering it).
Tonight Brigitte and I watched a movie I did that still amazingly is not on DVD, Bedtime Story, with Marlon Brando and David Niven, that was remade with Michael Caine and Steve Martin as Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Bedtime Story is much funnier than the remake, and I'm amazed no one has ever heard of it!
I did quite a few cult movies -- designed the menus, the cover art, the blurb on the back of the DVD box, even art on the DVD itself. Unfortunately I sold the equipment a while back so I'd have to buy it again to do more movies. But I had a whole bunch in the works . . . I did 22 episodes of the TV series Twelve O'Clock High (which is still not on DVD), Mission Impossible, Robinson Crusoe on Mars, complete with commentary and subtitles . . .
You owe it to yourself to contribute to the good of cult filmdom and buy one from me!
Who loves ya, baby!
(Note that I never violate trademarks; if it's available on VHS or DVD commercially I would never try to sell it, and if something I sell becomes available on DVD I stop offering it).
Tonight Brigitte and I watched a movie I did that still amazingly is not on DVD, Bedtime Story, with Marlon Brando and David Niven, that was remade with Michael Caine and Steve Martin as Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Bedtime Story is much funnier than the remake, and I'm amazed no one has ever heard of it!
I did quite a few cult movies -- designed the menus, the cover art, the blurb on the back of the DVD box, even art on the DVD itself. Unfortunately I sold the equipment a while back so I'd have to buy it again to do more movies. But I had a whole bunch in the works . . . I did 22 episodes of the TV series Twelve O'Clock High (which is still not on DVD), Mission Impossible, Robinson Crusoe on Mars, complete with commentary and subtitles . . .
You owe it to yourself to contribute to the good of cult filmdom and buy one from me!
Who loves ya, baby!
You People Don't Realise . . .
. . . just what a trip to the post office can entail up here in the Frozen North.
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| Taken from my balcony ten minutes ago |
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Power of Fuck
Yes, see? Exactly my point. The first thing you thought upon seeing that title was, for many of you, shock. Only for a moment, maybe, but still . . . some visceral feeling that things are not good.
Why is that? Why is that word so powerful in the English language? Of course, it goes with a host of other unpleasant-looking words, but it has a power no other word in English seems to, either written or spoken.
How can a word be unpleasant? It seems insane, that just the mention or the sight of such a word could elicit so many primitive emotions, yet it does. The word is not like "nigger", which I will spell out for all to see, instead of that ridiculous euphemism, "The N-Word," but which is so different to the English-speaking brain.
Why are these words so powerful? They're just words. But they are. I can say with pride (why with pride?) that not once in my entire life did I ever hear any word worse than "damn" or "shoot" come out of my parents' lips. They weren't religious. They had no special code that told them never to say "bad words" yet they never did. Not even once. Not even one single time did I hear a "bad" word come from my parents. Not at parties, not with their friends, not with each other.
So why is it practically the first word we, as children, learn as a sort of "initiation" into an "adult" world?
And why is it so shocking to our ears and to our eyes? It's just a word.
I have to say that within my parents' hearing and within my son's hearing, as far as I know, I have never uttered the word "fuck" or any of its siblings. I even delivered lectures to anyone around me that they were never to utter the word in my son's presence. Mostly, they have obeyed.
Why? I don't fear a wrathful god. I don't fear that my son will learn the word, because he already has. But he sure as fuck would never say it in my presence.
Learning another language helps you gain perspective about words and how powerful they can be.
I was amazed to find that in Japanese, there is nothing, not one single thing equivalent to "fuck." If you can imagine two words that can NOT be uttered in Japanese without having your head broken in immediately, imagine "You." And "Crazy." Do those ring alarm bells for you? Thought not.
But if you say "you" in a particular way: "omé" or "kisama", both of which are ways of saying "you", you will get your ass kicked. Omé is the most demeaning form of "you" which would have to be translated as "Ya fuckin' sorry ass loser" and "kisama" is literally the second-worst thing you can say in Japanese. It literally means "Your honourable self" but what it means now is "You miserable fucking pile of stinking shit."
Don't ever, ever say "kichigai" in Japanese. That will get you a one-way trip to eternity. It literally means "changed mind" but when used, it would have to be translated like "Fuck your mother, fuck your sister and fuck the horse you rode in on."
So when I use "fuck" I don't use it loosely, because I know the power of words.
I usually just say "Fuck it, what the fuck."
Why is that? Why is that word so powerful in the English language? Of course, it goes with a host of other unpleasant-looking words, but it has a power no other word in English seems to, either written or spoken.
How can a word be unpleasant? It seems insane, that just the mention or the sight of such a word could elicit so many primitive emotions, yet it does. The word is not like "nigger", which I will spell out for all to see, instead of that ridiculous euphemism, "The N-Word," but which is so different to the English-speaking brain.
Why are these words so powerful? They're just words. But they are. I can say with pride (why with pride?) that not once in my entire life did I ever hear any word worse than "damn" or "shoot" come out of my parents' lips. They weren't religious. They had no special code that told them never to say "bad words" yet they never did. Not even once. Not even one single time did I hear a "bad" word come from my parents. Not at parties, not with their friends, not with each other.
So why is it practically the first word we, as children, learn as a sort of "initiation" into an "adult" world?
And why is it so shocking to our ears and to our eyes? It's just a word.
I have to say that within my parents' hearing and within my son's hearing, as far as I know, I have never uttered the word "fuck" or any of its siblings. I even delivered lectures to anyone around me that they were never to utter the word in my son's presence. Mostly, they have obeyed.
Why? I don't fear a wrathful god. I don't fear that my son will learn the word, because he already has. But he sure as fuck would never say it in my presence.
Learning another language helps you gain perspective about words and how powerful they can be.
I was amazed to find that in Japanese, there is nothing, not one single thing equivalent to "fuck." If you can imagine two words that can NOT be uttered in Japanese without having your head broken in immediately, imagine "You." And "Crazy." Do those ring alarm bells for you? Thought not.
But if you say "you" in a particular way: "omé" or "kisama", both of which are ways of saying "you", you will get your ass kicked. Omé is the most demeaning form of "you" which would have to be translated as "Ya fuckin' sorry ass loser" and "kisama" is literally the second-worst thing you can say in Japanese. It literally means "Your honourable self" but what it means now is "You miserable fucking pile of stinking shit."
Don't ever, ever say "kichigai" in Japanese. That will get you a one-way trip to eternity. It literally means "changed mind" but when used, it would have to be translated like "Fuck your mother, fuck your sister and fuck the horse you rode in on."
So when I use "fuck" I don't use it loosely, because I know the power of words.
I usually just say "Fuck it, what the fuck."
Bleeds! Yes, it Does
I can't believe it. I'm watching some program about the strategic bombing campaign of Germany in WWII when all of a sudden, my ears go on high alert: my own father's bomb group is mentioned. It seems they saw fit to bomb a peaceful little village called Ellingen.
Some German dude comes on and describes how his mother and sister were erased before his very eyes.
Well, let me tell you, I don't know if my father was on that specific raid, but my heart bleeds for this guy. While his countrymen (and women) were busy murdering in the most savage manner tens of millions of people, this guy here lost his mother and sister.
The fucking nerve of this guy. A very astute talking head on this show said something like "Russia, the U.S., France and England had just about had it with Germany at this point, after almost half a century of constant warfare. They just wanted it to end. And they were prepared to do just about anything to see it end."
Better words I have yet to see.
What I have to say to victim-dude is this: you made my father have to get in a fucking tin can to come all the way over to hurt your family because you're GERMAN. You're fucking lucky I'm around to tell you this, because you did everything in your power to hurt my father, because of some lunatic monkey asshole dictator who sprang from YOUR DNA.
Suck it up, fuckwad, that is the price of being the Master Race.
Some German dude comes on and describes how his mother and sister were erased before his very eyes.
Well, let me tell you, I don't know if my father was on that specific raid, but my heart bleeds for this guy. While his countrymen (and women) were busy murdering in the most savage manner tens of millions of people, this guy here lost his mother and sister.
The fucking nerve of this guy. A very astute talking head on this show said something like "Russia, the U.S., France and England had just about had it with Germany at this point, after almost half a century of constant warfare. They just wanted it to end. And they were prepared to do just about anything to see it end."
Better words I have yet to see.
What I have to say to victim-dude is this: you made my father have to get in a fucking tin can to come all the way over to hurt your family because you're GERMAN. You're fucking lucky I'm around to tell you this, because you did everything in your power to hurt my father, because of some lunatic monkey asshole dictator who sprang from YOUR DNA.
Suck it up, fuckwad, that is the price of being the Master Race.
Resist the French!
It's godawful out there . . . three feet of rapidly melting snow. I had to literally dig Brigitte out of her outdoor parking space.
When I came back I dropped off a note to the superintendent thanking him for cleaning off her parking space the other day, but as I walked up the hall to his door, I saw some black bundle in the corridor. I thought someone had dropped their bag, but when I went closer, I saw it was a kitty, big and fuzzy and extremely suspicious.
Its owner's door was slightly ajar, but when I went up to the cat it immediately rushed back into the apartment. Then, of course, it had to Look.
Now of course, I have cat smarts, so I was very puzzled as to why it didn't come up to me when I called it. It tried to, but then would back away quickly. I thought: what is wrong with me that this cat doesn't like me?
But then I came home and looked in the mirror. With my Greek fisherman's hat and heavy wool greatcoat, I look exactly like a member of the French Resistance. And, since the cat was probably French speaking, it immediately recognized me as the enemy.
Because that's what we freedom fighters do! As every one of you would do for liberty, equality and fraternities!
Resist the French!
When I came back I dropped off a note to the superintendent thanking him for cleaning off her parking space the other day, but as I walked up the hall to his door, I saw some black bundle in the corridor. I thought someone had dropped their bag, but when I went closer, I saw it was a kitty, big and fuzzy and extremely suspicious.
Its owner's door was slightly ajar, but when I went up to the cat it immediately rushed back into the apartment. Then, of course, it had to Look.
Now of course, I have cat smarts, so I was very puzzled as to why it didn't come up to me when I called it. It tried to, but then would back away quickly. I thought: what is wrong with me that this cat doesn't like me?
But then I came home and looked in the mirror. With my Greek fisherman's hat and heavy wool greatcoat, I look exactly like a member of the French Resistance. And, since the cat was probably French speaking, it immediately recognized me as the enemy.
Because that's what we freedom fighters do! As every one of you would do for liberty, equality and fraternities!
Resist the French!
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| Vive les chats! |
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Back
I'm back. Somehow my account got hacked and someone started posting, pretending to be me. *Thank you, Bill Gates*
But as I told someone I only know as Karen, I triple-locked the door so it won't happen again. I can sincerely attest that there will be no more kittens on my watch.
As I type I'm watching some fuckwad (see, it really is ME) who says he's John Gotti's son and he "got out of da bidness" because he had kids. Oh, uh-huh. This fat fuck wants everyone to know he's clean and legit and wholesome, and that he's never had a hand in murdering anyone. "It's da street code . . ." he intones, in that inimitable Brooklyn accent . . . "It's only sumpin' a street guy would knows."
Well, Mr. Junior Gotti, let me respectfully say that as a race, you make an excellent pizza, but your manners suck. Part what's left of your hair on the LEFT side.
But as I told someone I only know as Karen, I triple-locked the door so it won't happen again. I can sincerely attest that there will be no more kittens on my watch.
As I type I'm watching some fuckwad (see, it really is ME) who says he's John Gotti's son and he "got out of da bidness" because he had kids. Oh, uh-huh. This fat fuck wants everyone to know he's clean and legit and wholesome, and that he's never had a hand in murdering anyone. "It's da street code . . ." he intones, in that inimitable Brooklyn accent . . . "It's only sumpin' a street guy would knows."
Well, Mr. Junior Gotti, let me respectfully say that as a race, you make an excellent pizza, but your manners suck. Part what's left of your hair on the LEFT side.
Why (and Who!) I Hate
Hate is a very odd feeling. I mean, look at it. Supposedly, it's the opposite of love. But in reality, it's a complete amalgam of emotions. Hating a Geico commercial is a special kind of hate -- namely, it's confined to the Geico commercial. A small, specialised packet of neurons, probably smaller than the tippy-most tip of a needle, is involved in this packet of hate. But oh, it's there. But, like a sleeping ICBM, it also knows when and where to manifest itself. Like, say, when the eHarmony commercial comes on. it knows it's not needed and will sleep for another day.
The thing about hate is, thankfully, that it's usually a short-lasting feeling. That's because the object(s) of your hate are usually shot, bludgeoned or talked to death before you can get to them. But then, there's the dilemma: how can you kill an object? Say, a clock radio which is designed as most objects in Asian countries are designed, namely black on black, in which any labels of input/output are placed in the most inaccessible region possible and then made small, very small, so in addition to they're being in the most-hated typeface in the world, Arial, are sadistically typed in 8-point, which to most human beings is about a recognizable as the Talmud written on the back of a postage stamp.
Love, on the other hand, is a long-lasting feeling. When it can be found, which is rare these days, it's an incredible antidote to hate. In fact, it's so rare that one, as an alien being visiting Earth two million years from now and examining the fossil record would conclude that "internecine wars ultimately reduced this species to extinction within a remarkably short period of time" and that "it is obvious to the examiner(s) that this species was 100% responsible for its own demise."
The thing about hate is, thankfully, that it's usually a short-lasting feeling. That's because the object(s) of your hate are usually shot, bludgeoned or talked to death before you can get to them. But then, there's the dilemma: how can you kill an object? Say, a clock radio which is designed as most objects in Asian countries are designed, namely black on black, in which any labels of input/output are placed in the most inaccessible region possible and then made small, very small, so in addition to they're being in the most-hated typeface in the world, Arial, are sadistically typed in 8-point, which to most human beings is about a recognizable as the Talmud written on the back of a postage stamp.
Love, on the other hand, is a long-lasting feeling. When it can be found, which is rare these days, it's an incredible antidote to hate. In fact, it's so rare that one, as an alien being visiting Earth two million years from now and examining the fossil record would conclude that "internecine wars ultimately reduced this species to extinction within a remarkably short period of time" and that "it is obvious to the examiner(s) that this species was 100% responsible for its own demise."
No Kittens
At least, not at the moment. I hear Great White Sharks have a special liking for kittens, because it's so rare to have them floating around somewhere and fishermen (understandably) don't like using them for chum.
But what I was going to blather on about is actually directed to women of the female persuasion. Yeah, youse. Youse knows who youse is.
Do you not hate it, and be honest, when your husband/boyfriend/seatmate/occasional dickwad but usually serviceable dickwad has . . . uh . . . some HOBBY that you don't have a clue about but that you are resigned to be resigned to?
God. I could come up with a list, but it just would make your eyelids droop -- there is simply not enough time in the universe to list the things that Boys With Toys will get up to.
Not just GET UP TO . . . will devote entire lifetimes, years, months, minutes, hours . . . doing these seemingly useless things that will get them nowhere. And they know while they're doing them that it will get them nowhere. No more money, no more jobs, no more security. AND THEY STILL DO THEM.
I know, I know, female human beings are far from immune to these behaviours. But males . . . they take it ALL THE WAY.
Think Dungeons and Dragons. Think World of Warcraft. I, of course, know nothing of these distractions, but apparently, 168 million people would beg to differ with me.
The distinction among these widow-making interests, is, at least to me, the payoff. What do you GET after wasting 1,765 hours on some hobby or interest? Something you can hold? Something you can look at, and treasure, 50 years down the line? Or just a poker game that is destined to float in memory, remembered only by you (and by Vito. Never forget about Vito).
So what is the point of this large-scale rant? Fine scale. I know you have absolutely no interest in people who make small plastic models for a living, but you can take it from me: if there is something on Earth that humans can do, there is something that humans will take to the Nth degree to be better than other humans.
The people at Fine Scale Modeling bring this to mind. It reminds me, regretfully, that anything you do, someone else can do better. That, Flock, is my watchword of the day. Write it down and occasionally pull it out of your wallet when the chips are down.
And notice that nowhere in this post did I include the word "fuck."
But what I was going to blather on about is actually directed to women of the female persuasion. Yeah, youse. Youse knows who youse is.
Do you not hate it, and be honest, when your husband/boyfriend/seatmate/occasional dickwad but usually serviceable dickwad has . . . uh . . . some HOBBY that you don't have a clue about but that you are resigned to be resigned to?
God. I could come up with a list, but it just would make your eyelids droop -- there is simply not enough time in the universe to list the things that Boys With Toys will get up to.
Not just GET UP TO . . . will devote entire lifetimes, years, months, minutes, hours . . . doing these seemingly useless things that will get them nowhere. And they know while they're doing them that it will get them nowhere. No more money, no more jobs, no more security. AND THEY STILL DO THEM.
I know, I know, female human beings are far from immune to these behaviours. But males . . . they take it ALL THE WAY.
Think Dungeons and Dragons. Think World of Warcraft. I, of course, know nothing of these distractions, but apparently, 168 million people would beg to differ with me.
The distinction among these widow-making interests, is, at least to me, the payoff. What do you GET after wasting 1,765 hours on some hobby or interest? Something you can hold? Something you can look at, and treasure, 50 years down the line? Or just a poker game that is destined to float in memory, remembered only by you (and by Vito. Never forget about Vito).
So what is the point of this large-scale rant? Fine scale. I know you have absolutely no interest in people who make small plastic models for a living, but you can take it from me: if there is something on Earth that humans can do, there is something that humans will take to the Nth degree to be better than other humans.
The people at Fine Scale Modeling bring this to mind. It reminds me, regretfully, that anything you do, someone else can do better. That, Flock, is my watchword of the day. Write it down and occasionally pull it out of your wallet when the chips are down.
And notice that nowhere in this post did I include the word "fuck."
A Kinder, Gentler Me
Is that what you want, Flock? Are you sick and tired of the invective, the sheer venom, the hurling of random insults like rocks in Tahrir Square? Are you just absolutely fed up with reading my rants about religion, old people and Germans? And elderly German priests? And elderly German priests who abuse small children and are named Ratzinger?
(Well, I certainly don't know what led to that outburst -- sometimes I'm convinced that my hands are autonomous and occasionally they just type whatever they feel like at the moment. Completely beyond my control).
Well, let me tell you, there is hope for you! Yes, I'm entering a self-imposed regimen of niceness. The next time I'm in the grocery store and some dazed minion blocks the aisle with his cart while he tries to find a can of Campbell's Hungry Man soup, I will refrain from cursing under my breath and almost knocking over the display stand of Creme Eggs in an attempt to get around him.
The next time I pick Aisle 3 checkstand, I will purposely not notice that the woman two people in front of me has white hair, and a bag so full of stuff that it's going to take her four minutes just to locate the small purse of loose change that she intends to pay with.
I will not roll my eyes to the cashier. I will not stand there, regretting that I've already put my groceries on the belt and that putting them back in my cart and going to another checkstand would be churlish.
No, the new me WILL NOT DO ANY OF THAT. I will type "f**k" instead of FUCK. I will spell it a$$hole. I will hold my breath and count to twenty before impaling the computer mouse with a fork because it says "Batteries are low." In short, a completely changed human being. No more rants, just recipes.
I will type things about food, and about Montreal. That's what the title says, isn't it? I seem to have lost my original mandate on all too many an occasion, Flock. But now I repent. I will be kind, I will be gentle.
I'm already thinking about my next post. Do you like kittens? I do too. I think I'll write about kittens next time.
I think you will like the new Nick, Flock. I'm going to be taking up macramé, even though I don't know what that is. I'll pay my taxes on time. Cursing will be a thing of the past.
I WILL FORCE MYSELF TO LIKE GERMANS.
(Well, I certainly don't know what led to that outburst -- sometimes I'm convinced that my hands are autonomous and occasionally they just type whatever they feel like at the moment. Completely beyond my control).
Well, let me tell you, there is hope for you! Yes, I'm entering a self-imposed regimen of niceness. The next time I'm in the grocery store and some dazed minion blocks the aisle with his cart while he tries to find a can of Campbell's Hungry Man soup, I will refrain from cursing under my breath and almost knocking over the display stand of Creme Eggs in an attempt to get around him.
The next time I pick Aisle 3 checkstand, I will purposely not notice that the woman two people in front of me has white hair, and a bag so full of stuff that it's going to take her four minutes just to locate the small purse of loose change that she intends to pay with.
I will not roll my eyes to the cashier. I will not stand there, regretting that I've already put my groceries on the belt and that putting them back in my cart and going to another checkstand would be churlish.
No, the new me WILL NOT DO ANY OF THAT. I will type "f**k" instead of FUCK. I will spell it a$$hole. I will hold my breath and count to twenty before impaling the computer mouse with a fork because it says "Batteries are low." In short, a completely changed human being. No more rants, just recipes.
I will type things about food, and about Montreal. That's what the title says, isn't it? I seem to have lost my original mandate on all too many an occasion, Flock. But now I repent. I will be kind, I will be gentle.
I'm already thinking about my next post. Do you like kittens? I do too. I think I'll write about kittens next time.
I think you will like the new Nick, Flock. I'm going to be taking up macramé, even though I don't know what that is. I'll pay my taxes on time. Cursing will be a thing of the past.
I WILL FORCE MYSELF TO LIKE GERMANS.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Plagiarism
Well, fuck, I've got enough verbal diarrhea to fill fifty books, but hey, why the hell plagiarize anything? It's like a coroner falsifying his findings. But a coroner isn't a writer . . . who makes his fucking living writing. That would be like a construction dude cutting corners to fatten his wallet while avoiding building standards.
Me? I have to say that I never cheated, not once, in school. Not even when it was offered to me . . . the reason being not that I have a repulsion for cheating, which I do, but more like I was afraid of the consequences of getting caught.
I always remember that the housemaster of the boarding school to which I went ran a secret test on all the boys using an invisible dye that could only be seen under a special lamp. Someone was stealing money from the boys' lockers, and he put me under it . . . apparently, enough traces of the dye showed up in the scan that he accused me of doing it. Well, nothing is louder than someone accused of something he didn't do, but fuck, if I had, I'd probably have folded under questioning. (They dropped it when it was obvious that anyone could have acquired traces off a door handle used by the evildoer). But believe me, it was more my pride that was hurt than anything else, at being accused. (Fuck you, Stagg, I hope the worms did double duty on you and you were still alive when they buried you).
Nah. The reason I do as little as possible wrong, ie. traffic tickets, driving under the influence, shoplifting, assaulting my wife is because I like my life simple. God, being a published author . . . sweeeet!
Being a published author and then pissing in your own sandbox . . .
Me? I have to say that I never cheated, not once, in school. Not even when it was offered to me . . . the reason being not that I have a repulsion for cheating, which I do, but more like I was afraid of the consequences of getting caught.
I always remember that the housemaster of the boarding school to which I went ran a secret test on all the boys using an invisible dye that could only be seen under a special lamp. Someone was stealing money from the boys' lockers, and he put me under it . . . apparently, enough traces of the dye showed up in the scan that he accused me of doing it. Well, nothing is louder than someone accused of something he didn't do, but fuck, if I had, I'd probably have folded under questioning. (They dropped it when it was obvious that anyone could have acquired traces off a door handle used by the evildoer). But believe me, it was more my pride that was hurt than anything else, at being accused. (Fuck you, Stagg, I hope the worms did double duty on you and you were still alive when they buried you).
Nah. The reason I do as little as possible wrong, ie. traffic tickets, driving under the influence, shoplifting, assaulting my wife is because I like my life simple. God, being a published author . . . sweeeet!
Being a published author and then pissing in your own sandbox . . .
My Gentle Hates
You're just too gentle to voice it, and that's why I feel I have to do it on your behalf and also why I love each and every one of you.
After all, if people didn't hate things, what would be the purpose in getting up in the morning? "Ahhh, fuck, is Rodrigues working today? He's such a fucking jerk. Do I really want to go into work and deal with that schlub (a good hate word! Learn it and use it! Best of all, it's useable in front of small children!) all day again today?"
Hate is good. Hate is useful! What is my Hate of the day? Pâte feuilleté. (While I'm at it, I hate the French, to force me to type accents on my keyboard). See how hate can be good? You can hate so many things, and it just swells in your chest until it almost becomes something like . . . love.
Pastry dough, for that's what it is (and I hate writers who use "for" to mean "because") is an evil thing made by evil people for other evil people. There is just nothing redeeming about Puff Pastry. Nothing whatsoever.
So I hate it, with gladness in my heart, and I wish you, my flock, to become converts and hate it also. If enough of us hate it, it will disappear from the continuum.
Another thing I hate is Chicken Pot Pie. It is a direct descendant from Puff Pastry. That makes it automatically bad. But the vapid taste, the whole "comfort food" concept just makes me want to, uhh, well, HATE. Hate with no boundaries. HATE Bon Appetit magazine, who dares to put out a January "diet food" edition.
See? I hate so you don't have to. Now I have to go finish the fucking chicken pot pie.
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| What was supposed to happen |
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| What actually happened |
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Anarky
Just imagine turning over the running of a maximum security prison to the inmates. Or the running of a day care to the children. Or the running of a hospital to administrators. (Whoops, sorry, I think I made a "msitake" on the last one).
Basic lesson here is: human beings are not equipped to run a planet. Not mentally, not physically, not ideologically, not biologically, not nothingly.
We're pathetically understaffed by actual people with brains. One of my daily, almost hourly, (recently almost by the minute) refrains are "Just how dumb can you be? Yes, you, the asshole wandering around with your shopping cart blocking 24 people from passing through while you research every flavor of Wheetabix?"
Well, turns out, much like the theme to Dragnet: "Dumb, de-dumb-dumb-dumb."
It is an incredible miracle that we're here at all, despite all the pronouncements of the resourcefulness, intelligence and sheer willpower of human beings. Hey dudes, for every Einstein, there are sixty billion Homers (nah, not the Greek one) throughout history. For every courageous Holocaust survivor, there are a million who saw fit to kill them.
I watched a show the other day that tried to predict the world 250 million years from now, around the time that true life began on earth, if you look in reverse.
Guess what? We're nowhere in sight. We died 249.999 million years before that.
Oh, I'm sure God will be chugging along, trying to win new converts from other galaxies, but we'll be ashes to ashes, dust to dust. God will be busy planning new Holocausts.
Frankly, I couldn't give a flying fuck what happens to humans -- the sooner the demise the better -- as long as my son sees his peaceful dying day of old age and too many wines drunk with his family and friends.
Otherwise, humanity will become a welcome stain bleached clean by history. And I'll be in Hell, which was always my first choice anyway.
Basic lesson here is: human beings are not equipped to run a planet. Not mentally, not physically, not ideologically, not biologically, not nothingly.
We're pathetically understaffed by actual people with brains. One of my daily, almost hourly, (recently almost by the minute) refrains are "Just how dumb can you be? Yes, you, the asshole wandering around with your shopping cart blocking 24 people from passing through while you research every flavor of Wheetabix?"
Well, turns out, much like the theme to Dragnet: "Dumb, de-dumb-dumb-dumb."
It is an incredible miracle that we're here at all, despite all the pronouncements of the resourcefulness, intelligence and sheer willpower of human beings. Hey dudes, for every Einstein, there are sixty billion Homers (nah, not the Greek one) throughout history. For every courageous Holocaust survivor, there are a million who saw fit to kill them.
I watched a show the other day that tried to predict the world 250 million years from now, around the time that true life began on earth, if you look in reverse.
Guess what? We're nowhere in sight. We died 249.999 million years before that.
Oh, I'm sure God will be chugging along, trying to win new converts from other galaxies, but we'll be ashes to ashes, dust to dust. God will be busy planning new Holocausts.
Frankly, I couldn't give a flying fuck what happens to humans -- the sooner the demise the better -- as long as my son sees his peaceful dying day of old age and too many wines drunk with his family and friends.
Otherwise, humanity will become a welcome stain bleached clean by history. And I'll be in Hell, which was always my first choice anyway.
Manifesto
It was announced to day that the CRTC (don't ask me who they are, probably descendants of the 101st Polic Battalion)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
My Nest
Brigitte came back last night. Of course my model airplane arrived today. Instead of being able to work on it while Brigitte wasn't here, well, I'll have to retire to my nest that I built for myself while she was gone.
This model looks like it's going to take about 120 hours of work . . . wish me luck.
She has the Bold and the Restless, I have my Nest . . .
This model looks like it's going to take about 120 hours of work . . . wish me luck.
She has the Bold and the Restless, I have my Nest . . .
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| Let the games begin! |
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Accents
I've always admired people who could do accents. It's really incredibly difficult -- it's like being a singer. Someone who tries to imitate an accent and fails -- well, your ears hear it, and it's just like going to a karaoke bar.
But people who can do accents, and do them well -- it's like magic. All of a sudden, the person you thought you were talking to is no longer the person you thought you were talking to (I come across this all too often, when Tai-chan, my own son, suddenly starts speaking rapid-torrent Japanese to his relatives, and even though my Japanese vocabulary is greater than even his, there is no way I can ever hope to achieve his casual, unthinking fluency. Thus, he becomes a completely different person right there in front of me. It's really quite disconcerting).
However, through my early years, I was forced to adapt a lot -- going to British boarding school was a major proving ground, so naturally, as a 12 year-old, I had a very pronounced "Prince William" accent. But I grew so tired of people back in the States saying "Oh, are you from England?" that I worked double time to speak American. You wouldn't be able to tell any more, but then again, it has been thirty-five years.
I would never think today of saying "hahlf" instead of "haff." "Cahn't" instead of "caant."
But watch out -- I do a mean Australian, despite never having been there. I once went to a party in the SF loft district in the punk era and I did the whole night as an Australian, à la Crocodile Dundee. People were simply amazed, as if I was some garden gnome who had somehow just popped into being in their midst.
I went up to Bob Weir, he of the Grateful Dead, who just happened to be entertaining court with some fawning fans, and I put on my best leer and said "Heer, mate. Ahhhrnt ye Bob Dylan?"
That brought down the house.
I'm watching a PBS special about old crime shows and Peter Graves does a Russian, completely deadpan, and the transformation is so amazing that I almost fell off my stool laughing.
But people who can do accents, and do them well -- it's like magic. All of a sudden, the person you thought you were talking to is no longer the person you thought you were talking to (I come across this all too often, when Tai-chan, my own son, suddenly starts speaking rapid-torrent Japanese to his relatives, and even though my Japanese vocabulary is greater than even his, there is no way I can ever hope to achieve his casual, unthinking fluency. Thus, he becomes a completely different person right there in front of me. It's really quite disconcerting).
However, through my early years, I was forced to adapt a lot -- going to British boarding school was a major proving ground, so naturally, as a 12 year-old, I had a very pronounced "Prince William" accent. But I grew so tired of people back in the States saying "Oh, are you from England?" that I worked double time to speak American. You wouldn't be able to tell any more, but then again, it has been thirty-five years.
I would never think today of saying "hahlf" instead of "haff." "Cahn't" instead of "caant."
But watch out -- I do a mean Australian, despite never having been there. I once went to a party in the SF loft district in the punk era and I did the whole night as an Australian, à la Crocodile Dundee. People were simply amazed, as if I was some garden gnome who had somehow just popped into being in their midst.
I went up to Bob Weir, he of the Grateful Dead, who just happened to be entertaining court with some fawning fans, and I put on my best leer and said "Heer, mate. Ahhhrnt ye Bob Dylan?"
That brought down the house.
I'm watching a PBS special about old crime shows and Peter Graves does a Russian, completely deadpan, and the transformation is so amazing that I almost fell off my stool laughing.
Should I or Shouldn't I
It's uncomfortable to even talk about it, but basically, when my father was young -- very, very young, maybe 20 years old, just around the beginning of the U.S. involvement in WWII, he met someone and had a baby with her after marrying her. I'm, like REALLY vague on the details. I certainly never asked him about it (he's gone now) but the news did get around. I never mentioned that I was aware of anything even to my mother.
When my eldest brother died, at age 48, I just happened to be on my way to California (too late -- he died just hours before I arrived). But that night, as a mini-wake was being undergone, I found a trunk in my parents' closet. I don't know what made me look there, but I did. And in that trunk I found a wallet. It was a very old wallet.
I looked through it, and I found two photos: one of an incredibly beautiful young woman, probably in her early 20s, and a picture of an extremely beautiful baby, less than a year old.
As I was look at these pictures, my mother happened to walk in. I said "Mother, who are these people?" and she said "Well, your father . . ." and JUST THEN someone called her from the other room and the moment was lost. I didn't pursue it.
I decided that I would wait until my father was gone before I did anything, IF I did anything. But since then, on only two occasions (one of them being today) I asked my mother for details. As usual, she was very matter-of-fact, not acting regretful at all (she met my father years after the birth of his child).
But the news was discouraging. My mother only knows the names of the mother, Donna, and the daughter, Linda, and only knows that they lived somewhere in New York state.
If Linda is alive, she would be between 59 and 63 . . . but what are the chances of my finding a Linda Robinson? My name is as common as the grains of sand on a beach. Linda is even more common. New York is a huge place.
Why couldn't she have been named Jacynthe? And my last name be Xerxes?
Question is, should I bother looking? The chances against finding her are like looking for life in the Andromeda galaxy.
I've been told that if it was important enough, she would have found US by now, so maybe she doesn't want to be found . . .
My question to you is, should I just let sleeping dogs lie?
When my eldest brother died, at age 48, I just happened to be on my way to California (too late -- he died just hours before I arrived). But that night, as a mini-wake was being undergone, I found a trunk in my parents' closet. I don't know what made me look there, but I did. And in that trunk I found a wallet. It was a very old wallet.
I looked through it, and I found two photos: one of an incredibly beautiful young woman, probably in her early 20s, and a picture of an extremely beautiful baby, less than a year old.
As I was look at these pictures, my mother happened to walk in. I said "Mother, who are these people?" and she said "Well, your father . . ." and JUST THEN someone called her from the other room and the moment was lost. I didn't pursue it.
I decided that I would wait until my father was gone before I did anything, IF I did anything. But since then, on only two occasions (one of them being today) I asked my mother for details. As usual, she was very matter-of-fact, not acting regretful at all (she met my father years after the birth of his child).
But the news was discouraging. My mother only knows the names of the mother, Donna, and the daughter, Linda, and only knows that they lived somewhere in New York state.
If Linda is alive, she would be between 59 and 63 . . . but what are the chances of my finding a Linda Robinson? My name is as common as the grains of sand on a beach. Linda is even more common. New York is a huge place.
Why couldn't she have been named Jacynthe? And my last name be Xerxes?
Question is, should I bother looking? The chances against finding her are like looking for life in the Andromeda galaxy.
I've been told that if it was important enough, she would have found US by now, so maybe she doesn't want to be found . . .
My question to you is, should I just let sleeping dogs lie?
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