Popes and Imbeciles

And to top it all off, they're going to make a saint out of a child-molester. As sure as he was a pope, John-Paul was a child molester.

What kind of world do we live in, where Gaddafis scuttle around like cockroaches, where millions upon millions of people continue to tolerate corrupt, homicidal maniacs as their leaders, where so-called "leaders of the free world" take a hands-on/hands-off approach according to their level of absolute confusion?

We have learned nothing from history and are eternally doomed to repeat its mistakes.

Dolfy

I was getting around to a huge rant about who won the war, the Japanese or the Germans, but it was too huge, even for me. I'll feed it to you in bits and pieces instead. You know you like it better that way -- appetizers, if you will, while you're strolling around sipping sauvignon blanc and looking at the paintings before the Main Event.


Now what was I going to say . . . oh yes! Adolf Hitler, a man of many of my blog posts. But he was so much maligned . . . the history books are just not fair! "Liar," you scream, and you're right to do so. Because the truth about Dolfy, as I know him, is far from what what the history books say.


Dolfy was actually quite a good guy! How do I know? Because my great-aunt's half-brother's ex wife's grandfather's best friend was a witness to Dolfy's "good" side. He wasn't there himself, mind you, but he heard these things from his uncle's landlord's youngest sister's grandfather, who was a personal friend of Dolphy's chauffeur's Alsatian's veterinarian's younger sister's boyfriend's father, who was the personal assistant to Goebbel's sister's architect's nephew. But it wasn't the nephew's testimony alone that convinces me. For that I had to go to Klaus Fuchs, who was Dolphy's personal comedian. His source was  Ernst Zummer, beloved manicurist to "der kleine Fuerher" ("the tiny leader")'s childhood friend.


Dolphy enjoyed a good laugh! When informed of the Warsaw Uprising, comedian Ernst slyly says, "You know, Fuerher, that reminds me of a story:


"A priest, a preacher and a Rabbi walked into their favorite bar, where they would get together two or three times a week for drinks and to talk shop. 

"On this particular afternoon, someone made the comment that preaching to people isn't really all that hard. A real challenge would be to preach to a bear.

"One thing led to another and they decided to do an experiment. They would all go out into the woods, find a bear, preach to it, and attempt to convert it.

"Seven days later, they're all together to discuss the experience.

"Father Flannery, who has his arm in a sling, is on crutches, and has various bandages, goes first.

"Well," he says, "I went into the woods to find me a bear. And when I found him I began to read to him from the Catechism. Well, that bear wanted nothing to do with me and began to slap me around. So I quickly grabbed my holy water, sprinkled him and, Holy Mary Mother of God, he became as gentle a lamb. The bishop is coming out next week to give him first communion and confirmation."

"Reverend Billy Bob spoke next. He was in a wheelchair, with an arm and both legs in casts, and an IV drip. In his best fire and brimstone oratory he claimed, " WELL brothers, you KNOW that we don't sprinkle! I went out and I FOUND me a bear. And then I began to read to my bear from God's HOLY WORD! But that bear wanted nothing to do with me. So I took HOLD of him and we began to wrestle. We wrestled down one hill, UP another and DOWN another until we came to a creek. So I quick DUNKED him and BAPTIZED his hairy soul. And just like you said, he became as gentle as a lamb. We spent the rest of the day praising Jesus."

"They both looked down at the rabbi, who was lying in a hospital bed. He was in a body cast and traction with IVs and monitors running in and out of him. He was in bad shape.

"The rabbi looks up and says, "Looking back on it, circumcision may not have been the best way to start."

Hitler had a great belly laugh out of that one. Isn't that a great story? I guess you had to have been there.

Pretentiousness

You know, I suddenly realised that I'm a veteran of two parts of humanity that rely completely on pretension to exist.

Think about it: a brain surgeon can't be pretentious. His money is very, very much where his mouth is. His work is so on display, there is not another human being alive who can criticize it, except another brain surgeon. And a brain surgeon can't afford even one mistake, just as, say an airline pilot or an air traffic controller can.

But when you enter my world of experience, your eyes bug out at how pretentious it can be. See, I've been on both sides of pretentiousness; the pretender, and the critic of the pretender.

Let's start with art. Five years in a prestigious art school. I didn't know about anyone else, but many times, frankly, I just didn't get it. The teachers were in heavy competition with their students as to who could be more pretentious. If I could somehow win a prize in some "roll-your-eyes" competition, I'd be the winner, hands-down. The amount of pretentious bastards there were in the art world quite frankly blew me away.

These were people who relied on opinion alone; nothing else was needed. Maybe a B.A. in fine arts would qualify you (as it qualifies me) to babble about what is art and what is not art. Can you imagine a table of brain surgeons arguing about which artery to cut is the most efficient, or their opinion on which hemisphere is more aesthetically attractive, the left or the right?

But comparatively, the art world does require a tiny modicum of talent, that is, when you're not pulling the wool over someone's willing eyes. See, even there, I reread that sentence and said to myself "No, it doesn't require even a modicum of talent."

But let's get to my next area of "expertise" . . . the food world. In this world, everyone -- every single one -- is complicit in pretension. Pretending to be a good cook. Pretending to know how to run a restaurant. Pretending to possess the knowledge of what "good food" supposedly is.

A brain surgeon or an airline pilot cannot pretend. There is no judgment that can be rendered as to his "performance" other than "Did he do a good job?" The alternative is unthinkable.

But I, yes, I, have participated in some of the biggest shams of my short life. I've "pretended" to be an artist, pretended to criticize others' art of which I knew nothing, and pretended to others who knew nothing that I respected them while all the time knowing they knew nothing.

But it gets worse. In the food world there are several steps up, one of which is called "taste." And that is both literally and figuratively. No one eats a painting, or even smells it. So basically, the only "taste" involved is vision. But we sure know what good food is, don't we? It's salty, or not. It's sweet, or not. It's well presented, or not. You can't disguise food and say it's not salty when just one bite will confirm that it is.

So in that way, art and food are different. But not by much. People ask me "Oh, you're a food critic?" in the same reverence that one could say "Oh, you're a brain surgeon critic?" But I have to say "Yes," waiting for the request for official credentials that never come.

The truth is, I have no credentials, never went to a school which pretended to issue them, have no reason whatsoever to call myself a food critic any more than an art critic can call himself that; oh, okay, maybe he went to art school, but what can he actually DO other than open his mouth and opine, or pick up a pen and opine?

I'll tell you what this all means, if you're still reading. In the actual world, the one in which the brain surgeon performs a difficult 9-hour operation removing a dangerous tumour, I can go to a restaurant opening and munch a few things and drink as much as I can, for free, because I have put a sign over my door (business card, whatever) calling myself a "Restaurant reviewer," or whatever else I want to call myself, and then write a "review" of the place. Depending upon my level of collusion, I can trash the place or write it up as the next Daniel Boulud's.

Just depends on how much the restaurant wants to pay me.

Bottom line? One can go far with pretension. It requires almost no talent and no experience, and demands no proof of either. Too bad for you, and too bad for me, Michael Gwame, whose grandfather died unexpectedly, leaving a $45-million fortune, of which I'll give you 80% if only you will give me your bank account details.

The News

There is evidence that the news is no longer the news.

Political Correctness Gone HogWild

I simply can't believe this.

Next thing will be the Right to Vote for mice. March of Dimes for Butterflies. Suffrage for homeless lionesses. Peace treaties between leopards and wildebeest! Terror training camps for rogue giraffes! Monthly rent checks from cats and dogs!

EQUALITY FOR DUNG BEETLES!

Kate and Wills and Adolf and Eva!

Yes, you read it right. On this day 66 years ago, Adolf married Eva in his bunker! Hmm . . . 66 . . . 666? There's got to be some kind of conspiracy here. Let's call Oliver Stone!

Kate and Wills!

Kate and Wills. Kate and Wills. Kate and Wills.
 
Kate and Wills. Kate and Wills. Kate and Wills.

KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.  KATE AND WILLS.

kate and WILLS. KATE and wills. KaTe AnD WiLlS. Kate and Wills. Kate and Wills.

K
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e AND W
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KATE and Wills
KATE and WILLS 
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kateandwills

The Funnest Weekend Ever

When you look at earth from space, said one astronaut, it's impossible to believe that all that shit is happening down there. I mean, think about it. That bright blue orb, impossibly beautiful . . . and crawling with vermin. No really, think about it. Unless you actually LANDED in, say, a Nebraska corn field, it would LOOK like Paradise from anywhere above twenty miles away.

Kind of like looking at Lady Gaga from 20 miles away. You can't see all the zits.

But oh, Flock, what a marvelous weekend we're coming up to! Surely one that goes down in history. Kate and Wills! Kate and Wills! Say it until you throw up on your keyboard.

The last Shuttle Mission! Thank fucking god for that. The first one was boring, they managed to kill 14 people and it's still like a "Bus in the Sky." No more buses at this stop! You'll have to fondle the Soyuz's Flight Director in private places for a ticket to space, unlessin' you want to become Richard Branson's personal whore!

The Arab Spring! Finally, Arabs turning on themselves instead of their perceived enemies! Turn up the volume! An entire species becomes self-aware! Let's just get past that massacre in 1615 between the Tulwars and the Armenians and then maybe we can step into the 18th century! Hurrah!

Tornadoes ruining the South! There are no words other than Yes Yes Yes! Divine flatulence which has switched its attention from Japan for a moment to concentrate on the lower rungs of humanity for hating anyone who isn't white and accuses President O'Bama of being a) not American (anyone can tell from his name that he's Irish) b) a nignog (everyone not from Mississippi is a nignog) and a muslim boot-licker because his middle name is Hussein. Yep, like Saddam! Never mind that this is the equivalent of having the middle name "John" (why, what a coincidence! That just happens to be MY middle name!)

OOOOOOOOOO it's all coming up, my dearest Flock, and you read it here first!

The Aliens Among Us

You know, if you thought about it long enough, you could think of some schizophrenic dude babbling about voices in his head as an alien. But seemingly rational people, devoting their lives to trying to find alien intelligence?

What fucking alien intelligence? And what do they WANT from these aliens? These aliens who've presumably mastered the warp drive and are buzzing through the galaxies with their transporters and vastly superior wake vortices and plasma-shield flux capacitors?

What EXACTLY do these alien hunters WANT from these aliens? To say "We have three unused penises that we reserve only for human women!"?

Look, if there ARE aliens (and no doubt there are) they're probably wrestling with a faltering economy and lousy TV and wishing THERE WERE ALIENS somewhere out there to come rescue them from their mundane, pathetic ten-tentacled existence.

Face it. The people trying to FIND aliens are the real aliens. Let's destroy THEM before they destroy US.

When Good News Goes Bad

I like to watch the news, but sometimes I don't know if there is truly anyone on earth who knows the difference between news and the gibbering from a chimpanzee contemplating a rain shower.

Tonight's thirty-minute local Montreal news was roughly divided into three segments, all three skirting the boundaries of what can conceivably be called news: ten minutes on the Canadian elections, which is like watching a video on how to glue rafter boards to L-joints; ten minutes on the Canadiens hockey game, including descriptions of what fans do superstition-wise, like making a peanut butter sandwich before every game, which in turn is like counting the mosaic tiles on the roof above your dentist's chair while you get a cleaning, and ten minutes on The Royal Wedding, which is like watching a dog across the street sniffing the bases of various trees.

I think humanity has finally run out of viable options.

Daredevils' Epitaph!

"We thought it was part of the act."

Fall Of The Western World

I wasn't kidding in my last post. I used to find outright gluttony somewhat amusing, and I'm no Bob Geldof, but there is really something seriously wrong with this picture.

Another Reason Why I Kind of Shy Away from the Food Thing

Hello, little Indian kid. How's the eye, then? Healing nicely? What, you're thirsty? Here, here's some nice water from this nice Western water bottle. Good? Good!
I have something I want to tell you, little Indian kid! You'll love it! I actually went to Momofuku Noodle Bar in New York! Oh, you want to know what I did? Well, let me tell you! Here's a paragraph from my little story!*


"The highlight of the evening, however, was what we’d all come for.  The Momofuku fried chicken: two whole birds, one southern style and one Korean style.  The mound of crispy is accompanied by a complete potpourri of fresh long spicy peppers, baby carrots, red ball radishes, bibb lettuce, opal basil and mint.  There were also four sauces: ginger-scallion, jalapeño-garlic vinaigrette, hoisin, and chili sauce with a bit of sesame.

"The fried chicken was just exceptional — the most memorable I’ve ever had.  The Southern-style chicken is marinated in buttermilk and battered with Old Bay and cayenne pepper.  The skin and seasoning fused together into a thin bread-like crust.  The spices, meanwhile, only augmented the juicy flavor of the chicken without dominating it.  Like an air-tight wrapping, the batter locked in the moisture, keeping every bite juicy and moist.  I kept looking for excuses to eat just crispy exterior, a chicharrón of chicken."


Chicharrón. Can you imagine that I actually had a chicharrón of chicken at Momofuku Noodle Bar in New York? What. You have to go? The flies are bothering your eye? Don't you like my chicharrón of chicken story?


* taken from an actual blog post of some "foodie"'s restaurant review

Nickshrooms

Got an extreme urge to make stuffed mushrooms yesterday. I used to eat them at a sports bar after some heavy-duty games of racquetball with a nice glass of wine, and they were heavenly. Except those were only breaded and deep-fried; mine are stuffed.

Mind that you can pretty much stuff them with anything that you wish -- they're kind of like spring rolls or pizza. So just use this recipe as a guideline. I can imagine these stuffed with crab, shrimp, sausage, foie gras (well, maybe not foie gras -- yecch) but something that would need to stay the same in all is the chopped mushroom innards, some kind of cheese and preferably, lots of garlic.

So here we go:

Ingredients
There are no set proportions here. Just use as much of each as you like, or leave it out altogether.
Medium-sized cremini mushrooms (I use them for a break on white mushrooms. Plus they have more shroominess).
Finely diced shallots
Finely diced garlic
Finely diced ham
Finely diced parsley
Finely diced basil
Finely diced jalapeños
Herbed cream cheese (I use Boursin)
Grated other hard or semi-hard cheese of your choice
Salt, pepper, and any other spice you like
Panko (Japanese bread crumbs)
Flour or tempura flour
Buttermilk or half-and-half

Method
With a sharp paring knife, cut off the hard end of the mushroom stems, then cut around the rims of the mushrooms. Twist the stems out and with a small spoon, try to get as much material as possible out of the cap. Chop the stems and mushroom insides finely.

In a small skillet, sauté the shallots, garlic, ham and jalapeños in a little olive or truffle oil until no longer raw; about five minutes. Let this mixture cool to room temperature. Mix in the cheeses, parsley and basil until thoroughly combined.

With a spoon, fill the mushroom caps generously with the mixture, making sure that they're thoroughly packed. You might have some mixture left over; eat it.

Pour the buttermilk or liquid of your choice into a shallow bowl. Pour some tempura flour onto a flat plate and repeat with another plate and the panko.

With your fingers, dip a filled mushroom cap first into the liquid, then cover with flour. Redip into the liquid, then cover with panko. Try to make sure each mushroom is evenly covered.

On a tray covered with aluminum foil, place your filled mushroom caps and put in the freezer for three hours.

Heat enough vegetable oil in a pan to cover the mushroom caps on medium until a drop of water sputters in the oil. Carefully lower the mushrooms into the oil. Do not go away. When the mushrooms have turned a rich blonde/brown, remove with a spider to a plate covered in paper towels. Let rest for five minutes. 

Serve with a Ranch-style dip and garnish with chopped parsley.

Ingredients

Stuffed caps

Caps after freezing

Nickshrooms