Sunday, February 28, 2010

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

counts & measures

there are few words more pleasurable than collective nouns.

consider:

a trace of hares
a richness of martens
an implausibility of gnus
a troubling of goldfish
a business of ferrets
an unkindness of ravens
a clash of bucks ('swhat i need!)
a trip of dotterel
a watch of nightingales
a crash - or even a stubbornness - of rhinos
a memory of elephants
a stare of owls

but what about octopuses (or octopi or octopii)? a friend of mine recently told me that there is nothing in the world more slippery than a baby octopus. he knew it from experience. so what is the measure word for those? perhaps there isn't one because they typically don't congregate? maybe the business of socializing is best left to furry, frisky things with fewer arms. but what if these baby octopii are accidentally lumped together, like say, if they're caught in a net? and it's your job to untangle the little sluggers? how do you communicate what you're trying to save?

"an oily medusa of baby octopii" doesn't quite roll off the tongue - but wait - what about "a greasy tongue"? a big ole greasy tongue of 'em? no?

how about...
a wonder-wiener? (you know, those toys that forever slip from your grasp)
an idea?
a slope?
reason?

apparently the octopus has three hearts - numbers one and two are used for pumping blood through the gills. the third is used for loving.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

food for goths


What do Goths eat? Say you wanted to throw a party, an event to celebrate that special brand of doom and you wanted to invite a handful of your closest gothic friends. How would you meet their culinary desires?

Allow me to clarify that when I say “gothic food” I’m aiming for something broader than cakes shaped like coffins or drinks served in chalices. I’m referring to the essence of the term - the gothic brings together things that were intended to stay forever apart: life and death, the innocent and the corrupt, technology and the human body, asparagus and wine. It’s generally agreed among wine aficionados that asparagus is the one food that doesn’t pair. Not with whites, not with reds, nothing between. Your gothic friends, however, want nothing more than to see a plate of these greens next to a nice long-stemmed glass of shiraz, preferably not in season.

Does the Goth require an appetizer? A capital-g Goth would never spoil their appetite by consuming a ‘dip’ with a baby carrot. A jelly-mold salad as a first course however? A resounding yes.

They say the way to a Goth’s heart is through the heart of something else, something like a medium-sized animal. Goths do love a good organ meat - kidneys, brains and livers will do in a pinch.

Yes to seafood – the ocean is arguably gothic: mysterious, temperamental, epic and full of death. Bring on the bouillabaisse, the lutefisk, the sharkfin soup, the turtle stew, anything endangered is top of the list. Let’s not forget that the Goth is villain first, forever seeking unsustainable, fetishistic, irresponsible fun.

You know how they've added a fifth basic taste – umami –to the lineup? Well, guess what? There’s now a sixth and it’s, yes, gothic. It’s a flavour best described as criminal and moody and found in foods like testicles, camel humps, sea cucumbers, pigeon pies. Never oats, broccoli, almond butter or oranges.

What about dairy? Quark? Only if prepared in a goat stomach. Would a Goth drink milk? Generally speaking, Goths avoid anything derived from the udder. The mammary however, is another matter. The Goth is probably busy turning several small wheels of human milk cheese in some dank basement right now. Maybe even yours? Now you’re wondering if I’m referring to the basement or the breastmilk…and I won’t clarify because there’s nothing more delicious than a perfectly aged, salted, cured, slow-cooked mystery.

Risotto? No, texture’s all wrong.

Consider an ice-sculpture of a werewolf as a centerpiece for your table.

Tongue? Absolutely – preferably still attached to the head. Goths need their food to be deliberate, staged, intentional, stylized. Think live-sushi on chopsticks that are two feet long.

It’s all about exquisitely high production values – so long as the production doesn’t involve the lifting of a gothic finger. But if you're willing to do all the work, consider lifting a steamed & braised bear's paw. It's a sure-fire winner.

Goths enjoy desserts too but only the sickeningly sweet, exceptionally tall or skillfully prepared. The meringue, the mousse, the croquembouche.

In terms of late-nite snacks, pomegranates, cherries or anything that stains will suffice. Except beets. Additionally, the Goth does appreciate a chocolate bar from time to time, Snickers in partickers, really satisfies, especially one obtained from the 7/11 in the wee hours.

Friday, February 19, 2010

où es-tu / where are you?

If you suddenly snap back into consciousness after an extended leave of absence - some sort of low-level coma, deep drunken slumber or average cheese-dream - and you’re not sure where you are, there’s an easy way to test if you’re in your bed, at home, in Montreal, with this little experiment:

1. Turn on the light and scratch a little bit of paint off any wall in the apartment– enough to reveal the last six coats applied. Among these layers, you may find one (or all!) of the following three colors: royal blue, forest green or bright orange. Here, let me visually assist you.

2. Now scratch a little paint of the opposing wall in the same room. If one of these walls is a second of the three aforementioned shades, you almost certainly - but not definitely -are in Montreal. At this stage it’s still possible that you’ve have stumbled upon the place where jesters go to die or the inside of a parrot’s skull. The determining factor lies in the ceiling so go ahead, climb on up. If beneath its rough-n-tumble, smoke-stained surface (some would describe it as sexy) you find the third and final colour, well then voila: you’re positively in Montreal.

I’ve been thinking long and hard why the entire population of this city at one point or another chose to minimize their five square feet of living space by selecting this singularly vile combination. Is it that nothing says zest (cringe) and vigor (ew) like that particularly obnoxious orange shade of orange? I’ve heard it argued that orange and blue may be complementary colors – in play-dough or freezies – and forest green was tossed in as a rebellious twist. Maybe everyone was just trying to match their entire apartment to that bedspread their boyfriend’s mom picked up from Zellers in grade 9 – I know you know the one (cuz you still have it). Maybe it’s a tribute to the metro line colors? I can't figure it out. I've had way too much vodka.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

beer.....chocolate.....ravenous muse.....: day six of "the wild rose"

these books taste better than the millet i've been eating.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

woody


at the ladies bruncheon, meghan's place, enn dee gee.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

february 4, 1912

franz reichelt, the flying tailor.
an inventor killed by his own invention 98 years ago today.