Ah, another party, and one I remember this time. How novel.
The party is supposed to start with a game of football in the park at 4pm, leading onto lengthy shower-queues at the party venue, followed by drinking large amounts of alcohol whilst eating BBQ.
The best laid plans of mice and men, and all that, so a thunderstorm appears and flashes great bolts of lighting as it throws down sheets of rain.
We sit inside our house, at 3.30pm, and look out of the window. We have the lights on. We decide not to go to the football, and instead just turn up for the post-match party.
So I drink just one beer before we leave, at about 7pm. We take a bus, and then walk. The rain has stopped, and though there is a damp chill in the air, it is pleasant. We meet Leaf in the area, and enter the party with him.
Pristine, pearly white walls shout their non-smoking origins, in a tidy, comfortable lounge, African style voodoo masks adorn the walls, but not in a scary way. It's the kind of apartment that looks tidy, and not in need of a glass of red wine on the sofa.
New people, all interesting. I just brought six beers, in an effort to not drink too much and / or stay too late. Interesting strategy.
There is a BBQ after all, and we watch Bjork cook sausages until they are blackened and charred. Consumers stare at their plates, prodding their elongated charcoal with forks, in a forlorn manner.
MC explains to me, 'It is how Germans cook meat, apparently. Every time he cooks meat it is like this. He's always saying, "I don't think it's quite cooked enough.." and then blackens it.'
In the end, others are sent to seize control of the BBQ and sausage browning. There are sighs of relief. It is Bjork's birthday, so I suppose he should be allowed to burn the meat if he wants to.
Once the variously-shaped bits of animal have been consumed, and the blood soaked up with bread, the drinking begins in earnest. There is a lot of beer in the fridge, so much so that a great deal of it waits patiently outside for its turn to be chilled. But in the end it all vanishes, of course.
No shots in sight. I'm very glad.
'I was bought a bottle of whisky,' Bjork tells me, as he lights his cigarette, outside, with a new zippo. He points to an ominous bottle of single malt, on the shelf, high above the milling crowd.
'Ah.' I say.
'Maybe later, we can have a small glass?' He suggests.
'Ah.' I say. 'Maybe not, I don't really drink spirits any more, especially at parties.'
'But if it is the end of the night, and your last drink before you go home?'
He is the devil, and I listen to his bargain, as all lost souls do.
'Hmm, perhaps,' I concede.
The wife finds me and asks me, too many times, if she is red in the face.
'No, why?' I ask.
It turns out that there is a 'famous person' at the party. Famous in Quebec, that is, as I've never heard of him. I ask not to have him pointed out. I don't want my behaviour modified by knowing. In fact, I take a perverse pleasure in knowing that I'll probably talk to him and not know that he is supposed to be famous.
I drink more beer and lecture people about how to give up cigarettes, as I smoke outside.
I wander around inside and watch people dance to cheesy 80's anthems, screaming and shouting their hearts out.
I smoke some more and talk about how hard it is to learn French in Montreal, and how easy it is to learn English (in English).
I then spend a considerable amount of time with Xena, extracting all the English words from the French magnetic poetry on the fridge, and then making nonsense phrases out of them:
'Metal bras excite' and so forth.
I finish my beer and go to the depanneur to buy 2 more bottles, and another bottle of wine for the wife. At the time I'm don't contemplate that perhaps two bottles of wine is a lot to drink
Back at the fridge, drinking, I talk to a pretty girl whom I had noticed earlier showing off her cleavage to her girlfriends. She is surprised to hear that I'm married. She looks disappointed, and thinks about this for a moment.
'Can I French kiss you then?' She asks.
I think about this.
'No,' I say, 'I think my wife would be upset if you French kissed me.'
'Hmm.' She says, and thinks some more. 'Maybe at another party then?'
I think she is missing the point.
Suddenly the fridge is empty and the whole world is looking for beer. I spy a bottle, unopened, hidden away behind some boxes, and take it, free of guilt as I do so.
We stay for another fifteen minutes and then leave, not, for once, the last people to go. And, thankfully, without a glass of malt whisky for the road.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Friday, October 01, 2004
Party of Leaf and Xena
I wondered for a while if I should, in fact, write a review of this party, mainly because it didn't end so well for me, personally. But, life is life, and it does deserve a write up, in reality. I also took no pictures during the evening, but I've had some sent to me since, and so I'll use one of them... I'm sure Karloff won't mind.
The error of my judgement on this day can perhaps be traced back to the two pints I drank at 4pm in Grumpy's Bar after a day of shopping downtown. I was waiting for the wife at the time. After receiving a phone call to the bar from her (amusing image of the barmaid holding up the phone and shouting my name), I then went to meet her and Marty at the Barbare.
When I arrived they were already a few bites into burgers, so I ordered a cheese platter, as I thought it would be quick to prepare. I ordered a beer - a 5 a 7 special of some alcoholic orange liquid.
The cheese platter was obviously designed to be shared amongst several friends. There was a huge wedge of Camembert, a mountain of cheddar cubes, and a large slice of goat cheese. When I finished, which I did, I sat back and my stomach shouted angrily at me for filling it with so much dairy, on top of three pints of beer.
I felt a bit odd from this point onwards in our story, dear reader.
We returned home, to relax and change, and I drank a rather nasty bottle of Milwaukee Dry, which happened to be in the fridge. This beer always makes me feel strange, and often brings on stomach cramps or burning sensations. Anyway, beer is beer, I reasoned.
Feeling a little tired, I decided to have an espresso before leaving, but realised that we didn't have much coffee left. No problem, I thought, I'll top up the coffee with cocoa powder and make an espresso-mocha.
Hmm.
Well, with added sugar, I thought it was great, though the wife wasn't convinced, and in fact pulled an odd face when she tried it. Anyway, I drank it all down and proclaimed that I felt great.
I only had six beers with me to take - Belle Guelle - and had bee told by Xena that there would be plenty of Gin and Tonic if I wanted more later at the party. The wife took a bottle of red wine.
Time passes. We arrive.
Very jolly beginning it was too. I talk to a lot of people, and drink a beer. Good atmosphere, plenty of laughter, this is the part of the evening that everyone recalls clearly the next day.
Then Xena arrives with a tray of shots. Vodka perhaps.
I pull a face. I have been avoiding shots since they were linked to my blackouts in the past.
'Ooh, I don't know,' I say. But I'm talked into it - just one to celebrate various things that seemed like they needed toasting, desperately, at that moment.
'Okay,' I say, 'just one.' And descend into murkiness. 'But,' I add, seriously to Xena, 'don't let me drink any more, eh?'
'Sure,' she says, and wanders off to ply spirits on more people.
So, suffice to say that during the rest of the evening, it was never long before a tray of shots was thrust under my nose for sampling. And, worse, I would often help Xena finish the last few on the tray before she went to create something new.
'What goes with Gin?' She would ask, desperate to make new and more interesting shots for the masses.
So we spend a lot of time on the roof, as we can smoke there. To get there you have to travel in the lift/elevator each time, then walk through darkened corridors and up spooky, gloomy steps. There are a few stumbles. Of course.
I'm having fun at this point in the evening, and have had, perhaps four or five of my beers. One of my final memories of the night is X's (who's name I shall not mention) girlfriend telling a large crowd of people how she shaves his balls.
'I can't stand that hair!' She cries.
'Well, we've all been there,' I say, and the men in the group thoughtfully nod.
Then it's all over. A few flashes, but no real memories. I wake up the next day, in bed.
I have managed to re-create the rest of the evening from various sources:
Downstairs I'm drinking strong German lager that someone has given me, slurring, and swaying. My wife sees this and brings me some water, which she thinks will do me some good. I'm of the opinion that it won't do me any good, and don't want to drink it. She is insistent, and I become excited in my refusal. This escalates into me tossing my empty beer bottle onto the table - the ultimate 'no' symbol.
I am manhandled into a small room, as I'm now considered a threat to society. And there various people come in and try and make me drink water, as I sit on a small chair, alone. I become more and more agitated as I perceive the world massing and conspiring against me, all of them wanting me to drink water, that I don't want to drink.
Then the wife begins to shout at me. She told me later that this once worked for her - when I was drunk, she shouted at me to pull myself together, and I did. However, this time, it did not, and I remained resolutely drunk. Then an idea came into her head - perhaps a slap across the face, like on the TV, would do the trick. Kind of shock me into sobriety?
She tells me that she is going to slap me.
I fix her gaze and say, 'Go on then.' But, I can't help imagine that I meant it in the sense of, 'no, don't.'
She tells me three times that she is about to slap me, and then wham! She lets rip.
A second later I have hurled a cup across the little room, and it has smashed into many bits. At least I took out my anger on an inanimate object, and not a live thing, I later thought.
We leave soon after, at 4am or so. The wife is upset with me, for some reason.
In the morning I'm simply told that I threw beer bottles around and smashed a cup against the wall.
'What?' I say, 'why would I do that?'
'I don't know,' said the wife.
During the evening I also managed to break my antique gold watch, the 1960 Longine Grand Prix. That watch is precious to me, so that when I saw the top fall off, in the bathroom that morning, and the little second hand bent into a 'U', I could have almost cried.
New resolution: No more shots.
The error of my judgement on this day can perhaps be traced back to the two pints I drank at 4pm in Grumpy's Bar after a day of shopping downtown. I was waiting for the wife at the time. After receiving a phone call to the bar from her (amusing image of the barmaid holding up the phone and shouting my name), I then went to meet her and Marty at the Barbare.
When I arrived they were already a few bites into burgers, so I ordered a cheese platter, as I thought it would be quick to prepare. I ordered a beer - a 5 a 7 special of some alcoholic orange liquid.
The cheese platter was obviously designed to be shared amongst several friends. There was a huge wedge of Camembert, a mountain of cheddar cubes, and a large slice of goat cheese. When I finished, which I did, I sat back and my stomach shouted angrily at me for filling it with so much dairy, on top of three pints of beer.
I felt a bit odd from this point onwards in our story, dear reader.
We returned home, to relax and change, and I drank a rather nasty bottle of Milwaukee Dry, which happened to be in the fridge. This beer always makes me feel strange, and often brings on stomach cramps or burning sensations. Anyway, beer is beer, I reasoned.
Feeling a little tired, I decided to have an espresso before leaving, but realised that we didn't have much coffee left. No problem, I thought, I'll top up the coffee with cocoa powder and make an espresso-mocha.
Hmm.
Well, with added sugar, I thought it was great, though the wife wasn't convinced, and in fact pulled an odd face when she tried it. Anyway, I drank it all down and proclaimed that I felt great.
I only had six beers with me to take - Belle Guelle - and had bee told by Xena that there would be plenty of Gin and Tonic if I wanted more later at the party. The wife took a bottle of red wine.
Time passes. We arrive.
Very jolly beginning it was too. I talk to a lot of people, and drink a beer. Good atmosphere, plenty of laughter, this is the part of the evening that everyone recalls clearly the next day.
Then Xena arrives with a tray of shots. Vodka perhaps.
I pull a face. I have been avoiding shots since they were linked to my blackouts in the past.
'Ooh, I don't know,' I say. But I'm talked into it - just one to celebrate various things that seemed like they needed toasting, desperately, at that moment.
'Okay,' I say, 'just one.' And descend into murkiness. 'But,' I add, seriously to Xena, 'don't let me drink any more, eh?'
'Sure,' she says, and wanders off to ply spirits on more people.
So, suffice to say that during the rest of the evening, it was never long before a tray of shots was thrust under my nose for sampling. And, worse, I would often help Xena finish the last few on the tray before she went to create something new.
'What goes with Gin?' She would ask, desperate to make new and more interesting shots for the masses.
So we spend a lot of time on the roof, as we can smoke there. To get there you have to travel in the lift/elevator each time, then walk through darkened corridors and up spooky, gloomy steps. There are a few stumbles. Of course.
I'm having fun at this point in the evening, and have had, perhaps four or five of my beers. One of my final memories of the night is X's (who's name I shall not mention) girlfriend telling a large crowd of people how she shaves his balls.
'I can't stand that hair!' She cries.
'Well, we've all been there,' I say, and the men in the group thoughtfully nod.
Then it's all over. A few flashes, but no real memories. I wake up the next day, in bed.
I have managed to re-create the rest of the evening from various sources:
Downstairs I'm drinking strong German lager that someone has given me, slurring, and swaying. My wife sees this and brings me some water, which she thinks will do me some good. I'm of the opinion that it won't do me any good, and don't want to drink it. She is insistent, and I become excited in my refusal. This escalates into me tossing my empty beer bottle onto the table - the ultimate 'no' symbol.
I am manhandled into a small room, as I'm now considered a threat to society. And there various people come in and try and make me drink water, as I sit on a small chair, alone. I become more and more agitated as I perceive the world massing and conspiring against me, all of them wanting me to drink water, that I don't want to drink.
Then the wife begins to shout at me. She told me later that this once worked for her - when I was drunk, she shouted at me to pull myself together, and I did. However, this time, it did not, and I remained resolutely drunk. Then an idea came into her head - perhaps a slap across the face, like on the TV, would do the trick. Kind of shock me into sobriety?
She tells me that she is going to slap me.
I fix her gaze and say, 'Go on then.' But, I can't help imagine that I meant it in the sense of, 'no, don't.'
She tells me three times that she is about to slap me, and then wham! She lets rip.
A second later I have hurled a cup across the little room, and it has smashed into many bits. At least I took out my anger on an inanimate object, and not a live thing, I later thought.
We leave soon after, at 4am or so. The wife is upset with me, for some reason.
In the morning I'm simply told that I threw beer bottles around and smashed a cup against the wall.
'What?' I say, 'why would I do that?'
'I don't know,' said the wife.
During the evening I also managed to break my antique gold watch, the 1960 Longine Grand Prix. That watch is precious to me, so that when I saw the top fall off, in the bathroom that morning, and the little second hand bent into a 'U', I could have almost cried.
New resolution: No more shots.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Hi, I'm Ralph...
In a fit of boredom, you may want to type "Hi I'm X" into google, with the quotes, using your name as X, and see what comes out. Here's a selection of the other Ralphs in cyberspace, introducing themselves:
Different :
Hi, I'm "Ralph".. I'm a satin, red, pied longhair. I'm a real sweetie &. I'm pretty mellow & laid back, but I still like to run in my exercise wheel, at night. [link]
Deluded :
Hi! I'm Ralph the Elf. I'm pretty low on the tree at Santa's Workshop so this Christmas I was sent down south to Silicon Valley to do lobby duty at one of those indistinguishable hi-tech firms. [link]
Factual :
Ralph Cuseglio: Hi, I’m Ralph. I am 27, and I sing. [link]
Forceful :
Hi, I'm Ralph Tiff, your host and guide to the stars. You've wandered into my little corner of cyberspace and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you leave without being entertained. [link]
Excited :
Hi! I'm Ralph and this is my first ever web page! [link]
Cryptic :
"Hi, I'm Ralph, NH6PY." [link]
Welcoming :
Hi! I'm Ralph Budelman. We invite future and existing customers to travel to Bangalore, India and visit us. [link]
Mundane :
Hi! I'm Ralph from Orlando Florida. I'm a long time enthusist of tradtional music including the music of the British Isles, the Canadian maritime Islands, Brittany. Heck, there's really not much tradional music of European origin that I don't like. [link]
Confused :
"Hi, I'm Ralph. Which ship are we on?" [link]
Religious :
Picture yourself walking up to Jesus, shaking his hand, and saying, "Hi, I’m Ralph. What’s your name?" [link]
Cracked :
Hi I'm Ralph, what I do is I say that person's name three times not out loud, in my head. Ralph, Ralph, Ralph and it is in there and it makes all the difference in the world when I part from that person and I can say Hey - take care RRRRRRRalph. [link]
Undead? :
"Hi, I'm Ralph. What's your name? Nobody here tells me anything."
Jim gaped, working his mouth, but no sound came out. Liv was more vocal - she opened her mouth and screamed at the newcomer. [link]
Suffering from Sunstroke :
Hi, I'm Ralph, AKA the Swollen Head, (I maintain that Baldness is a sign of intelligence, and I am the smartest man alive.)Bla Bla Bla, that's what I do, and crack the wip on these two... bla bla bla and ho hum de de, when I go out I have to pee. bla bla bla and bloobidy do, if I eat a donut I have to poo. [link]
Wouldn't we all? :
Hi, I'm Ralph. I come from Poland, there this hobby (TTTT) is unpopular, and I would like to change..[link]
Different :
Hi, I'm "Ralph".. I'm a satin, red, pied longhair. I'm a real sweetie &. I'm pretty mellow & laid back, but I still like to run in my exercise wheel, at night. [link]
Deluded :
Hi! I'm Ralph the Elf. I'm pretty low on the tree at Santa's Workshop so this Christmas I was sent down south to Silicon Valley to do lobby duty at one of those indistinguishable hi-tech firms. [link]
Factual :
Ralph Cuseglio: Hi, I’m Ralph. I am 27, and I sing. [link]
Forceful :
Hi, I'm Ralph Tiff, your host and guide to the stars. You've wandered into my little corner of cyberspace and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you leave without being entertained. [link]
Excited :
Hi! I'm Ralph and this is my first ever web page! [link]
Cryptic :
"Hi, I'm Ralph, NH6PY." [link]
Welcoming :
Hi! I'm Ralph Budelman. We invite future and existing customers to travel to Bangalore, India and visit us. [link]
Mundane :
Hi! I'm Ralph from Orlando Florida. I'm a long time enthusist of tradtional music including the music of the British Isles, the Canadian maritime Islands, Brittany. Heck, there's really not much tradional music of European origin that I don't like. [link]
Confused :
"Hi, I'm Ralph. Which ship are we on?" [link]
Religious :
Picture yourself walking up to Jesus, shaking his hand, and saying, "Hi, I’m Ralph. What’s your name?" [link]
Cracked :
Hi I'm Ralph, what I do is I say that person's name three times not out loud, in my head. Ralph, Ralph, Ralph and it is in there and it makes all the difference in the world when I part from that person and I can say Hey - take care RRRRRRRalph. [link]
Undead? :
"Hi, I'm Ralph. What's your name? Nobody here tells me anything."
Jim gaped, working his mouth, but no sound came out. Liv was more vocal - she opened her mouth and screamed at the newcomer. [link]
Suffering from Sunstroke :
Hi, I'm Ralph, AKA the Swollen Head, (I maintain that Baldness is a sign of intelligence, and I am the smartest man alive.)Bla Bla Bla, that's what I do, and crack the wip on these two... bla bla bla and ho hum de de, when I go out I have to pee. bla bla bla and bloobidy do, if I eat a donut I have to poo. [link]
Wouldn't we all? :
Hi, I'm Ralph. I come from Poland, there this hobby (TTTT) is unpopular, and I would like to change..[link]
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Ike's Party
Okay, here's the deal. If someone tells you that they're having a cinq-a-sept party in Montreal, don't believe them, and certainly don't arrive at 5pm. 5 a 7 is the time in Montreal when cheap drinks are had in many bars around town, to attract the after work drinkers, but the term is now used to generally denote an afternoon, or early evening drinking session, also with the implication of cheap or interesting drinks.
So, we're invited to a 5 a 7 party, which, as we're leaving the house, I notice has been changed to 5 a 9 party on the English invite. Odd, I think, I wonder why.
Just the week before the host, Ike, had told me that it would indeed be a brief party.
'Yeah, we'll drink there for a few hours, then all go out.'
'Okay.' I say.
So, we're the first to arrive. Ike looks surprised to see us at 5.30pm. He is, in fact, still cleaning the apartment. We try and leave to come back later, but he'll have none of it.
So we reluctantly enter and proceed to poke around all his empty rooms and examine his furniture and music collection, as one does.
I crack open my first beer. Now, Imagine, I think we'll be home by 10pm at this point.
It gets to 7pm and there aren't many people.
'This is it, Ike.' I joke.
He looks confused, then says, 'No, most people will come soon, or around 8pm.'
Then the truth comes out. The party will be all night, the only reason he says 'start at 5' is to ensure that people come for 8. If he said 'come at 8', then people would come at 11, and cause a small riot with the neighbours.
'Ah,' I say, seeing clearly.
So, we go out to buy beer at Provigo, for the long haul.
Provigo is amusing – it is a taste of the future, and good example of the general stupidity of people.
I will explain.
There are about six 'automatic' checkouts where you can basically scan all your own food, weight your fruit and veg, pack it into bags and pay with cash or card into a mechanical slot.
So what's stupid about that? Well, for one thing, there are hoards of staff there to 'help' people use the system, as no-one understands it. I mean, it talks to you and complains if you do things 'wrong'. So, if there are people there to help you use it, what good is having it at all?
The second, important point here is that people are volunteering to do what people are normally paid to do – work as a checkout clerk for 10 minutes. Why would you do that? Wouldn't you rather give the job to a student who needs the money?
Anyway, I digress. I end off buying 'President's Choice' lager, which was awful – truly bland and watery. If that's really the beer that the President drinks then I'll be mightily surprised, I can tell you.
I use the 'real-life' check-out clerk.
Back at the party, it's swinging. There are cartoons projected on the walls; loud music; people dancing; people talking drunkenly about the nature of relationships between men and women; people talking drunkenly about the future of the modern society given more and more immigration; and there are even people telling the same old stories to the same old people, but the recipients are either too polite, or too drunk, to mention it.
I notice all this, as I'm on my new diet of 'just beer', to the extent of even shunning the tequila shots on offer. This is, in fact, the first time in my entire life that I have refused tequila. It is quite a liberating / mortifying experience, let me tell you.
So, on my 'beer only' diet I observe the party in a way that I never have before – from the perspective of a merely drunken person. I remember almost every word of every conversation, and even recall names and faces today. Quite amazing, in fact.
So then the dancing starts. I sit and create a masterpiece of a playlist on iTunes for the dancing enjoyment of the tequila-sodden masses, which is listened to for two songs and then overwritten by drunkards who imagined that they knew better than me. No, 'm not bitter. No, not at all.
It was marvellously chaotic – which was, incidentally, the topic of another conversation had during the evening I had with Xena, during the course of which I even said something terribly clichéd like this:
'Yes, but Asia isn't really chaotic, everything works, just more slowly, in the west we look at their system and call it chaos, but it isn't really – it's just perspective, you know, our society could function like that – it could work!' And so forth... (You get a good idea about my drunken conversations now. Perhaps, as I mull this over, it is better to forget the next day after all?)
Leaf corners me and asks me to play football the next day. He knows I can't violate my own rule of never-arrange-anything-especially-sports-when-drunk, but tries anyway. I think he is ambitious, but already has at least 5 names on his list.
And, all too soon, as I'm sitting outside smoking a cigarette, the whole world leaves en mass, and there are just six of us left. The fridge, which was so full of hundreds of beer bottles, is suddenly empty.
Just minutes before this I had a lengthy discussion with someone on the ethics of beer stealing at the end of parties – you know, when your supply of beer has gone and you're almost sure that someone must have had one of yours, so you take a bottle that isn't yours to retaliate... A vicious circle, that.
So it's that time. I sip at a very small glass of wine (not really wanting to violate the 'just beer' diet) and then we take a cab home.
At 4.30am we're crashing blindly around our apartment in the dark, swearing, and looking for the light. I'm shouting, very loudly indeed, rather unpleasant things about our house-mate, who obviously turned everything off before going to bed.
'Shhhhh! He'll hear you.' Hisses the wife.
'F**cking good!' I shout, then calm down.
Today I saw Qbert in the lounge and told him that I was cursing him at 4.30am last night.
'That's funny, I thought I heard you shouting something about me...' He says.
So, we're invited to a 5 a 7 party, which, as we're leaving the house, I notice has been changed to 5 a 9 party on the English invite. Odd, I think, I wonder why.
Just the week before the host, Ike, had told me that it would indeed be a brief party.
'Yeah, we'll drink there for a few hours, then all go out.'
'Okay.' I say.
So, we're the first to arrive. Ike looks surprised to see us at 5.30pm. He is, in fact, still cleaning the apartment. We try and leave to come back later, but he'll have none of it.
So we reluctantly enter and proceed to poke around all his empty rooms and examine his furniture and music collection, as one does.
I crack open my first beer. Now, Imagine, I think we'll be home by 10pm at this point.
It gets to 7pm and there aren't many people.
'This is it, Ike.' I joke.
He looks confused, then says, 'No, most people will come soon, or around 8pm.'
Then the truth comes out. The party will be all night, the only reason he says 'start at 5' is to ensure that people come for 8. If he said 'come at 8', then people would come at 11, and cause a small riot with the neighbours.
'Ah,' I say, seeing clearly.
So, we go out to buy beer at Provigo, for the long haul.
Provigo is amusing – it is a taste of the future, and good example of the general stupidity of people.
I will explain.
There are about six 'automatic' checkouts where you can basically scan all your own food, weight your fruit and veg, pack it into bags and pay with cash or card into a mechanical slot.
So what's stupid about that? Well, for one thing, there are hoards of staff there to 'help' people use the system, as no-one understands it. I mean, it talks to you and complains if you do things 'wrong'. So, if there are people there to help you use it, what good is having it at all?
The second, important point here is that people are volunteering to do what people are normally paid to do – work as a checkout clerk for 10 minutes. Why would you do that? Wouldn't you rather give the job to a student who needs the money?
Anyway, I digress. I end off buying 'President's Choice' lager, which was awful – truly bland and watery. If that's really the beer that the President drinks then I'll be mightily surprised, I can tell you.
I use the 'real-life' check-out clerk.
Back at the party, it's swinging. There are cartoons projected on the walls; loud music; people dancing; people talking drunkenly about the nature of relationships between men and women; people talking drunkenly about the future of the modern society given more and more immigration; and there are even people telling the same old stories to the same old people, but the recipients are either too polite, or too drunk, to mention it.
I notice all this, as I'm on my new diet of 'just beer', to the extent of even shunning the tequila shots on offer. This is, in fact, the first time in my entire life that I have refused tequila. It is quite a liberating / mortifying experience, let me tell you.
So, on my 'beer only' diet I observe the party in a way that I never have before – from the perspective of a merely drunken person. I remember almost every word of every conversation, and even recall names and faces today. Quite amazing, in fact.
So then the dancing starts. I sit and create a masterpiece of a playlist on iTunes for the dancing enjoyment of the tequila-sodden masses, which is listened to for two songs and then overwritten by drunkards who imagined that they knew better than me. No, 'm not bitter. No, not at all.
It was marvellously chaotic – which was, incidentally, the topic of another conversation had during the evening I had with Xena, during the course of which I even said something terribly clichéd like this:
'Yes, but Asia isn't really chaotic, everything works, just more slowly, in the west we look at their system and call it chaos, but it isn't really – it's just perspective, you know, our society could function like that – it could work!' And so forth... (You get a good idea about my drunken conversations now. Perhaps, as I mull this over, it is better to forget the next day after all?)
Leaf corners me and asks me to play football the next day. He knows I can't violate my own rule of never-arrange-anything-especially-sports-when-drunk, but tries anyway. I think he is ambitious, but already has at least 5 names on his list.
And, all too soon, as I'm sitting outside smoking a cigarette, the whole world leaves en mass, and there are just six of us left. The fridge, which was so full of hundreds of beer bottles, is suddenly empty.
Just minutes before this I had a lengthy discussion with someone on the ethics of beer stealing at the end of parties – you know, when your supply of beer has gone and you're almost sure that someone must have had one of yours, so you take a bottle that isn't yours to retaliate... A vicious circle, that.
So it's that time. I sip at a very small glass of wine (not really wanting to violate the 'just beer' diet) and then we take a cab home.
At 4.30am we're crashing blindly around our apartment in the dark, swearing, and looking for the light. I'm shouting, very loudly indeed, rather unpleasant things about our house-mate, who obviously turned everything off before going to bed.
'Shhhhh! He'll hear you.' Hisses the wife.
'F**cking good!' I shout, then calm down.
Today I saw Qbert in the lounge and told him that I was cursing him at 4.30am last night.
'That's funny, I thought I heard you shouting something about me...' He says.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Ambassade
I don't normally date reviews as I like them to be, ahem, timeless, but in this case, I think it is important, as this bar has just opened. Otherwise, if you read this in six months time you might wonder what on earth I'm talking about. It is August 2004.
So, down a side-street, next door to the 3 Brasseurs in the Latin Quarter is L'Ambassade, a new bar which hasn't even gotten around to mounting a sign with the name of the bar yet. To glean this information you have to peer at the chalkboard outside.
You can tell it's a bar though, as rather loud techno music is blasting out and people are cheering and whooping inside. There is also a crusty looking chap balanced on the chalkboard, doing yoga type postures, rather shakily. He's either calmly drunk, or excitedly stoned. Somehow he manages to not break an ankle, as we walk by and inside to meet Mary and PVC.
The pub is long and very thin. There is a walkway on one side with some tables on the other. The absence of tables opposite the bar signifies the area where people jump up and down and shout (dancing, I think it's called), and on the bar itself, next to a lot of pint glasses and water, is a pair of decks and a DJ spinning his stuff.
The music is great, kind of funky, very danceable techno. It is busy inside, however, and very loud. The girls can't spot Mary and PVC, so they beckon me to return outside with them. We stand on the street.
'What are we doing?' I ask.
They don't know. Shall we wait inside? Will we stay? Is it too loud? Where are Mary and PVC?
Eventually we go back inside and buy drinks after a bit of a battle and wait.
As I wait for the wife at the bar, I roll a cigarette. A man walks by, then pauses and looks at my half-rolled fag.
'Is that weed?' He says.
'No, just tobacco.' I tell him, and wave the drum packet at him.
He frowns, 'Because if it was weed, I'd have to arrest you!' He laughs, too loud.
I smile and make a ha-ha noise.
He hasn't finished - this is a joke, it seems: '... Arrest you to smoke it with you!' He laughs again and walks upstairs to where another floor will be next month (so we're told).
We take a position near the door, in the walkway. I look around. The décor is still unfinished. The walls are bare and new plaster is visible in places.
Ah, Mary and PVC arrive. The look instantly unhappy at the venue. PVC spends less than a minute inside before going next door to the 3 Brasseurs. Mary stays whilst we finish our drinks, and is set upon by an odd man:
He holds out his hand and says, 'Weigh my ring.'
'What?'
'Go on, weigh my ring.'
She does, lifting his hand lightly. He seems happy.
'Heavy isn't it?' He says.
'Oh, yes.' Agrees Mary.
He wanders off.
Tina turns to me and tells me that this place used to be a water bar.
'A what?' I ask.
'A water bar.'
'What the hell is a water bar?'
'A bar that just sells water.'
I think about this, then ask, 'Did it work?'
Well, obviously not, as the place is now a beer bar. What an idea - a bar selling only water. Perhaps in a desert, but not in Montreal.
Facts
1. Address: Next door to 1660 Rue St-Denis, Montreal
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Berri
So, down a side-street, next door to the 3 Brasseurs in the Latin Quarter is L'Ambassade, a new bar which hasn't even gotten around to mounting a sign with the name of the bar yet. To glean this information you have to peer at the chalkboard outside.
You can tell it's a bar though, as rather loud techno music is blasting out and people are cheering and whooping inside. There is also a crusty looking chap balanced on the chalkboard, doing yoga type postures, rather shakily. He's either calmly drunk, or excitedly stoned. Somehow he manages to not break an ankle, as we walk by and inside to meet Mary and PVC.
The pub is long and very thin. There is a walkway on one side with some tables on the other. The absence of tables opposite the bar signifies the area where people jump up and down and shout (dancing, I think it's called), and on the bar itself, next to a lot of pint glasses and water, is a pair of decks and a DJ spinning his stuff.
The music is great, kind of funky, very danceable techno. It is busy inside, however, and very loud. The girls can't spot Mary and PVC, so they beckon me to return outside with them. We stand on the street.
'What are we doing?' I ask.
They don't know. Shall we wait inside? Will we stay? Is it too loud? Where are Mary and PVC?
Eventually we go back inside and buy drinks after a bit of a battle and wait.
As I wait for the wife at the bar, I roll a cigarette. A man walks by, then pauses and looks at my half-rolled fag.
'Is that weed?' He says.
'No, just tobacco.' I tell him, and wave the drum packet at him.
He frowns, 'Because if it was weed, I'd have to arrest you!' He laughs, too loud.
I smile and make a ha-ha noise.
He hasn't finished - this is a joke, it seems: '... Arrest you to smoke it with you!' He laughs again and walks upstairs to where another floor will be next month (so we're told).
We take a position near the door, in the walkway. I look around. The décor is still unfinished. The walls are bare and new plaster is visible in places.
Ah, Mary and PVC arrive. The look instantly unhappy at the venue. PVC spends less than a minute inside before going next door to the 3 Brasseurs. Mary stays whilst we finish our drinks, and is set upon by an odd man:
He holds out his hand and says, 'Weigh my ring.'
'What?'
'Go on, weigh my ring.'
She does, lifting his hand lightly. He seems happy.
'Heavy isn't it?' He says.
'Oh, yes.' Agrees Mary.
He wanders off.
Tina turns to me and tells me that this place used to be a water bar.
'A what?' I ask.
'A water bar.'
'What the hell is a water bar?'
'A bar that just sells water.'
I think about this, then ask, 'Did it work?'
Well, obviously not, as the place is now a beer bar. What an idea - a bar selling only water. Perhaps in a desert, but not in Montreal.
Facts
1. Address: Next door to 1660 Rue St-Denis, Montreal
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Berri
Keywords: areadowntown metroberriuqam
Friday, July 16, 2004
Police
Hands up who likes the police?
Come on, no-one's looking, you can admit it if you like? No? Any real reason for this dislike?
Well, I'll admit that I've had a few (relatively) harmless run-ins with the police in this lifetime, some of them a little too risqué to detail here, but at least one is a good example of why I have a deep-seated mistrust of even the jolliest and best-intentioned of cops.
How is this connected to Montreal, I hear you cry? Well, it isn't directly – I wanted to write a story about the police here, and realised that it would be skewed by my lack of objective thought, and so I thought you might like to hear my police story first.
So, I used to work in a London pub called The Standard, which at the time was a rather lively rock venue and home to numerous punks who would order snakebite and black in huge quantities. The stories I could tell about the manager of the pub alone would fill a website, so, just to give you a taste of the man he was, here's a quickie:
The manager is wandering, drunkenly back from the stage (where he has just interrupted in the middle of some poor band's act to play five minutes of harmonica solo, which he loved to do after a few drinks), when he spies a punk peddling LSD tabs in the corner.
He approaches and says to the youth, 'I don't want you selling that shit in my bar...'
The youth just stares at him, wondering if he should run or not.
So the manager goes on, '...I wouldn't mind if it was good shit, but it's not, is it? There's no good LSD any more... And I don't want you selling that shit in my pub.'
The youth thinks this over, and says, 'It's not shit, it's really good.'
'Oh yeah?' The manager, a burly and large man, leans over him, and grabs the sheet of tabs.
He then stuffs the whole sheet into his mouth and starts chewing.
'If they're so good,' he says, between chews, 'then come back and see me in half an hour, and if I'm off my head, then you can sell your stuff in here. Alright?'
'Err, okay.' Says the youth, and disappears through a fire exit.
The barstaff, and his wife, look at the manager, dubiously. Someone raises the question that's on all our minds – 'What if it is good after all?'
'Well,' he muses, 'it'll be an interesting night, won't it?'
About half an hour later he stumbles towards the door that leads upstairs, 'I'm just going for a lie down,' he whispers.
So, in this bar, I'm sure you have a good picture now, I'm drinking on my night off, and I get talking to some guy at the bar. He's okay, and buys me a drink, I think he's a bit straight, but nice enough.
'Ah,' he says, 'you like me now, but if I tell you what I do for a living, you won't want to know me any more.'
'Oh yeah?' I say, 'Try me.'
He sighs, 'I'm a copper.'
'Ah,' I say, and stare into my pint.
'That's the problem,' he tells me, 'that's why coppers and the youth are so alienated – how can I be friends with people like you if you won't even give it a chance. You know, when I'm off duty, I'm off duty, I don't care if you smoke pot or drink-drive.'
'Really?' I ask, doubtfully.
'Yeah, and I like to drink, get drunk, go to parties, chase girls, like any bloke. It'd be so much better for our community if we all understood each other more. I've got this idea where we could take people out on patrol with us – the youth, you know, like you, so you could see what we do. Closer integration, it's the future, for sure.'
I think he has a good point. The bar is closing, so I offer to take him around to the late night section where incredibly loud bands play until 2am, for free. He accepts and once around there we stand at the bar, drink more beer and talk about how great the future will be with the youth and cops trusting each other.
Then it happens. The event that killed my faith in cops evermore.
He urinates.
Where?
Why, against the bar of course...
I stare, for a few seconds, at him splashing away merrily. I can't quite believe my eyes. It's very busy, but no-one else seems to have noticed yet.
'What the hell are you doing?' I shout.
He looks at me, with disdainful eyes, 'I'm pissing. I can't be bothered to go to the bathroom.'
I walk away and find the manager.
'There's a drunk copper pissing against your bar,' I say, matter-of-factly.
'There's a what?!' He screams, and runs over...
Now, I know what you're going to say – one bad cop doesn't mean they're all bad. Yes, perhaps, but once bitten, twice shy, that's what I say...
On the other hand, I'm mellowing towards cops in Montreal, as I've had no bad experiences with them, yet. They even rescued me (see London Pub) from drunken lost-ness once. I've asked them for directions to places, and they've told me. I've been to parties where they arrived at 4am, and didn't ask everyone to go home.
Now, perhaps, given time... if one asks me to have a pint with him...
Come on, no-one's looking, you can admit it if you like? No? Any real reason for this dislike?
Well, I'll admit that I've had a few (relatively) harmless run-ins with the police in this lifetime, some of them a little too risqué to detail here, but at least one is a good example of why I have a deep-seated mistrust of even the jolliest and best-intentioned of cops.
How is this connected to Montreal, I hear you cry? Well, it isn't directly – I wanted to write a story about the police here, and realised that it would be skewed by my lack of objective thought, and so I thought you might like to hear my police story first.
So, I used to work in a London pub called The Standard, which at the time was a rather lively rock venue and home to numerous punks who would order snakebite and black in huge quantities. The stories I could tell about the manager of the pub alone would fill a website, so, just to give you a taste of the man he was, here's a quickie:
The manager is wandering, drunkenly back from the stage (where he has just interrupted in the middle of some poor band's act to play five minutes of harmonica solo, which he loved to do after a few drinks), when he spies a punk peddling LSD tabs in the corner.
He approaches and says to the youth, 'I don't want you selling that shit in my bar...'
The youth just stares at him, wondering if he should run or not.
So the manager goes on, '...I wouldn't mind if it was good shit, but it's not, is it? There's no good LSD any more... And I don't want you selling that shit in my pub.'
The youth thinks this over, and says, 'It's not shit, it's really good.'
'Oh yeah?' The manager, a burly and large man, leans over him, and grabs the sheet of tabs.
He then stuffs the whole sheet into his mouth and starts chewing.
'If they're so good,' he says, between chews, 'then come back and see me in half an hour, and if I'm off my head, then you can sell your stuff in here. Alright?'
'Err, okay.' Says the youth, and disappears through a fire exit.
The barstaff, and his wife, look at the manager, dubiously. Someone raises the question that's on all our minds – 'What if it is good after all?'
'Well,' he muses, 'it'll be an interesting night, won't it?'
About half an hour later he stumbles towards the door that leads upstairs, 'I'm just going for a lie down,' he whispers.
So, in this bar, I'm sure you have a good picture now, I'm drinking on my night off, and I get talking to some guy at the bar. He's okay, and buys me a drink, I think he's a bit straight, but nice enough.
'Ah,' he says, 'you like me now, but if I tell you what I do for a living, you won't want to know me any more.'
'Oh yeah?' I say, 'Try me.'
He sighs, 'I'm a copper.'
'Ah,' I say, and stare into my pint.
'That's the problem,' he tells me, 'that's why coppers and the youth are so alienated – how can I be friends with people like you if you won't even give it a chance. You know, when I'm off duty, I'm off duty, I don't care if you smoke pot or drink-drive.'
'Really?' I ask, doubtfully.
'Yeah, and I like to drink, get drunk, go to parties, chase girls, like any bloke. It'd be so much better for our community if we all understood each other more. I've got this idea where we could take people out on patrol with us – the youth, you know, like you, so you could see what we do. Closer integration, it's the future, for sure.'
I think he has a good point. The bar is closing, so I offer to take him around to the late night section where incredibly loud bands play until 2am, for free. He accepts and once around there we stand at the bar, drink more beer and talk about how great the future will be with the youth and cops trusting each other.
Then it happens. The event that killed my faith in cops evermore.
He urinates.
Where?
Why, against the bar of course...
I stare, for a few seconds, at him splashing away merrily. I can't quite believe my eyes. It's very busy, but no-one else seems to have noticed yet.
'What the hell are you doing?' I shout.
He looks at me, with disdainful eyes, 'I'm pissing. I can't be bothered to go to the bathroom.'
I walk away and find the manager.
'There's a drunk copper pissing against your bar,' I say, matter-of-factly.
'There's a what?!' He screams, and runs over...
Now, I know what you're going to say – one bad cop doesn't mean they're all bad. Yes, perhaps, but once bitten, twice shy, that's what I say...
On the other hand, I'm mellowing towards cops in Montreal, as I've had no bad experiences with them, yet. They even rescued me (see London Pub) from drunken lost-ness once. I've asked them for directions to places, and they've told me. I've been to parties where they arrived at 4am, and didn't ask everyone to go home.
Now, perhaps, given time... if one asks me to have a pint with him...
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Jana's Party
Okay, so Jana has another party. Only this time she knows all about this website and even greets me with the words,
'Oh Ralph, I hope you will write about this party. But, I'm not drunk enough yet to say anything funny.'
At this moment it is 12.30am and we have just arrived. We are outrageously late due to many, complex, and difficult reasons:
Football.
No, not American football, but real football, where you spend more time using your feet than hands during the game. Leaf had the crazy idea that perhaps it would be good to recreate the European cup in our own way, on the playing fields of Parc Jeanne-Mance, at 4pm.
At first report, I wasn't keen, in fact, my initial reply to his email ran like this:
"Playing football? You mean like actually kicking a ball around and running after it in the sun? I think I will have a sprained ankle on Saturday..."
But, despite all of my alarm bells and spider-sense tinglings, I turned up at the park, bright and early, and even with two other foolish players. But, it didn't start well... After literally two minutes of running around I was red in the face and panting like a Saint Bernard.
My god, I have a stitch, I said to myself. And then to others, 'You know, it's ten years since I played football'. And, that's not really a lie.
There was, unlike teenage footballing years, a queue to take a turn in goal, which was seen as a kind of chill-out zone.
So, after two hours, a pitch invasion, and several gung-ho latino strangers later, we left and went to Le Reservoir for a pint, where we talked about aching limbs and special football moments. No one in the world could have denied that we all deserved a pint at that moment. No-one.
At this point, perhaps the sun, and goal-keeping duties, had an odd effect on my wife's brain:
'At home, I'm going to make a skirt for the party tonight.'
'Hmm.' My stock reply.
So, we go to Santropol for a quick sandwich, and then get home for 9.30pm. My wife then begins to make a skirt whilst I shower and massage my painful legs. At 10.30pm the skirt is taking shape, but I'm dubious. After a small discussion we decide that that skirt-making will be suspended for the evening, and we leave, in alternative clothes.
I first went to a party at Jana's one year ago. I looked for, and found, a reminder - an email I sent to some friends at the time:
...So, to continue the theme, we attended a multi-national party a few nights ago where my shocking memory for names and faces took a turn for the worse when faced with a multitude of names like Oki, Ahmed, Miljana and Xenja - 'Sorry, what was your name again?'
This party was full of the strangest mixtures of people I've ever come across - lots of half people - including a half-Swedish-half-Egyptian, a half-Russian-half-Brazilian, and a few half-French-half-Germans. At one point the conversation waned until someone mentioned Scotland and everyone excitedly told each other how much they loved the Scottish accent. There then followed a very surreal five minutes where all the half-People tried to do the 'lovely Scottish accents', very badly indeed.
To come back to where I started, almost, I was left alone for a few minutes and a rather drunken half-Iranian, half-Canadian woman was suddenly talking to me:
'Ooooh, I love your accent. Talk to me.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'Ooooh! That's it, say something else.'
'Like what?'
'Ooooh!'
This went on for a while as I looked around the room for my wife. Eventually, after a few minutes of swooning at my Englishness, she changed the subject:
'I've finished my mid-terms you know.'
'That's nice, what are mid-terms?'
'Ha ha ha ha ha!'
At this point the half-Swedish half-Egyptian man grabbed my elbow and took me to one side:
'She thinks you are professor at the university.'
He winked at me, downed a very, very large glass of Absolut, and wandered away. Confused, I found the company of a 100% Canadian until we left, who would laugh tremendously loudly in my ear, which made me rather wary of saying anything funny at all.
So, with this in mind, we arrive at 12.30am and find a full house. For the first ten minutes of any party I'm never particularly sociable, my mind, as it is, concentrated solely upon making Gin and Tonic.
There is football banter. A few comments about legs, red faces and such. I enjoy being party of this group. There is much back slapping and I am congratulated, drunkenly, concerning a cross that I made, which resulted in a goal. One of my finer moments of the game (in-between cramps).
Then I see the Iranian girl that I wrote about in my email, a year ago. I wander over and someone tries to introduce us.
'Oh, we've already met.' I say.
The girl looks at me and says, 'Oooh, I love your accent.'
I stare, and wonder if she is teasing me, but apparently not.
I confess that I don't remember her name. She tells me and I stare at here for a few moments longer, before saying,
'That's why I don't remember.'
It's a complex name. Well, for me it is. I tell her that I have trouble with Anglo-Saxon names, and that it can take three months to remember someone called 'Dave' for me. So, obviously with cultures that use tend to utilise long runs of harsh consonants in words, it's slightly harder.
As I repeat the name I try to find a visual association to help.
'Think farmyard.' Suggests a man nearby.
That's not bad, I muse, then she says, 'In Asia they used to call me Pharmacy, but I didn't like that very much.'
'No, I imagine not.' I say, and then take my leave, to get another drink -- as I arrived sober, at midnight, I'm drinking rapidly, trying to catch up with the other guests. As an experiment I'm alternating my drinks between Gin and Beer, just to see what happens.
In the kitchen I'm introduced to a sombre looking man, and before I have a chance to say anything he says,
'If anyone else asks where I live, I will cut my wrists...'
This has the effect of blocking my initial questions and I mull over a suitable topic of conversation, whilst a vacant-looking girl wanders up and says, 'So, hi, where are you from?'
I look at him expectantly, but he doesn't go for the knife.
At this point I'm told a joke:
'Did you hear that Saddam Hussein has been given the death penalty? No? Well, he's quite happy about it, as David Beckham is going to take it.'
Then, cruel alcohol, I start to blur and forget. I go to the gin bottle and find it empty. I open the fridge and find all the beers gone. Jana helpfully reveals her secret litre bottle of gin, and the world is fine for a while...
Then the police arrrive.
We thought that all the neighbours were at the party, but one must have been missed, and called 911 – a noise emergency. The police didn't enter, but talked at the door. There was a lot of 'Shhhhhhhhhush!'-ing, whenever anyone tried to talk in the room during this conference, which annoyed me, and I moved to the balcony to avoid being stupidly abusive to people carrying guns.
Why don't I like the police? Remind me to tell you my policeman story sometime, and you'll see.
So, I then I black out, and wake up the next day.
I suppose I caught up quite effectively.
Today my wife says to me, 'So, you were quite drunk last night, at the end. Do you remember going to bed? I had to force you to brush your teeth.'
'Hmm.' I say.
'Oh Ralph, I hope you will write about this party. But, I'm not drunk enough yet to say anything funny.'
At this moment it is 12.30am and we have just arrived. We are outrageously late due to many, complex, and difficult reasons:
Football.
No, not American football, but real football, where you spend more time using your feet than hands during the game. Leaf had the crazy idea that perhaps it would be good to recreate the European cup in our own way, on the playing fields of Parc Jeanne-Mance, at 4pm.
At first report, I wasn't keen, in fact, my initial reply to his email ran like this:
"Playing football? You mean like actually kicking a ball around and running after it in the sun? I think I will have a sprained ankle on Saturday..."
But, despite all of my alarm bells and spider-sense tinglings, I turned up at the park, bright and early, and even with two other foolish players. But, it didn't start well... After literally two minutes of running around I was red in the face and panting like a Saint Bernard.
My god, I have a stitch, I said to myself. And then to others, 'You know, it's ten years since I played football'. And, that's not really a lie.
There was, unlike teenage footballing years, a queue to take a turn in goal, which was seen as a kind of chill-out zone.
So, after two hours, a pitch invasion, and several gung-ho latino strangers later, we left and went to Le Reservoir for a pint, where we talked about aching limbs and special football moments. No one in the world could have denied that we all deserved a pint at that moment. No-one.
At this point, perhaps the sun, and goal-keeping duties, had an odd effect on my wife's brain:
'At home, I'm going to make a skirt for the party tonight.'
'Hmm.' My stock reply.
So, we go to Santropol for a quick sandwich, and then get home for 9.30pm. My wife then begins to make a skirt whilst I shower and massage my painful legs. At 10.30pm the skirt is taking shape, but I'm dubious. After a small discussion we decide that that skirt-making will be suspended for the evening, and we leave, in alternative clothes.
I first went to a party at Jana's one year ago. I looked for, and found, a reminder - an email I sent to some friends at the time:
...So, to continue the theme, we attended a multi-national party a few nights ago where my shocking memory for names and faces took a turn for the worse when faced with a multitude of names like Oki, Ahmed, Miljana and Xenja - 'Sorry, what was your name again?'
This party was full of the strangest mixtures of people I've ever come across - lots of half people - including a half-Swedish-half-Egyptian, a half-Russian-half-Brazilian, and a few half-French-half-Germans. At one point the conversation waned until someone mentioned Scotland and everyone excitedly told each other how much they loved the Scottish accent. There then followed a very surreal five minutes where all the half-People tried to do the 'lovely Scottish accents', very badly indeed.
To come back to where I started, almost, I was left alone for a few minutes and a rather drunken half-Iranian, half-Canadian woman was suddenly talking to me:
'Ooooh, I love your accent. Talk to me.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'Ooooh! That's it, say something else.'
'Like what?'
'Ooooh!'
This went on for a while as I looked around the room for my wife. Eventually, after a few minutes of swooning at my Englishness, she changed the subject:
'I've finished my mid-terms you know.'
'That's nice, what are mid-terms?'
'Ha ha ha ha ha!'
At this point the half-Swedish half-Egyptian man grabbed my elbow and took me to one side:
'She thinks you are professor at the university.'
He winked at me, downed a very, very large glass of Absolut, and wandered away. Confused, I found the company of a 100% Canadian until we left, who would laugh tremendously loudly in my ear, which made me rather wary of saying anything funny at all.
So, with this in mind, we arrive at 12.30am and find a full house. For the first ten minutes of any party I'm never particularly sociable, my mind, as it is, concentrated solely upon making Gin and Tonic.
There is football banter. A few comments about legs, red faces and such. I enjoy being party of this group. There is much back slapping and I am congratulated, drunkenly, concerning a cross that I made, which resulted in a goal. One of my finer moments of the game (in-between cramps).
Then I see the Iranian girl that I wrote about in my email, a year ago. I wander over and someone tries to introduce us.
'Oh, we've already met.' I say.
The girl looks at me and says, 'Oooh, I love your accent.'
I stare, and wonder if she is teasing me, but apparently not.
I confess that I don't remember her name. She tells me and I stare at here for a few moments longer, before saying,
'That's why I don't remember.'
It's a complex name. Well, for me it is. I tell her that I have trouble with Anglo-Saxon names, and that it can take three months to remember someone called 'Dave' for me. So, obviously with cultures that use tend to utilise long runs of harsh consonants in words, it's slightly harder.
As I repeat the name I try to find a visual association to help.
'Think farmyard.' Suggests a man nearby.
That's not bad, I muse, then she says, 'In Asia they used to call me Pharmacy, but I didn't like that very much.'
'No, I imagine not.' I say, and then take my leave, to get another drink -- as I arrived sober, at midnight, I'm drinking rapidly, trying to catch up with the other guests. As an experiment I'm alternating my drinks between Gin and Beer, just to see what happens.
In the kitchen I'm introduced to a sombre looking man, and before I have a chance to say anything he says,
'If anyone else asks where I live, I will cut my wrists...'
This has the effect of blocking my initial questions and I mull over a suitable topic of conversation, whilst a vacant-looking girl wanders up and says, 'So, hi, where are you from?'
I look at him expectantly, but he doesn't go for the knife.
At this point I'm told a joke:
'Did you hear that Saddam Hussein has been given the death penalty? No? Well, he's quite happy about it, as David Beckham is going to take it.'
Then, cruel alcohol, I start to blur and forget. I go to the gin bottle and find it empty. I open the fridge and find all the beers gone. Jana helpfully reveals her secret litre bottle of gin, and the world is fine for a while...
Then the police arrrive.
We thought that all the neighbours were at the party, but one must have been missed, and called 911 – a noise emergency. The police didn't enter, but talked at the door. There was a lot of 'Shhhhhhhhhush!'-ing, whenever anyone tried to talk in the room during this conference, which annoyed me, and I moved to the balcony to avoid being stupidly abusive to people carrying guns.
Why don't I like the police? Remind me to tell you my policeman story sometime, and you'll see.
So, I then I black out, and wake up the next day.
I suppose I caught up quite effectively.
Today my wife says to me, 'So, you were quite drunk last night, at the end. Do you remember going to bed? I had to force you to brush your teeth.'
'Hmm.' I say.
Friday, July 02, 2004
Camping Checklist
Camping
• Stove
• Pans
• Gas
• Roll mat
• Sleep bags
• Tent
• Tarp
• Rope
• Ziplocs
• Lighter
• Matches
• Torch & batteries
• Lantern & candles
• Paper (for fire)
Mother
• Roll mat
• Long zip
• Stove
• Pan
• Ice Pack
• Cooler
• Clothing
• Long zip pants
• Pants
• Boots
• Sandals
• Socks
• Swimsuits
• Tshirts
• Hats
• Scarf (head)
• Raincoats
• Fleece
• Bags (daypacks)
• Towels
Food
• Water (Drinking)
• Foil paper
• Cooler
• Icepacks
• Potato
• Corn
• Pasta
• Onion
• Peppers
• Tomatoes
• Veg pate
• Banana
• Chocolate
• Fruit
• Cheese
• Bread
• Butter
• Snack bars
• Cute drinks
• Cutlery
• Cutting knife
Other
• Road Map
• Maps
• Suncream
• Mosquito stuff
• Toilet paper
• Dish soap
• Tea towel
• Books
• Bite cream
• Water bottles
• Sheet
Can Tyre
• Off!
• Gas
• Coils
• Stove
• Pans
• Gas
• Roll mat
• Sleep bags
• Tent
• Tarp
• Rope
• Ziplocs
• Lighter
• Matches
• Torch & batteries
• Lantern & candles
• Paper (for fire)
Mother
• Roll mat
• Long zip
• Stove
• Pan
• Ice Pack
• Cooler
• Clothing
• Long zip pants
• Pants
• Boots
• Sandals
• Socks
• Swimsuits
• Tshirts
• Hats
• Scarf (head)
• Raincoats
• Fleece
• Bags (daypacks)
• Towels
Food
• Water (Drinking)
• Foil paper
• Cooler
• Icepacks
• Potato
• Corn
• Pasta
• Onion
• Peppers
• Tomatoes
• Veg pate
• Banana
• Chocolate
• Fruit
• Cheese
• Bread
• Butter
• Snack bars
• Cute drinks
• Cutlery
• Cutting knife
Other
• Road Map
• Maps
• Suncream
• Mosquito stuff
• Toilet paper
• Dish soap
• Tea towel
• Books
• Bite cream
• Water bottles
• Sheet
Can Tyre
• Off!
• Gas
• Coils
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Job Seeker
I'm early, of course, so I sit outside McGill metro on a hard stone wall. After several minutes in the sun I realise that I'm beginning to sweat, a definite no-no at interviews, so move to the shade, where I'm cold.
I'm sitting in the informal smoking area of all the staff from the nearby arcade. Girls come out in small groups, sit next to me, and blow smoke in my direction. Normally I wouldn't care, but I realise that I'm going to smell of smoke afterwards, which is another minus point.
'Oh, il fait frit!' Exclaims one of the girls between a lungful of smoke. She eyes me, sideways-ly.
Eventually I move on and wander towards a building that contains a large-ish employment agency. I have an appointment at 10am concerning a terrible job that I don't want. I suppose I don't have much of a positive outlook.
I try to sneak past the fat desk clerk, who seems to be hunched over, perhaps eating doughnuts secretly, but he spots me and mumbles some questions.
I tell him the name of the company, and he grunts a reply.
I stare at him, as I didn't understand a word.
He manages to clear his mouth and finally says, 'Fourteenth floor'.
I find the office with time to spare, but enter anyway and announce myself. I'm kept waiting, so read the paper, which is full of dull election news. The paper tells me that the west of Canada wants independence now too. Interesting.
A few minutes late, my agent arrives and escorts me to a small room of the kind commonly found in police interrogation units. Except the chairs are softer. Just.
We follow the usual routine that Canadians take when talking to English people – we discuss where I'm from, struggle to pinpoint it geographically, finally locate it with the aid of Liverpool, discuss the places they have been in England and the friends they have there, and then finally how wonderful London is, but isn't it expensive, eh?
Then, onto the job.
Along with 120 other poor, lost souls I will receive a constant stream of telephone calls from a large pharmaceutical company's overpaid scientific employees who can't find their email icons. It's 40 hours a week, no chance of promotion, shift work, and $12 an hour.
Wow, what a catch, I think, sarcastically.
We then have a long conversation about road rage and how terrible drivers are in Canada.
'In England they drive really fast, but well.' She says.
'And the roads there are narrow.' I say, then add, 'And no-one indicates here.'
'Oh I know, we're terrible. It's like that in America too, I'm told.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes, I think so.'
We then decide that I shouldn't actually apply for the job. I'd be frustrated, bored, and leave quite soon after taking it, so it seems. I think we're right about that.
'You should get a job in a café.' She tells me, 'At least you'd learn more French.'
She's right. Tomorrow, I'll trawl the pubs with CVs in hand.
Though, that often goes terribly wrong....
I'm sitting in the informal smoking area of all the staff from the nearby arcade. Girls come out in small groups, sit next to me, and blow smoke in my direction. Normally I wouldn't care, but I realise that I'm going to smell of smoke afterwards, which is another minus point.
'Oh, il fait frit!' Exclaims one of the girls between a lungful of smoke. She eyes me, sideways-ly.
Eventually I move on and wander towards a building that contains a large-ish employment agency. I have an appointment at 10am concerning a terrible job that I don't want. I suppose I don't have much of a positive outlook.
I try to sneak past the fat desk clerk, who seems to be hunched over, perhaps eating doughnuts secretly, but he spots me and mumbles some questions.
I tell him the name of the company, and he grunts a reply.
I stare at him, as I didn't understand a word.
He manages to clear his mouth and finally says, 'Fourteenth floor'.
I find the office with time to spare, but enter anyway and announce myself. I'm kept waiting, so read the paper, which is full of dull election news. The paper tells me that the west of Canada wants independence now too. Interesting.
A few minutes late, my agent arrives and escorts me to a small room of the kind commonly found in police interrogation units. Except the chairs are softer. Just.
We follow the usual routine that Canadians take when talking to English people – we discuss where I'm from, struggle to pinpoint it geographically, finally locate it with the aid of Liverpool, discuss the places they have been in England and the friends they have there, and then finally how wonderful London is, but isn't it expensive, eh?
Then, onto the job.
Along with 120 other poor, lost souls I will receive a constant stream of telephone calls from a large pharmaceutical company's overpaid scientific employees who can't find their email icons. It's 40 hours a week, no chance of promotion, shift work, and $12 an hour.
Wow, what a catch, I think, sarcastically.
We then have a long conversation about road rage and how terrible drivers are in Canada.
'In England they drive really fast, but well.' She says.
'And the roads there are narrow.' I say, then add, 'And no-one indicates here.'
'Oh I know, we're terrible. It's like that in America too, I'm told.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes, I think so.'
We then decide that I shouldn't actually apply for the job. I'd be frustrated, bored, and leave quite soon after taking it, so it seems. I think we're right about that.
'You should get a job in a café.' She tells me, 'At least you'd learn more French.'
She's right. Tomorrow, I'll trawl the pubs with CVs in hand.
Though, that often goes terribly wrong....
Friday, June 25, 2004
La Mauricie
Getting out of Montreal is one of the pleasures of living in Montreal. Every so often, it is essential to leave the city and surround yourself with trees, rolling fields, and fresh air. So, we loaded up the car with all kinds of un-essential things and headed for the highway.
Now, I don't like driving in Montreal. For several reasons. Of course, everyone is driving on the right hand side of the road, which is confusing for me. No-one indicates, which raises the temperature of my blood somewhat; and no-one knows how wide their vehicle is. This results in people swerving wildly about the road to avoid things they worry they will hit, when in fact they have a good ten foot of clearance.
But I'm not going to get involved in a road-rage rant. Not now.
So we head east, and the traffic thins out eventually and we're left on a dual-lane highway that goes in a straight line for hours on end. There are trees on either side, and for long periods you can't see the traffic flowing in the other direction. This leads to moments of panic when you suddenly imagine you're in the wrong lane of a normal road, and accounts for yet more swerving.
I watch, idly, the jeep in front of me veer onto the emergency lane of the highway and then veer back onto the road just before hitting the grass verge. It then wanders into the left lane, and wobbles back only when about to hit the barrier. The driver is obviously drunk, or simply stupid.
Two hours later we finally enter the national park.
'La Mauricie'
We park in the visitors' centre and procure maps. We then pay $10 for the privilege of entering the countryside, which makes me slightly angry. I think the countryside should be free, personally.
But, it's quiet, and we don't see any people around, which is good, as far as I'm concerned. If you see entire families, pushing infants around, or old ladies with walking frames, then I know I'm not likely to enjoy myself.
Solitude. Fresh air. Peace. Quiet. Black bears.
Black bears?
I picked up a leaflet in the visitor centre entitled, 'You're in Black Bear Country!'
Yikes. The most dangerous thing in the countryside of England is, other people. Or perhaps an angry badger.
There are some tips:
'If you spot a bear on the side of the road, consider not stopping.'
'Do not surprise a black bear.'
'If you encounter a bear: Keep calm. Don't run. Give the bear space. Leave the area.'
The guide goes on to say that it isn't common for a bear to attack you, but if it does, then:
"...react aggressively and try to intimidate the bear. If this fails, fight back with anything at hand such as bear spray, rocks, sticks, knives or other possible weapons..."
So I enter the woods with my head full of images of bears bearing down on me (excuse the pun) and I, waving a stick in its face, screaming...
I shake my head and try to enjoy the flowers and bees. It's very pretty. It's quiet, we walk. We see a snake, a hare, some dragonflies, lots of birds, beetles, and mosquitoes.
Hmm. Quite a lot of mosquitoes.
All we have with us is a citronella spray, which I bemoaned at the time we bought it, saying, 'But it doesn't bloody well work.'
'It's better than nothing,' said the wife, and bought it anyway.
We applied a coating and walked on. The trail we took was 11km long, not too tough, as we only arrived at 2pm.
As we made our way on, the mosquitoes became worse. When we stopped to try and eat lunch, about five million of them descended upon us and proceeded to suck our blood in great haste. We, wailing, and waving arms, applied half of the bottle of citronella spray in one go.
It didn't help.
We took to waving cloths around, slapping them over our backs and heads, to keep the onslaught off a little.
Then the deer flies arrived.
They hover around you and refuse to go away, landing whenever you fail to notice them, and then taking a huge chunk out of your flesh, leaving a bleeding wound.
Ah, nature.
Don't get me wrong. I love nature. I have been in mosquito infested places all around the world... but... I usually try and carry some nasty chemicals to keep them away. Or, some long, baggy, light clothing to wear. But, we had none of this, and simply suffered a hundred bites as we walked.
Upon reflection, the day was wonderful. The countryside, views, trail, hike, flora and fauna (except the mosquitoes) made up for the discomfort, 100%.
http://www.canadianparks.com/quebec/lmaurnp/index.htm
Now, I don't like driving in Montreal. For several reasons. Of course, everyone is driving on the right hand side of the road, which is confusing for me. No-one indicates, which raises the temperature of my blood somewhat; and no-one knows how wide their vehicle is. This results in people swerving wildly about the road to avoid things they worry they will hit, when in fact they have a good ten foot of clearance.
But I'm not going to get involved in a road-rage rant. Not now.
So we head east, and the traffic thins out eventually and we're left on a dual-lane highway that goes in a straight line for hours on end. There are trees on either side, and for long periods you can't see the traffic flowing in the other direction. This leads to moments of panic when you suddenly imagine you're in the wrong lane of a normal road, and accounts for yet more swerving.
I watch, idly, the jeep in front of me veer onto the emergency lane of the highway and then veer back onto the road just before hitting the grass verge. It then wanders into the left lane, and wobbles back only when about to hit the barrier. The driver is obviously drunk, or simply stupid.
Two hours later we finally enter the national park.
'La Mauricie'
We park in the visitors' centre and procure maps. We then pay $10 for the privilege of entering the countryside, which makes me slightly angry. I think the countryside should be free, personally.
But, it's quiet, and we don't see any people around, which is good, as far as I'm concerned. If you see entire families, pushing infants around, or old ladies with walking frames, then I know I'm not likely to enjoy myself.
Solitude. Fresh air. Peace. Quiet. Black bears.
Black bears?
I picked up a leaflet in the visitor centre entitled, 'You're in Black Bear Country!'
Yikes. The most dangerous thing in the countryside of England is, other people. Or perhaps an angry badger.
There are some tips:
'If you spot a bear on the side of the road, consider not stopping.'
'Do not surprise a black bear.'
'If you encounter a bear: Keep calm. Don't run. Give the bear space. Leave the area.'
The guide goes on to say that it isn't common for a bear to attack you, but if it does, then:
"...react aggressively and try to intimidate the bear. If this fails, fight back with anything at hand such as bear spray, rocks, sticks, knives or other possible weapons..."
So I enter the woods with my head full of images of bears bearing down on me (excuse the pun) and I, waving a stick in its face, screaming...
I shake my head and try to enjoy the flowers and bees. It's very pretty. It's quiet, we walk. We see a snake, a hare, some dragonflies, lots of birds, beetles, and mosquitoes.
Hmm. Quite a lot of mosquitoes.
All we have with us is a citronella spray, which I bemoaned at the time we bought it, saying, 'But it doesn't bloody well work.'
'It's better than nothing,' said the wife, and bought it anyway.
We applied a coating and walked on. The trail we took was 11km long, not too tough, as we only arrived at 2pm.
As we made our way on, the mosquitoes became worse. When we stopped to try and eat lunch, about five million of them descended upon us and proceeded to suck our blood in great haste. We, wailing, and waving arms, applied half of the bottle of citronella spray in one go.
It didn't help.
We took to waving cloths around, slapping them over our backs and heads, to keep the onslaught off a little.
Then the deer flies arrived.
They hover around you and refuse to go away, landing whenever you fail to notice them, and then taking a huge chunk out of your flesh, leaving a bleeding wound.
Ah, nature.
Don't get me wrong. I love nature. I have been in mosquito infested places all around the world... but... I usually try and carry some nasty chemicals to keep them away. Or, some long, baggy, light clothing to wear. But, we had none of this, and simply suffered a hundred bites as we walked.
Upon reflection, the day was wonderful. The countryside, views, trail, hike, flora and fauna (except the mosquitoes) made up for the discomfort, 100%.
http://www.canadianparks.com/quebec/lmaurnp/index.htm
Sunday, June 06, 2004
The Wife's 30th Birthday
I think perhaps that I should leave parties an hour before the end, to avoid the bizarre and hazy events that generally ensue after hearty alcohol consumption at 2AM. But, if the party is your own (or your wife's), then you're honour-bound to stay until the end.
I have no concept of 'enough' once I get into the end-of-the-party zone, and will continue to top up my glass with rum and drink it merrily until I realise that I'm sitting alone, and all my guests have gone home.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
This evening started well enough, and I actually managed to avoid drinking the Rum that I had bought, and stuck to the various beers that lined the fridge. I had made a fruit punch which contained a sturdy measure of the hard stuff, but I only had a couple of cups of it before it was polished off by others.
Thankfully.
So I remained fairly clear until about midnight, or perhaps 1AM, when the veil of stupidity fell upon me and I started to talk nonsense to whoever was unfortunate enough to be close to me.
I spent some time trying to learn a trick for opening beer bottles using only a bottle top and some thumb pressure.
Unsuccessfully.
This resulted in a lot of beer bottles being opened at the same time, which then, of course, all had to be consumed.
I avoided inflicting my own party tricks on people, preferring instead to tell people how much I loved them and / or that they were my new best friends.
'Whenever you're in town, call me, we'll go out for a beer. You can stay here whenever you like. Look, I'll give you my telephone number.'
'You already gave it to me. Twice.'
'Oh.'
At one point I go to get a card with our address and phone number on it. When I get back to the lounge I've forgotten who I'm supposed to give it to. I spy someone leaving and guess that it must be them.
'Here's that card,' I say, holding it out.
'Um, I already have one, thanks.'
'Oh.'
My golden rule of drinking stood me in excellent stead during the evening:
"Never, ever, arrange to do anything with anybody, whilst drunk."
Picture the scene, it's 9AM and you have a hangover from hell, then, as you wobble towards the bathroom it hits you like a thunderbolt:
Oh my god, I arranged to go hangliding / waterskiing / mountain climbing / play rugby today with that guy from the pub last night.
You hope that he won't remember, but no, there's a knock on the door and you are doomed.
So, although the offer of 'sailing tomorrow' is very appealing, I ask for a telephone call in the morning to confirm the event.
'I never arrange anything when drunk.' I slur, in bad French.
'A real sailor goes to sea if he says he will, no matter how bad he feels.' He replies.
There was no phone call this morning.
The evening's last memory for me is a very intense conversation where I feel like I'm saying inappropriate and bizarre things, and then everyone is gone.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
Luckily, everyone else was rather drunk too. No sober people taking notes.
I hope.
This morning we found a lot of Gin, Rum, beer and cameras. Now you know it was a good party when people actually leave half a bottle of Gin behind, too drunk to remember to take it when they leave, focusing all their concentration and energy on the task at hand – getting home.
But today I was surprised to learn that most of the people who left all had the intention of going to eat a Poutine at 3AM.
I'm somewhat glad I didn't feel hungry.
I have no concept of 'enough' once I get into the end-of-the-party zone, and will continue to top up my glass with rum and drink it merrily until I realise that I'm sitting alone, and all my guests have gone home.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
This evening started well enough, and I actually managed to avoid drinking the Rum that I had bought, and stuck to the various beers that lined the fridge. I had made a fruit punch which contained a sturdy measure of the hard stuff, but I only had a couple of cups of it before it was polished off by others.
Thankfully.
So I remained fairly clear until about midnight, or perhaps 1AM, when the veil of stupidity fell upon me and I started to talk nonsense to whoever was unfortunate enough to be close to me.
I spent some time trying to learn a trick for opening beer bottles using only a bottle top and some thumb pressure.
Unsuccessfully.
This resulted in a lot of beer bottles being opened at the same time, which then, of course, all had to be consumed.
I avoided inflicting my own party tricks on people, preferring instead to tell people how much I loved them and / or that they were my new best friends.
'Whenever you're in town, call me, we'll go out for a beer. You can stay here whenever you like. Look, I'll give you my telephone number.'
'You already gave it to me. Twice.'
'Oh.'
At one point I go to get a card with our address and phone number on it. When I get back to the lounge I've forgotten who I'm supposed to give it to. I spy someone leaving and guess that it must be them.
'Here's that card,' I say, holding it out.
'Um, I already have one, thanks.'
'Oh.'
My golden rule of drinking stood me in excellent stead during the evening:
"Never, ever, arrange to do anything with anybody, whilst drunk."
Picture the scene, it's 9AM and you have a hangover from hell, then, as you wobble towards the bathroom it hits you like a thunderbolt:
Oh my god, I arranged to go hangliding / waterskiing / mountain climbing / play rugby today with that guy from the pub last night.
You hope that he won't remember, but no, there's a knock on the door and you are doomed.
So, although the offer of 'sailing tomorrow' is very appealing, I ask for a telephone call in the morning to confirm the event.
'I never arrange anything when drunk.' I slur, in bad French.
'A real sailor goes to sea if he says he will, no matter how bad he feels.' He replies.
There was no phone call this morning.
The evening's last memory for me is a very intense conversation where I feel like I'm saying inappropriate and bizarre things, and then everyone is gone.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
Luckily, everyone else was rather drunk too. No sober people taking notes.
I hope.
This morning we found a lot of Gin, Rum, beer and cameras. Now you know it was a good party when people actually leave half a bottle of Gin behind, too drunk to remember to take it when they leave, focusing all their concentration and energy on the task at hand – getting home.
But today I was surprised to learn that most of the people who left all had the intention of going to eat a Poutine at 3AM.
I'm somewhat glad I didn't feel hungry.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
A day in the life
Such is the capriciousness of life that if I vary the time that I leave the house on a morning, by so much as a minute, then I arrive a good twenty minutes later at French School.
I have fine-tuned my alarm clock's wake-up time to exactly 16 minutes past 7am now, whereas before it was at 18 minutes past. Now I manage to get up, eat breakfast, drink a strong espresso and get out of the house in time. Just, mind you. The thing that confuses me is that there appears to be no difference between the two journeys – both involve mildly long waits and exactly the same route.
Anyway, I'm standing at the bus stop, knowing that I'm late today (due to being distracted for a minute on my way out), and reading my book. The sky is blue, the sun is out, and the bus arrives shortly.
I make my way to one of the many empty seats. Behind me there is a queue about fifty metres long. I'm always amazed at the length of a line of people that can be crammed into a bus.
So I sit down for, oh, perhaps three seconds, and then leap out of the seat. Something wet has penetrated my jeans. I look suspiciously at the seat, designed, incidentally, in a hollow fashion so as to preserve any liquids left in it for the next user. There is indeed a pool of clearish liquid where I just sat. I move into the aisle seat and stare at the liquid.
Is it urine? I wonder.
I rub my backside and my hand comes away wet. I cautiously sniff my fingers. I can't smell any urine, thank god. But sometimes urine doesn't smell so bad, does it?
I start to worry.
The bus is filling up. I realise that I'm now sitting in the aisle seat, leaving the window seat empty. I really hate it when people do that – what do they think they will achieve? Do they think that they will be spared the horror of sitting next to someone? No, it just delays the inevitable until the point is reached where all the easy seats are taken, then you have to approach these bastards and say, 'excuse me, could I get into that seat?' And they moodily swing their legs to one side as you limbo past. On principle, I choose these seats before the available aisle seats, just to annoy them.
(Before I get mail complaining that people do this due to having five foot long legs or something, yes, yes, there are perfectly good reasons for doing this, I'm sure).
So, I realise that I'm in the position that I hate in other people. It's too late to change seats now, however, as the bus is full (obviously, my window seat is the last to go). I wonder what I should do.
Then I see the man coming down the aisle, looking at the empty seat. I realise that he's going to take it and sit in the pool of liquid. My mind races, frantically, trying to work out how to say in French, 'Oh, there's a pool of suspicious liquid in that seat.'
But it's too late, he's squeezing past me as my lips move, but no sounds come out. As he sits down I bury my face into my book and pretend I can't see him.
Three seconds later he leaps up and looks underneath him. He spies the pool of liquid and casts a terrible glance at me. I pretend not to notice.
He gets some tissues out of his back, and mops up the liquid. He's obviously not as worried about the urine possibility as me.
*
In the supermarket there is a line that has a sign above it that reads '8 items or less'. In these lines the true nature of humanity can be seen clearly.
I have counted my items already – 12 bottles of beer (1 item), some tomatoes in a bag (another item), butter, 3 yogurts, and some chocolate milk. Yes, I never said it was wholesome. Anyway, seven. See, seven items. I'm allowed to use this queue.
As usual I begin to count the items of the people in front of me. The woman in front has nine. Not too bad, I suppose. But the lady at the front of the queue has about 16. She must know that she's got too many items to use this queue. I stare at her shopping as it is scanned through, into multiple bags. She catches my eye and gives me a look that says, 'I know I have more than 8 items, so what are you going to do about it?'
She's in the queue because the other lines are all really long, full of people with hundreds of items. But that's why there's an 8 items or less queue – so people like me don't have to wait half an hour to get out of the shop.
I know that if I was a cashier in a supermarket, I'd be nazi-like in my enforcement of this rule: 'Sorry madam, but two melons cannot be considered a single item, you must leave the queue immediately!' And so forth. Perhaps I'm just too anal about this. I'm not sure.
So, back in the queue - I have the feeling that I'm buying the worst beer in Canada – an American beer called Milwaukee's Best Dry. It's called a 'Strong' beer on the box in big letters, but it's only 5.9%. I suppose that in the USA, that IS strong beer. Anyway, I've heard jokes about this beer, and the people behind me in the queue talk about it too, laughing. They're a young couple with 12 bottles of Corona. Now, I'm sorry, but Corona is trendy piss. Milwaukee's Best Dry cannot be worse, I reason.
And, Milwaukee's Best Dry is only $9.99. Corona is somewhat more.
The cashier eyes my beer with distain as I fail to give the correct amount of cash and cause a confused delay. He rolls his eyes, which then rest upon the Corona.
'Ooooh! Corona!' He says, camply.
'Yeah.' Says the trendy piss-drinker, as if it isn't.
I have fine-tuned my alarm clock's wake-up time to exactly 16 minutes past 7am now, whereas before it was at 18 minutes past. Now I manage to get up, eat breakfast, drink a strong espresso and get out of the house in time. Just, mind you. The thing that confuses me is that there appears to be no difference between the two journeys – both involve mildly long waits and exactly the same route.
Anyway, I'm standing at the bus stop, knowing that I'm late today (due to being distracted for a minute on my way out), and reading my book. The sky is blue, the sun is out, and the bus arrives shortly.
I make my way to one of the many empty seats. Behind me there is a queue about fifty metres long. I'm always amazed at the length of a line of people that can be crammed into a bus.
So I sit down for, oh, perhaps three seconds, and then leap out of the seat. Something wet has penetrated my jeans. I look suspiciously at the seat, designed, incidentally, in a hollow fashion so as to preserve any liquids left in it for the next user. There is indeed a pool of clearish liquid where I just sat. I move into the aisle seat and stare at the liquid.
Is it urine? I wonder.
I rub my backside and my hand comes away wet. I cautiously sniff my fingers. I can't smell any urine, thank god. But sometimes urine doesn't smell so bad, does it?
I start to worry.
The bus is filling up. I realise that I'm now sitting in the aisle seat, leaving the window seat empty. I really hate it when people do that – what do they think they will achieve? Do they think that they will be spared the horror of sitting next to someone? No, it just delays the inevitable until the point is reached where all the easy seats are taken, then you have to approach these bastards and say, 'excuse me, could I get into that seat?' And they moodily swing their legs to one side as you limbo past. On principle, I choose these seats before the available aisle seats, just to annoy them.
(Before I get mail complaining that people do this due to having five foot long legs or something, yes, yes, there are perfectly good reasons for doing this, I'm sure).
So, I realise that I'm in the position that I hate in other people. It's too late to change seats now, however, as the bus is full (obviously, my window seat is the last to go). I wonder what I should do.
Then I see the man coming down the aisle, looking at the empty seat. I realise that he's going to take it and sit in the pool of liquid. My mind races, frantically, trying to work out how to say in French, 'Oh, there's a pool of suspicious liquid in that seat.'
But it's too late, he's squeezing past me as my lips move, but no sounds come out. As he sits down I bury my face into my book and pretend I can't see him.
Three seconds later he leaps up and looks underneath him. He spies the pool of liquid and casts a terrible glance at me. I pretend not to notice.
He gets some tissues out of his back, and mops up the liquid. He's obviously not as worried about the urine possibility as me.
*
In the supermarket there is a line that has a sign above it that reads '8 items or less'. In these lines the true nature of humanity can be seen clearly.
I have counted my items already – 12 bottles of beer (1 item), some tomatoes in a bag (another item), butter, 3 yogurts, and some chocolate milk. Yes, I never said it was wholesome. Anyway, seven. See, seven items. I'm allowed to use this queue.
As usual I begin to count the items of the people in front of me. The woman in front has nine. Not too bad, I suppose. But the lady at the front of the queue has about 16. She must know that she's got too many items to use this queue. I stare at her shopping as it is scanned through, into multiple bags. She catches my eye and gives me a look that says, 'I know I have more than 8 items, so what are you going to do about it?'
She's in the queue because the other lines are all really long, full of people with hundreds of items. But that's why there's an 8 items or less queue – so people like me don't have to wait half an hour to get out of the shop.
I know that if I was a cashier in a supermarket, I'd be nazi-like in my enforcement of this rule: 'Sorry madam, but two melons cannot be considered a single item, you must leave the queue immediately!' And so forth. Perhaps I'm just too anal about this. I'm not sure.
So, back in the queue - I have the feeling that I'm buying the worst beer in Canada – an American beer called Milwaukee's Best Dry. It's called a 'Strong' beer on the box in big letters, but it's only 5.9%. I suppose that in the USA, that IS strong beer. Anyway, I've heard jokes about this beer, and the people behind me in the queue talk about it too, laughing. They're a young couple with 12 bottles of Corona. Now, I'm sorry, but Corona is trendy piss. Milwaukee's Best Dry cannot be worse, I reason.
And, Milwaukee's Best Dry is only $9.99. Corona is somewhat more.
The cashier eyes my beer with distain as I fail to give the correct amount of cash and cause a confused delay. He rolls his eyes, which then rest upon the Corona.
'Ooooh! Corona!' He says, camply.
'Yeah.' Says the trendy piss-drinker, as if it isn't.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Hypocrite
I can see the man, in the distance, and I know that he has decided to home in on me, to beg for some change.
On some days I attract the needy like wasps to cider.
I don't try and avoid him, but rather walk on my intended path, even though it now has the obstacle of him in it. He's in his mid thirties, tall, strong looking, in fairly clean clothes. As I get closer I can see that his face is scarred, burnt, and leathery. I glance at his hands, they are the hands that my mother would describe as 'strangler's hands'. The knuckles are lumpy with thick scar tissue – ever the sign of a man who has had many fist fights.
'Got any spare change?' He says, as I approach.
'Sorry, no.' I say, and keep on walking.
Now, you may think that I'm a bad person, or not, depending on your viewpoint, but I do - I used to give something to all homeless people I met, even if it was only a few cents. I used to put all my spare small change into a different pocket, and simply take some out to give away. Now this change mounts up on my bedside table, is eventually counted, taken to the bank, and added to my meagre funds.
The man doesn't give up, but walks alongside me.
'You know, I was asleep back there,' he points backwards, 'it's my patch you see. Full of rich folks, Ferraris and all sorts park there.'
'Ferraris?' I ask, and then wish I hadn't.
'Yeah, so anyway, I'm there and I've made thirty bucks, and I fall asleep, and when I wake up someone's taken it from my hat. Thirty bucks!'
I shake my head to show that I'm listening. We're still walking.
'Who would do that? Steal thirty bucks from a pan-handler?' He sounds sad as he says this, as if realising that the world was full of bad people, for the first time.
'That's pretty low.' I agree.
He changes now. Anger flashes across his face, 'Do you know how long it takes to make thirty dollars begging? Do you?'
I shake my head.
He goes on, shouting, 'I'll kill them if I find out who did it! If I catch em, I'll kill em!'
'Bloody right.' I say, agreeing.
He's getting quite excited now, 'I'll cut em up, I'll quarter them!' He makes an unholy cross motion, as if cutting a person into four bits. He sounds quite serious.
'Look,' I say, 'I'd give you something if I could afford it, but I'm an immigrant, and I don't have a job, and no money.'
We stop and he stares at me. My excuse sounds lame. He didn't even ask for it, but I felt compelled to try and explain why I'm not giving him any money.
'Aye.' He says.
I'm saved by a rich looking passer-by. 'Any change sir?' He says, changing direction, and walking with his new mark.
'Good luck.' I say.
'What?' He turns back, 'Oh, yeah, thanks.' And runs back to the man who is shaking his head.
So where am I on my way to?
The pub of course, to spend ten dollars on beer.
So, I have no money? No change to spare? Depends on your perspective. But from his perspective, I'm a lying, hypocrite.
On some days I attract the needy like wasps to cider.
I don't try and avoid him, but rather walk on my intended path, even though it now has the obstacle of him in it. He's in his mid thirties, tall, strong looking, in fairly clean clothes. As I get closer I can see that his face is scarred, burnt, and leathery. I glance at his hands, they are the hands that my mother would describe as 'strangler's hands'. The knuckles are lumpy with thick scar tissue – ever the sign of a man who has had many fist fights.
'Got any spare change?' He says, as I approach.
'Sorry, no.' I say, and keep on walking.
Now, you may think that I'm a bad person, or not, depending on your viewpoint, but I do - I used to give something to all homeless people I met, even if it was only a few cents. I used to put all my spare small change into a different pocket, and simply take some out to give away. Now this change mounts up on my bedside table, is eventually counted, taken to the bank, and added to my meagre funds.
The man doesn't give up, but walks alongside me.
'You know, I was asleep back there,' he points backwards, 'it's my patch you see. Full of rich folks, Ferraris and all sorts park there.'
'Ferraris?' I ask, and then wish I hadn't.
'Yeah, so anyway, I'm there and I've made thirty bucks, and I fall asleep, and when I wake up someone's taken it from my hat. Thirty bucks!'
I shake my head to show that I'm listening. We're still walking.
'Who would do that? Steal thirty bucks from a pan-handler?' He sounds sad as he says this, as if realising that the world was full of bad people, for the first time.
'That's pretty low.' I agree.
He changes now. Anger flashes across his face, 'Do you know how long it takes to make thirty dollars begging? Do you?'
I shake my head.
He goes on, shouting, 'I'll kill them if I find out who did it! If I catch em, I'll kill em!'
'Bloody right.' I say, agreeing.
He's getting quite excited now, 'I'll cut em up, I'll quarter them!' He makes an unholy cross motion, as if cutting a person into four bits. He sounds quite serious.
'Look,' I say, 'I'd give you something if I could afford it, but I'm an immigrant, and I don't have a job, and no money.'
We stop and he stares at me. My excuse sounds lame. He didn't even ask for it, but I felt compelled to try and explain why I'm not giving him any money.
'Aye.' He says.
I'm saved by a rich looking passer-by. 'Any change sir?' He says, changing direction, and walking with his new mark.
'Good luck.' I say.
'What?' He turns back, 'Oh, yeah, thanks.' And runs back to the man who is shaking his head.
So where am I on my way to?
The pub of course, to spend ten dollars on beer.
So, I have no money? No change to spare? Depends on your perspective. But from his perspective, I'm a lying, hypocrite.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
The Compleat Vegetarian
I often joke with people that I became a vegetarian to impress a couple of hippy girls I once lived with, and although this is partially true, it is not the whole truth. At the time I had been reading a lot of books on religion, learning about meditation and generally becoming, well, more hippy than I was anyway. Slowly, over time, I began to have nagging doubts about meat.
Like a lot of people, I had distanced meat from the animal somewhat, so that pork chops were just tasty slices of loveliness and not actually a thin bit of pig. Sausages were only very vaguely connected to the cows I saw in fields. I had a minor revelation, realising that I wouldn't be able to kill a pig, or a cow, or even a fish for that matter, and so was being hypocritical in my meat eating. The conviction grew with time, and now, after ten years or more, there's no going back really.
Now, my reason for vegetarianism is a purely personal one, and not one I would advocate for anyone else, in fact, I don't care if other people want to eat meat - I don't actually have a problem with that - for me, it's pure personal, nothing more. The type of people who push their own opinions on others - what they think is right - I find arrogant and distasteful.
So, therefore, this essay isn't designed to turn you into a vegetarian if you're not already one, more, it's just an essay about some of the myths, misconceptions and dull arguments that people use against vegetarians. It's merely to inform, not preach.
Definitions
"I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish".
This is a phrase I hear quite a lot, and although I'm not a fan of labels, I do think that we should be clearer about what a vegetarian is, for a few different reasons.
One is that I don't like to be put into the same class as 'fish-eating vegetarians', as for me these people are just picky eaters. You might as well say that I don't eat fruit, but I do eat apples. It makes no sense to me - fish are animals too. Anyway, for my purposes, I'll be using the traditional definition, simple and to the point:
One who does not eat flesh, fish or fowl.
The fine lines and boundaries of this definition are discussed later in this essay in the arguments section.
The other main class of vegetarians are the vegans, who can be thought of as an extreme vegetarian, as someone who won't eat anything that exploits animals, and perhaps won't wear any leather, etc. Many vegans won't eat honey, due to bee exploitation, and will carefully examine additives in food to check for suitability (some additives are blatantly animal-based, discussed later in the pitfalls section).
No matter what you think of vegans, you should be aware of them and the differences between them and just general, run-of-the-mill vegetarians.
There are different attitudes within the vegetarian community to how strict you should be in your diet. Many vegetarians will eat any cheese they can find, oblivious (or not caring) that a lot of cheese is made using a calf stomach by-product. Likewise, they might eat any sweets that they can find, despite the fact that they may contain gelatine, which is a fish by-product.
Now the reason for this is as diverse as the reasons that people become vegetarian in the first place, which can be broadly categorised as follows:
1. Spiritual / religious reasons (life is sacred).
2. Squeamish disposition (I couldn't kill a bunny rabbit).
3. Health (It's good for you, eliminate risk of strokes, etc).
4. Picky eating (those fish-eaters again).
5. Ethical (animals are treated badly, I don't eat meat as a protest).
There are probably more, as I say, there are many reasons.
Another reason for having good labels is so that when I tell someone in a restaurant that I'm a vegetarian, then they'll understand and give me something that I can eat. This is where fish-eaters that call themselves vegetarians muddy the water somewhat.
The word doesn't translate well either. In South Korea I had a tremendously difficult time getting vegetarian food (outside of Pizza Hut Margaritas). When I used the words in my phrase book, dishes would arrive full of fish, or chicken generally. In the end I got a kind young man to write down for me, in Korean, on a bit of paper, 'I'm a vegetarian'. The translation was a full side of paper, as it had to list every single thing that I couldn't eat - 'I cannot eat chicken, beef, pork, fish, bacon, squid, eel, etc..'
The same trouble can be had in Japan, where 'vegetarian' dishes often appear, topped with bacon.
A tip for you travellers in Asia - try asking for 'Buddhist food', or 'Monk food'. If in India, try asking for 'Jain food', which is Vegan (you'll have no problem getting plain old vegetarian food in India!).
The History
"It's just a fad."
People have been vegetarians for thousands of years, and the fact that it is still around should tell us something. Mind you, war has been around for just as long, and that isn't necessarily a good thing.
The Arguments
"What about a mushroom? Do you eat mushrooms?"
Vegetarians either spend a great deal of time arguing with meat-eaters, or simply learn to smile when people taunt them and offer half-baked, ill-informed bits of information. I'm in the latter group, having spent five years or more defending my values, now I simply don't bother. It isn't important to me. It is however, important to realise that people that want to argue with you about how wrong it is to be a vegetarian, are extremely unlikely to be convinced by your arguments or ever, ever change their minds. Better then to save your breath and live a little longer.
Anyway, these are some of the top arguments that people use to attack vegetarians, and some responses to the same.
1. Starving to Death
"If you were stranded on a deserted island, would you kill and eat animals to survive?"
Quite frankly, yes. The whole point for me is that because I have a choice, that I can live happily and healthily without meat, that I choose to do that. If that choice is taken away, then I'll kill the wild pig, apologise, and roast it over a fire like any other hungry castaway.
I'm never exactly sure what point people are trying to make with this argument, it's as if they think that by making say that you would eat meat under certain circumstances somehow validates meat-eating as a lifestyle. The fact is that I'm not attacking meat-eating, nor the people that do it, I'm merely defending my life choices. So what if I would eat meat if I was starving? People who are starving eat humans too, to survive, but wouldn't consider doing it if they weren't forced to by fear of death.
Cannibalism is an interesting defensive tool. If you ask someone what they think about cannibalism, they would probably say that it is disgusting, or that they would do it only to survive. Well, I feel exactly the same about eating any animals, not just humans.
2. Nutritional
"You can't get all the vitamins/minerals/protein you need without meat."
A myth. There's nothing you can't get from a vegetarian diet.
"It's unhealthy for a child to be brought up as a vegetarian."
Nonsense. I'd like you to tell that to the hundreds of millions of Indians that are vegetarians from birth, and have been for thousands of years. A common counter argument to this is for people to point out that Indians are small compared to westerners. I find this generally offensive, frankly. Also, you may think that some westerners are actually a little too big - in a rather obese way.
3. Evolutional
"We evolved to eat meat - look at our teeth."
There's no denying that we have the kinds of teeth that other omnivores (animals that eat meat and plants) in the animal world have. Those troublesome canine teeth eh? There's no doubt that we evolved eating meat, since the dawn of time, but we've always eaten vegetables and plants too, and as soon as we could we settled down a grew crops as well as keeping domestic livestock.
I'm not trying to argue that it isn't natural to eat meat. We also evolved to resolve our problems with violence and killing, but we restrain ourselves (mostly). This is the thing - I'm aware of the choice, and I find, personally, that to live by not eating meat is a nobler existence. In a spiritual sense, again personally, I find my life purer without the lives of animals on my hands. If you're not spiritual, you won't understand, but that doesn't matter.
My only point is this: does the fact that you evolved doing one thing mean that it should continue to be done, without exception, into the future? This isn't a question that I can answer for you.
Another thing to point out here is that holy, historical figures, have had different attitudes to eating animals. Jesus fed the masses with fish, and we have to assume that he ate fish along with them. Buddha on the other hand ate no animals. If Buddhism had spread as Christianity has done around the world, then this essay would be redundant, we'd all accept vegetarianism as an understood (if not practised) thing.
A further note here: it is generally unwise to bringing up religion when arguing about vegetarianism - it just fuels the fire.
4. Feeding the World
"If everyone in the world was vegetarian, there wouldn't be enough food for us all."
The implication is that if we used all the cow fields for crops, we would all die of famine. Well, half the world is already dying of famine, you could point out to begin with. It's also a myth - ask any farmer, you can feed the same amount, if not more people with grain grown in a field than with the same field filled with cows.
Anyway, I'm not asking for all the world to turn vegetarian.
5. Eggs and the Grey Area
"Do you eat eggs? Eggs are life."
Well, welcome to the grey area. Where do you draw the line being a vegetarian? The grey area is a vast one, from the extremes of vegan bee exploitation, to the fish eaten by the picky eaters. We all draw a line somewhere in that area and try not to cross it.
Gandhi ate eggs incidentally. He didn't for many years, being a strict vegetarian and believing eggs to be life cut short. One day a man pointed out to Gandhi that the eggs were not life-to-be, as the eggs had never been fertilised by a cock. The eggs, if sat on by the chicken would not grow and hatch into chicks - they would just rot and decay. Unfertilised eggs have no life potential - they are, to put it bluntly, chicken periods.
You can rest assured that the eggs that you buy at the supermarket are unfertilised eggs and devoid of life. The chickens that lay these eggs will probably never see a cock in their entire lives. Some argue (myself included) that you should only buy eggs from free-range chickens, where the animals can run around outside and don't just live in a two foot cage for their whole existence.
The grey area extends, so people like to contend, to such things as snails, clams and mushrooms. What constitutes life? People will ask. Is it a face? Eyes? Legs? A Brain?
A difficult question indeed. We must all draw our own lines and come up with our own definitions of life that we won't devour. Plants are alive too, but we have to eat something. I imagine that if plants ran away when we tried to pick them, then I would tend to class them as life too and become a fruitarian or something.
Fruitarians. Ah, if you do extend life into plants then the only thing left to eat is the fruit of plants, which the plant produces specifically to be eaten and distribute their seeds. Picking fruit doesn't kill or hurt a plant, in fact, it helps it. Nuts fall into this category too.
Fruitarians tend to look a little pale, as it is hard to fulfil all your body's dietary needs on fruit and nuts alone.
And lastly, mushrooms. Mushrooms are the fruit of the fungus which lives under the ground. They serve only to distribute spores. Picking a mushroom does not damage the fungus.
6. The Bacon Sandwich
"But how can you live without bacon sandwiches?"
Well, it depends on your reasons for being a vegetarian. If you have a good reason, you can live happily without bacon sandwiches. If you have a less solid reason, then you'll cave in one night after a couple of pints, and eat two or three in one go.
Pitfalls
"Don't read the label!"
As I mentioned earlier, there are a lot of products that are added to foods which are animal based, which renders seemingly innocent foods inedible to some vegetarians. I'll list some of the more common ones:
Rennet (Pressure in French): Some kind of cow-stomach-lining by product used in cheese making. Alternatives are cheap and widely available, but under-used. It can be particularly hard to find parmesan cheese without rennet. Goat cheese is usually rennet free.
Gelatine: Some kind of fish based material used to thicken things, like sweets, yoghurt and ice-cream. Again, there are alternatives, but they are under-used.
Whey powder: A by product of cheese making, may not be always be vegetarian. These appear in a wide variety of products.
Cooking
"How do you cook rice again?"
If you want to be a vegetarian, you'd better learn to cook, or you'll be eating a lot of junk and get spots and fat, or eat nothing and get much too pale and thin.
Look at the average meal in India - a vegetable based dish, lentils, bread and yoghurt. This is a good meal with all food groups accounted for. You might also, during the day, eat an egg and drink a lot of sugary tea.
You need to ensure that you eat a varied diet when a vegetarian. If you find yourself eating the same thing, day in, day out, then there's something wrong, and you'll get sick. The body is very good at adapting to a poor diet, so you'll survive for a long time on a poor vegetarian diet - you can survive surprisingly long on bread water and lemons, but I wouldn't recommend it.
Ensure that you eat bread, rice, pasta, beans, lentils, nuts (people always say that don't they? I use nuts in cooking sometimes), plenty of cooked and uncooked vegetables, fresh fruit (or at least fruit juice), butter or margarine, oils, eggs, milk, cheese, tofu, yoghurt, salads, and some cake. If you find yourself eating all these things during a week, then you'll probably do well. Listen to your body, if you crave something, eat it, but don't give into excess and only eat cake all week. You need variety!
People worry too much about how much protein, carbohydrate, vitamins, folic acid, iron, zinc, etc, etc, they are getting every day. All I can say is that as long as you eat a balanced diet as described above, then you'll be fine. Don't stress about the details. The ill people are the people who don't cook their own meals, but live on junk food, fast food, take-away food and pre-cooked food - I'll say it again - learn to cook if you want to be healthy.
And, lastly, the secret of vegetarian cooking - herbs and spices. If you think vegetarian cooking is bland and tasteless, then you've obviously never eaten Indian, Thai or Chinese vegetarian food. The use of herbs and spices is most essential in vegetarian cookery to avoid the dull, insipid, tedious, pasta with red sauce that tastes of nothing, that everyone cooks for you when they know you're a vegetarian. 'What shall I cook?' They scream. 'I know, a tin of tomatoes on top of some pasta - perfect.'
Like a lot of people, I had distanced meat from the animal somewhat, so that pork chops were just tasty slices of loveliness and not actually a thin bit of pig. Sausages were only very vaguely connected to the cows I saw in fields. I had a minor revelation, realising that I wouldn't be able to kill a pig, or a cow, or even a fish for that matter, and so was being hypocritical in my meat eating. The conviction grew with time, and now, after ten years or more, there's no going back really.
Now, my reason for vegetarianism is a purely personal one, and not one I would advocate for anyone else, in fact, I don't care if other people want to eat meat - I don't actually have a problem with that - for me, it's pure personal, nothing more. The type of people who push their own opinions on others - what they think is right - I find arrogant and distasteful.
So, therefore, this essay isn't designed to turn you into a vegetarian if you're not already one, more, it's just an essay about some of the myths, misconceptions and dull arguments that people use against vegetarians. It's merely to inform, not preach.
Definitions
"I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish".
This is a phrase I hear quite a lot, and although I'm not a fan of labels, I do think that we should be clearer about what a vegetarian is, for a few different reasons.
One is that I don't like to be put into the same class as 'fish-eating vegetarians', as for me these people are just picky eaters. You might as well say that I don't eat fruit, but I do eat apples. It makes no sense to me - fish are animals too. Anyway, for my purposes, I'll be using the traditional definition, simple and to the point:
One who does not eat flesh, fish or fowl.
The fine lines and boundaries of this definition are discussed later in this essay in the arguments section.
The other main class of vegetarians are the vegans, who can be thought of as an extreme vegetarian, as someone who won't eat anything that exploits animals, and perhaps won't wear any leather, etc. Many vegans won't eat honey, due to bee exploitation, and will carefully examine additives in food to check for suitability (some additives are blatantly animal-based, discussed later in the pitfalls section).
No matter what you think of vegans, you should be aware of them and the differences between them and just general, run-of-the-mill vegetarians.
There are different attitudes within the vegetarian community to how strict you should be in your diet. Many vegetarians will eat any cheese they can find, oblivious (or not caring) that a lot of cheese is made using a calf stomach by-product. Likewise, they might eat any sweets that they can find, despite the fact that they may contain gelatine, which is a fish by-product.
Now the reason for this is as diverse as the reasons that people become vegetarian in the first place, which can be broadly categorised as follows:
1. Spiritual / religious reasons (life is sacred).
2. Squeamish disposition (I couldn't kill a bunny rabbit).
3. Health (It's good for you, eliminate risk of strokes, etc).
4. Picky eating (those fish-eaters again).
5. Ethical (animals are treated badly, I don't eat meat as a protest).
There are probably more, as I say, there are many reasons.
Another reason for having good labels is so that when I tell someone in a restaurant that I'm a vegetarian, then they'll understand and give me something that I can eat. This is where fish-eaters that call themselves vegetarians muddy the water somewhat.
The word doesn't translate well either. In South Korea I had a tremendously difficult time getting vegetarian food (outside of Pizza Hut Margaritas). When I used the words in my phrase book, dishes would arrive full of fish, or chicken generally. In the end I got a kind young man to write down for me, in Korean, on a bit of paper, 'I'm a vegetarian'. The translation was a full side of paper, as it had to list every single thing that I couldn't eat - 'I cannot eat chicken, beef, pork, fish, bacon, squid, eel, etc..'
The same trouble can be had in Japan, where 'vegetarian' dishes often appear, topped with bacon.
A tip for you travellers in Asia - try asking for 'Buddhist food', or 'Monk food'. If in India, try asking for 'Jain food', which is Vegan (you'll have no problem getting plain old vegetarian food in India!).
The History
"It's just a fad."
People have been vegetarians for thousands of years, and the fact that it is still around should tell us something. Mind you, war has been around for just as long, and that isn't necessarily a good thing.
The Arguments
"What about a mushroom? Do you eat mushrooms?"
Vegetarians either spend a great deal of time arguing with meat-eaters, or simply learn to smile when people taunt them and offer half-baked, ill-informed bits of information. I'm in the latter group, having spent five years or more defending my values, now I simply don't bother. It isn't important to me. It is however, important to realise that people that want to argue with you about how wrong it is to be a vegetarian, are extremely unlikely to be convinced by your arguments or ever, ever change their minds. Better then to save your breath and live a little longer.
Anyway, these are some of the top arguments that people use to attack vegetarians, and some responses to the same.
1. Starving to Death
"If you were stranded on a deserted island, would you kill and eat animals to survive?"
Quite frankly, yes. The whole point for me is that because I have a choice, that I can live happily and healthily without meat, that I choose to do that. If that choice is taken away, then I'll kill the wild pig, apologise, and roast it over a fire like any other hungry castaway.
I'm never exactly sure what point people are trying to make with this argument, it's as if they think that by making say that you would eat meat under certain circumstances somehow validates meat-eating as a lifestyle. The fact is that I'm not attacking meat-eating, nor the people that do it, I'm merely defending my life choices. So what if I would eat meat if I was starving? People who are starving eat humans too, to survive, but wouldn't consider doing it if they weren't forced to by fear of death.
Cannibalism is an interesting defensive tool. If you ask someone what they think about cannibalism, they would probably say that it is disgusting, or that they would do it only to survive. Well, I feel exactly the same about eating any animals, not just humans.
2. Nutritional
"You can't get all the vitamins/minerals/protein you need without meat."
A myth. There's nothing you can't get from a vegetarian diet.
"It's unhealthy for a child to be brought up as a vegetarian."
Nonsense. I'd like you to tell that to the hundreds of millions of Indians that are vegetarians from birth, and have been for thousands of years. A common counter argument to this is for people to point out that Indians are small compared to westerners. I find this generally offensive, frankly. Also, you may think that some westerners are actually a little too big - in a rather obese way.
3. Evolutional
"We evolved to eat meat - look at our teeth."
There's no denying that we have the kinds of teeth that other omnivores (animals that eat meat and plants) in the animal world have. Those troublesome canine teeth eh? There's no doubt that we evolved eating meat, since the dawn of time, but we've always eaten vegetables and plants too, and as soon as we could we settled down a grew crops as well as keeping domestic livestock.
I'm not trying to argue that it isn't natural to eat meat. We also evolved to resolve our problems with violence and killing, but we restrain ourselves (mostly). This is the thing - I'm aware of the choice, and I find, personally, that to live by not eating meat is a nobler existence. In a spiritual sense, again personally, I find my life purer without the lives of animals on my hands. If you're not spiritual, you won't understand, but that doesn't matter.
My only point is this: does the fact that you evolved doing one thing mean that it should continue to be done, without exception, into the future? This isn't a question that I can answer for you.
Another thing to point out here is that holy, historical figures, have had different attitudes to eating animals. Jesus fed the masses with fish, and we have to assume that he ate fish along with them. Buddha on the other hand ate no animals. If Buddhism had spread as Christianity has done around the world, then this essay would be redundant, we'd all accept vegetarianism as an understood (if not practised) thing.
A further note here: it is generally unwise to bringing up religion when arguing about vegetarianism - it just fuels the fire.
4. Feeding the World
"If everyone in the world was vegetarian, there wouldn't be enough food for us all."
The implication is that if we used all the cow fields for crops, we would all die of famine. Well, half the world is already dying of famine, you could point out to begin with. It's also a myth - ask any farmer, you can feed the same amount, if not more people with grain grown in a field than with the same field filled with cows.
Anyway, I'm not asking for all the world to turn vegetarian.
5. Eggs and the Grey Area
"Do you eat eggs? Eggs are life."
Well, welcome to the grey area. Where do you draw the line being a vegetarian? The grey area is a vast one, from the extremes of vegan bee exploitation, to the fish eaten by the picky eaters. We all draw a line somewhere in that area and try not to cross it.
Gandhi ate eggs incidentally. He didn't for many years, being a strict vegetarian and believing eggs to be life cut short. One day a man pointed out to Gandhi that the eggs were not life-to-be, as the eggs had never been fertilised by a cock. The eggs, if sat on by the chicken would not grow and hatch into chicks - they would just rot and decay. Unfertilised eggs have no life potential - they are, to put it bluntly, chicken periods.
You can rest assured that the eggs that you buy at the supermarket are unfertilised eggs and devoid of life. The chickens that lay these eggs will probably never see a cock in their entire lives. Some argue (myself included) that you should only buy eggs from free-range chickens, where the animals can run around outside and don't just live in a two foot cage for their whole existence.
The grey area extends, so people like to contend, to such things as snails, clams and mushrooms. What constitutes life? People will ask. Is it a face? Eyes? Legs? A Brain?
A difficult question indeed. We must all draw our own lines and come up with our own definitions of life that we won't devour. Plants are alive too, but we have to eat something. I imagine that if plants ran away when we tried to pick them, then I would tend to class them as life too and become a fruitarian or something.
Fruitarians. Ah, if you do extend life into plants then the only thing left to eat is the fruit of plants, which the plant produces specifically to be eaten and distribute their seeds. Picking fruit doesn't kill or hurt a plant, in fact, it helps it. Nuts fall into this category too.
Fruitarians tend to look a little pale, as it is hard to fulfil all your body's dietary needs on fruit and nuts alone.
And lastly, mushrooms. Mushrooms are the fruit of the fungus which lives under the ground. They serve only to distribute spores. Picking a mushroom does not damage the fungus.
6. The Bacon Sandwich
"But how can you live without bacon sandwiches?"
Well, it depends on your reasons for being a vegetarian. If you have a good reason, you can live happily without bacon sandwiches. If you have a less solid reason, then you'll cave in one night after a couple of pints, and eat two or three in one go.
Pitfalls
"Don't read the label!"
As I mentioned earlier, there are a lot of products that are added to foods which are animal based, which renders seemingly innocent foods inedible to some vegetarians. I'll list some of the more common ones:
Rennet (Pressure in French): Some kind of cow-stomach-lining by product used in cheese making. Alternatives are cheap and widely available, but under-used. It can be particularly hard to find parmesan cheese without rennet. Goat cheese is usually rennet free.
Gelatine: Some kind of fish based material used to thicken things, like sweets, yoghurt and ice-cream. Again, there are alternatives, but they are under-used.
Whey powder: A by product of cheese making, may not be always be vegetarian. These appear in a wide variety of products.
Cooking
"How do you cook rice again?"
If you want to be a vegetarian, you'd better learn to cook, or you'll be eating a lot of junk and get spots and fat, or eat nothing and get much too pale and thin.
Look at the average meal in India - a vegetable based dish, lentils, bread and yoghurt. This is a good meal with all food groups accounted for. You might also, during the day, eat an egg and drink a lot of sugary tea.
You need to ensure that you eat a varied diet when a vegetarian. If you find yourself eating the same thing, day in, day out, then there's something wrong, and you'll get sick. The body is very good at adapting to a poor diet, so you'll survive for a long time on a poor vegetarian diet - you can survive surprisingly long on bread water and lemons, but I wouldn't recommend it.
Ensure that you eat bread, rice, pasta, beans, lentils, nuts (people always say that don't they? I use nuts in cooking sometimes), plenty of cooked and uncooked vegetables, fresh fruit (or at least fruit juice), butter or margarine, oils, eggs, milk, cheese, tofu, yoghurt, salads, and some cake. If you find yourself eating all these things during a week, then you'll probably do well. Listen to your body, if you crave something, eat it, but don't give into excess and only eat cake all week. You need variety!
People worry too much about how much protein, carbohydrate, vitamins, folic acid, iron, zinc, etc, etc, they are getting every day. All I can say is that as long as you eat a balanced diet as described above, then you'll be fine. Don't stress about the details. The ill people are the people who don't cook their own meals, but live on junk food, fast food, take-away food and pre-cooked food - I'll say it again - learn to cook if you want to be healthy.
And, lastly, the secret of vegetarian cooking - herbs and spices. If you think vegetarian cooking is bland and tasteless, then you've obviously never eaten Indian, Thai or Chinese vegetarian food. The use of herbs and spices is most essential in vegetarian cookery to avoid the dull, insipid, tedious, pasta with red sauce that tastes of nothing, that everyone cooks for you when they know you're a vegetarian. 'What shall I cook?' They scream. 'I know, a tin of tomatoes on top of some pasta - perfect.'
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Memento
Have you ever seen that film, Memento? Well, if I drink spirits, then my life becomes like that.
I sit here, today, with unexplained bruises, an empty wallet, and a sore head. What the hell happened last night?
It begins in the London Bar, where I was soundly ripped off and spent every penny I had in a terrible drinking game, designed, I think, to make the newcomer pay for everything.
And then I leave the bar, with my $60 bill, and stagger into the street. Still lucid at this point, and consider my options.
Then...
[blank]
I'm in a bar. I don't know it, it must be new to me. I'm standing between a booth by the window, and the bar itself. It is busy. I don't know if I have a beer here or not. I wonder if I should sit at the table. Then...
[blank]
I'm crouching in front of a car. What am I doing here? I'm hiding, obviously. From what? I'm not sure. The street is typical east end Montreal. It is quiet, I have the feeling that I've escaped my pursuer for now. But why am I hiding? I think back...
[blank]
I'm in a bank. It is late at night and I'm clutching my cash-card, which I'm staring at. I'm not sure if I have just withdrawn cash, or am about to. I have the feeling that I'm deciding something important. A taxi waits for me outside...
[blank]
I'm staggering along. It is dark, very dark. There is an old train to my right. The ground is uneven and stony. I stumble a great deal. What am I doing here? I don't know. I walk on, unsure of my destination. I'm tired now. The empty trains around me seem as tempting as a warm bed. But I resist, I feel that I have to keep on going. To my left is a steep slope and I worry about falling down it. I walk across tracks. There are no moving trains. Empty warehouses pass me by on my right hand side...
[blank]
'Do you have any ID?'
'What?'
'Any ID sir?'
'Sure, I have some.'
I fumble in my pocket, extract my wallet, and take out a few cards. I stare at them. They all mean nothing. I realise that I'm drunk. I offer them all and the police officer takes my driving license from amongst them.
'Where do you live?'
This must be a trick question, as it's written on my license, I think. But I decide to tell him anyway, I'm feeling miserable and want to make friends with the police.
[blank]
'That's it! I live there!' I'm excited as I leave the police car, thanking my saviours, and make my way home, at 3am.
I sit here, today, with unexplained bruises, an empty wallet, and a sore head. What the hell happened last night?
It begins in the London Bar, where I was soundly ripped off and spent every penny I had in a terrible drinking game, designed, I think, to make the newcomer pay for everything.
And then I leave the bar, with my $60 bill, and stagger into the street. Still lucid at this point, and consider my options.
Then...
[blank]
I'm in a bar. I don't know it, it must be new to me. I'm standing between a booth by the window, and the bar itself. It is busy. I don't know if I have a beer here or not. I wonder if I should sit at the table. Then...
[blank]
I'm crouching in front of a car. What am I doing here? I'm hiding, obviously. From what? I'm not sure. The street is typical east end Montreal. It is quiet, I have the feeling that I've escaped my pursuer for now. But why am I hiding? I think back...
[blank]
I'm in a bank. It is late at night and I'm clutching my cash-card, which I'm staring at. I'm not sure if I have just withdrawn cash, or am about to. I have the feeling that I'm deciding something important. A taxi waits for me outside...
[blank]
I'm staggering along. It is dark, very dark. There is an old train to my right. The ground is uneven and stony. I stumble a great deal. What am I doing here? I don't know. I walk on, unsure of my destination. I'm tired now. The empty trains around me seem as tempting as a warm bed. But I resist, I feel that I have to keep on going. To my left is a steep slope and I worry about falling down it. I walk across tracks. There are no moving trains. Empty warehouses pass me by on my right hand side...
[blank]
'Do you have any ID?'
'What?'
'Any ID sir?'
'Sure, I have some.'
I fumble in my pocket, extract my wallet, and take out a few cards. I stare at them. They all mean nothing. I realise that I'm drunk. I offer them all and the police officer takes my driving license from amongst them.
'Where do you live?'
This must be a trick question, as it's written on my license, I think. But I decide to tell him anyway, I'm feeling miserable and want to make friends with the police.
[blank]
'That's it! I live there!' I'm excited as I leave the police car, thanking my saviours, and make my way home, at 3am.
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