Just noticed a new extension for Firefox, blocks, i.e. tetris. small little download, install it and run it from the Tools menu. Just a little popup with those shapes and colours that will bring you back to those long-gone 1990s.
I foresee many hours clicking away on my keyboard’s arrow keys, stressing the tendons of my right wrist and hand, and having to explain that! Now, if only someone could configure Three Vikings, I would be in heaven.
Met up at the gym last night with a some guy from the internet (mmm, men of the internet, I’d go online with them any day) to do some climbing. There’s the usual preamble beforehand, how long you been climbing?, what kind of climbing?, checking out each other’s set-up, do you like the rope slack or tight (this all sounds so dirty), etc.
So, at one point I tell him that if I fall, I’m probably going to pull him off his feet, what with my weight and gravity and all that physics 101 stuff. He doesn’t believe me, so I ask him his weight, which was healthy for a 6-foot-something strapping young fellow such as himself. “Yeah, you know I probably outweigh you,” I answered. To which he replied, “Oh, probably.”
Dude??? Thanks for the validation. Besides, I’m working on it!
There’s nothing much to like about this season’s Amazing Race. Actually, there’s nothing at all to like about this season. Therefore, the milliner and I have spent our time Phawning over Phil. And, I was finally able to capture it on film. Yes, Phil does dress right. And in a big way, no less.
I’m still trying to get over the news about the McGill Redman football team cancelling the rest of the season, when news emerged that veterans anally raped a rookie with a broomstick and had other rookies perform other man-on-man sex acts.
They. Shoved. A. Broomstick. Up. A. Kid’s. Anus. Let that sink in softly. Not like forcibly shoved in like a broomstick.
I love this excuse: Players argue the incident was misunderstood, but important tradition. It’s a tradition Shoving broomsticks up kids’ asses is a tradition. In other words, they gave the same excuse as horny young men everywhere: they only stuck it in halfway.
A letter of apology was written, but never sent. Because, I guess, it’s the meaning that counts. Did you get that? The kid left the team, left the school, and nothing was done. Until the kid’s father got involved. So, a few questions spring to mind:
- If this is a tradition, do they use an “official” McGill Redman ass-raping broomstick? Does it bear the team’s official colours? And, if so, is the red from paint (non-toxic, let’s hope) or from the blood of previous years’ rookies?
- When you look at the veterans, doesn’t the thought go through your mind that they’ve all done the old broomstick sit-and-spin?
- Okay, so one guy has been suspended. They raped a kid. Why haven’t there been any charges?
- Lastly, do you think McGill would have shut down the program if the football team was having a winning season, instead of having a 1-5 record?
The mind reels.
I’ve started watching CSI again this year, mostly because there’s less (and I mean both character- and cleavage-wise) Hergenbergen and her wrinkles-of-doom on my screen, but also because they seem to have gone back to their original quirkiness and, joy, the music is great.
So, I’m watching last night, it’s an okay episode. But there was one scene, with Yorick pasting together scraps of letters, there’s this little ditty playing in the background. Oh my fuck, I recognise that! Wait, it’s coming to me. Ah, yes, Cocteau Twins. From “Victorialand,” I’m pretty sure.
I’m sitting there, smug as a bug in shit, proud of my alternative-music knowledge, remembering back to my university days getting stoned and playing 4AD music in the background, when the thought hits me: Wait, that was 20 years ago. Fuck, the music’s old, and so am I.
But, heck, I like to think we’ve both aged gracefully.
Frances the cat has become rather demanding in the past few years, constantly chirping (yes, she chirps) for scraps while we eat. So, on the weekend, our climbing plans washed away with the rain, we decided to have a traditional Thanksgiving meal at home. (Sidenote: A few years ago, an Acadienne transplanted to Quebec told me that she didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, nor should any good Quebecois, because it was an “English” holiday, and we were subjugating ourselves if we observed it. I’m sure my 86-year-old grandmother would have been surprised by that little bit of information.) So, we go buy a turkey, and after getting over the sticker shock, pick up the rest of the ingredients for a proper white-trash meal (broccoli/cauliflower/Kraft cheddar and Ritz crackers dish? Lemon Jell-O with pineapple and carrot salad? I rest my case).
Set up the table, carve the turkey (note to self: make sure you cook the turkey breast-side up for the last while), and put some turkey aside for the feline.
We’re enjoying the meal, the cat is just chomping away at the meat, etc. Clean up a bit (now that requires some resolve), pop in the Amazing Race (it freakin’ rocks!), and settle in for the evening.
Look down, and Frances is completely passed out. I mean, she’s not moving a muscle. She’s in the complete throes of Morpheus. Sweetness. Who knew tryptophan had such an effect on cats? We go to bed around midnight, and I have to go back to the living room to get the cat, who’s lying comatose on the sofa. She actually let us sleep in peace until almost 6 this morning.
*Comment caught on tape of Buffalo Bob [I think] at the end of a Howdy Doody show.
This is why I don’t boulder. Same movement, over and over. All the pressure on one single finger pad. The skin eventually explodes. In all the time that I’ve been climbing, I’ve never had a flapper. First time for everything, I guess.
Luckily, a couple bucks worth of Krazy Glu should seal that sucker right up.
Just received the Season 1 DVD of The Amazing Race. Oh, sweetness! Y’all is welcome.
I can just imagine, this will be like reliving the initial stages in a long-term relationship. You know how it goes: you start off with furtive glances, try to find common interests, start to like each other, start to like each other a lot, can’t wait to see each other again, and one day end up getting drunk, naked, and exchanging precious bodily fluids in the playground. That’s what happens with everyone, right?
I’m coming, Phil!
(Note: Not going to make a habit of this, because other folks write about their cooking experience much better than I ever could, but I thought I’d share.)
We wanted to make this meal while in Maine for the group. Heck, we had the time, and we had ample access to lobsters. However, we just never got around to it, what with the general lethargy that set in because of the clean air. Oh, the numerous bottles of inexpensive wine might have contributed, but I’m trying to forget that part.
However, I decided on Saturday that it would be interesting to make, so I read most of the instructions in The French Laundry cookbook, jotted down the necessary ingredients, and spent a few hours driving around picking these up. Basically, it’s lobster-filled crèpes on a carrot-and-ginger emulsion, topped with pea shoots.
Sounds easy? It wasn’t.
I had already whipped up the crèpe batter earlier in the day, so that was done. Then came time to prepare the lobster. Grabbed it out of the bag, and let the cat deal with it first. (The lobster freaked and started thrashing around, sending the milliner running from the kitchen, screaming. I laughed.) Instead of boiling the oversized cockroach, the recipe calls for steeping it: essentially pouring boiling water over it and letting it sit for a couple minutes, and then ripping it apart. Very tender meat.
Grabbed the shells, added them to a pan, covered with water along with a carrot and tomato. Reduced the liquid to a glaze, which resulted in salty goodness. Chopped up the meat, added the glaze, some chopped shallots and some crème fraiche. The recipe called for mascarpone, but I’m having an sultry affair with crème fraiche at the moment, so yeah, I went there. So far, I’m thinking this is easier than I thought.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t really read the instructions for the carrot emulsion. Which? Called for passing the carrots and ginger through a juicer. Yeah, I don’t have one of those. Ended up boiling the carrot/ginger mix, chopping the heck out of it in a food processer, and then straining this mash. Which I repeated about four times. Getting bored by the end, but my was that ever smooth. Put the coulis back in a saucepan. And then? And then? Added cream and butter. Oh gawd, lots of butter. Hell, I knew I was going climbing the next day, so I figured it was worth the cholesterol.
Filled the crèpes with the lobster mix, and heated them in the oven. Placed the carrot emulsion on the bottom of the plates, and prepared the pea salad. Pretty simple that: take pea shoots, wash and dry. Mix in some rock salt, pepper, shallots and, pièce de resistance, lemon oil. Rolled up the crèpe in a pretty package, and topped with the pea shoots.
Voilà. Peas and carrots. Served with a Pouilly Fumé. We pretty much couldn’t move after that.