There might be a post here, later on. But right now, it's just dead air.
Why? Well, I had time scheduled for today to write this wicked-awesome post about either Rah Rah or Hey Ocean!. But then a birthday party last night went a little crazy, and I was stuck being the responsible person.
I hate being the responsible person.
And now I'm way too tired, while paradoxically wound up like a spring, to write any sort of music post. And so, you're going to have to get a place holder.
Does anyone mind if I do a "Music Monday" on tuesday? Also, is there a preference between Rah Rah or Hey Ocean!
Dolphins with Prostate Cancer...
My friend Manga had a bake sale today, and so I grabbed a bus and went all the way down to Cadboro Bay to buy some of her cookies and support prostate cancer research.
Only 75% of the cookies I ate were delicious. See, I had a great chocolate cookie, and then I had half a super sweet cookie that caused my mouth to send an urgent message to my brain, that went something like this:
Dude. You know you're diabetic, right? This shit is way too sweet.
After having tea and chatting for a bit with Manga (who was wearing the world's coolest 1960's style apron), I was given a challenge - create a children's book on the subject of dolphins with prostate cancer, and why all dolphins need to drink more milk.
This is quite the challenge. But I think I'm up to it. Because I think it's a story that needs to be told. There are far too many prostate cancer-related deaths among dolphinkind. I mean, it's the second largest killer among dolphins, beaten only by super-delicious tuna nets.
I can't figure out a way to segue out of that. So I'm just gonna go with the classic "Aaaannnnnnyways....."
Later, I walked all the way home from Cadboro Bay. I live near Mayfair mall. For those who don't know much about Victoria geography... it's about an hour and a half walk, if you're a fast walker like me.
To put it in musical terms, it was the entire length of the Dodo's album Visiter, along with the entirety of the Beatles' Abbey Road and a good chunk of the Mountain Goats' Sunset Tree. And yes, I measure time in album lengths. Because I'm just that much of a nerd.
It's cold as balls in Victoria right now, but I have to say, even in the last days of November, it's still an amazingly beautiful city to stroll through. I highly recommend everyone go out there and just walk - it'll remind you just how awesome this city of ours is.
Only 75% of the cookies I ate were delicious. See, I had a great chocolate cookie, and then I had half a super sweet cookie that caused my mouth to send an urgent message to my brain, that went something like this:
Dude. You know you're diabetic, right? This shit is way too sweet.
After having tea and chatting for a bit with Manga (who was wearing the world's coolest 1960's style apron), I was given a challenge - create a children's book on the subject of dolphins with prostate cancer, and why all dolphins need to drink more milk.
This is quite the challenge. But I think I'm up to it. Because I think it's a story that needs to be told. There are far too many prostate cancer-related deaths among dolphinkind. I mean, it's the second largest killer among dolphins, beaten only by super-delicious tuna nets.
I can't figure out a way to segue out of that. So I'm just gonna go with the classic "Aaaannnnnnyways....."
Later, I walked all the way home from Cadboro Bay. I live near Mayfair mall. For those who don't know much about Victoria geography... it's about an hour and a half walk, if you're a fast walker like me.
To put it in musical terms, it was the entire length of the Dodo's album Visiter, along with the entirety of the Beatles' Abbey Road and a good chunk of the Mountain Goats' Sunset Tree. And yes, I measure time in album lengths. Because I'm just that much of a nerd.
It's cold as balls in Victoria right now, but I have to say, even in the last days of November, it's still an amazingly beautiful city to stroll through. I highly recommend everyone go out there and just walk - it'll remind you just how awesome this city of ours is.
Ten Best Bands?
Went out and did a bit too much drinking after the Sharks vs. Canucks game (holy crap was it a blowout. Unfortunately, it blew in the wrong way. 6-1 Canucks. Gah). It was, all in all, an awesome night, involving yours truly getting a free San Jose Sharks jersey. However, at ten am in the morning, yours truly is a bit too hungover to fully write an engaging post.
Whoops.
Anyways. The Times Colonist (Victoria's newspaper) went and put together a list of the city's ten best bands. It's a great list, with live videos of each band. I paraphrase for posterity:
Whoops.
Anyways. The Times Colonist (Victoria's newspaper) went and put together a list of the city's ten best bands. It's a great list, with live videos of each band. I paraphrase for posterity:
- Wolf Eyes
- Cobblestone Jazz
- This Old Town
- Vince Vacarro
- Acres of Lions
- Maurice
- Jets Overhead
- Aidan Knight
- Current Swell
- Jon and Roy
Addiction:
There is an epidemic in this city. Over the past few years, addiction has spread throughout the street, turning normal people into crazed junkies, always hungry but never filled.
It has taken over the lives of ordinary people - students, tourists, and young professionals - and the not so ordinary - hipsters, musicians, and artists.
And this outbreak of addiction is one that is perfectly legal. Some of the addicts are even cops!
I am speaking, of course, about Victoria's noodle addiction.
I'm a little embarrassed about it, because I've never really seen myself as the type to be an addict. But I am one of the growing number of Victorians who is a noodle junkie. I realized it last night:
I found myself inside the Noodle Box, listening to strange european electronic music while waiting in line, desperately anxious to get to the cashier.
"I... need my noodles, man! Gimme my noodles!" I said to the cashier, grabbing her collar with sweaty hands.
She smiled mirthlessly at me, in the manner of pushers the world over, and said, "Do you want some of the local, west coast shit, or do you want the imported asian stuff? And how hot do you want it, man? Because we do all kinds."
"Hot. Extra hot," I said, my skin tingling with anticipatory noodle-bliss. "Black bean. Hokkein noodles. Tofu."
I pressed my money in her hand, and she just smiled evilly. "Price went up. Eleven don't cut it no more."
"What!? But, this is all I have!"
"Thirteen, or no noodles for you."
"But... but... I'm sick." I whimpered.
I dug in my pocket and pulled out the last of my laundry money, wondering how long I could go before I'd have to start re-wearing my socks. "This is... this is all I got."
She counted it twice. "Great. It'll be a half hour wait."
"Half an hour!? But, I need my noodles now!"
"Well, you're gonna have to wait."
"You're killing me. I'm, like, dying, man!"
"Grab a seat."
And so I found myself sitting on a chair, writhing with "The Noodle Sweats". Next to me was a hipster in emo-glasses and a Black Keys t-shirt curled up in a foetal position, mumbling "Cambodian Jungle Curry" over and over again.
I realized I had hit rock bottom. I rushed to a phone book, only to find that there is no twelve-step noodle addiction program. In fact, when I called one of addicts anonymous hotlines, the counsellor flat-out told me that "you can never have too many noodles" and then hung up.
What has become of Victoria?
What will become of me?
It has taken over the lives of ordinary people - students, tourists, and young professionals - and the not so ordinary - hipsters, musicians, and artists.
And this outbreak of addiction is one that is perfectly legal. Some of the addicts are even cops!
I am speaking, of course, about Victoria's noodle addiction.
I'm a little embarrassed about it, because I've never really seen myself as the type to be an addict. But I am one of the growing number of Victorians who is a noodle junkie. I realized it last night:
I found myself inside the Noodle Box, listening to strange european electronic music while waiting in line, desperately anxious to get to the cashier.
"I... need my noodles, man! Gimme my noodles!" I said to the cashier, grabbing her collar with sweaty hands.
She smiled mirthlessly at me, in the manner of pushers the world over, and said, "Do you want some of the local, west coast shit, or do you want the imported asian stuff? And how hot do you want it, man? Because we do all kinds."
"Hot. Extra hot," I said, my skin tingling with anticipatory noodle-bliss. "Black bean. Hokkein noodles. Tofu."
I pressed my money in her hand, and she just smiled evilly. "Price went up. Eleven don't cut it no more."
"What!? But, this is all I have!"
"Thirteen, or no noodles for you."
"But... but... I'm sick." I whimpered.
I dug in my pocket and pulled out the last of my laundry money, wondering how long I could go before I'd have to start re-wearing my socks. "This is... this is all I got."
She counted it twice. "Great. It'll be a half hour wait."
"Half an hour!? But, I need my noodles now!"
"Well, you're gonna have to wait."
"You're killing me. I'm, like, dying, man!"
"Grab a seat."
And so I found myself sitting on a chair, writhing with "The Noodle Sweats". Next to me was a hipster in emo-glasses and a Black Keys t-shirt curled up in a foetal position, mumbling "Cambodian Jungle Curry" over and over again.
I realized I had hit rock bottom. I rushed to a phone book, only to find that there is no twelve-step noodle addiction program. In fact, when I called one of addicts anonymous hotlines, the counsellor flat-out told me that "you can never have too many noodles" and then hung up.
What has become of Victoria?
What will become of me?
Movember Update, as well as a work update... plus... the noodle box.
A few fun facts, to keep y'all informed:
1) I caved in and shaved off my movember beard. It had to be done - I had a job interview and a date, and didn't want to look like a homeless person. I actually looked sort of like a red-headed amish guy, as there was absolutely no moustache. Don't worry, I have photos. And yes, I will be making my donation to the Canadian Cancer Society to pay my reparations.
2) I am no longer unemployed. This is a very good thing; after all, it means I can go ahead with phase 1 of the blog renewal project! Super stoked on that.
3) Did I mention that there is a brand new Noodle Box opening across the street from my new job? Did I mention that, upon finding this out, I actually jumped about three feet in the air and laughed with pure joy?
That is all.
1) I caved in and shaved off my movember beard. It had to be done - I had a job interview and a date, and didn't want to look like a homeless person. I actually looked sort of like a red-headed amish guy, as there was absolutely no moustache. Don't worry, I have photos. And yes, I will be making my donation to the Canadian Cancer Society to pay my reparations.
2) I am no longer unemployed. This is a very good thing; after all, it means I can go ahead with phase 1 of the blog renewal project! Super stoked on that.
3) Did I mention that there is a brand new Noodle Box opening across the street from my new job? Did I mention that, upon finding this out, I actually jumped about three feet in the air and laughed with pure joy?
That is all.
Weekly Haiku #35: poetry, continued
frozen winter shroud
draped over summer's last gasp
spring blooms from the bones
409 hours!?
"I am not really much of a video game person."
I say this fairly often, probably because I look like the type of person that should be a video game person. And, well, I've recently come to the conclusion that maybe all this time I've been lying to myself.
I would say "hey, I only play three games - Civilization, Halo, and X-Com. I'm obviously not a video gamer."
And I would believe it.
A few days ago, I was writing a blog post when I accidentally opened up my Steam account. This account apparently tells you how many total hours you have spent playing games. And I was stunned to see this:
Yyup. Four hundred and nine hours. And this is a game I've owned a little over a year. To put it another way, I've spent seventeen days playing this game.
And x-com is my least-played game out of those three I listed. I seriously dread to see how many hours I've spent playing the various halo or civilization games.
I say this fairly often, probably because I look like the type of person that should be a video game person. And, well, I've recently come to the conclusion that maybe all this time I've been lying to myself.
I would say "hey, I only play three games - Civilization, Halo, and X-Com. I'm obviously not a video gamer."
And I would believe it.
A few days ago, I was writing a blog post when I accidentally opened up my Steam account. This account apparently tells you how many total hours you have spent playing games. And I was stunned to see this:
Yyup. Four hundred and nine hours. And this is a game I've owned a little over a year. To put it another way, I've spent seventeen days playing this game.
And x-com is my least-played game out of those three I listed. I seriously dread to see how many hours I've spent playing the various halo or civilization games.
Music Mondays - Matt and Kim (with footnotes!)
And she told me about Matt and Kim.
Imagine a two piece band - a girl on drums, and a guy singing and playing an instrument. Sound sort of like the White Stripes? Well, imagine the white stripes, only they're much, much happier. And instead of playing blues-inspired rock, they're playing pop music you can dance to. Oh, and instead of being divorced and angry-looking, they're dating and clearly in love with each other and the world around themc.
How have I not heard of these two? I mean, I'm kind of embarrassed that I'm learning about them just now. How can I be a music fan who also loves youtube, and yet still be unaware? I'm pretty sure the answer has something to do with global warming, but I'm not entirely sure how. I'll get back to you on thatd.
It might take a while, though, because I have a feeling I'll be listening to these guys for a bit. It really is detrimental to your mental and emotional well-being to avoid these guys - some guys blow money on therapy to feel better, but wiser men spend a couple of bucks on a Matt and Kim album. And not only is the Matt and Kim album cheaper, but it also involves absolutely no cigar-smoking therapists that want you to talk about your mothere.
Matt and Kim are just so damned cheerful and happy that, after watching a few of their videos, you can't help but feel happy. The look of sheer joy on Kim's face as she plays rather basic drum beats, or the look of pleasure and contentment on Matt's face as he pounds through a keyboard line - these are looks of sublime human happinessf.
Don't believe me? Check out their videos - whether it's the cramped happiness of Daylight, the free-spirited striptease of Lessons Learnedg, or the literal "food fight" of Yea Yeah. Watch those videos, and you will find yourself a happier person. Your faith in humanity will be restored.
a. (Pssst - not her real name!)
b. Have I not talked about Rah Rah yet? I really should do that one of these days...
c. Also, Matt and Kim have never had their music in a crappy ipod commercial.
d. I have a theory involving dolphin farts, a plastic garbage bag the size of mexico, and Ray Liotta.
e. Sometimes a cigar is just a penis, doch.
f. Sort of like that feeling you get when you see an obnoxious child get punched in the groin.
g. Lesson Learned: cops are apparently afraid of grabbing a naked woman, but have no problem wrestling a naked dude to the ground.
h. Wait. Did I say penis? I meant "cigar"i
i. Alright. You caught me. I actually meant "penis".
Angry Face!
Well, this pisses me off.
That, for those that don't want to check the link, leads to crazynewt.blogspot.whatever.com. You see, I wanted to change my URL, because I sort of want to drop the whole "crazy thoughts from a..." part of the URL (too long!).
And yet, the name's been taken. And not touched since 2006. And it's just a bunch of dead images and links to pictures of animals. Gah!
Redesigning your blog can be difficult.
Sad face.
That, for those that don't want to check the link, leads to crazynewt.blogspot.whatever.com. You see, I wanted to change my URL, because I sort of want to drop the whole "crazy thoughts from a..." part of the URL (too long!).
And yet, the name's been taken. And not touched since 2006. And it's just a bunch of dead images and links to pictures of animals. Gah!
Redesigning your blog can be difficult.
Sad face.
Preserved for Posterity:
Last week, a bunch of friends were discussing past misadventures. I related the story of my friend Squee's first time at the casino... which resulted in many laughs. And Squee swearing "that's not how it happened" - presumably because he's blocking the traumatic experience. Because he obviously doesn't want the world to know of his foolishness, I've decided to post it on the internet.
I'm a good friend that way.
Squee and the Blackjack Table
It was sometime around 2002 or 2003, and Squee (one of my best friends) and I were bored. We were driving around Sooke at around nine p.m., with absolutely nothing to do in the small logging town. At nineteen or twenty years old, we were old enough to buy booze, but were just old enough to realize that maybe blowing money on alcohol isn't always the most fun way to pass the time.
Unable to think of anything else, I came up with those five words that every young man will say at some point in his lifetime and eventually regret: "Let's go to the Casino!"
These are bad words. Never learn these words. As the Animals famously sang, it's been the ruin of many a poor boy. Saying those five words are almost as bad as "yeah, you do look fat!" or "Sorry officer, I'm really high."
"I've never been to the casino," Squee said, as we barrelled down an old logging road at Mach-2. The sonic boom of his sports car was knocking over trees and scaring the hell out of deer.
"Really? Well then, you have to go!"
He seemed nonplussed. "Slot machines seem kind of.... lame."
"Well, yeah. Slot machines are lame. That's why you play blackjack!"
"I've never played blackjack." He said. My jaw dropped.
"Seriously? You've never played blackjack!?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Turn around. We're going to the casino. Right now."
As we hurtled into town at one tenth the speed of light, I explained to Squee the rules of blackjack. How the goal is to beat the dealer's hand without going over twenty-one. I explained the customs for betting, how to use hand communication to relay information to the dealer, and how split pots work.
Finally, we got to the casino, make our way inside, and each got about forty bucks worth of blackjack chips. We sat down at the table, and played a few quick hands. I lost a few, Squee won a few - just enough that he began to think he was some sort of natural at the game. At one point, he actually decided to give me advice on the game. Naturally, he stopped playing for the minimum bet, and put around fifteen bucks down.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.
"Dude, I've been doubling up every time. Let's make more money."
"Um, okay..."
He gets dealt an ace and a nine. The dealer had an 18. I'm shaking my head - dumb fucking beginner's luck.
And then: "Hit me."
I couldn't have been more surprised. Literally, were he to take off his belt and slap the dealer with it, it would have been less surprising than those two words. And it's not just me. Everyone at the table is shocked. I try to stop his hand movement, but I'm too late - the dealer drops another card down, shaking his head ruefully. A five.
"hit me again," he says, wincing. And is busted.
"What the hell!?" I shout, absolutely shocked. "Why would you take a hit on a twenty!?"
"Twenty? Dude, I had an ace and a nine. That's ten." He says it like he's explaining basic math to a five year old.
"Aces are worth one or eleven! You had twenty!"
A pause. "You never told me that."
I looked at him blankly, knowing I had mentioned it, albeit in a possibly roundabout fashion. And then:
"You know, this 'blackjack' game plays almost exactly like that game '21'....."
I sighed. "They're the same game."
"...oh," he looked confused. "You never told me that."
"Squee, maybe slots are more your speed."
I'm a good friend that way.
Squee and the Blackjack Table
It was sometime around 2002 or 2003, and Squee (one of my best friends) and I were bored. We were driving around Sooke at around nine p.m., with absolutely nothing to do in the small logging town. At nineteen or twenty years old, we were old enough to buy booze, but were just old enough to realize that maybe blowing money on alcohol isn't always the most fun way to pass the time.
Unable to think of anything else, I came up with those five words that every young man will say at some point in his lifetime and eventually regret: "Let's go to the Casino!"
These are bad words. Never learn these words. As the Animals famously sang, it's been the ruin of many a poor boy. Saying those five words are almost as bad as "yeah, you do look fat!" or "Sorry officer, I'm really high."
"I've never been to the casino," Squee said, as we barrelled down an old logging road at Mach-2. The sonic boom of his sports car was knocking over trees and scaring the hell out of deer.
"Really? Well then, you have to go!"
He seemed nonplussed. "Slot machines seem kind of.... lame."
"Well, yeah. Slot machines are lame. That's why you play blackjack!"
"I've never played blackjack." He said. My jaw dropped.
"Seriously? You've never played blackjack!?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Turn around. We're going to the casino. Right now."
As we hurtled into town at one tenth the speed of light, I explained to Squee the rules of blackjack. How the goal is to beat the dealer's hand without going over twenty-one. I explained the customs for betting, how to use hand communication to relay information to the dealer, and how split pots work.
Finally, we got to the casino, make our way inside, and each got about forty bucks worth of blackjack chips. We sat down at the table, and played a few quick hands. I lost a few, Squee won a few - just enough that he began to think he was some sort of natural at the game. At one point, he actually decided to give me advice on the game. Naturally, he stopped playing for the minimum bet, and put around fifteen bucks down.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.
"Dude, I've been doubling up every time. Let's make more money."
"Um, okay..."
He gets dealt an ace and a nine. The dealer had an 18. I'm shaking my head - dumb fucking beginner's luck.
And then: "Hit me."
I couldn't have been more surprised. Literally, were he to take off his belt and slap the dealer with it, it would have been less surprising than those two words. And it's not just me. Everyone at the table is shocked. I try to stop his hand movement, but I'm too late - the dealer drops another card down, shaking his head ruefully. A five.
"hit me again," he says, wincing. And is busted.
"What the hell!?" I shout, absolutely shocked. "Why would you take a hit on a twenty!?"
"Twenty? Dude, I had an ace and a nine. That's ten." He says it like he's explaining basic math to a five year old.
"Aces are worth one or eleven! You had twenty!"
A pause. "You never told me that."
I looked at him blankly, knowing I had mentioned it, albeit in a possibly roundabout fashion. And then:
"You know, this 'blackjack' game plays almost exactly like that game '21'....."
I sighed. "They're the same game."
"...oh," he looked confused. "You never told me that."
"Squee, maybe slots are more your speed."
Updates!
There are some changes in this blog coming up on the horizon. Once I've got myself some steady income flowing in and have liquid assets again (curse you, abject poverty!), Newt's crazy updates will commence.
What changes, you ask?
Well, it's begun to occur to me that maybe I should narrow this blog down a bit. See, as it stands, it's just a resting place for memories and observations by yours truly. And, while this might be interesting to the few (relatively speaking) people who know me, it really means absolutely nothing to the unwashed masses.
The goal is, starting relatively soon, to focus this blog more on Victoria and Vancouver Island - with a focus on the music scene. I'll be writing about random occurences still, but things like "Film Friday" will follow the way of the dodo. The goal is to write more about live shows, new bands, and the goings-on in this lovely city o' mine.
I'm kind of looking forward to it. So, yeah.
What changes, you ask?
Well, it's begun to occur to me that maybe I should narrow this blog down a bit. See, as it stands, it's just a resting place for memories and observations by yours truly. And, while this might be interesting to the few (relatively speaking) people who know me, it really means absolutely nothing to the unwashed masses.
The goal is, starting relatively soon, to focus this blog more on Victoria and Vancouver Island - with a focus on the music scene. I'll be writing about random occurences still, but things like "Film Friday" will follow the way of the dodo. The goal is to write more about live shows, new bands, and the goings-on in this lovely city o' mine.
I'm kind of looking forward to it. So, yeah.
World's Best Chili
Ah, chili. The meal of choice for the unsettlingly poor. Or at least, my meal of choice when I'm unsettlingly poor - I imagine there are a lot of people out there who would rather live on ramen noodles, spaghetti, and kraft dinner. But those people are idiots.
Chili is the way to go for a few reasons. First, it's cheap to make - for a little over ten bucks, you can make a batch large enough to last one person for a couple of days. Second, because chili tastes better the longer you let the individual flavours mix, it actually tastes better as leftovers. Third - and most important, for me - if made right, it's a helluva lot healthier than other types of poor people food.
And finally, it goes great with hot sauce. Always a plus.
It's a little known fact that I make the world's best chili. People have expressed doubts over this fact, especially when they learn that my chili is completely vegetarian (it might even be vegan!). But every time they eat it, they wind up grudgingly admitting that, yeah, my chili is awesome.
And I've been eating it for the past two weeks. I guess it's one of the ups of being poor, eh?
Anyways, without further ado:
Ingredients
1 can black beans
1 can kidney beans
1 can chick peas
1 can corn kernels
1 can of either a bean mix, or lentils (I prefer lentils, but the mix works too)
2 larger cans of crushed or diced tomatoes (if you can, get a "garlic" or "chili" mix)
1 can of Aylmer's "Chili Accents" crushed tomatoes
1 packet of Old El' Paso Chili Seasoning
2 Carrots, chopped into small chunks
1/2 Red Onion, chopped into small chunks (the smaller the better!)
2 Stalks of Celery, chopped into bite-sized wedges
1 diced serrano pepper (alternately, use a jalapeno for less spicy chili, and use 2 habaneros for hotter chili; leave the seeds in! Omit the pepper if you like milder chili).
1 tbsp of dried chili pepper flakes
2 tbsp of brown sugar
optional: 1 diced garlic clove
optional: 1 tbsp chili powder
Cooking Instructions
1. Combine all the beans and corn in a single bowl and drain of any excess fluids. Rinse this mixture multiple times, to get rid of any gross "bean guck" that will make your chili look ugly. Drain of any excess fluid, and let the bean mix sit for about fifteen minutes at room temperature. Drain again, and then dump into crock pot.
2. Combine all the other ingredients into the crock pot. Give it a big stir.
3. Cook on "low" for 6-8 hours, or "high" for 3-4 hours. Stir approximately every hour or so. The mix is done when you think it's done, although a good rule to go by is you're good when the carrots are soft but not too soft.
4. Best served topped with shredded monterey jack cheese and a dollop of sour cream.
Variant
Sometimes, I'll cut the onions really big, and fish them out when the chili is done cooking. Also, I like to put the Serrano pepper seeds into the chili seperately, and I take out the pepper itself when the recipe is done cooking, as it tends to get soggy. Naturally, use organic ingredients when able. If you use dried beans, make sure you let them soak for 24 hours before putting in the chili - but I recommend using canned beans, because they really do taste better.
Chili is the way to go for a few reasons. First, it's cheap to make - for a little over ten bucks, you can make a batch large enough to last one person for a couple of days. Second, because chili tastes better the longer you let the individual flavours mix, it actually tastes better as leftovers. Third - and most important, for me - if made right, it's a helluva lot healthier than other types of poor people food.
And finally, it goes great with hot sauce. Always a plus.
It's a little known fact that I make the world's best chili. People have expressed doubts over this fact, especially when they learn that my chili is completely vegetarian (it might even be vegan!). But every time they eat it, they wind up grudgingly admitting that, yeah, my chili is awesome.
And I've been eating it for the past two weeks. I guess it's one of the ups of being poor, eh?
Anyways, without further ado:
Ingredients
1 can black beans
1 can kidney beans
1 can chick peas
1 can corn kernels
1 can of either a bean mix, or lentils (I prefer lentils, but the mix works too)
2 larger cans of crushed or diced tomatoes (if you can, get a "garlic" or "chili" mix)
1 can of Aylmer's "Chili Accents" crushed tomatoes
1 packet of Old El' Paso Chili Seasoning
2 Carrots, chopped into small chunks
1/2 Red Onion, chopped into small chunks (the smaller the better!)
2 Stalks of Celery, chopped into bite-sized wedges
1 diced serrano pepper (alternately, use a jalapeno for less spicy chili, and use 2 habaneros for hotter chili; leave the seeds in! Omit the pepper if you like milder chili).
1 tbsp of dried chili pepper flakes
2 tbsp of brown sugar
optional: 1 diced garlic clove
optional: 1 tbsp chili powder
Cooking Instructions
1. Combine all the beans and corn in a single bowl and drain of any excess fluids. Rinse this mixture multiple times, to get rid of any gross "bean guck" that will make your chili look ugly. Drain of any excess fluid, and let the bean mix sit for about fifteen minutes at room temperature. Drain again, and then dump into crock pot.
2. Combine all the other ingredients into the crock pot. Give it a big stir.
3. Cook on "low" for 6-8 hours, or "high" for 3-4 hours. Stir approximately every hour or so. The mix is done when you think it's done, although a good rule to go by is you're good when the carrots are soft but not too soft.
4. Best served topped with shredded monterey jack cheese and a dollop of sour cream.
Variant
Sometimes, I'll cut the onions really big, and fish them out when the chili is done cooking. Also, I like to put the Serrano pepper seeds into the chili seperately, and I take out the pepper itself when the recipe is done cooking, as it tends to get soggy. Naturally, use organic ingredients when able. If you use dried beans, make sure you let them soak for 24 hours before putting in the chili - but I recommend using canned beans, because they really do taste better.
Crazy Newt's guide to Rye!
You know, I really don't drink much. Occasionally, this blog might suggest otherwise, but in actuality, I'm really something of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. And most of the times, when I do drink, it's in fairly small amounts - two or three drinks, tops.
But sometimes, I run out of things to write about. And when that happens, I write about whatever random item is sitting on my desk... which happens to be a barely-opened bottle of Canadian Club. And I realized, even though it might make me sound like a lush, I had to grade my five favourite ryes.
Y'know... for educational purposes.
Canadian Club: Known throughout the world. Originally brewed by that greatest of Canadian distillers, good ol' Hiram Walker himself. This is probably the best known Rye internationally, although personal experience has told me that it is not as well-liked in Canada as Crown Royale.
I prefer the "Premium" brand personally, though don't let the name fool you - Premium is their basic blend. The Reserve blend is probably, ultimately, better, but I just enjoy the smooth taste of basic CC. Plus, the classic-style bottle makes a great "bloop bloop" noise when you pour it. I believe I've mentioned this already.
I remember having a flask of this stuff in my pocket during a Canada Day celebration, and a bottle of CC and Ginger Ale in my other pocket. I was stopped by a cop who patted me down and found the ginger ale and CC mix and made me dump it. He never found the flask, and later on that very night I found myself on a boat in the inner harbour, drinking CC straight while watching fireworks explode overhead.
*Sniff*. Memories...
Crown Royal: Apparently, the number-one selling Canadian whisky sold in the United States, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was the number one seller in Canada, too. This is that whiskey that is sold in those purple velvet bags that everyone seems to have - I remember my crossing guard at school giving me a bag for my marbles when I was only about six. It was really nice of her, although what my crossing guard was doing with an abundance of crown royal bags, I don't know. I guess life was hard being a crossing guard in the 1980s... knowing all you were doing was preventing natural selection from weeding out the stupid kids who'd otherwise walk into traffic. I'd probably drink a lot, too.
Anyways, I like this stuff, although it's a bit nutty and I find the flavour is a bit strong for my liking. Also, it's usually the most expensive rye, so I rarely buy it. Sometimes, I think it is a best-seller simply because it is one of the pricier Canadian Ryes. Great christmas present, though!
All that being said, the worst experience I ever had with alcohol was with Crown Royal. I was about nineteen or so, and was trying to impress some guys I had just met and this girl I was sort of interested in. Naturally, I wanted to show how tough I was, so I slammed an entire 750 mL. I literally watched the liquid disappear, and as I swallowed the last drops, I thought to myself "that was probably a bad id-"
The next thing I know, I'm being dragged back to my campsite asking Squee to "Punch me in the face".
So yeah, be careful with this stuff, boys and girls!
Gibson's Finest: Kind of a smaller brand, for a long time, this was my absolute favourite rye whiskey. It tastes great mixed with ginger ale, it's relatively cheap, and it has this great tinge of walnut or something when you sip it. The bottle and packaging is kind of lacklustre, and if you keep it on your shelf for awhile like I do, you'll notice the label will quickly start to peel. But hey, who cares so much about packaging if it tastes good?
For a while, I used to base which bars I'd frequent based entirely on whether or not they carried this brand... I still choose it over any other store brand when able, and my mom has made a habit of buying me a bottle every year for Christmas. Not a top seller, but a brand I highly recommend.
Also, don't drop the bottle on your toe. I can't stress this enough. Due to the shape of the bottle, it seems to amplify the weight, and will crush your poor toe into oblivion.
Hiram Walker Reserve: My drink of choice. Originally created by the same guy that made Canadian Club (and, I believe, still produced by the same company) this lesser-known rye is essentially a much smoother version of Canadian Club. It holds the distinction of being the only rye I can drink neat without making "whiskey face". And it tastes absolutely amazing with ginger ale.
The price fluctuates, but it's roughly equal to Canadian Club. It comes in a great rectangular bottle and has this deep amber colour to it that always makes me smile. About the only downside to this stuff is that I've yet to find a bar or restaurant that serves it. Were I to ever find the place, I'd probably become a regular.
Wiser's Deluxe: This drink holds the dubious distinction of being the first rye I ever drank... and it was the first alcohol I ever actually got drunk on. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. In fact, this rye almost made me swear off ryes completely - it tastes as if someone took the very worst parts of rye whisky, vodka, and rubbing alcohol, and sloshed them all together.
I remember drinking it for the first time, on a cold spring day and having my friend James teaching me that "the only way to drink it is quickly, and make sure you breathe out the fumes becuase they're what make you gag". About the only fond memory I have of this stuff is drinking mouthfuls and then trying to spew out fireballs by lighting a match as you spray out. Which is really a better use of the stuff than actually, you know, drinking it.
While it is not the worst rye I've ever had (that distinction goes to Royal Reserve or that awful rye from Alberta), it definitely is not a rye I choose to drink if at all possible. Sure, it's cheap, but there's more to life than just money. About the only time I wind up drinking this stuff is when I'm at a bar and I don't realize this is the stuff they have tapped. And it only takes one before I'm dishing out the extra money for Crown Royal or CC.
But sometimes, I run out of things to write about. And when that happens, I write about whatever random item is sitting on my desk... which happens to be a barely-opened bottle of Canadian Club. And I realized, even though it might make me sound like a lush, I had to grade my five favourite ryes.
Y'know... for educational purposes.
I prefer the "Premium" brand personally, though don't let the name fool you - Premium is their basic blend. The Reserve blend is probably, ultimately, better, but I just enjoy the smooth taste of basic CC. Plus, the classic-style bottle makes a great "bloop bloop" noise when you pour it. I believe I've mentioned this already.
I remember having a flask of this stuff in my pocket during a Canada Day celebration, and a bottle of CC and Ginger Ale in my other pocket. I was stopped by a cop who patted me down and found the ginger ale and CC mix and made me dump it. He never found the flask, and later on that very night I found myself on a boat in the inner harbour, drinking CC straight while watching fireworks explode overhead.
*Sniff*. Memories...
Flavour: A; Price: B; Presentation: A. Overall : A-
Anyways, I like this stuff, although it's a bit nutty and I find the flavour is a bit strong for my liking. Also, it's usually the most expensive rye, so I rarely buy it. Sometimes, I think it is a best-seller simply because it is one of the pricier Canadian Ryes. Great christmas present, though!
All that being said, the worst experience I ever had with alcohol was with Crown Royal. I was about nineteen or so, and was trying to impress some guys I had just met and this girl I was sort of interested in. Naturally, I wanted to show how tough I was, so I slammed an entire 750 mL. I literally watched the liquid disappear, and as I swallowed the last drops, I thought to myself "that was probably a bad id-"
The next thing I know, I'm being dragged back to my campsite asking Squee to "Punch me in the face".
So yeah, be careful with this stuff, boys and girls!
Flavour: B+ Price: C- Presentation: A+; Overall: B
For a while, I used to base which bars I'd frequent based entirely on whether or not they carried this brand... I still choose it over any other store brand when able, and my mom has made a habit of buying me a bottle every year for Christmas. Not a top seller, but a brand I highly recommend.
Also, don't drop the bottle on your toe. I can't stress this enough. Due to the shape of the bottle, it seems to amplify the weight, and will crush your poor toe into oblivion.
Flavour: A- Price: A Presentation: C Overall: B
The price fluctuates, but it's roughly equal to Canadian Club. It comes in a great rectangular bottle and has this deep amber colour to it that always makes me smile. About the only downside to this stuff is that I've yet to find a bar or restaurant that serves it. Were I to ever find the place, I'd probably become a regular.
Flavour: A+ Price B Presentation: A Overall: A
I remember drinking it for the first time, on a cold spring day and having my friend James teaching me that "the only way to drink it is quickly, and make sure you breathe out the fumes becuase they're what make you gag". About the only fond memory I have of this stuff is drinking mouthfuls and then trying to spew out fireballs by lighting a match as you spray out. Which is really a better use of the stuff than actually, you know, drinking it.
While it is not the worst rye I've ever had (that distinction goes to Royal Reserve or that awful rye from Alberta), it definitely is not a rye I choose to drink if at all possible. Sure, it's cheap, but there's more to life than just money. About the only time I wind up drinking this stuff is when I'm at a bar and I don't realize this is the stuff they have tapped. And it only takes one before I'm dishing out the extra money for Crown Royal or CC.
Flavour: C- Price: A+ Presentation: C- Overall: C+.
Weekly Haiku #34: look at me being all poetic!
grayish blue vic skies
-november wind on bare flesh-
...twilight of a year
Job Applications
I've been doing my damnedest to find work. Even if it's just temporary work. Because of this, I've been applying to everywhere, including the absolute shittiest jobs available. I'm talking places like Wal-Mart, Subway, and Denny's.
These massive corporations don't like talking resumes, mind you - they all require you to fill out applications. And these applications are ridiculous - you basically transcribe your resume, doing your best to make your writing legible (friends will tell you my writing is anything but).
But some weird questions stand out. And sometimes, just sometimes, they make me want to run for cover. For example, this little gem from a Denny's Application:
On a Scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being 'disgusting' and 10 being 'heavenly', how delicious would you rate your internal organs?
Luckily, I was able to throw a mug at the manager's face while I fled the building, running in a zig-zag pattern.
These massive corporations don't like talking resumes, mind you - they all require you to fill out applications. And these applications are ridiculous - you basically transcribe your resume, doing your best to make your writing legible (friends will tell you my writing is anything but).
But some weird questions stand out. And sometimes, just sometimes, they make me want to run for cover. For example, this little gem from a Denny's Application:
On a Scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being 'disgusting' and 10 being 'heavenly', how delicious would you rate your internal organs?
Luckily, I was able to throw a mug at the manager's face while I fled the building, running in a zig-zag pattern.
Music Mondays - Christian Hansen and the Autistics
While listening to CBC Radio 3, I came across a very strange little band. And, as you all know, I'm quite the fan of strange little bands. But this one stood out among all those other strange little bands for one simple reason - they were making a type of music I usually hate.
It's electronic. It has a dance music vibe to it, with maybe a touch of industrial or 80s new wave thrown in. The drum beats are simplistic, and the instrumentation is almost entirely digital. And yet, after listening to songs like Don't Leave Her Out, High School's Over, and Cocaine Trade, I found myself nodding my head in a very Roxbury-esque fashion.
The band hails from Edmonton, Alberta and they are known as Christian Hansen and the Autistics. They get five gold stars for the name alone. And then you watch their videos and live feeds, and you just fall in love with them - 1980s cheese, combined with over-the-top indie self-deference and simple yet complex dance beats with just a hint of early punk thrown in for good measure.
The lead singer (Mr. Hansen, I presume?) kind of reminds me of Rick Astley, in a bizarre sort of way - but rather than the crazy humour involved in rick-rolling, he's in on the joke. And somehow, that makes it all better.
All in all, a good collection for driving, cleaning the house, or cheering up the missus. And definitely a band I'm going to check out when they roll into town.
It's electronic. It has a dance music vibe to it, with maybe a touch of industrial or 80s new wave thrown in. The drum beats are simplistic, and the instrumentation is almost entirely digital. And yet, after listening to songs like Don't Leave Her Out, High School's Over, and Cocaine Trade, I found myself nodding my head in a very Roxbury-esque fashion.
The lead singer (Mr. Hansen, I presume?) kind of reminds me of Rick Astley, in a bizarre sort of way - but rather than the crazy humour involved in rick-rolling, he's in on the joke. And somehow, that makes it all better.
All in all, a good collection for driving, cleaning the house, or cheering up the missus. And definitely a band I'm going to check out when they roll into town.
True Story:
I suffer from insomnia. While it comes and goes, it's been a part of my life since the day I was born. And I don't mean that in any form of hyperbole - I was born at 4 am, and was more of less nocturnal for the first week of my life. And insomnia has followed me since then.
About a week ago, I was lying in bed, tossing and turning. Even though I had the heat turned off and a window open, I was sweating for some reason - yes, I know, it's November in Canada, but I was hot. It was about two in the morning, and I'd been in bed for about an hour and half, with no luck getting to sleep.
Finally, I just said "to hell with it" and decided I'd take a walk. It really does help put me to sleep sometime. I figured I'd walk down to the Selkirk Waterway, maybe cross the trestle, and then come back home and go to bed.
When I made it to the waterway, it was dark, with the only illumination coming from distant city lights being reflected off obdisian black water. I felt eyes watching me, and had this strange sense of unease. I had been on the waterway at night before, so I had no idea why I was so bothered. Hell, only a few months earlier, I took a girlfriend right down to the waterline to show her the distant parliament buildings - one of the most romantic views in this entire city.
I come down here all the time, watching majestic herons feed in the water, or seal pups frolic at the shore's edge.
In short, the waterway is a place I associate with calmness, relaxation, and solitude. Not quiet unease. But that was how I felt.
I began to think about the homeless, and how it was a possibility that, due to the crappy winter weather, it was possible some homeless people were using the area as a camping site. When I saw an abandoned shopping cart, despite the fact that there are no grocery stores anywhere nearby, I began to really believe in this theory.
I made my way to the trestle, and started walking anxiously.
And then something hit me on the back.
It wasn't hard - it felt like someone threw a stick at me that barely bounced off my back. But I was already a bit anxious, and spun around, ready to fight. My fists were in the air, as I stared at road around me. Waiting for my assailant to materialize.
And then something moved in the bush. I spun to face the bush... and saw a heron, flying away. And that's when I realized:
I had just been kicked by a heron.
About a week ago, I was lying in bed, tossing and turning. Even though I had the heat turned off and a window open, I was sweating for some reason - yes, I know, it's November in Canada, but I was hot. It was about two in the morning, and I'd been in bed for about an hour and half, with no luck getting to sleep.
Finally, I just said "to hell with it" and decided I'd take a walk. It really does help put me to sleep sometime. I figured I'd walk down to the Selkirk Waterway, maybe cross the trestle, and then come back home and go to bed.
When I made it to the waterway, it was dark, with the only illumination coming from distant city lights being reflected off obdisian black water. I felt eyes watching me, and had this strange sense of unease. I had been on the waterway at night before, so I had no idea why I was so bothered. Hell, only a few months earlier, I took a girlfriend right down to the waterline to show her the distant parliament buildings - one of the most romantic views in this entire city.
I come down here all the time, watching majestic herons feed in the water, or seal pups frolic at the shore's edge.
In short, the waterway is a place I associate with calmness, relaxation, and solitude. Not quiet unease. But that was how I felt.
I began to think about the homeless, and how it was a possibility that, due to the crappy winter weather, it was possible some homeless people were using the area as a camping site. When I saw an abandoned shopping cart, despite the fact that there are no grocery stores anywhere nearby, I began to really believe in this theory.
I made my way to the trestle, and started walking anxiously.
And then something hit me on the back.
It wasn't hard - it felt like someone threw a stick at me that barely bounced off my back. But I was already a bit anxious, and spun around, ready to fight. My fists were in the air, as I stared at road around me. Waiting for my assailant to materialize.
And then something moved in the bush. I spun to face the bush... and saw a heron, flying away. And that's when I realized:
I had just been kicked by a heron.
A Joke.... a very long joke.
A few years back, I heard the doorbell ring. I got up from my chair, wearing nothing but a ratty pair of boxer shorts and one wool sock pulled up to the knee. Opening the door, I at first saw absolutely nothing. And then, I looked down.
It was a giant snail.
Now, by "giant", I don't mean "Oh my God, that snail is bigger than a building!" What I mean is, of course, "Comparatively Giant". Around other snails, I'm sure this guy would be like King Kong to those chimpanzees that smoke cigars and wear diapers.
But to me, it stood about a foot tall. Roughly the height of Tom Cruise.
"Excuse me, sir, but if I could...." it began, in a voice that sounded strangely like Art Garfunkel's.
"Get the fuck out of here," I said, and promptly kicked the snail in the air and went back into my house.
I have to admit, I felt guilty about the whole event. I mean, who was I to treat someone like that? Sure, can we really refer to a giant snail as a "someone"? Is a hermaphroditic wanderer of an entirely different, almost alien, species still something worthy of our respect as human beings? I mean, despite all that, people like Carrot top, right?
Okay, bad example.
But this got me thinking about the nature of empathy. It plagued me for months - I would lie awake at night, tossing and turning as I stared up at my ceiling, wondering... Who am I? Why would I do such a thing? And, most importantly, if I was able to treat another entity with such calloused disdain and hatred once, would I do it again?
Would I be able to stop myself?
Eventually, after a year of being plagued by demons, wondering about the nature of my eternal soul, I sold all my worldly possessions and went to Asia. I wandered Tibet, where I held long conversations with buddhist monks. I meditated in India, speaking with hindus about the nature of rebirth and reincarnation. And I did some other religious stuff in, oh, I don't know, China or something. Lit some candles and snorted rice or whatever.
After two years of soul-searching, I finally felt at peace with myself. While I could not change the past, I could at least accept my new understanding of humanity and the nature of empathy that keeps all of us individual organisms connected in one world-spanning web of interconnectedness and mutual debt.
I got home, got my house back, and got back to living.
One day, as I was busy repainting a wall in my living room, which was soon to be my meditation den, the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and saw nothing. And then, I looked down.
It was a giant snail.
In a voice, not unlike Art Garfunkel's, he piped up "What the fuck was that all about?"
It was a giant snail.
Now, by "giant", I don't mean "Oh my God, that snail is bigger than a building!" What I mean is, of course, "Comparatively Giant". Around other snails, I'm sure this guy would be like King Kong to those chimpanzees that smoke cigars and wear diapers.
But to me, it stood about a foot tall. Roughly the height of Tom Cruise.
"Excuse me, sir, but if I could...." it began, in a voice that sounded strangely like Art Garfunkel's.
"Get the fuck out of here," I said, and promptly kicked the snail in the air and went back into my house.
I have to admit, I felt guilty about the whole event. I mean, who was I to treat someone like that? Sure, can we really refer to a giant snail as a "someone"? Is a hermaphroditic wanderer of an entirely different, almost alien, species still something worthy of our respect as human beings? I mean, despite all that, people like Carrot top, right?
Okay, bad example.
But this got me thinking about the nature of empathy. It plagued me for months - I would lie awake at night, tossing and turning as I stared up at my ceiling, wondering... Who am I? Why would I do such a thing? And, most importantly, if I was able to treat another entity with such calloused disdain and hatred once, would I do it again?
Would I be able to stop myself?
Eventually, after a year of being plagued by demons, wondering about the nature of my eternal soul, I sold all my worldly possessions and went to Asia. I wandered Tibet, where I held long conversations with buddhist monks. I meditated in India, speaking with hindus about the nature of rebirth and reincarnation. And I did some other religious stuff in, oh, I don't know, China or something. Lit some candles and snorted rice or whatever.
After two years of soul-searching, I finally felt at peace with myself. While I could not change the past, I could at least accept my new understanding of humanity and the nature of empathy that keeps all of us individual organisms connected in one world-spanning web of interconnectedness and mutual debt.
I got home, got my house back, and got back to living.
One day, as I was busy repainting a wall in my living room, which was soon to be my meditation den, the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and saw nothing. And then, I looked down.
It was a giant snail.
In a voice, not unlike Art Garfunkel's, he piped up "What the fuck was that all about?"
Movember Update:
Just to let y'all know, because I'm still unable to post pictures... the movember challenge continues! I have, at this point, avoided shaving for thirteen days! (I had my last shave on October 30th). However, I have trimmed any and all "neck beard" because, well, it's hard enough finding a job already without adding THAT in.
The goal is, in two weeks, to shave a pac man into my beard, chasing a ghost.
There will be photos. I just have to find a way to post them.
The goal is, in two weeks, to shave a pac man into my beard, chasing a ghost.
There will be photos. I just have to find a way to post them.
Film Friday: I've had it with these monkey-fighting snakes....
I'm a big fan of movies. But I absolutely *hate* watching movies on TV. The reason is pretty simple - the movie has been edited, often heavily, to fit TV censors. Sometimes, the censors will even cut out vital scenes which are referenced later in the film. Last week, I saw a short film on the independant movie channel that had the entire LAST SCENE cut. You know, the important scene that closes out the film?
But language censors are the best. You know, those movies where they do a voiceover, so that instead of John McClane saying "Yipee Kay Yay, mother fucker" he says "Yippee Kay Yay, Melon Farmer"?
That stuff is golden. Case in point:
(warning - SOOOO not safe for work! So many curses, so little time!)
But language censors are the best. You know, those movies where they do a voiceover, so that instead of John McClane saying "Yipee Kay Yay, mother fucker" he says "Yippee Kay Yay, Melon Farmer"?
That stuff is golden. Case in point:
(warning - SOOOO not safe for work! So many curses, so little time!)
Guitar Shenanigans
I had a nice long post here about how to read guitar tab literature, and how sometimes the people (even professionals) who transcribe it make really silly errors. And how these errors can really get in the way for those trying to learn relatively simple songs.
But the moral of the story was that I figured out a much easier way to play Mother Mother's "Tic Toc" than the suggested way, and now I just want to brag.
It took me less than an hour to learn the song. And it got me really psyched about playing music again. I've been strumming my guitar for the last few hours, just having fun. Sometimes, life is peachy when you're on EI - you don't come home all stressed out about work. You just... play guitar and write songs that no one is ever going to hear because, let's face it, they suck.
Flip side of the coin?
Realizing you have absolutely no spare cash for things like guitar strings. And that those songs you wrote are probably going to come back and embarrass you at some point in the future.
Gah.
P.S. to my good pal Kate - I'm sorry in being so far behind on penpalery! I had mail written up, but it was too long and it sucked, so I'm re-writing it so that it's awesome. Also, do you want me to send you a guitar tuner? It's one of my old ones, and while it's not perfect, it's better than nothing. I was going to ask you in letter format, but it's quicker this way.
But the moral of the story was that I figured out a much easier way to play Mother Mother's "Tic Toc" than the suggested way, and now I just want to brag.
It took me less than an hour to learn the song. And it got me really psyched about playing music again. I've been strumming my guitar for the last few hours, just having fun. Sometimes, life is peachy when you're on EI - you don't come home all stressed out about work. You just... play guitar and write songs that no one is ever going to hear because, let's face it, they suck.
Flip side of the coin?
Realizing you have absolutely no spare cash for things like guitar strings. And that those songs you wrote are probably going to come back and embarrass you at some point in the future.
Gah.
P.S. to my good pal Kate - I'm sorry in being so far behind on penpalery! I had mail written up, but it was too long and it sucked, so I'm re-writing it so that it's awesome. Also, do you want me to send you a guitar tuner? It's one of my old ones, and while it's not perfect, it's better than nothing. I was going to ask you in letter format, but it's quicker this way.
I stand corrected.
I just found out that Chuck Berry isn't dead. He has never, in fact, been dead. He was "not alive" throughout much of human history, coming to life only very recently in geological terms. However, he is not dead.
This really threw me for a loop. I've been under the assumption that he died of Tuberculosis in the 1960s, which is why he didn't sue Michael J. Fox for that scene in Back to the Future that implies Mr. Berry stole his trademark sound from a time-travelling kid from the 1980s.
Seriously, now. My facebook occasionally provides me with information about my interests, and it told me that there was a concert in Ireland that Chuck Berry would be unable to attend. This made me laugh, because I was sure it was one of those stupid jokes - like, I'm throwing a party, but unfortunately, Elvis will not be able to attend. In fact, when I read the notice, I may have said "of course he can't attend... he's been dead for half a century!"
Nope. I'm wrong. Mr. Berry is still very much alive. And, in fact, he's still doing concerts. At ninety-four.
Boy, got egg on my face.
This really threw me for a loop. I've been under the assumption that he died of Tuberculosis in the 1960s, which is why he didn't sue Michael J. Fox for that scene in Back to the Future that implies Mr. Berry stole his trademark sound from a time-travelling kid from the 1980s.
Seriously, now. My facebook occasionally provides me with information about my interests, and it told me that there was a concert in Ireland that Chuck Berry would be unable to attend. This made me laugh, because I was sure it was one of those stupid jokes - like, I'm throwing a party, but unfortunately, Elvis will not be able to attend. In fact, when I read the notice, I may have said "of course he can't attend... he's been dead for half a century!"
Nope. I'm wrong. Mr. Berry is still very much alive. And, in fact, he's still doing concerts. At ninety-four.
Boy, got egg on my face.
Weekly Haiku #33: Movember Musings
day three... it itches
finger cut rubbing my chin
i'm sandpaperface
A day in the life
I'm walking to the lottery store with a third generation lottery ticket in my hand. The rain is coming down softly, so I pull myself tighter into my hoodie and wonder idly how soon it will be before I need to invest in a heavy jacket. I've gone entire winters jacketless, and I find myself hoping I'll make it through another one without having to put down the two hundred bucks to grab a new coat.
It's been three weeks since I bought the first lottery ticket. A spur-of-the-moment purchase at the convenience store, grabbed entirely so that I wouldn't get so much change when I used that twenty-dollar bill to pick up a pack of gum. And so far, it's done pretty well for itself - each week, I get just enough numbers right to give me a new ticket.
It's almost a weekly ritual at this point. I walk into the store, make idle chit-chat, and check my ticket. When I get my free ticket, I grab another pack of gum with a ten, getting enough change for laundry that week.
Each time I check the ticket, I superstitiously avoid thinking about it - if I avoid thinking about winning, I increase my odds of winning. I know it's a completely pointless thought that lacks any sense or reason, but there it is.
It's a game. It's as if I'm using reverse psychosis on fate. "Look, fate, obviously I don't care whether I win or lose. In fact, I'm not thinking about it all... I WANT to lose. So, go ahead. Let me lose." And so far, it's worked. Each week, I win a free ticket, carrying on the period in which I subconsciously think I may be a millionaire, while consciously doing everything I can to avoid thinking about that possibility.
I get to the convenience store, walking past a small dog tied to a post. The rain drips off the eaves, collecting in a puddle that the dog drinks from. The asian couple nod to me as I enter, while they watch a chinese soap opera on a laptop. I mingle through the store, grabbing a pack of gum on my way to the lottery checker. Spearmint. I swipe the ticket, waiting. Trying not to think of what I would do if I won millions.
Trying not to think of the house I'd buy - small, but with maybe half an acre of land and maybe even on the water. With a bar in the basement large enough for a pool table and maybe a drum set. A kitchen with an island and a large stove. A garden.
Trying not to think of maybe buying a boat. Trying not to think of taking my friends out for some crazy party. Trying not to think of which charities would receive a portion of my largesse. Trying not to think of the guitars I would buy. Trying not to think of being able to be a full-time student.
Of course, I fail miserably. Just for a second, I think of what I would do if I won that money. And, of course, in that second, I've lost. Because the machine tells me "Sorry - Please Play Again".
I shrug, defeated, and approach the cashier. She smiles back at me, aware that my run of "free ticket luck" has died. She swipes my gum while I fumble in my pocket. All I have is a twenty.
What the hell.
"Can I have another ticket? With the extra?"
It's been three weeks since I bought the first lottery ticket. A spur-of-the-moment purchase at the convenience store, grabbed entirely so that I wouldn't get so much change when I used that twenty-dollar bill to pick up a pack of gum. And so far, it's done pretty well for itself - each week, I get just enough numbers right to give me a new ticket.
It's almost a weekly ritual at this point. I walk into the store, make idle chit-chat, and check my ticket. When I get my free ticket, I grab another pack of gum with a ten, getting enough change for laundry that week.
Each time I check the ticket, I superstitiously avoid thinking about it - if I avoid thinking about winning, I increase my odds of winning. I know it's a completely pointless thought that lacks any sense or reason, but there it is.
It's a game. It's as if I'm using reverse psychosis on fate. "Look, fate, obviously I don't care whether I win or lose. In fact, I'm not thinking about it all... I WANT to lose. So, go ahead. Let me lose." And so far, it's worked. Each week, I win a free ticket, carrying on the period in which I subconsciously think I may be a millionaire, while consciously doing everything I can to avoid thinking about that possibility.
I get to the convenience store, walking past a small dog tied to a post. The rain drips off the eaves, collecting in a puddle that the dog drinks from. The asian couple nod to me as I enter, while they watch a chinese soap opera on a laptop. I mingle through the store, grabbing a pack of gum on my way to the lottery checker. Spearmint. I swipe the ticket, waiting. Trying not to think of what I would do if I won millions.
Trying not to think of the house I'd buy - small, but with maybe half an acre of land and maybe even on the water. With a bar in the basement large enough for a pool table and maybe a drum set. A kitchen with an island and a large stove. A garden.
Trying not to think of maybe buying a boat. Trying not to think of taking my friends out for some crazy party. Trying not to think of which charities would receive a portion of my largesse. Trying not to think of the guitars I would buy. Trying not to think of being able to be a full-time student.
Of course, I fail miserably. Just for a second, I think of what I would do if I won that money. And, of course, in that second, I've lost. Because the machine tells me "Sorry - Please Play Again".
I shrug, defeated, and approach the cashier. She smiles back at me, aware that my run of "free ticket luck" has died. She swipes my gum while I fumble in my pocket. All I have is a twenty.
What the hell.
"Can I have another ticket? With the extra?"
Music Mondays - November Playlist
These, dear friends, are the ten tunes I've been listening to as of late. Normally, November is all about angry music for some reason, but this year, I'm going in an entirely different direction. An almost entirely indie direction. After all, it's a well-known fact that Indie music is prime movember beard-growing music.
- "Fools" by The Dodos
- "Song About California" by Hey Ocean!
- "Greetings in Braille" by The Elected
- "Dinu Lipatti's Bones" by The Mountain Goats
- "Fly Away" by Poe
- "Tic Toc" by Mother Mother
- "Pink Noise" by Most Serene Republic
- "Multiply" by Jamie Lidell
- "Body's Warm" by Jon and Roy
- "You Have Been Loved" by Sia
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