IN THE EVENT OF MOON DISASTER (by William Safire, speechwriter for President Nixon, July 1969):
Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.
These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.
These two men are laying down their lives in mankind's most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding.
They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown.
In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.
In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.
Others will follow and surely find their way home. Man's search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.
For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.
PRIOR TO THE PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT: The president should telephone each of the widows-to-be.
AFTER THE PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT, at the point when NASA ends communications with the men: A clergyman should adopt the same procedure as a burial at sea, commending their souls to "the deepest of the deep," concluding with the Lord's Prayer.
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Can you imagine being marooned on the moon, left there to die a ghastly death when your oxygen ran out? While the entire world watched helplessly? I'd warrant there was at least a 50/50 chance just that was going to happen. Sleep well, Neil and Buzz, sleep well. Jay Leno will still be here tomorrow and so will you.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Red Alert: Space Junk Too Large to Ignore
I don't know if you've been reading the astrophysics journals lately, like I have (Hell, I have properties on Jupiter and Pluto -- of course I read 'em all!) but if you have, you'll have noticed that there's a fair bit of alarm going among astronomical circles about all that space junk floating around, practically right above our heads in near-Earth orbit. This means pieces of titanium over one centimeter square, hurtling at over 25,000 miles per hour, easily enough to dent an astronaut's suit who's floating around in an EVA (Extra-vehicular-activity) -- which as you can imagine, could be catastrophic. Imagine your whole body being sucked through of a hole the size of a dime! Of course, you'd be instantly frozen into a 50-foot long extra-thick linguine.
But apparently there's a new threat: there's something orbiting the Earth that's much, much larger than a small piece of titanium that scientists have been aware of for a while now, but in recent years have apparently forgotten about. That would be the International Space Station.
But apparently there's a new threat: there's something orbiting the Earth that's much, much larger than a small piece of titanium that scientists have been aware of for a while now, but in recent years have apparently forgotten about. That would be the International Space Station.
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| International Space Station (ISS) |
Apparently, forgetting about it doesn't mean it's no longer there! Yes, even the roving bands of homeless astronauts who haunt what remains of Cape Canaveral still remember -- and now fear -- this huge, $96 billion, 4,780-tonne behemoth still circling our skies in an ever-increasingly-descending orbit.
It's estimated that this thing will first be brushing the outer edges of our atmosphere on April 12 of this very year. The scientists don't know exactly where it will land, but they have said that it has enough fuel in one of its tanks to actually direct it towards a spot -- any spot that we desire. Apparently we have the following choices:
a) George W. Bush's house in Lubbock, Texas
b) George W. Bush's mother's house in Gainseville, Alabama
c) George W. Bush's brother Jeb's car, somewhere on the road between Altoona, Pennsylvania and Lubbock, Texas
and
d) George W. Bush's dog, Saddam's kennel.
Apparently all it will take is a small PayPal donation payable to me, to make this happen. Email me for further instructions!
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Duck à la ChefNick
Yesterday I was in full-on urge for duck. I'm a duck-and-potatoes man . . . other than duck burgers I really haven't explored this delicious bird. If you have never eaten duck or are afraid to try it for any reason, take it from a picky eater: a good duck breast cooked correctly tastes like a very good filet mignon. The texture is slightly different and it does have a certain taste that is not beef, but both are actually improvements on filet mignon.
It most definitely, however, does NOT taste like chicken.
Here is a very safe and almost foolproof way to make duck.
Ingredients
1 duck breast, as large as you can find
Brine: kosher salt, brown sugar, orange juice
Cracked black pepper, salt to taste
Method
Day before or morning before: prepare brine by dissolving 1/2 cup of kosher salt, 1/4 cup of brown sugar in water. Add about 2 cups of orange juice. Add enough of this mixture to just cover the duck and brine, either in a large ziploc bag or a plastic container, in the refrigerator.
To prepare: remove the duck breast from the brine. Score the fat which should be on one side of the breast in a criss-cross pattern, taking care to cut just deep enough to go through the fat but not penetrate the duck.
Sprinkle non-fat side with salt and pepper. Preheat a cast iron pan on medium heat for about four minutes or until just visibly smoking. Put the duck breast in the pan, fat side down. Don't move the breast around. Just let it sit for about 4-5 minutes; after this time there will be quite a copious quantity of rendered duck fat in the pan. Hold the duck with tongs and pour off the fat. return to the heat another 2-3 minutes.
Flip the duck and sauté for 6-10 minutes, depending on the thickness of the breast (about one inch including fat layer is normal). Cover the pan with aluminum foil and place in a 200-degree oven until you're ready to serve.
To serve, on cutting board, carefully remove the fat layer with a very sharp knife. Slice the breast across the grain into 1/4-inch-thick slices. The duck should be rare; red in the middle radiating to pink at the edges. If you or someone else prefers medium rare (anything more cooked than this is not recommended) just put the slices that you want done back in the pan, which should still be hot. If it isn't, heat on medium until it's cooked to the desired doneness.
Serve immediately with accompanying sauce and whatever side dish you have prepared.
Nick's Mushroom Sauce for Duck
Ingredients
4 C shiitake and pleurot mushrooms, sliced (any mushrooms are fine)
3/4 cup finely chopped shallots
3-4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 C white or rosé wine
1 C chicken broth
1 C demiglace sauce (commercial is fine, or perhaps you can get some from your butcher. There is no substitute).
1/2 C Italian or flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
2 T butter
Truffle oil or olive oil
Crème fraîche (optional)
Method
In a sauté or sauce pan, sauté the mushrooms in oil on medium heat until cooked and browned. Set aside. In the same pan, sauté the shallots on medium for about ten minutes, or until thoroughly cooked. Add the garlic and cook another three minutes or so. Set aside, but not with the mushrooms.
In the same pan, reduce the wine on medium heat until halved in volume, about ten minutes. Add the chicken broth and reduce uncovered for another ten minutes. Add the demiglace sauce and cook for another five minutes. Add back the shallot-garlic mixture and bring to a simmer. Pour the sauce mixture into a large container (I use a 4-cup glass measuring cup) and hand-blend the sauce until smooth, using a hand blender (alternatively, pour into a blender or a food processor and blend until smooth).
Pour the sauce back into the sauce pan and bring to gentle simmer. Add the mushrooms. Add butter and whisk until thoroughly combined. Add 1/2 cup or so of crème fraîche, if desired, and blend thoroughly. Add parsley and cracked black pepper to taste. Serve.
It most definitely, however, does NOT taste like chicken.
Here is a very safe and almost foolproof way to make duck.
 |
| Duck breast |
Ingredients
1 duck breast, as large as you can find
Brine: kosher salt, brown sugar, orange juice
Cracked black pepper, salt to taste
Method
Day before or morning before: prepare brine by dissolving 1/2 cup of kosher salt, 1/4 cup of brown sugar in water. Add about 2 cups of orange juice. Add enough of this mixture to just cover the duck and brine, either in a large ziploc bag or a plastic container, in the refrigerator.
 |
| Duck breast in brine |
Sprinkle non-fat side with salt and pepper. Preheat a cast iron pan on medium heat for about four minutes or until just visibly smoking. Put the duck breast in the pan, fat side down. Don't move the breast around. Just let it sit for about 4-5 minutes; after this time there will be quite a copious quantity of rendered duck fat in the pan. Hold the duck with tongs and pour off the fat. return to the heat another 2-3 minutes.
Flip the duck and sauté for 6-10 minutes, depending on the thickness of the breast (about one inch including fat layer is normal). Cover the pan with aluminum foil and place in a 200-degree oven until you're ready to serve.
To serve, on cutting board, carefully remove the fat layer with a very sharp knife. Slice the breast across the grain into 1/4-inch-thick slices. The duck should be rare; red in the middle radiating to pink at the edges. If you or someone else prefers medium rare (anything more cooked than this is not recommended) just put the slices that you want done back in the pan, which should still be hot. If it isn't, heat on medium until it's cooked to the desired doneness.
Serve immediately with accompanying sauce and whatever side dish you have prepared.
 |
| Duck with haricots fin, pommes de terre Dauphinoise and mushroom sauce |
Ingredients
4 C shiitake and pleurot mushrooms, sliced (any mushrooms are fine)
3/4 cup finely chopped shallots
3-4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 C white or rosé wine
1 C chicken broth
1 C demiglace sauce (commercial is fine, or perhaps you can get some from your butcher. There is no substitute).
1/2 C Italian or flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
2 T butter
Truffle oil or olive oil
Crème fraîche (optional)
 |
| Ingredients for mushroom sauce |
Method
In a sauté or sauce pan, sauté the mushrooms in oil on medium heat until cooked and browned. Set aside. In the same pan, sauté the shallots on medium for about ten minutes, or until thoroughly cooked. Add the garlic and cook another three minutes or so. Set aside, but not with the mushrooms.
In the same pan, reduce the wine on medium heat until halved in volume, about ten minutes. Add the chicken broth and reduce uncovered for another ten minutes. Add the demiglace sauce and cook for another five minutes. Add back the shallot-garlic mixture and bring to a simmer. Pour the sauce mixture into a large container (I use a 4-cup glass measuring cup) and hand-blend the sauce until smooth, using a hand blender (alternatively, pour into a blender or a food processor and blend until smooth).
Pour the sauce back into the sauce pan and bring to gentle simmer. Add the mushrooms. Add butter and whisk until thoroughly combined. Add 1/2 cup or so of crème fraîche, if desired, and blend thoroughly. Add parsley and cracked black pepper to taste. Serve.
Canadians First!
It's official: a Canadian Lego-man was the first Lego-man into space.
Now I want to start a space tourism company for toys. I have a lineup of 13 action figures waiting to go into space!
Now I want to start a space tourism company for toys. I have a lineup of 13 action figures waiting to go into space!
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| Some of the boys at a pre-flight press conference |
Friday, January 27, 2012
Those Brits. They Crack Me Up.
Considering I was one of them for six miserable years of my life. But when you read this piece, you wonder if they indeed share the same language as us, and who, exactly, is speaking English here?
Her article is almost complete gibberish. It's like drunken texting, but worse -- like autistic drunken texting, with apologies to all Savants.
God save the Queen, indeed.
Her article is almost complete gibberish. It's like drunken texting, but worse -- like autistic drunken texting, with apologies to all Savants.
God save the Queen, indeed.
Farewell, Fair Grape
I'm giving up alcohol on Wednesday. That being the first of February. I don't know how long that will be for, but it will be for at least the foreseeable future. Why? Because I want to. That should be the *only* reason anyone gives up anything, unless doctors tell you you have months to live if you don't.
No, I'm just giving it up to give it up. No one's pressuring me. It's not causing me any particular grief at the moment. I just don't feel like drinking any more. Maybe for a year. Maybe for ten years. Maybe forever. Maybe till next week -- but I don't think so. Once I decide to do something, completely unilaterally, which is the way it always has to be with me, with a total absence of pressure from anywhere whatsoever, I just Do It.
Hey, want to join me? It might be fun for you too. It's never good to be a slave to anything. It'll be hard, sure, but I've had Hard. I quit a two-pack-a-day habit that had gone on for ten years, when I was all of 25 years old. No one pressured me to do it. I just decided it was time. It was hard, but not that hard. After that last cigarette, which I remember as if I smoked it one hour ago, I never smoked a cigarette again. Ever. That'll be 30 years next year.
Imagine. You can do whatever you want to do. It's all up to you.
Don't bother wishing me luck . . . it's not luck I'll need.
But fuck, I'm going to enjoy those strawberry daiquiris I made tonight. I'll kiss 'em goodbye for ya, how's that.
Goodbye, you fucker who ruled my life since I was 18 years old. Good bye, good bye, good bye!
I think I'll have a drink to that sentiment.
If anyone's interested in following me in my footsteps I've set up a page where we can all bitch and moan. You know where to reach me.
No, I'm just giving it up to give it up. No one's pressuring me. It's not causing me any particular grief at the moment. I just don't feel like drinking any more. Maybe for a year. Maybe for ten years. Maybe forever. Maybe till next week -- but I don't think so. Once I decide to do something, completely unilaterally, which is the way it always has to be with me, with a total absence of pressure from anywhere whatsoever, I just Do It.
Hey, want to join me? It might be fun for you too. It's never good to be a slave to anything. It'll be hard, sure, but I've had Hard. I quit a two-pack-a-day habit that had gone on for ten years, when I was all of 25 years old. No one pressured me to do it. I just decided it was time. It was hard, but not that hard. After that last cigarette, which I remember as if I smoked it one hour ago, I never smoked a cigarette again. Ever. That'll be 30 years next year.
Imagine. You can do whatever you want to do. It's all up to you.
Don't bother wishing me luck . . . it's not luck I'll need.
But fuck, I'm going to enjoy those strawberry daiquiris I made tonight. I'll kiss 'em goodbye for ya, how's that.
Goodbye, you fucker who ruled my life since I was 18 years old. Good bye, good bye, good bye!
I think I'll have a drink to that sentiment.
If anyone's interested in following me in my footsteps I've set up a page where we can all bitch and moan. You know where to reach me.
Easy Spicy Dill Pickles
If you’re anything like me, you love dill pickles but the ones that come out of the grocery store are always too limp or too tame. Until I discovered this recipe, I too was resigned to this sorry state of affairs. I’d buy them, but the difference in taste from store-bought pickles to the pickles in this recipe is like Chef-Boy-ar-Dee to homemade spaghetti.
There will be those who are convinced that pickling is an arcane and potentially dangerous art (botulism!) and that mere home cooks shouldn’t attempt it, but nothing could be further from the truth. And the good thing about this recipe is that you don’t need any complicated equipment (just a couple of Mason jars) and you don’t need a pressure canner or any of that nonsense that keeps people from making their own preserves.
This is a very simple recipe that will create fantastic, crunchy dill pickles within a week that will be devoured by friends and family (I made this for my family in California and the entire jar was gone in one day.) It looks complicated at first glance, but should only take you a small part of a lazy afternoon, with the results lasting for months.
I’ve made this recipe several times and have fiddled with it, adjusting vinegar and salt quantities, but in general, it should definitely provide you with a memorable pickle and you need know nothing about canning or preserving to do it.
Note first of all that the result cannot be put on a shelf in the kitchen; it has to be refrigerated. But who keeps dill pickles on the shelf anyway?
Okay, here we go:
You’ll need two Mason jars. These can be bought at any hardware store in the “Home” section. I recommend Bernardin. Mason jars consist of a glass jar with a wide mouth, a ring screw top and a central disc that fits in the ring to create a seal. If you can’t find these, use an empty jar of commercial spaghetti sauce (Prego etc.) that has been dishwashed with its top. Since we aren’t actually going through the whole boiling-water bath process, this should do fine, though it is definitely preferable to have the Mason jar with ring and sealer.
First, submerge one (or two, if you have the room) of the jars with their rings in a large pot and cover with hot water. Bring to a boil and continue on a rolling boil for ten minutes. This is to kill any possible bacteria lurking inside the jars (even though the pickles will be refrigerated, we don’t want to pack them in dirty jars.)
There will be those who are convinced that pickling is an arcane and potentially dangerous art (botulism!) and that mere home cooks shouldn’t attempt it, but nothing could be further from the truth. And the good thing about this recipe is that you don’t need any complicated equipment (just a couple of Mason jars) and you don’t need a pressure canner or any of that nonsense that keeps people from making their own preserves.
This is a very simple recipe that will create fantastic, crunchy dill pickles within a week that will be devoured by friends and family (I made this for my family in California and the entire jar was gone in one day.) It looks complicated at first glance, but should only take you a small part of a lazy afternoon, with the results lasting for months.
I’ve made this recipe several times and have fiddled with it, adjusting vinegar and salt quantities, but in general, it should definitely provide you with a memorable pickle and you need know nothing about canning or preserving to do it.
Note first of all that the result cannot be put on a shelf in the kitchen; it has to be refrigerated. But who keeps dill pickles on the shelf anyway?
Okay, here we go:
You’ll need two Mason jars. These can be bought at any hardware store in the “Home” section. I recommend Bernardin. Mason jars consist of a glass jar with a wide mouth, a ring screw top and a central disc that fits in the ring to create a seal. If you can’t find these, use an empty jar of commercial spaghetti sauce (Prego etc.) that has been dishwashed with its top. Since we aren’t actually going through the whole boiling-water bath process, this should do fine, though it is definitely preferable to have the Mason jar with ring and sealer.
First, submerge one (or two, if you have the room) of the jars with their rings in a large pot and cover with hot water. Bring to a boil and continue on a rolling boil for ten minutes. This is to kill any possible bacteria lurking inside the jars (even though the pickles will be refrigerated, we don’t want to pack them in dirty jars.)
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| Sterilizing the Mason jar |
Remove the jars and rings with tongs and set them upright on clean paper towels.
For the cucumbers, Kirby cucumbers are the best, although Mediterranean (or “Lebanese”) will do at a pinch. You definitely don’t want to use those behemoth cucumbers that we’re all used to seeing in the grocery store; they’ll turn to mush. They should be from 4 - 6 inches long, firm and green. About six fat ones should fill two jars once they’re cut. Prepare a large bowl with ice water, and after washing the cucumbers, submerge them in the ice water. This will make them crisper. This can be done hours ahead or even the day before.
For the cucumbers, Kirby cucumbers are the best, although Mediterranean (or “Lebanese”) will do at a pinch. You definitely don’t want to use those behemoth cucumbers that we’re all used to seeing in the grocery store; they’ll turn to mush. They should be from 4 - 6 inches long, firm and green. About six fat ones should fill two jars once they’re cut. Prepare a large bowl with ice water, and after washing the cucumbers, submerge them in the ice water. This will make them crisper. This can be done hours ahead or even the day before.
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| Kirby cucumbers |
Now you need to assemble your spices. These are all whole:
1T dill seeds
1T allspice
1T black peppercorns
3T yellow mustard seeds
3 dried chilies (optional or to taste; this amount will give the pickles a very slight burn, almost unnoticeable)
And you’ll need garlic cloves and fresh dill.
In a medium saucepan, mix 2 1/2 cups of white vinegar with 3 1/2 cups of water. Add 1/6 - 1/8 C kosher salt. Now add the spices. Bring to a boil and boil for three minutes. Remove from heat and let cool. This will take a couple of hours unless you put the pan in the refrigerator.
1T dill seeds
1T allspice
1T black peppercorns
3T yellow mustard seeds
3 dried chilies (optional or to taste; this amount will give the pickles a very slight burn, almost unnoticeable)
And you’ll need garlic cloves and fresh dill.
In a medium saucepan, mix 2 1/2 cups of white vinegar with 3 1/2 cups of water. Add 1/6 - 1/8 C kosher salt. Now add the spices. Bring to a boil and boil for three minutes. Remove from heat and let cool. This will take a couple of hours unless you put the pan in the refrigerator.
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| Boiling spices |
Take the cucumbers and cut off both ends. I personally like dill spears (quartered lengthwise) but you can get creative; you could leave them whole (not recommended), cut them into chips (if you have a mandolin you could make ripple chips!) or cut them in half.
 |
| Quartered pickles |
If you’re using garlic, peel approximately two large cloves per jar, halve them and crush them slightly with the blade of a knife so that they will release their flavor once in the jar. Cut a generous swath of fresh dill from the bunch and wash it.
Now put the pickles in the jars, interspersed with the fresh dill and garlic cloves.
Now put the pickles in the jars, interspersed with the fresh dill and garlic cloves.
 |
| Ready for the refrigerator |
Fill the jars with the vinegar and spices, taking care to make sure that the chilies and various seeds get equally portioned to each jar. Leave about a half inch space between the vinegar and the lid, screw the lid on tight, and you’re done! Put the pickles in the refrigerator. They will be done in about a week and will last for at least three months. Incredibly crunchy (impossible with commercial product), they’ll definitely be the best spicy dill pickles you have ever had!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Bye Bye, Mr. Moon
According to this, the moon is "spiralling away" from us at a rate of 28mm per year. Just imagine! In one billion years, the moon will be 17,398.3934 miles further away than it is now! Practically a pinpoint in the sky!
Tzanet is Still There
Tzanet, the kitchen supply place opposite Marché Central on L'Acadie, is still there, I'm happy to report.
I don't know if I'm more like a pig in shit when I'm in an Apple store, an Asian grocery or a kitchen supply place, but Tzanet is one hell of a cool place to be in. What's great is that all the workers are extremely nice people and will go to the Ends of the Aisle to make sure you get that wooden salad bowl set you've been searching for.
It's chaotic, but some of the better aisles are those featuring these monster machines that look like they could take off your hand by just being plugged in -- some of them look very much like they're alive.
I got a great pepper mill, Brigitte got a mortar and pestle (good luck with that, honey pie -- I'll just make do with the spice grinder), we got some great teflon-ended tongs -- these are the stuff that only kitchen geeks could lust over.
They've been threatening that they're moving for over a year now, but they're still there, I'm very happy to report. But they didn't have that salad bowl set I want so much . . .
I don't know if I'm more like a pig in shit when I'm in an Apple store, an Asian grocery or a kitchen supply place, but Tzanet is one hell of a cool place to be in. What's great is that all the workers are extremely nice people and will go to the Ends of the Aisle to make sure you get that wooden salad bowl set you've been searching for.
It's chaotic, but some of the better aisles are those featuring these monster machines that look like they could take off your hand by just being plugged in -- some of them look very much like they're alive.
I got a great pepper mill, Brigitte got a mortar and pestle (good luck with that, honey pie -- I'll just make do with the spice grinder), we got some great teflon-ended tongs -- these are the stuff that only kitchen geeks could lust over.
They've been threatening that they're moving for over a year now, but they're still there, I'm very happy to report. But they didn't have that salad bowl set I want so much . . .
 |
| Typical Tzanet customer |
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Meat Meets Vacuum; Results in Big Savings
When I was in California over the holidays I found and bought possibly the most valuable kitchen tool anyone can have in their arsenal: a Foodsaver.
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| Foodsaver with filet Yeah, I know, the filet looks gross, like a giant Alien baby, but consider the alternative: this untrimmed filet, which worked out to about ten pounds and, at $23.99/kg, cost me $89.09 untrimmed, versus the trimmed version, without a visible shred of fat on it, which was $41.99/kg. I got fourteen 1.5"-thick steaks out of my filet, which works out to about $6.42 per steak (imagine how much each approximately 1/2-pound filet mignon would have cost at a decent steakhouse . . . maybe $30, minimum? So I saved about $330). If I'd bought the trimmed filet, each steak would have cost me about $11.75 . . . simply because some butcher removed about one pound of fat and trimmings. But that's still saving $20 or so off the cost of a steakhouse steak!
I also bought about ten pounds of chicken thighs, ten pounds of drumsticks, ten pounds of stew meat (for grinding later), ten pounds of top sirloin (for curry or boeuf Bourgignon) for about $20 each, and a HUGE Grana Padano, which I've Foodsavered nicely . . . won't have to buy meat for another 6 months all for around $200. That's $33/month! It's very worth the cost of the Foodsaver ($110). Get one today! (By the way, I'm selling my Foodsaver Professional II. If you identify yourself as being a reader of this blog I'll cut you an even better deal on it than it already is.) |
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Air Traffic Controller's Mistake
Luc Ferrier, a junior air traffic controller at busy Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, France, inadvertently had all 150 radio channels open at peak evening rush hour when he told his next-door controller, Dominic Fortin, who was due for his coffee break, "You can take off now, if you like."
Geoffroi Masson, an avid planespotter, luckily had his camera out.
Geoffroi Masson, an avid planespotter, luckily had his camera out.
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| "You can take off now, if you like." |
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Music For Trees
This is music played from a cross-section of a tree, mounted on a turntable and read by a Playstation head. I'm already coming up with some good lyrics for it. The first line to be "I'm singin' the Greens, baby . . ."
YEARS from Bartholomäus Traubeck on Vimeo.
YEARS from Bartholomäus Traubeck on Vimeo.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
You Are Not Reading This
Consider this blog blacked out today in support of people against Hollywood and the music industry and the ridiculous censorship laws they're promoting. (To simplify this law for the cephalically-challenged, it goes thus: if a website posts a link to another website that has even one link to a copyright-violating file, then the first website is considered as guilty as the second, and the whole site can technically be ordered to shut down. Or so I understand it. Trust me, it would be bad.)
Just pretend you're not reading this and the whole page is blacked out (I'd do it if I knew how!)
It's amazing how long this bickering has been going on between the aforementioned Hollywood and music companies and the Internet. Ever since Napster closed its doors, oh, around 16 years ago?
Of course, back then there was no YouTube and practically no streaming video at all, so Hollywood at least kept its trap shut. But now they come bleating and whimpering like whipped puppies to Big Daddy to make the kids on the block stop laughing at them from across the street every time they go to school.
Of course, if Hollywood stopped vomiting forth the endless stream of drivel they call "Motion Pictures," reduced the number of elephant-turd-slash-movies from 1,000 a year to just, say, TWO that are worth watching, and the music industry stopped churning out the buzzing drone of mindless noise they produce with such profligacy and instead give us three or four products that actually qualify for the term "music," both at reasonable prices, well, kids nowadays wouldn't feel so much the urge to borrow them only to discard them in disgust at a later date.
So please consider this page blacked out, oh, and fellow Canadians, don't sit there smugly thinking "Serves them Yanks right!" as, as we all know, Canada always follows the US, lapdog fashion no matter what they do.
Just pretend you're not reading this and the whole page is blacked out (I'd do it if I knew how!)
It's amazing how long this bickering has been going on between the aforementioned Hollywood and music companies and the Internet. Ever since Napster closed its doors, oh, around 16 years ago?
Of course, back then there was no YouTube and practically no streaming video at all, so Hollywood at least kept its trap shut. But now they come bleating and whimpering like whipped puppies to Big Daddy to make the kids on the block stop laughing at them from across the street every time they go to school.
 |
| Clockwise from top left: Cary Sherman, Chairman & CEO, RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America); Mitch Glazier, Senior Executive Vice President, RIAA; Christopher J. Dodd, MPAA (Motion Picture Association of America); Jeff Bewkes, CEO, Time Warner; Howard Stringer, CEO, Sony Entertainment, Roger Faxon, CEO, EMI |
So please consider this page blacked out, oh, and fellow Canadians, don't sit there smugly thinking "Serves them Yanks right!" as, as we all know, Canada always follows the US, lapdog fashion no matter what they do.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Speaking of Action Figures
I can't believe they've gone and done this. I would have so loved to have a Steve action figure. He would have been honoured.
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| "Just one more thing . . ." |
Monday, January 16, 2012
Brad Joins the Boys! And a Brazen Plea for Donations . . .
Yes, here he is in all his glory: Brad Pitt, inexplicably as a member of the French resistance. I don't know who does the R&D for toymaker DID (Dragon in Dreams) but I'd like to ask him why he made Brad as a French resistance fighter rather than the head of the Nazi kill squad in Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds.
Oh wait, I know -- it's because Hot Toys got there first. Damn. Now I have to get THAT one, but depending on where you look, it'll cost you as much as $250. I also want Hans Landa, but that will set me back another $150 or so . . . plus Tony Montana, and the Ralph Fiennes Nazi figure . . . the list is long, but my wallet is thin.
If you donate a small amount towards the purchase of one of these things, once I get enough to actually PURCHASE one, I'll send all donors a neatly packaged copy of this entire blog, complete with over twenty ChefNick recipes!
Anyone who donates over $50 will get a signed PHYSICAL copy of this entire blog! If you ask me, it's worth every dinar!
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Brad as he appears on my shelf! |
If you donate a small amount towards the purchase of one of these things, once I get enough to actually PURCHASE one, I'll send all donors a neatly packaged copy of this entire blog, complete with over twenty ChefNick recipes!
Anyone who donates over $50 will get a signed PHYSICAL copy of this entire blog! If you ask me, it's worth every dinar!
Saturday, January 14, 2012
And You Thought HDR Photography Was Great
Friday, January 13, 2012
Extortion Dot Com
"From this Thursday 12 January, companies can apply to the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers (ICANN) for the domain name suffix of their choosing -- from dot brand (.brand) or dot product (.camera, for example) through to generic terms like .food, .hotel or .pugs. They have until 12 April to get their applications, along with the $185,000 fee, to ICANN. After that date it is expected that further applications won't be accepted for at least two or three years."
The absolute brazenness of ICANN (they're the guys to whom you have to go to get a domain name and its suffix, which, at the dawn of the Internet was limited to just three: dot com, dot net and dot org) is beyond words. That they can and will get away with it says reams about the powerlessness of any regulatory body to come in and, well, REGULATE these cyberthugs.
Basically, what this means is, sure, you can buy a domain name suffix of, say, .apple. So your collection of websites could all read like this: http://www.stevesplace.apple. But you will have to be a jillionaire. You will have to pay the $185,000 fee to apply, but in addition, there will be a yearly $100,000 charge for maintenance.
"Buying one of these domains is a big responsibility. The application form comprises of 53 questions and delivers around 200-300 pages of responses. You need to show that you have the financial stability to operate as a registry and if you are acting as an open registry on a generic term you need to show who you are going to market that term to," says some IT wonk about the Great Internet Shakedown.
So yes. Apple is of course going to snap up dot apple. But what the FUCK is the purpose? So it can have a page called "www.mac.apple"? HOW FUCKING LUDICROUS IS THAT? Dot xxx provoked a firestorm of criticism from the porn industry, and quite naturally. Now it'll be ultra-easy to just block any domain ending in xxx, although before, they could -- and did -- hide behind such innocent-sounding domains as www.whitehouse.com, which was originally a porn site and is now just a squathouse.
And Apple, like Samsung, General Motors, McDonald's and all the other big corporations will be FORCED to buy their own domain name suffixes, although I can't conceive of any cybersquatter with pockets deep enough to steal the name of a large corporation. But what about non-corporate names? Things like .icecream . . . is Ben and Jerry's going to have to fight it out with Häagen-Dazs and Dreyers for that one? Thereby adding $285,000 to ICANN's coffers for the purchase and a year of maintenance?
All I can think is that.com will now INCREASE in importance as the domain name pool gets further diluted and disorganized. And that's very, very good for me, who owns montrealfood.com, montrealsushi.com, montrealcurry.com, montrealvegetables.com, montrealfruit.com and several others. In fifty years the .com brand will STILL be THE top-level domain name suffix. ICANN can go take a very long, flying fuck. I'll warrant the outcry will be so loud that something will have to give in this ludicrous money grab.
Now, I'm taking donations for . . .
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| An idea whose time has come! |
Autocidal Maniacs -- More News Than You Need Or Want
I just read a sentence that was so obscene, so unbelievable, that I had to hurry over here to give you the news that you really don't want to know.
It's calculated that mosquitoes have killed OVER 50% of all the human beings who have EVER LIVED. That's 468 billion people, people.
If it killed that many people, how many animals has it murdered? The mosquito's existence is a very powerful proof that there is no God, if you ask me. It causes the most horrific diseases you can imagine. Have you ever see someone with malaria? I have. We had a good friend in Kinshasa, Zaire, Africa (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) who came down with it.
One day Manfred, for that's what his name was, came over to the house, and he looked weird. Shortly thereafter he was bowing to the porcelain god, teeth chattering incessantly as he sweated buckets; I can't remember what went on from there, but we were freaked out. We had no idea what was wrong with him.
We found out later, and I made it a point NEVER to forget to take that little pill my parents gave us weekly. (Apparently he died young, very young. Malaria never quite goes away.)
So how to get rid of this evil pest? As you well know, they develop all sorts of immunities to whatever we throw at them. When we hit them with DDT in the 50s everything was a grand success -- their numbers in Africa and elsewhere were halved, if not more, and children -- who were the largest portion of the population that succumbed to malaria -- began to actually grow up.
Then some self-serving bitch named Rachel Carson, a (typically) misguided environmentalist, sounded the alarm on DDT and freaked the public out (in the US, mind you, where malaria was almost non-existent) which led to the worldwide ban of DDT. The children began to die again. (Thanks, Rachel, for killing untold numbers of children so you could sleep more comfortably in your feather bed each night, knowing your Meyer strawberries were unsullied by any trace of DDT.)
It wasn't until the 90s that limited spraying of DDT -- namely on the insides of the walls of the housing in infested areas -- was reintroduced.
But the problem still remains, and the mosquito is not going away. Recently, however a new tactic is being tried: changing the genes of the female mosquito so that it gives birth to female larvae that can't fly. How cool is that? Scientifically pulling the wings off mosquitoes!
Since it's only the female that bites, the males go around happily mating with these altered females and only the males survive to fly. Theoretically this should kill off the entire population, since they can't develop a resistance to gene-splicing.
I honestly don't know how I've escaped any mosquito-borne diseases. I was born in India (Calcutta) and lived there until I was ten. I don't recall being given any anti-malaria pills. I lived in the Congo for three years in my early teens, and apparently the pills worked (though at some point or another I must have missed doses). I lived in Senegal for a year when I was 17 and took no pills. But I escaped. (That wasn't the only horrific disease I magically escaped -- there's a very nasty parasite named Bilharzia, which you really, really don't want to get -- but I happily sloshed around in the river Congo . . . and got away completely unscathed (oh, forgot Candiru! No wait, that's the Amazon!)
So hopefully a little autocide will go a long way. I for one will never miss that little chainsaw buzzing in my ear at three o'clock in the morning.
It's calculated that mosquitoes have killed OVER 50% of all the human beings who have EVER LIVED. That's 468 billion people, people.
If it killed that many people, how many animals has it murdered? The mosquito's existence is a very powerful proof that there is no God, if you ask me. It causes the most horrific diseases you can imagine. Have you ever see someone with malaria? I have. We had a good friend in Kinshasa, Zaire, Africa (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) who came down with it.
One day Manfred, for that's what his name was, came over to the house, and he looked weird. Shortly thereafter he was bowing to the porcelain god, teeth chattering incessantly as he sweated buckets; I can't remember what went on from there, but we were freaked out. We had no idea what was wrong with him.
We found out later, and I made it a point NEVER to forget to take that little pill my parents gave us weekly. (Apparently he died young, very young. Malaria never quite goes away.)
So how to get rid of this evil pest? As you well know, they develop all sorts of immunities to whatever we throw at them. When we hit them with DDT in the 50s everything was a grand success -- their numbers in Africa and elsewhere were halved, if not more, and children -- who were the largest portion of the population that succumbed to malaria -- began to actually grow up.
Then some self-serving bitch named Rachel Carson, a (typically) misguided environmentalist, sounded the alarm on DDT and freaked the public out (in the US, mind you, where malaria was almost non-existent) which led to the worldwide ban of DDT. The children began to die again. (Thanks, Rachel, for killing untold numbers of children so you could sleep more comfortably in your feather bed each night, knowing your Meyer strawberries were unsullied by any trace of DDT.)
It wasn't until the 90s that limited spraying of DDT -- namely on the insides of the walls of the housing in infested areas -- was reintroduced.
But the problem still remains, and the mosquito is not going away. Recently, however a new tactic is being tried: changing the genes of the female mosquito so that it gives birth to female larvae that can't fly. How cool is that? Scientifically pulling the wings off mosquitoes!
Since it's only the female that bites, the males go around happily mating with these altered females and only the males survive to fly. Theoretically this should kill off the entire population, since they can't develop a resistance to gene-splicing.
I honestly don't know how I've escaped any mosquito-borne diseases. I was born in India (Calcutta) and lived there until I was ten. I don't recall being given any anti-malaria pills. I lived in the Congo for three years in my early teens, and apparently the pills worked (though at some point or another I must have missed doses). I lived in Senegal for a year when I was 17 and took no pills. But I escaped. (That wasn't the only horrific disease I magically escaped -- there's a very nasty parasite named Bilharzia, which you really, really don't want to get -- but I happily sloshed around in the river Congo . . . and got away completely unscathed (oh, forgot Candiru! No wait, that's the Amazon!)
So hopefully a little autocide will go a long way. I for one will never miss that little chainsaw buzzing in my ear at three o'clock in the morning.
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| Is this the face that brought down 468 billion? |
Thursday, January 12, 2012
A Great Sell!
I like hats. I was trolling eBay for a Borsalino hat. I do not want to pay $150 for a hat I wear once a year.
But I come across this auction for a Borsalino. Look at it. Read it. Read it carefully. It's one of the most bizarre eBay auctions I've ever come across. The guy who posted it is probably named Tattaglia and this hat is made by Corleone.
But I come across this auction for a Borsalino. Look at it. Read it. Read it carefully. It's one of the most bizarre eBay auctions I've ever come across. The guy who posted it is probably named Tattaglia and this hat is made by Corleone.
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| Alain Delon wears a Borsalino in "Borsalino" |
Me 'an My Toyz
I infuriate my wife. I can see why. I have a hobby that must just be absolutely infuriating to rational people without jobs.
I love action figures. Yes, I know you probably don't even know what an action figure is. Think G.I. Joe, except on 21st-century steroids.
I won't tell you who my latest acquisition is until I photograph him (you'll be amazed) but I'll tell you who I now want -- although he ranges in the $250 realm, way beyond my scope right now. But take a look. JUST TAKE A LONG GOOD LOOK.
I love action figures. Yes, I know you probably don't even know what an action figure is. Think G.I. Joe, except on 21st-century steroids.
I won't tell you who my latest acquisition is until I photograph him (you'll be amazed) but I'll tell you who I now want -- although he ranges in the $250 realm, way beyond my scope right now. But take a look. JUST TAKE A LONG GOOD LOOK.
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| Say chello to my li'l . . . TOY |
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Trouble with Truffles
Hmm . . . now that would have been a great Star Trek episode.
Truffles. Have you ever had one? Seen one? Smelled one? Tasted one? Well, until about five years ago, neither had I. The very thought of them -- being harvested from underground by pigs -- made my stomach churn.
Besides, they weren't exactly in the bin next to the button mushrooms at Metro. And I didn't frequent restaurants that served them. Even if I had, I wouldn't have paid the price for them.
But one day, at Jean-Talon market, I saw a bottle of huile des truffes -- truffle oil. It couldn't have been more than 100 ml. -- but it was $44! Insane, thought I, but I had a little extra cash that day so I bought the bottle.
I put it in the cupboard and forgot about it, until one night when I was doing filet mignons. I reached for the olive oil, getting ready to season the steaks, when there it was. I opened it and smelled it. And suddenly I knew that no one had been kidding. And why this bottle cost $44. And why I was going to put it on my jelly doughnuts, and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, in my salsas, curries, dips, pizzas, my shampoo.
Yes, I had discovered truffles. Or had I?
Turns out the Truffle Story is more than a Trouble with Truffles episode of Star Trek. It's so complicated that I couldn't get a straight answer anywhere I looked.
I wondered how truffle oil was made. Some stories had it that the oil was put in a dark cold room, open to the air, below a large bag of truffles, and the truffle essence somehow "infused" itself into the oil. No, really. Even my culinary friend and expert Barry believed that. (I won't link to him because he'd be miffed.)
Then all sorts of stories started coming out -- most of them bad. I found out that my beloved oil, was, in all probability, a chemical. Or that it had Chinese truffles in it instead of French or Italian.
However, I can't give up on truffles. If they can make it taste like the oil I bought from the Oregon Truffle Oil company my wallet will continue to be light for a long time to come.
Truffles. Have you ever had one? Seen one? Smelled one? Tasted one? Well, until about five years ago, neither had I. The very thought of them -- being harvested from underground by pigs -- made my stomach churn.
Besides, they weren't exactly in the bin next to the button mushrooms at Metro. And I didn't frequent restaurants that served them. Even if I had, I wouldn't have paid the price for them.
But one day, at Jean-Talon market, I saw a bottle of huile des truffes -- truffle oil. It couldn't have been more than 100 ml. -- but it was $44! Insane, thought I, but I had a little extra cash that day so I bought the bottle.
I put it in the cupboard and forgot about it, until one night when I was doing filet mignons. I reached for the olive oil, getting ready to season the steaks, when there it was. I opened it and smelled it. And suddenly I knew that no one had been kidding. And why this bottle cost $44. And why I was going to put it on my jelly doughnuts, and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, in my salsas, curries, dips, pizzas, my shampoo.
Yes, I had discovered truffles. Or had I?
Turns out the Truffle Story is more than a Trouble with Truffles episode of Star Trek. It's so complicated that I couldn't get a straight answer anywhere I looked.
I wondered how truffle oil was made. Some stories had it that the oil was put in a dark cold room, open to the air, below a large bag of truffles, and the truffle essence somehow "infused" itself into the oil. No, really. Even my culinary friend and expert Barry believed that. (I won't link to him because he'd be miffed.)
Then all sorts of stories started coming out -- most of them bad. I found out that my beloved oil, was, in all probability, a chemical. Or that it had Chinese truffles in it instead of French or Italian.
However, I can't give up on truffles. If they can make it taste like the oil I bought from the Oregon Truffle Oil company my wallet will continue to be light for a long time to come.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Make It Stop
Yes, I know -- I know you're all saying: "What the fuck does it take to shut this guy up??" perhaps not so elegantly, but before I left you for the day I thought I'd just leave you with the worst movie ever made.
I think I commented somewhere that last year was a great year because while I was semi-trapped in my spider hole in California with no TV, I was able to go on YouTube, and it was really an eye-opener. You can waste literally years there now -- I was able to watch entire episodes of Columbo, in HD, no less -- and pretty much if you do the right looking, you'll be able to find pretty much anything you ever want to watch. (Side note: I actually watched a large part of Airport '75 last night, and if the point of this post, Battlefield Earth wasn't the worst movie ever made, Airport '75 certainly has got to be very, very close behind.
And before I watched Airport '75, I had the opportunity to watch a sci-fi film from 1953 on the "Silver Screen" channel and it was so truly, truly awful -- it made both Airport '75 and Battlefield Earth look like top ten movies of all time in comparison -- there were just no words.
I know I've been known to review restaurants, but reviewing movies has got to be the most wretched of careers that is possible to have -- up there with being an apprentice at the Big Cats section at Brooklyn Zoo.
Shovelling mostly shit is what it comes down to -- there just isn't a better term. Reviewing gay porn movies must be the bottom of a deep barrel but sitting through these things for hours at a time for money . . . I think the poor screenwriter in the linked clip generously compared it to torture at Gitmo.
Nah, this is worse.
Night night, Flock, I've been extremely verbose today and I deserve to give my laptop a good long rest. I was making shrimp with bolognese and spaghettini No. 9 but after thinking about those movies I have totally lost my appetite.
I think I commented somewhere that last year was a great year because while I was semi-trapped in my spider hole in California with no TV, I was able to go on YouTube, and it was really an eye-opener. You can waste literally years there now -- I was able to watch entire episodes of Columbo, in HD, no less -- and pretty much if you do the right looking, you'll be able to find pretty much anything you ever want to watch. (Side note: I actually watched a large part of Airport '75 last night, and if the point of this post, Battlefield Earth wasn't the worst movie ever made, Airport '75 certainly has got to be very, very close behind.
And before I watched Airport '75, I had the opportunity to watch a sci-fi film from 1953 on the "Silver Screen" channel and it was so truly, truly awful -- it made both Airport '75 and Battlefield Earth look like top ten movies of all time in comparison -- there were just no words.
I know I've been known to review restaurants, but reviewing movies has got to be the most wretched of careers that is possible to have -- up there with being an apprentice at the Big Cats section at Brooklyn Zoo.
Shovelling mostly shit is what it comes down to -- there just isn't a better term. Reviewing gay porn movies must be the bottom of a deep barrel but sitting through these things for hours at a time for money . . . I think the poor screenwriter in the linked clip generously compared it to torture at Gitmo.
Nah, this is worse.
Night night, Flock, I've been extremely verbose today and I deserve to give my laptop a good long rest. I was making shrimp with bolognese and spaghettini No. 9 but after thinking about those movies I have totally lost my appetite.
Jobs, Jobs, Jobs!
Yes, I'm talking to you, my Flock of nickel-eating Enid Blyton-reading subhuman tribelet of Eskimo headhunters!
There be JOBS available, and NOT of the Steve kind.
If you are original buyers from my Jupiter condo enterprise you will be viewing this "blog" post in the comfort of your 12,567th-floor luxury all Nano-bamboo-composite bedroom, sipping18th-century era Jovian White tea in a Wedgwood porcelain My-Cro-Kleen container while observing Io sink beneath the methane rain-filled SuperCumuloNimboid thunderheadªº artificial horizon and watching Charlie Sheen's YouTube mashup of Buddy Ebsen's eulogy at the Church of Beverly Hillbillies and Foo-Fighters' "Fear of Flying."
How do I know that? That camera that I Implanted in your hairpiece, silly!
Anyway, it's with pleasure that I managed to secure a one-time-only deal with Joe-Bob Branson, the famous Richard's younger transgendered sister, to build an entire capital city -- yes, you're reading it right -- an ENTIRE CAPITAL CITY, on the dwarf planet Pluto (see Pluto as taken from its orbiting moon Goofy IV, below)
and what it means to YOU, my hapless Flock of wingless goons, is that there are jobs. Jobs of every stripe, colour and description. Are you a Risk-based Romulan-Esperanto Translation-interpretation Specialist? There is a job for YOU.
There be JOBS available, and NOT of the Steve kind.
If you are original buyers from my Jupiter condo enterprise you will be viewing this "blog" post in the comfort of your 12,567th-floor luxury all Nano-bamboo-composite bedroom, sipping18th-century era Jovian White tea in a Wedgwood porcelain My-Cro-Kleen container while observing Io sink beneath the methane rain-filled SuperCumuloNimboid thunderheadªº artificial horizon and watching Charlie Sheen's YouTube mashup of Buddy Ebsen's eulogy at the Church of Beverly Hillbillies and Foo-Fighters' "Fear of Flying."
How do I know that? That camera that I Implanted in your hairpiece, silly!
Anyway, it's with pleasure that I managed to secure a one-time-only deal with Joe-Bob Branson, the famous Richard's younger transgendered sister, to build an entire capital city -- yes, you're reading it right -- an ENTIRE CAPITAL CITY, on the dwarf planet Pluto (see Pluto as taken from its orbiting moon Goofy IV, below)
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| Pluto, from Goofy IV (thanks for the EVA, AstroBoyardee!) |
Do you build incredibly detailed miniatures of John Travolta's patio furniture? There is a job for YOU also, my cephalically-challengened friend.
Are you just simply GOOD WITH YOUR teeth? There are 55 openings featuring that job requirement.
You may contact me in the Comments section, below, or can contact my firm's travel consultant Erma Gonzalez at 413-097-53691876-0535536-8131331 ext. 9872767 for details on the exciting fourteen-year trip to the Pluto Planetary Plenium. Free of charge, of course!
If this all doesn't excite the heck out of you, please consider signing up for meditation courses at my Sigmund School for the Blind.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Just What Is It With Tom Cruise?
Is he, or is he not, 5-foot 3? Are his teeth four generations removed? Just how gay is he? Laurence-Olivier Gay, or Danny-Kaye-Gaye? Just what is his relationship with John Travolta? Does he fit comfortably on John's lap while John is piloting the 707? How many children has he produced by artificial respiration?
HAVE THEY PERFECTED CGI ENOUGH TO FAKE THE VERY EXISTENCE OF TOM CRUISE????
Friday, January 6, 2012
Furthermore: Why Do I Bother?
Why do I bother to pretend to write about food when this tripe passes for food writing? Why do I tug at my beard and puzzle about how to frame my next sentence about food when maroons like this can actually be getting paid for speaking their mind about themselves, not about food? I really am downgrading Brits these days . . . with their princes and skinheads and soccer, added to this absolute drivel . . . the place I went to boarding school and got the best possible education in the world at the time seems now to be a shabby shadow of its proud former self.
And did those smelly feet . . .
And did those smelly feet . . .
A Hate-Hate Relationship
I don't know why I got interested in food. I'm really not interested in food. I make a dish exquisitely, but just to make it. The power of being able to make it, to make it to the best of my ability; that's what is interesting to me. Making good food is possibly the most satisfying skills one can possess on Earth.
Being able to paint is good. Being able to play music is great. Being able to write is fantastic. Being able to design smart-bombs: wowie-zowie. But being able to make food gets instant, identifiable results. It's transient, so the result never lasts. You can't hang a recipe of the raspberry gnocchi you made yesterday on the wall, to be sampled at a later date. You see the food you made in the un-lying faces of the people who are eating it. You can NOT lie about food. You can't disguise your dislike for food not to your taste.
Your face, not even including the amount left on your plate, will betray you, every time. So the food I make and the eating of it by others has to be the most satisfying thing to ever do in the world, at least for me. But see, unfortunately for me, after it's created, I lose interest in it. I taste as I cook, but by the time it's done, I'm no longer hungry. But that's also the way I like it. I make it, others eat it.
These days, I challenge-cook. This means that I don't taste anything until the moment when it all goes out to the eaters. Just to see how sharp I am, or am not. Did I judge the amount of salt perfectly? Brine it for exactly the right length of time? Underdo it or overdo it? I basically cook blind and see what happens. A recipe just becomes a sketch upon which I shall elaborate, and each time I shall elaborate differently. Luckily, I am getting better and better at it -- deaf dumb and blind me and I swear I will still make you a good bolognese.
But at the end of it, I have no real interest on what I make.
That is why it is SO HARD to get interested by people like this.
Being able to paint is good. Being able to play music is great. Being able to write is fantastic. Being able to design smart-bombs: wowie-zowie. But being able to make food gets instant, identifiable results. It's transient, so the result never lasts. You can't hang a recipe of the raspberry gnocchi you made yesterday on the wall, to be sampled at a later date. You see the food you made in the un-lying faces of the people who are eating it. You can NOT lie about food. You can't disguise your dislike for food not to your taste.
Your face, not even including the amount left on your plate, will betray you, every time. So the food I make and the eating of it by others has to be the most satisfying thing to ever do in the world, at least for me. But see, unfortunately for me, after it's created, I lose interest in it. I taste as I cook, but by the time it's done, I'm no longer hungry. But that's also the way I like it. I make it, others eat it.
These days, I challenge-cook. This means that I don't taste anything until the moment when it all goes out to the eaters. Just to see how sharp I am, or am not. Did I judge the amount of salt perfectly? Brine it for exactly the right length of time? Underdo it or overdo it? I basically cook blind and see what happens. A recipe just becomes a sketch upon which I shall elaborate, and each time I shall elaborate differently. Luckily, I am getting better and better at it -- deaf dumb and blind me and I swear I will still make you a good bolognese.
But at the end of it, I have no real interest on what I make.
That is why it is SO HARD to get interested by people like this.
Back In Montreal
I must say, my trip from San Francisco through Detroit to Montreal last evening was truly one for the books. If you travel, even just once a year, you really steel yourself for the "ordeal" that might await you; literally, it's completely unpredictable, a toss of the roulette dice.
Actually, I tend to romanticize "the old days" way too much. Before I get to the subject at hand, wrap your mind around this: the year 1985 was the most awful year for aviation since Bleriot flew his plane over a cliff. Literally, THOUSANDS of people died in aviation accidents that year, bringing new meaning to the expression "Ten Jumbo Jets Going Down Each Day." And these were MAJOR, MAJOR accidents, not just some cargo plane flown by drunken Russians in the Congo smashing into some bushmeat market after takeoff.
We're talking Japan Airlines 123 here. Did you know, we've now gone SEVEN FULL YEARS WITHOUT A SINGLE MAJOR PLANE CRASH in ANY CIVILIZED COUNTRY? Yep, Osama bin Mama was really the last major deal, if you ignore the Air France stupidity a couple of years ago (the French and airplanes have yet to complete their honeymoon).
But last night San Francisco airport was a windless oasis. It was so quiet you could hear pepper spray on Occupy protesters all the way from downtown.
But what really struck me, Flock -- because if you pay any attention to this rambling discourse whatsoever -- is that I haven't really flown since the Summer Disaster to Japan. But how things have changed! I was sitting at a bar in SFO airport -- just your average airport bar. But people -- ALL people were WIRED. And I mean, technologically wired. Including me, with my Kindle and MacBook, EVERYONE except the servers -- and they were wired in a different kind of way -- had a Gadget of some kind. Blackberry, Crackberry, iPhone, iFuck, uFuck, it just blew my mind. Someone is on his iPhone two seats away, asking someone to bring him this book that's written by some blogger. I twig to his conversation and ask if Wi-Fi is free at SFO. Dude #2 next to me assures me that it is, if you complete a short survey. Sure enough, it is, and moments later I'm online and at the website of the blogger Dude #1 is reading whose book. Dude #1 says, yeah! Great blog! And I say "montrealfoodblog: don't forget it!" and he says "Awesome, dude!" (There is an awful lot of awe in San Francisco, and even Chinese shuttle bus drivers like to be called "dude.")
And it went on like that . . . EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PERSON ON EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PLANE had some kind of handheld device . . . me being one of them. Talking, texting, chatting, responding, pushing, beeping, ringing AY YAY YAY YAY YAY.
I can't remember the book -- possibly Brave New World -- where everyone is now isolated in their personal bubbles. They communicate with the Hive Mind through a combination of mood-alterers and machines. Like being plugged in to an IV to get the Thought Of The Moment . . . mustn't miss out on that! And it's bizarre and fascinating all at the same time, when you realize YOU'RE ONE OF THEM . . . you are one of the Hive-Zombies, interconnected with all your other Hive-Zombie friends and loved ones . . . YOUR HIVE-ZOMBIE LOVED ONES, Flock!
And you just don't know whether to embrace it, to have a Group Hug, or deny, deny, deny all the ALLEGATIONS, like Michael Jackson . . . and I think I'm slightly nuts from the combination of high altitudes and machines that defy gravity and maybe I should just check out now and leave you good people alone.
For your edification, I post a most welcome picture: Lulu, in all her feline glory, who has never texted anyone in her entire she-devil life.
Actually, I tend to romanticize "the old days" way too much. Before I get to the subject at hand, wrap your mind around this: the year 1985 was the most awful year for aviation since Bleriot flew his plane over a cliff. Literally, THOUSANDS of people died in aviation accidents that year, bringing new meaning to the expression "Ten Jumbo Jets Going Down Each Day." And these were MAJOR, MAJOR accidents, not just some cargo plane flown by drunken Russians in the Congo smashing into some bushmeat market after takeoff.
We're talking Japan Airlines 123 here. Did you know, we've now gone SEVEN FULL YEARS WITHOUT A SINGLE MAJOR PLANE CRASH in ANY CIVILIZED COUNTRY? Yep, Osama bin Mama was really the last major deal, if you ignore the Air France stupidity a couple of years ago (the French and airplanes have yet to complete their honeymoon).
But last night San Francisco airport was a windless oasis. It was so quiet you could hear pepper spray on Occupy protesters all the way from downtown.
But what really struck me, Flock -- because if you pay any attention to this rambling discourse whatsoever -- is that I haven't really flown since the Summer Disaster to Japan. But how things have changed! I was sitting at a bar in SFO airport -- just your average airport bar. But people -- ALL people were WIRED. And I mean, technologically wired. Including me, with my Kindle and MacBook, EVERYONE except the servers -- and they were wired in a different kind of way -- had a Gadget of some kind. Blackberry, Crackberry, iPhone, iFuck, uFuck, it just blew my mind. Someone is on his iPhone two seats away, asking someone to bring him this book that's written by some blogger. I twig to his conversation and ask if Wi-Fi is free at SFO. Dude #2 next to me assures me that it is, if you complete a short survey. Sure enough, it is, and moments later I'm online and at the website of the blogger Dude #1 is reading whose book. Dude #1 says, yeah! Great blog! And I say "montrealfoodblog: don't forget it!" and he says "Awesome, dude!" (There is an awful lot of awe in San Francisco, and even Chinese shuttle bus drivers like to be called "dude.")
And it went on like that . . . EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PERSON ON EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PLANE had some kind of handheld device . . . me being one of them. Talking, texting, chatting, responding, pushing, beeping, ringing AY YAY YAY YAY YAY.
I can't remember the book -- possibly Brave New World -- where everyone is now isolated in their personal bubbles. They communicate with the Hive Mind through a combination of mood-alterers and machines. Like being plugged in to an IV to get the Thought Of The Moment . . . mustn't miss out on that! And it's bizarre and fascinating all at the same time, when you realize YOU'RE ONE OF THEM . . . you are one of the Hive-Zombies, interconnected with all your other Hive-Zombie friends and loved ones . . . YOUR HIVE-ZOMBIE LOVED ONES, Flock!
And you just don't know whether to embrace it, to have a Group Hug, or deny, deny, deny all the ALLEGATIONS, like Michael Jackson . . . and I think I'm slightly nuts from the combination of high altitudes and machines that defy gravity and maybe I should just check out now and leave you good people alone.
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| Hello, Kitty! |
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Just One More Thing Before I Go . . .
Just reading some article about the difficulties of working in a big company. How you’re pretty much faceless and decisions come down from someone who’s your boss but you’ve never even seen, let alone talked to and you can pretty much never question why, how or what. Hmm, that kind of sums up the military, come to think of it!
When I think about these types of things, I tend to wonder what ancient man used to do. I mean, in Sumeria, 1890 B.C., there weren’t exactly organizations like Yahoo or General Motors . . .
But having set foot in both worlds (working for a big company, working for myself) I can kind of tell that the former is just not natural. Ancient Man did not wake up to an ancient gong, did not put on his cloak and saddle up the horse, did not walk into a cave hungover and wanting to be anywhere but there, did not greet “the boss” with a tired “Hey what’s up!” and go check the work roster for the “jobs” he had to do today.
Nope, Ancient Man just didn’t do any of that. He woke up at around noon, looked at what remained in the grog bucket and scratched his ass while wondering what was going to be dinner.
His “wife” yelled at him about his lazy brother and he went outside the cave, scratched his ass some more, and then came back inside and lay back down under the bearskins. “No work for me today,” he said, filled his mug with grog and started whittling the cat.
See how that jibes a lot more with my preferred lifestyle?
And Ancient Man sure as fuck didn’t have to anticpate getting on a goddamn plane tonight and fly 5,000 miles back to Montreal.
But let’s hope that the captain of the plane will have done everything that I’ve just said, in the right order, uncomplainingly and most, most definitely, without a hangover.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Misconceptions (Maybe Missed Connections?)
Not sure where I'm going with this, so bear with me. I spent five years living in Japan. Came away with a wife, and eventually a child. In anyone's life (remember we're only assigned one) that is literally a total game changer. Forget old life, adopt new one. Oh, I'm not complaining. On billions of levels, it happens to everyone. That's what makes a life interesting, unless you're a guest on Jerry Springer.
Why We Desperately Need More Assholes
Do you think the world doesn't have a big enough supply of assholes? Do you? Do you sit there sometimes in your comfy chair and say half-aloud: "This world really needs another asshole; there can't EVER be one too many." Does anyone near you look over at you nervously and say "Did he just say what I think he just said? Oh no, Lord, no, did he clean his guns yesterday?" No?
Well, get a load of THIS ASSHOLE. I swear, some people just do not seem to have enough time in this world. No, they really don't. They need the extra time to plan hijackings, murders, child abuse, religion and other such amusements that the rest of us just tend to walk on by on. THESE PEOPLE JUST DON'T SEEM TO HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO than to be PRIME ASSHOLES. They seem to think that just because we recognize them for what they are: assholes -- that we have an inherent need for MORE OF THEM.
Y'know, sometimes I'm glad there are jihadists out there, beheading people and just generally being assholes, because they serve to remind the rest of us JUST WHAT AN ASSHOLE TRULY IS and why we need more of them in our lives.
Because just imagine if there weren't any assholes? Huh? Just imagine THAT for a small second. *I* sure as fuck would be instantly denied a purpose in life. Yes, I hear what you're saying . . . "There ain't no shortage of assholes, Mister, why you be sayin that?" but if _I DIDN'T_, ***WHO***WOULD***?
I am NOT thereby putting in my candidacy to be an asshole. I just wanted to remind you WHY WE NEED MORE OF THEM TO REMIND US WHY WE NEED THEM.
Well, get a load of THIS ASSHOLE. I swear, some people just do not seem to have enough time in this world. No, they really don't. They need the extra time to plan hijackings, murders, child abuse, religion and other such amusements that the rest of us just tend to walk on by on. THESE PEOPLE JUST DON'T SEEM TO HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO than to be PRIME ASSHOLES. They seem to think that just because we recognize them for what they are: assholes -- that we have an inherent need for MORE OF THEM.
Y'know, sometimes I'm glad there are jihadists out there, beheading people and just generally being assholes, because they serve to remind the rest of us JUST WHAT AN ASSHOLE TRULY IS and why we need more of them in our lives.
Because just imagine if there weren't any assholes? Huh? Just imagine THAT for a small second. *I* sure as fuck would be instantly denied a purpose in life. Yes, I hear what you're saying . . . "There ain't no shortage of assholes, Mister, why you be sayin that?" but if _I DIDN'T_, ***WHO***WOULD***?
I am NOT thereby putting in my candidacy to be an asshole. I just wanted to remind you WHY WE NEED MORE OF THEM TO REMIND US WHY WE NEED THEM.
Why There Was a MontrealFood Blog WAAAY Before This One
What. You think food writing belongs to the fucking blogosphere? Food shows belong to the Food Network? Anthony Bourdain rules? What the fuck. Really, WTF???????
Before, and I'll almost guarantee it, there were fucking food shows ALL OVER THE PLACE. How do I know? I'll tell you how I know. BECAUSE I WATCHED THEM. Before you little fuckers even knew what the fucking word "food" was, I watched food and food-related shows ALL OVER TV. Yes, there was a LIFE before YOU. An amazing and lively life, thank you VERY MUCH.
Not the ersatz horror that is the "Food Network." Not the Top Chef travesty or Diners and Drive-Ins and "look at this bad boy" bullshit that rules the fucking waves. No. ONCE there were actual shows about FOOD, not about fucking top chefs, not about contestants in some fucking mindless game, there were shows with PEOPLE talking about real food. Thinking about real food.
You poor unpolished fuckers. I really, really feel sorry for you, because this is all you know. THE FOOD NETWORK IS YOUR CHANNEL TO THE FOOD UNIVERSE.
God.
Damn.
Before, and I'll almost guarantee it, there were fucking food shows ALL OVER THE PLACE. How do I know? I'll tell you how I know. BECAUSE I WATCHED THEM. Before you little fuckers even knew what the fucking word "food" was, I watched food and food-related shows ALL OVER TV. Yes, there was a LIFE before YOU. An amazing and lively life, thank you VERY MUCH.
Not the ersatz horror that is the "Food Network." Not the Top Chef travesty or Diners and Drive-Ins and "look at this bad boy" bullshit that rules the fucking waves. No. ONCE there were actual shows about FOOD, not about fucking top chefs, not about contestants in some fucking mindless game, there were shows with PEOPLE talking about real food. Thinking about real food.
You poor unpolished fuckers. I really, really feel sorry for you, because this is all you know. THE FOOD NETWORK IS YOUR CHANNEL TO THE FOOD UNIVERSE.
God.
Damn.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Dark
The dark is a magnificent place to contemplate Everything. Alone in the Dark is almost incomparable as an experimental realm . . . I'll warrant.
Being Drunk in the Dark and Alone is almost a physics/anthropomorphic experiment in itself. Just look at the legions of data that can be extrapolated.
Used to be, being stoned in the dark was worth something. Being stoned in the dark and alone was huge . . . a monumental mindfuck. Drunk in the dark/ hmm. That seems to be an extremely common situation that is somehow underreported. For whatever reason.
But God only knows what has been written in the wee hours . . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge comes to mind . . . but fucking A, no doubt Hemingway woke up to polish off the third half of a "tequila-monde" several times a night, only to record the moment drunkenly in his latest "book."
Samuel was interrupted by the "Man from Porlock."
Okay. I'm waiting for my man.
Being Drunk in the Dark and Alone is almost a physics/anthropomorphic experiment in itself. Just look at the legions of data that can be extrapolated.
Used to be, being stoned in the dark was worth something. Being stoned in the dark and alone was huge . . . a monumental mindfuck. Drunk in the dark/ hmm. That seems to be an extremely common situation that is somehow underreported. For whatever reason.
But God only knows what has been written in the wee hours . . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge comes to mind . . . but fucking A, no doubt Hemingway woke up to polish off the third half of a "tequila-monde" several times a night, only to record the moment drunkenly in his latest "book."
Samuel was interrupted by the "Man from Porlock."
Okay. I'm waiting for my man.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Oh Yeah . . .
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| Let's get this year underway, Flock! |
2012 and the year of the new Reckoning. Just can't wait to get underway! Maybe I'll take that memorial Titanic cruise to celebrate the 100th year since its passing. Then again, maybe not. This time the entire country of England might just go down with the ship.
Anonymous: I Like 'Em
First, read this.
Then think about how this bunch of blowhards have actually become a force to be reckoned with, not just some late-night teens in an IRC chat room. I like their style. I like how they like to take the wind out of REAL blowhards (as illustrated in the article). I like the idea of the Hive Mind watching the fences, so to speak, with no one physically at the helm to take down, because there IS no one physically at the helm, no Queen Bee, no Fuerher. Assassinate one who takes on the role, a dozen, no, a thousand take her place.
No Osama bin Mama here.
I used to hang out on IRC in the 90s . . . #macfilez, to be precise -- and let me assure you, they're still going, and I'll bet all the oldsters are still tuned into that channel 24 hours a day seventeen years after it was created, even though their former wisps of bum fluff on their chins are now long grey beards . . . they never give up, these people, and I'll be a standing witness to that. Long after Usenet is just a term on Wikipedia, there are people in the alt forums, still trading little bits of obscure movies and talking their obscure alt talk.
And they are continually being replaced by neunauts (pronounced "noy-nawts"), to possibly coin a phrase -- a vanguard of anonymous dustbusters who have been given the Power of the Internet -- a very real, physical power that can have very real, physical consequences, something that didn't seem to occur to the science-fiction writers who instead conjured up a "rise of the machines" to be our next Armageddon.
Instead, it's a rise of those responsible for the machines; us, of course. Things that can mutate will mutate, often in entirely unexpected ways, and that is what is happening right now with sub-Internet hives like Anonymous.
One just has to hope that the mutation will largely be benevolent, that when it begins to flex its muscles and realizes its true powers, it doesn't just decide to do away with everything that isn't necessary to its existence.
Because just like the Terminator, in fact, far more likely than any assembly of machines, the day will come when the Majority just grows tired of the Minority, and hopefully for all, will mass-merge Humanity in its entirety into the Collective, for its own damn good.
Yes, I like Anonymous. Now: how do I become one?
Then think about how this bunch of blowhards have actually become a force to be reckoned with, not just some late-night teens in an IRC chat room. I like their style. I like how they like to take the wind out of REAL blowhards (as illustrated in the article). I like the idea of the Hive Mind watching the fences, so to speak, with no one physically at the helm to take down, because there IS no one physically at the helm, no Queen Bee, no Fuerher. Assassinate one who takes on the role, a dozen, no, a thousand take her place.
No Osama bin Mama here.
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| The Face of Anonymous? |
And they are continually being replaced by neunauts (pronounced "noy-nawts"), to possibly coin a phrase -- a vanguard of anonymous dustbusters who have been given the Power of the Internet -- a very real, physical power that can have very real, physical consequences, something that didn't seem to occur to the science-fiction writers who instead conjured up a "rise of the machines" to be our next Armageddon.
Instead, it's a rise of those responsible for the machines; us, of course. Things that can mutate will mutate, often in entirely unexpected ways, and that is what is happening right now with sub-Internet hives like Anonymous.
One just has to hope that the mutation will largely be benevolent, that when it begins to flex its muscles and realizes its true powers, it doesn't just decide to do away with everything that isn't necessary to its existence.
Because just like the Terminator, in fact, far more likely than any assembly of machines, the day will come when the Majority just grows tired of the Minority, and hopefully for all, will mass-merge Humanity in its entirety into the Collective, for its own damn good.
Yes, I like Anonymous. Now: how do I become one?
How Do You Sleep at Night?
In this case I think John Lennon was very misguided, because I'm pretty sure Paul slept pretty well at night. In fact, Paul probably barely had a thought about John at night. It was JOHN who wasn't sleeping at night.
But what it brings me to is, how do YOU sleep at night? Wouldn't life be a toss in a cotton field with faeries and angels giggling and and throwing you to each other through sun-filled corridors scented with chrysanthemums and silken pillows that rollicked with fun? Wouldn't that just be everyone's dream?
Well, we know it isn't, don't we, sorry for the hard landing.
ALL THE PEOPLE WHOM YOU'VE EVER MET IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE are, like it or not, standing in a LONG LINE to be remembered and recognized. That lowliest waiter in that long-forgotten restaurant . . . hey, you may have forgotten him, but MAYBE HE NEVER FORGOT YOU.
Maybe you're the person in his "Yeah, it was really funny, one day there was this guy . . ." and that would be YOU.
All those old girfriends. What. You think they magically disappeared you from their minds? Are you fucking crazy? Forget girfriends. All your friends. Everyone who ever knew you. Yes, going back to the tiniest time you can remember. Do you think they all forgot you? Did you forget THEM?
Never mind how you sleep at night. Who do you think of at night?
But what it brings me to is, how do YOU sleep at night? Wouldn't life be a toss in a cotton field with faeries and angels giggling and and throwing you to each other through sun-filled corridors scented with chrysanthemums and silken pillows that rollicked with fun? Wouldn't that just be everyone's dream?
Well, we know it isn't, don't we, sorry for the hard landing.
ALL THE PEOPLE WHOM YOU'VE EVER MET IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE are, like it or not, standing in a LONG LINE to be remembered and recognized. That lowliest waiter in that long-forgotten restaurant . . . hey, you may have forgotten him, but MAYBE HE NEVER FORGOT YOU.
Maybe you're the person in his "Yeah, it was really funny, one day there was this guy . . ." and that would be YOU.
All those old girfriends. What. You think they magically disappeared you from their minds? Are you fucking crazy? Forget girfriends. All your friends. Everyone who ever knew you. Yes, going back to the tiniest time you can remember. Do you think they all forgot you? Did you forget THEM?
Never mind how you sleep at night. Who do you think of at night?