I’m driving the birthday boy to daycare this morning. I’m at a red light, and from behind comes a woman on a scooter. Unfortunately, she pulls the ultimate dick move and gets to the right of me, so that she can accelerate faster and get in front when the light turns green.
Naturally enough, the light turns green, and she’s off as quick as her mini-rice cooker allows her. Of course, she’s always stopped at the next red light when I get there, but what can you do? At a certain point, she does get one stop ahead of me, but she hasn’t gained any time over me.
Then, at one point I veer right at a fork, she’s at a red light one the left fork. As I’m driving past, her light turns green, she moves forward a bit but then stops (but that might just be witness memory on my part), and the car behind her keeps moving forward, hits her rear tire and sends her tumbling off her (now) destroyed scooter. I slow down, wondering if I should go over and offer first aid, but she’s up on her feet, yelling at the car driver.
I continue on my way, see cops on the next street, tell them about the accident, and am off. Someone’s getting a new scooter, methinks.
Stony Curtis, a couple weeks ago, made a series of re-formatted bus tickets, each one expressing his dissatisfaction with the local transit authorities. They’re brilliant, I have to say. The tickets, not the authorities.
However, he left out one overwhelming absurdity.
So, I take the bus to work today, heading to butt-fuck Laval, Quebec’s version of Long Island. Take the metro to the furthest station on Jesus Island and, as I’m heading out, ask an attendant if the transfer I got in Montreal will work in Laval. That would be a big “no.” Okay, this means I’m going to be out about $6. To go to Laval. I ask the attendant where I can buy a ticket, and I’m told to go to the ticket booth upstairs.
So, I head up to the “billeterie” (ticket window, emphasis on “ticket”), realise that they don’t sell week passes, so I hand $20 over and ask for two tickets. And here’s the conversation:
Heavily mascara’ed ticket agent: What bus are you taking.
Me: The 65.
HMTA: I’m giving you $5 in change. Pay on the bus.
Me: Um, but that doesn’t give me enough change to take the bus back at the end of the day. (Rides cost $2.60)
HMTA: Well, I can only give out change for $5.
Me: But how do I get back?
HMTA: Find twenty cents somewhere.
Me: Are you serious?
So, I take a step back, absolutely douche-chilled by this Kafka’esque situation. Ooo, but then I’m hit with a plan. I step back to the ticket counter where, as has become obvious, they don’t sell tickets and I lay (another) $5 down on the counter.
Me: Hi! Could I have change for $5, please! (All smiling.)
HMTA: I’m sorry, we only give change for $5.
Me: Great! That’s exactly what I want!
HMTA: I’m sorry, we only give change for $5.
Me: But this is an entirely new transaction!
The HMTA sits there, completely confused, the gears grinding rustily in her head, probably thanking her personal Jesus that she’s unionised.
Haven’t written in awhile. But, I thought I’d add this.
Made waffles for New Year’s day. (Well, day after, to tell the truth. Something about a hangover. Let’s not go there.) Buttermilk waffles, more exactly. With some home-cured pancetta, of course.
The problem with making buttermilk waffles, unfortunately, is finding the buttermilk itself. Granted, you can always go to a major grocery store and buy a liter of the stuff (did you know that its name in French has changed from “babeurre” to “lait de beurre”?), but then you’re usually left with about 50-75% of the stuff after you’ve made your waffles. Thankfully, I’ve got a great murgh makhani recipe that uses it up, but then that requires planning for making both recipes within a short period of time.
There is also the option of making your own butter, which would leave you with some buttermilk afterward.
Ah, but here’s the riddle: the waffle recipe requires both buttermilk and butter, which are derived from heavy cream. Couldn’t I simply make the recipe with only cream instead?
Okay, this is just cool.
A few weeks ago, I received a summons to appear in court. I had no idea why, or if I had been accused of something and couldn’t imagine what for. Would I receive 2 minutes for looking so good? Had I not paid a ticket? No idea. Looking over the summons later, I saw the name of the defendant, and then it all made sense. Said defendant was the fella who doored me last June.
Because I was carted away in an ambulance, I really didn’t get to see what transpired afterward. I saw the word “instruction” on the summons, and assumed that this would be some sort of legal learning exercise. I’ll probably be asked some questions, and that’ll be it. So, last night, leave from work and drive way over to east-end Montreal. And I mean way east end, into Pointe-aux-Trembles, to the municiple court there.
Once there, I take a seat and get to watch a bunch of folks contest their speeding/parking/whatever tickets. Few of them are acquitted, as their excuses run the gamut from unbelievable to completely hilarious.
At a certain point, the judge goes back to his chambers, and the prosecutor (or whatever his role is) calls me outside. Also there is the cop who took my statement last year, and the defendant as well. The defendant and the prosecutor go off to talk about something, and the cop and I rekindle old memories (hubba hubba). The prosecutor comes back, and he, the cop and I go into an office. Cop and prosecutor talk, prosecutor mentions that, “hell, the court fees will cost more than the ticket,”—this is where I realise that some funny shit is going on—and I explain my version of the events. The judge comes back, and this is when I learn why I’ve been summoned.
I’ve been summoned to testify because, after admitting that he opened the door to his truck while I was cycling by, which resulted in me being thrown into oncoming traffic and run over by an car, the defendant was given a ticket.
Which he was contesting.
I tell my version to the judge, the cop tells his version to the judge, the defendant tells his version to the judge. Pretty much all the same story. Of course, according to the defendant, he looked before opening his door, didn’t see anyone, and I magically appeared out of no where, so in his mind it was my fault but, besides that, same story.
The judge pretty much laughed at him, and bemoaned the fact that nothing more could be done besides him getting a ticket. So, judgment against him, he has to pay the ticket plus $50 for court fees.
Oh, and how much was the ticket for nearly killing me?
This is why I never feel the need to prove how manly I can be.
You know, because his arms are spread out like on the cross…
Oh, and because his father has delusions of grandeur.