Wednesday, December 09, 2009

Humor

Oh good. Having carried out my Facebook threat, holding all 47 of my "friends" hostage over the Internet (definitely a feeling of power -- denying 47 people your presence without their explicit consent aforethought by cancelling Facebook altogether) yesterday I was in the kitchen making a rosé sauce, Brigitte being on rat patrol, and I suddenly and bizarrely laughed a truly devilish laugh out of nowhere.

You know how sometimes when you're completely alone, and you know it? You accidentally mutter something to yourself, then, having realised that no one else was listening, amplified the muttering, just for your own pleasure? Perhaps it was a German word, like "Achtung." Perhaps you were mentioning it under your breath to the slice of cheese you were gingerly cutting, acutely aware that the next few seconds determined whether you were going to spend the next few hours in Emergency, or not. "Achtung!" you would whisper, then, gaining confidence, "ACHTUNG!" at the top of your lungs. No one except you heard it, you can rest easy now.

Well, that. Anyway, my own laugh so startled me in its evilness, its unbrokered Vincent-Priceishness, that, if it is indeed possible, I backed away from myself in pure fear.

That was when I decided I have a future in voiceover, if not radio. If my own laugh can scare ME, what can it do to a legion of souls listening to me imitate Vlad the Terrible in a commercial for Furnitureworld in a 5 a.m. spot the day before Halloween?

These things can only be imagined, dear readers, thank all the fates.

HOWEVER

In spite of the fact that there are terrors that are real -- that I have to board several pressurized aluminum/composite emission-spewing tubes from here through Detroit and Tokyo to Osaka next Tuesday -- I know my laugh will get me through.

The horror outdoors as I type, though, is not so easy to dismiss.

Monday, December 07, 2009

Drowned by the River

Brigitte is an immensely tolerant soul. You have to be, to be around me. But we do have our . . . er . . . disagreements.

She can't stand Arnold Schwarznegger or Harrison Ford. I can't stand Brad Pitt or Julia Roberts.

It's a standing joke, while I'm watching "her" movies, when I say "The explosion has to be around that tree. Or an alien."

But that would be selling myself short! I would be the last to make my case here, in the court of public opinion; but in this matter, I must prevail.

Here is my proof that I do not wallow in Steven Seagal or Whatsis Van Damme movies. That I don't require an explosion every ten minutes. That I don't thrill to the latest chase -- be it a skidoo with a UFO or a parasail with a lawn mower. That there need be an alien, a monster or a murder in the first ten minutes.

Here is my proof:

Amadeus
A Passage To India
Breaker Morant
Casablanca

See? There is my proof. Need I be tormented by A Room With A View or a Brokeback Mountain or Bridges of Madison County or A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT?????? to prove I'm not a slavering, action-figure-blockbuster-season ticket-bearing Neanderthal?

Brad Pitt? BRAD PITT?

B
R
A
D

P
I
T
T
????????????

A movie about fly-fishing?

After ten minutes, I informed Brigitte that I had noticed that the paint on the walls around the TV, put there in 2005, was finally dry.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

Entangled

I don’t quite know what to make of the universe. Like everyone else, I question practically everything. Is a spider bad enough that I should crush it? Or will that affect my karma in some way? What is karma? Did something I did three weeks ago put me in line behind this Cosmic Granny who’s counting out her purchase penny by penny as the bagger leaves in disgust and the cash register guy comes along to get a tally on what the big bills are for the hour, bill by bill, while all the other registers zip by? Was it THAT SOMETHING I SAID that provoked this karma, whatever that is?

I’ve come to only one conclusion, which no doubt all of you have as well. There is nothing that actually exists that is not within your immediate perception. Which is to say, if you can’t see it NOW, it actually doesn’t exist. If you can’t hear it, can’t feel it, can’t perceive it, it doesn’t exist. So, while I sit on a toilet in some bathroom reading some newspaper, the actual fact is that France, the entire country, and everyone — every THING — in it — doesn’t exist. Oh sure, Jacques Chirac exists, but ONLY IN YOUR MIND. Does Jacques Chirac exist as a tangible thing? No. Is he standing in your bathroom? No. Then how can he exist? See? It’s only you’re imagining that he exists. The reality is that the four walls of this bathroom, the newpaper you hold in your hand and the drip of the tap exist.

Face it. At ANY GIVEN TIME, those are the only things that you can absolutely be sure exist! Everything else, and I mean everything — the economy, Pluto, the pyramids, all recorded history, Paris Hilton — they don’t really exist unless they’re all standing in the bathroom right in front of your very own eyes, right now, as you sit on the toilet! What EXISTS is only the craven “evidence” of your own imagination. That someone named Paris Hilton is no longer wowing the tabloids. Well, think about it: in a court of law, wouldn’t that be hearsay? Is Paris Hilton, the person, standing in your bathroom with tabloids being wowed right in front of your very eyes?

I thought not. Then, you must admit, the overwhelming evidence is that Paris Hilton, tabloids, and every single iota of everything outside your bathroom DOES NOT, IN FACT, EXIST. Oh, sure, you say, well, I know the hotel room I’m staying in exists. If I just get up, flush the toilet and leave this bathroom, I’ll be in it. It’s there — I just can’t see it right now. Well, guess what: outside the bathroom, right now, is a grey blob of nothingness. Acre upon acre, mile upon mile, parsec upon parsec, of nothingness. Oh sure, you’ll get up off the toilet, walk into the hotel room, even take a picture of it — but then the bathroom doesn’t exist. See?

The old saw of “if a tree falls in the forest” is not a myth. Milli Vannilli — did they exist? It’s debatable. I’m reading this, but are you? Guess what — even though I don’t know who you are, I know you’re reading this right now. Does that mean I’m psychic? Okay, so how do I know that you’re reading this? Yet I do! Go ahead, admit you’re reading this and that I knew you would be! I guess that makes me The Amazing Kreskin by default.

Acch, I’m tired. I think I’ll go do some light reading.

Farewell to Facebook

(As posted on my Facebook page):

I love you, really, I do, every one of you. But I'm going to have to say goodbye for the third and final time. I don't need you to Write On My Wall. I don't have a wall. I have an email address and a telephone number. My email address is nick(at)montrealfood.com.

If you cared even slightly you'd already know my phone number. There is nothing that Facebook provides me that I couldn't find though email or your kind telephone call. Too much information. And as of Monday, December 7, I'm declaring my own Facebook Pearl Harbor.

Goodbye, my Facebook friends. Goodbye. May all your Facebooking be truly happy and keep you snug in your beds through all kinds of winter storms. Goodbye, dear Facebook, goodbye. I will now Share this poignant farewell with All Of You by clicking on the bluish-grey "Share" button below this pixellated window.

How profound this Sharing moment this is, this final Facebook moment. Share. Share. Share! Share all your dreams through the bluish-grey button; it exists only to serve your scantest whim.

If indeed I cease to exist on Facebook, remember me as I was. Pass on my Sharingness, pass on my love to all your Friends. Think of me as a mere snapshot in your dear lives, to be treasured for everything that we Shared. Do not forget me. -- Nick

One Word . . .

Slimeball.

Friday, December 04, 2009

Memail

I’m disturbed . . . and at a loss. What is the etiquette with email? I realise I’m waaay behind the times. Email is almost like telegrams were, what with texting and Twitter and Facebook.

But I’m talking about good old email. It’s been around a while now. I remember when messages between people used to actually have to be written longhand or typed, somehow, then put into a mailbox. Aside from routine correspondence, such as paying bills, etc., there was not much of this sort of communication except between friends, relatives, or even the occasional acquaintance.

But it was a big thing. If you got a letter from someone, well, you were put in a spot. Frequently, it was weeks after the fact, whatever the fact that may have been. So everybody had to be completely non-spontaneous. Greetings, the “how I’ve been, how are you?” etc.

And you felt compelled to respond. To not respond would have been churlish. Worse yet, more often than not, your response would be hopelessly outdated by the time they received it. But actually getting a letter from someone . . . well, someone had to mail it! It had to be put in an aeroplane. Someone had to sort it, delegate it, and someone else had to bring it to your door! Therefore, it deserved SOME sort of response.

But now . . . the creeping insidiousness of instant communication. I remember the way I felt back in, maybe 1995 when I got my first “emails” from a friend. I was horrified. He kept referencing what I had written in my last email, in quotes, as if to remind me of what I’d written. Even worse, sometimes he would copy and paste, section by section, what I’d written, then his response to it. As if I were some bureaucrat that needed to be reminded of what I’d said. I remembered what I’d said. I was capable of remembering it all, and deducing from his responses what the original question had been.
======================================================
"I hope Emiko is well. I remember you’d said she’d been ill."

Emiko is great!

"And do you still live in Kamakura?"

Yes!
======================================================
But all that seems so old now.

Now, I have a host of new issues. I hope you, loyal readers, and masters of etiquette, can clear them up for me. I’ll proceed with hypothetical scenarios.

A basic one: an exchange with a stranger you know for sure you’re never going to come in contact with again. In other words, the person who writes in response to your question “is the Perambulator still available, and if so, how much is shipping” And they reply “Sorry, it’s sold.” Do you have to write them back and say “Thanks for the reply! Have a good one!”?

Or say you impulsively email someone about something they wrote on their webpage. It seemed important at the time, but they took so long to get back to you that now you’ve totally forgotten your earlier enthusiasm. Now they enthusiastically reply, in detail! What do you do?

One day, you think of an old friend with whom you used to be close, and have been in email contact with in the past, but now you have kind of drifted apart from. All of a sudden, you feel nostalgic and email them, but don’t receive a reply for a couple of weeks. When you get the reply, you’re no longer in the mood you were back then and quickly see that there is no Earthly point in continuing the correspondence. What do you do?

Worst scenario: you were in regular, almost daily contact with someone, to it almost being a routine. You’d email random thoughts and they would respond. You’d get together in real life sometimes. All of a sudden, although you don’t realise it right away, they stop responding, for seemingly no reason at all. Fine, you think, but you don’t overdo it. You email them maybe a month later with a “Long time no hear” and upon receiving a laconic reply, realise they’ve been there all along, no crises, no nothing. Just that they never return your emails.

What do you do? Blow them off and never email them again? Try occasionally? Decide “Fuck you too!” and give it up, even though you know for a fact they still read your blog? Write them and say that you’ve just come into 25.8M dollars and that you’d like to share it with them and here is your fax number?

I feel I’m being desensitized. Someone writes me “Thanks for your purchase! It was great doing business with you — Pam.” And I never write her back. I write Adam on a whim about setting up an Internet company. And he writes me back four days later when I don’t feel like it any more. So I don’t write him back.

Maybe it’s time to be re-educated. wht r ur opnions?

Thursday, December 03, 2009

My Unified Theory

I’m reading a book about teleportation (I read them all, no subject is too abstruse) and it has some amazing things to say. (Well, it better).

Okay, here we go. If you go into a dark room, cut two slits in a piece of cardboard, and shine a bright light through them against a white background, what do you get? Well, you’re going to say “two slits of light on the white background.” And you’d be wrong! Turns out that, just as if you dropped two pebbles into a pond, the light waves that go through the slits interfere with each other, like ripples in water, forming troughs and peaks where they intersect. So instead of getting two slits of light, you get bands of dark and light where the light waves intersect!

But you knew that already. Trouble is, there are two theories about light — one is that it’s waves, but the other is that it’s particles. Yeah, you know your theory — a light particle is called a photon.

So (bear with me) when you shine a light through the two slits, literally sextillions of photons are going through at once. Now what if you could just reduce it to ONE photon? Well, guess what — they did. And it showed that when just one photon went through the two slits you still got the ripple pattern — yet the photon wasn’t divided in two! Thus, light waves. (The other half of the atom goes to a bar looking sad. Bartender says "What's wrong, buddy?" Atom says "I just lost a neutron." Bartender says "Are you sure?" Atom says, "Yeah, I'm positive!" Bartender says "Okay, then for you, no charge.")

Why am I telling you all this? Well, because I’m trying to develop a Unified Theory According to Me that explains not only teleportation, but also invisibility and time travel — all at the same time! Why, again, you ask, am I bothering, when hundreds, if not thousands of esteemed physicists before me have explored these very same questions yet not arrived at a theory that can account for all three phenomena?

I’m glad you asked! Well, as for teleportation, I want to find a way to beam one of Brigitte’s hot dogs directly to a plate on my lap in the bedroom so I don’t have to get up and miss a second of The Love Connection. What? you ask? The Love Connection? That went off the air decades ago!

Well, that’s precisely why I want to invent a time machine! Okay, so why invisibility? Well, I want to be able to sneak to the refrigerator undetected by Brigitte to grab myself another beer while I wait for the hot dog to be made and The Love Connection to come on.

So what progress have I made so far? Well, I’ve discovered that by cutting two slits in a National Enquirer and beaming Tiger Woods through them results in a whole bunch of sleazy-looking supermodels all hefting nine-irons!

Monday, November 30, 2009

The Role of This Blog

It has come to my attention recently that the title of this blog is actually "montrealfoodblog" which kind of implies that a large part of the content is about food in Montreal!

Well, that's in an ideal world. There was a time a few years ago when I physically despised the word "blog" in the same kind of way we all came to despise the words "Information SuperHighway" or anything with "Cyber" before it.

Blog. Fuck blog, I said. If this is what they call a blog, I've been fucking blogging before WordPress's founders were billionaires. And I was!

But now that's like saying "Hey, I was on Usenet before there were forums!"

My original intentions were solid. Montrealfood.com would be a semi-gossipy, occasional resto-centric, freewheeling site that only really had one agenda: food in Montreal.

That worked for a while. But eventually, the old "no ads on THIS site" became really old. Then, the foodblogging craze exploded -- the chowhounds, the egullets, the Food Network. These days, people with degrees in foodstyling take pictures of food and publish them in a whole new category called "food porn."

Even the diehard stalwarts, the stolid bloggers who seem to love going against the flow, still devote their entire blogs to reviews of restaurants -- brilliant pictures, absolutely phenomenally well-written reviews concentrating on everything from hot dogs to zershck ... frankly, I've on a number of occasions been very suspicious as to how these people manage to go out to all these fantastic restaurants, take these gorgeous pictures and post these journalistic-level reviews.

It's a struggle for me to review even one restaurant and write it up, let alone post excellent photos with links, podcasts, what have you . . .

So guess what? I've given up. On montrealfood alone there must be at least 50 reviews -- written by someone, for sure, maybe even me -- about restaurants that are long, long gone.

Who has the time to sit around following what new restaurant sprang up here or there or where the best brunch place is in Little Italy?

Now there are monstrous, massive sites like chowhound and egullet that have entire forums just dedicated to questions like "What's the best Glatt Kosher in Montreal?" with dozens, if not hundreds of very talented responders and recommendations!

I feel truly like Ogg, having invented the wheel. People were very impressed at my amazing achievement, until Ugg came along, invented fire, and burned it.

But I feel a strange and unnatural exhilaration when a website actually links to this blog!

There is someone out there who actually still believes this is a blog about food in Montreal! But it's really just a random diary about things that happened to me between meals and at meals with the magical addition of the snow that's making everything amazing at 7:50 on a Monday two days into my 52nd year. Now THAT's something to write about.

B-52

And by the way, I had a most excellent two days of birthday (it's not often it comes on a Saturday), yesterday just hanging with Brigitte, the dog and the fish, drinking the aforementioned perfect Bloody Marys and having delectable pasta with Italian sausage meatballs and playing guitar and force-marching the dog, and tonight heading off to the wonderful Basi for an intimate dinner and a return to Helicopter Dog (I swear, she could get off the ground if her tail was reconfigured for maximum lift) so my B:52 ended up being a grand success.

Plus I grew a whole inch in the night.

Herr I Go Again

Umm, I won't go into too many details, but recently a friend decided to take a break from his hospital job to go to, of all places, Columbia, for a week. Well, the jokes flew back and forth, but when it was established that there were no duty-free shops at Medellin International with dime bags I kind of lost interest.

But what he DID do, was leave us his dog for a week. A dog. In this apartment. On the eighth floor. To wit, this dog:



Now, while me and dogs go back a long way, I don't trust them. Brigitte "loves dogs", in that sepia bubble of nostalgiahood in which some of us bask from time to time (ripples, blurs and multiple harp soundtracks extra).

But me . . . uh-unh. So I approached this small bag of spiked fur and grafted-on tail (from a vintage helicopter toy) with a small amount of trepidation.

His owner, regrettably, "trained" this dog in French. Regrettably, I confine my excellent French to those who most deserve it: the French. English is fine, but I could see the dog wasn't getting it -- the wheedling, the begging, the orders, the bargaining . . . the pee still ended up far from the newspaper, in a manner of speaking.

Brigitte, however, strode into the task with enthusiasm, barking orders in the King's French with matchless aplomb. However . . . the pee still remained far from the newspaper.

So I hit upon a brilliant idea. Speak to it IN GERMAN! That magnificent Teutonic language, that commanding tongue where one word can send thousands to ovens even when shouted by a pygmy dwarf in a monocle and ill-fitting jodphurs! The ideal language! Instead of "Si-si, va faire pi-pi! Va faire pi-pi sûr les journaux MAINTENANT!" it became "UNTERMENSCH! GEHST-DU DER URINEN MACHEN ÜBER DEINE ALLGEMAINE ZEITUNG JETZT! JETZT! *JETZT* MEINE KLEINE TEUFELHUNDE!!!! RAAAAUUUSSS! RAUUUUSSSS!!!"

Oh, I forgot the "Schnell" at the end. But believe me, that gets results in the dog world!

I only have the hellhound for another four days but I was thinking of using a commandant-by-proxy for the rest of the time -- my vocal chords are sensitive -- so I was on the lookout for a Hitler action figure to add to my GI Joe collection. Hey, you wouldn't believe how many large corporations that make millions of beloved 12" Fighting Men decline to make a 12" Hitler doll! (or Stalin, for that matter!)

So I went looking! The only pathetic approximation I could come up with was here.

Needless to say, he's undressable -- his clothes are melted to his corpulent frame -- and the dog will not be impressed when I brandish Lil' Adolf and bark my orders in flawless German!

And when the coup de grace comes -- it always comes with my GI Joes, sooner or later -- I will derive little satisfaction pulling The Mustached Midget's feet off one by one to serve as ornaments in the fishbowl. Oh, I didn't tell you about the fish that our friend left in our safekeeping?

I've been reading that book Luc left me entitled "Japanese Cooking" with renewed vigor lately.

Raus!

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Bad Me: Again

I posted the following on Craigslist under "writing jobs" . . .

Bad, bad me.
=====================================================================
English translation job desperately needed
Needed, ASAP: translation of the following sentence spoken by Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, into English, preferably, but other Indo-European languages also acceptable:

"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."

All this company's translation teams are at a loss so it is with reluctance that we go to Craiglist for possible interpretation. Russian transliteration okay upon approval of CV.

* Compensation: $500/wd
* Telecommuting is ok.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

=====================================================================

The replies (preliminary) that I've gotten:

"What, exactly, are you looking for? The sentence is already in English. Are you looking for what he meant?"
--------
"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."

I look forward to reaching,in Copenhagen, a comprehensive agreement  which does not just set absolute targets, but which will in fact allow us to work on the actual reduction of emissions.

-------

(And this, the best so far -- ed.):

"It means 'fuck you; me and the oil companies are going pump out as much CO2 as we can'"

-- Keep 'em coming, folks!

Happy Birthday To Me

Yes, today I’m fifty-two.
Little doubt, much more than you.
Behold my fruitful time on Earth
Ignore my rather meatful girth.

I wake and contemplate the sun
That’s risen every day since One
And wonder if there’ll be one more
And if it be, just what’s in store.

With hurting heels I crawl from bed
Leave mindless epithets unsaid
And think of maybe making tea
But then I think “Why should this be?”

“I’m fifty-two years old,” I think.
”Fuck this tea. I need a drink.”
So many dawns; so many days
Ushered forth with bland Earl-Greys?

The frozen vodka mutely cries
The stalks of celery arise.
The Worcestershire, Tabasco, dill
(My recipe is in my will).

And so I now this nectar sip
My celery within it dip
Fuck, many more ‘fore setting sun!
And no more tea till I am done.