Sunday, August 2, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Sorry
I'm sorry, but I'll be resting my brain cells from this blog for a tiny bit.
There is stuff that needs to be taken care of and I need to take care of it.
My love to you all.
There is stuff that needs to be taken care of and I need to take care of it.
My love to you all.
The List
Here's the list:
1. Violinists.
2. Sax players.
3. Keyboard players.
4. Bass Players.
5. Guitar players.
6. Ants.
1. Violinists.
2. Sax players.
3. Keyboard players.
4. Bass Players.
5. Guitar players.
6. Ants.
Five
When I was five, there was a tapestry of heat. It was all around, all the time, an oppressing, mind-dulling thing that depleted the senses.
There was an air-conditioner in the bedroom. It was extremely noisy, in the old style, with gurgles and temperament changes, but it became the rhythm of my life. The Bedroom was always the refuge. No bees, ants, grasshoppers, geckos -- no, they didn't like the air conditioner.
After a while, its soothing hum became my tiny background soundtrack for life.
As I type an air conditioner hums and I realise it will always be the soundtrack of my life.
Hey, I remember five. Not all it's cut out to be.
There was an air-conditioner in the bedroom. It was extremely noisy, in the old style, with gurgles and temperament changes, but it became the rhythm of my life. The Bedroom was always the refuge. No bees, ants, grasshoppers, geckos -- no, they didn't like the air conditioner.
After a while, its soothing hum became my tiny background soundtrack for life.
As I type an air conditioner hums and I realise it will always be the soundtrack of my life.
Hey, I remember five. Not all it's cut out to be.
An Emerging Wit
My seven-year-old son was watching "The Bellboy" by Jerry Lewis last night. He said "Daddy, I don't ever want to be black and white."
That is just so hilarious; Jack Benny could have spoken it.
It's just a small problem to tell him that color is about 10 years over the horizon.
That is just so hilarious; Jack Benny could have spoken it.
It's just a small problem to tell him that color is about 10 years over the horizon.
Food Reviewing
Like graphic design, food reviewing has become so, so tiresome. It's like listening to Wagner's "Kill Da Wabbit" in a Gitmo loop.
It's become so mainstream, that Jill, down the street, yes, that's the one, on the fourth floor, just started montrealassholefoodreviewers.ca.net.info.biz.fuckyou.
Well, it's official. The ersatz reporting in the Gazette -- is it really writing or mere masturbating any more? -- about local restaurants has reached such a pathetic, mechanised level that it just isn't worth reading in the slightest.
Fuck, just watch Jamie Oliver! Fuck, who gives a shit about "charcuterie made at home"?
Chocolate foam? The fucking media overload is way out of proportion to the deal.
Here it is -- I surrender my resignation. montrealfood is now going to become just what all the rest are: a vehicle to make money. It was a long run but hey, fuck you too. So much for integrity.
It's become so mainstream, that Jill, down the street, yes, that's the one, on the fourth floor, just started montrealassholefoodreviewers.ca.net.info.biz.fuckyou.
Well, it's official. The ersatz reporting in the Gazette -- is it really writing or mere masturbating any more? -- about local restaurants has reached such a pathetic, mechanised level that it just isn't worth reading in the slightest.
Fuck, just watch Jamie Oliver! Fuck, who gives a shit about "charcuterie made at home"?
Chocolate foam? The fucking media overload is way out of proportion to the deal.
Here it is -- I surrender my resignation. montrealfood is now going to become just what all the rest are: a vehicle to make money. It was a long run but hey, fuck you too. So much for integrity.
The Last Moment
I don't know what my dad saw, if anything, in his last moments. I talked to him on the phone from Montreal, but although my sister said he seemed to perk up a bit, he said nothing. It was the last breathing conversation with my father. You will have this experience, or maybe you've already had it.
Where did he go, or where did he think he'd go? Well, I'll tell you about the latter: Dad harboured no illusions. He knew that when his last heartbeat occurred, he would expire in a wink, never to think, never to harp with angels, never to become part of Gaia or any beckoning bright light. Just to wink out with every memory he had completely erased, like turning a computer off and throwing it away.
Do you think it keeps its memory? Well, maybe it does but you can't resurrect a human memory.
I don't know how I'll face it but at least I'll know twenty dancing virgins or St. Fuckin' Peter aren't at the end of the road.
(Sorry to be cynical).
Where did he go, or where did he think he'd go? Well, I'll tell you about the latter: Dad harboured no illusions. He knew that when his last heartbeat occurred, he would expire in a wink, never to think, never to harp with angels, never to become part of Gaia or any beckoning bright light. Just to wink out with every memory he had completely erased, like turning a computer off and throwing it away.
Do you think it keeps its memory? Well, maybe it does but you can't resurrect a human memory.
I don't know how I'll face it but at least I'll know twenty dancing virgins or St. Fuckin' Peter aren't at the end of the road.
(Sorry to be cynical).
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