January 01, 2009

My New Year Plans and Dreams

I've had a cold for about a week. Nothing serious, but seriously annoying. Sore throat, hacking cough, occasional fever, heavy congestion. I thought I had it licked two days ago when the sore throat and congestion went away, leaving me with that disruptive cough. Along came the idea of a New Year's Eve party. Silly me to plan a party while I have a cold, but I was going to make the most of it. My downstairs neighbors are out of town and it's one of the few opportunities I'll have the entire building to myself and I can be as loud as I want to be. A day in advance, I begin preparing a seafood stew with cod, king crab, clams, mussels, scallops, shrimp, octopus, tomatoes, peppers, corn and a cup of wine.

I don't remember dealing with whole octopus before, but I'm determined to make it work. After watching the simple preparation on Spain: On The Road Again, I decided to chance it. The thing was pretty big, about 2.5 feet from head to tiny tentacular ends.

Yes, I know an octopus has arms and not tentacles. Stop distracting me. Anyway, I washed it thoroughly, flipped the head inside-out, tossed it in a big pot of water, brought it to a boil, turned off the heat, and let it sit for an hour while I prepped and cooked the rest of the stew in an even bigger pot. Layer upon layer of expensive and perfect ingredients and a bumbling cook that's eaten dozens of seafood stews but only made three or four, and a pot that is quickly reaching its limit. Everything else ready, I pulled the now curled-up and firm octopus from the water and put it on my cutting board. Arm by arm, I cut bite-sized pieces and put them into the super-pot. Soon all I was left with was the body and head. I put my fingers into the head hole (the customary way of carrying an octopus) and think to myself "man o man, this feels like some tight pussy!" and giggle while verifying the sensation with my fingers. Imagining scenes of crazy Japanese porn and a laugh later, I'm cutting the head into ring-shaped pieces and place it all into the pot, cover it and put into the oven for a couple of hours.

The aroma is intense. The whole house smells like seafood, but only in the absolutely best way possible. I pull the dish out of the oven, uncover it and it looks like a cookbook photo. I tasted the hot broth, and it was perfect. I skeptically try a piece of octopus, and it is absolutely tender and delicious except for the rings that I cut from the head. They were like chewy rubber bands, so I tossed them out. The subtle aroma specific to octopus fills me with images of seaside dining in August. My sampling continues with a shrimp, a mussel, a scallop, some fish, a bit of crab, perfection! I let it rest and clean up the kitchen before I put the cooled pot into the refrigerator. I grab a glass of chianti, sit down for a bit of boob tube, and I hear noises from downstairs. In shocked disbelief, it sounds like my neighbors are home. I spoke to their housekeeper a week before and was told they would be out until "new year". This is not good. I told the guests to start arriving around 9-10pm. We were planning on food, music, games, drinking, drugs, the usual shenanigans. Calling downstairs, I hear their phone through the floor. An answer. Not what I was hoping for. "What are you doing here?" I asked her jokingly. "You planned a party didn't you," she responded. A little back and forth, and we decided to both "think about it" and get back to each other.

I stay up for a while then sleep until noon figuring I might need the strength for the coming night of mayhem. 2pm comes by and still no call from my neighbor. I assume she doesn't want to call me to tell me that she really would prefer that we tone it down come midnight due to her little kids, but at the same time doesn't want to be the party pooper, so I decided to cancel the party. A $400 pot of seafood stew and I'm just glad I didn't go pick up the three 3-pound lobsters I had on hold at the fish market for that morning. I call and disappoint various friends and start making alternative plans. One friend asks for me to come by and to bring some indian food. Another asks that I bring some stew. Another asks for wine. The last asks me to bring myself.

I call in the order for indian, get dressed, stop by the wine shop, they don't have what I wanted but they offer a substitute. I ask for a sample, they balk. I say I want a case but want to sample first. They agree. It's good, sweet but not too sweet, and tasty. Perfect for NYE instead of a complicated distracting grape. Go to the Indian, they greet me by name even though I've only been there twice in the last week. Small problems and delay, no big deal. Head to the first stop to drop off stew and a bottle of wine. Next stop, drop off a few bottles of wine. Third stop, drop off Indian, eat, and hang out for a couple of hours. Last stop and a pop, clink, drink, photos, well wishes, calls, texts, and of to home to get some more rest to fix this cold for good.

Expecting more middle of the night texts and calls, I mute the phone. Expecting drunk idiots making noise on the street, I take a benzodozer. Easy restful sleep until I wake up at 10 am, throat is sore again. I roll over and sleep some more, only to have a bizarre dream.

Wanting a quick-strep test, I walk into a clinic. As soon as I walk in, an Indian doctor greets me by name. I've never seen this person before. She offers me a seat, brings down an optometrists lens owl, flips through a bunch of lenses, says I need a new prescription. I ask if I've been overprescribed in the past, she acts like I don't know what I'm talking about, I ask again, she says yes. I get up and walk around the place, and another Indian stops me, tells me to open up and swabs my throat. The first Indian tells me to take a seat in an exam chair, she tells me I have strep throat, and that it's time for them to install a new valve and that I should spread my legs. I ask her what she's talking about. She says it's a very common procedure. I think about it for a second, and ask her "you mean you want to put in a rubber band anus?" She nods, I get up, call her crazy, point out that I'm only in my mid-30s, and walk out. I can't help but think about how many people got scammed and are walking around with artificial rubber band anuses.

Let's be thankful for Indians, octopuses and intoxicants, for they make life more interesting.

Posted by gav at 01:28 PM | Comments (0)

February 16, 2008

What I Did On My Summer and Winter Vacation

So I was starving on the west coast of New Zealand's South Island, where pretty much everything closes between 4pm and 8pm. After checking out some glaciers, I get back into town (yes, town, there's one real town on the west coast) of Greymouth at 9:55pm. There were two places open for another 5 minutes, KFC and Macca's. I chose KFC over McD's figuring cold fried chicken would be more edible than cold McD's if I kept some leftovers overnight while camping. So I ordered a couple of pieces of Hot'n'Spicy, and was so hungry I ate it all while in the parking lot.

I was going to be on the road another 300km that night, so I went to the public toilet and dropped some turds off and used my never-travel-without unscented baby wipes for a proper underarm and ass'n'tackle cleaning as there are no showers in public camping areas.

I hop into the car and 3 hours later I'm getting quite tired. I find a nice rest area, nestle myself between some 2' wide trees about 40' away from another camper, convert my Subaru Legacy station wagon to camping mode and pass out around 3am.

My cell phone woke me up at 7:15am because I forgot to shut off the alarm function the morning before. I furiously thwack at it in total confusion, disable the alarm, and then immediately think "oh shit, I have to shit" followed by a reflux burp of Hot'n'Spicy KFC chickenasty.

The windows fogged up overnight, so I open the door to look around, and realize that there are no toilets. And that my rest area is is between the inside of a curving highway and the top of a steep ravine. And that the other camper was still there. I grab my baby wipes and survey the area in more detail. There's no tree with an angle that shields me from view of both directions of highway travel or from the other campers. Shit. And I gotta shit.

Did I mention that I had to shit? Really really badly?

Back to the car and I get my roll of plastic sandwich bags, go to the side of the car that's away from traffic, open both front and rear doors toward the ravine side, making a stall. Not being used to "the position", I strip off my shorts and underwear, spread my legs, squat, and realize that the ground is covered in pine needles, which would essentially make the turd difficult to pick up without puncturing the small bag. A very quick decision later, and I put my bag-covered hand under my anus and let loose. And loose it was. Like melted mocha ice cream, but with cayenne pepper and an extra helping of shitsmell. Asshole now fully burning, I quickly turn the bag outside-in, grab another, and let go of round two, which too was liquidnasty. As I'm squatted there giggling, I hear a car door slam from the direction of the other camper, so I quickly invert the second bag, use up a couple of wipes, bag them, bag everything, pop on my underwear and shorts, rebag everything one more time, tie it off, and hit the road.

5 minutes later, I smell shit. It's either coming from my perianal region, or these bags are gas permeable. Being the scientist, I do a corolla test and waft my hand upwards from between my legs toward my nose, and only detected the nice usual sweet odor of a ham and cheese croissant... with no shit. (*note to self, find woman that loves ham and cheese croissants*)

The bag. The damn bag. The damn bag is leaking shitgas.

Did I mention that there are no public garbage cans in New Zealand? And that nobody litters? I *couldn't* leave the bag behind. I *had* to take it with me until I reached a town to throw it away at a gas station or something.

Hmm... Throwing away! What an excellent idea! Here's a word problem from Physics-for-4-Year-Olds 101: If you are going 100km/h and a cargo truck is coming at you at 100km/h, what would a thrown bag of shit look like after exploding on a truck's windshield at 200km/h?

Unfortunately, I successfully resisted the temptation to find out, but laughed out loud uncontrollably for about 5 minutes.

I'm a sick fuck.

A sick fuck that needs a shower and a proper toilet.

Now that's vacation.

Posted by gav at 01:57 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

March 13, 2003

Good logic gone bad

A conversation with Dmitry:

(08:36) Dmitry: nobody comes to dinner now
(08:36) Dmitry: we do not eat them anyhow
(09:00) Me: eat people? people don't eat people. people eat animals. animals aren't people. people are animals.

Posted by gav at 09:07 AM | Comments (0)

February 14, 2003

baba's

after dinner mints != inner ear mints

Posted by gav at 03:42 PM | Comments (0)

February 13, 2003

Crack pipes aren't just for crackwhores

I needed a winter car, so at the end of December I bought 3 squads from my local police department. Technically I bought 4, but I let the fire chief have one since it was his take-home car in its past life. The other three I got because nobody else showed up for the auction. I got a pretty good deal on the whole thing.

The first car that I drove was the 1998 Crown PI. After driving the '96 and '00, I felt best in the '98, so I decided to keep that one. I had a less fortunate friend that I sold the '96 to, and had to get the '00 repainted because it was a black-and-white. I took it to Maaco for a $500 paint job, and the fucked the thing up. It looks repulsive to me; it hurts when I see it. A friend's brother-in-law (Kevin) wrecked his car, so I let him have the '00 at cost.

Anyway, my friend looks me up this afternoon and asks me if I bothered to check under the seats before I sold the car. No, I didn't do squat to the squad. I took it to the dealer for a checkup and to get some issues taken care of, and to Maaco, and that was it. Well, the brother-in-law was driving home last night and one of the headlights was burnt out. That of course brought on the attention of a cop, who pulled Kevin over. Kevin was smoking in the car with the windows closed and had some old food in there, so the cop "suspected" that he smelled marijuana, and ended up searching the car. Neither he nor the dog found any marijuana, but they did find a crack pipe under the back seat. He explained that he just bought the car, that it was a former squad car, and the cops seized the drug equipment and let Kevin go.

Maybe I should check my car out just to make sure. It would suck having to talk my way out of drugs, guns, whatever might be stashed somewhere in the car. I'm pissed at myself for not checking Kevin's car. I could have had my own crack pipe.

Posted by gav at 10:47 PM | Comments (0)

February 12, 2003

Waking moments

I have a double-ring that I use for my overnight business phone. It wakes me up better than a normal ring. Anyway, about 2 years ago I had a double-ring number at home that has since been disconnected, and it used to end in 2929.

I was sleeping this morning when my double-ring rang. I answered it as usual but it was a wrong number, someone was looking for "Seivert's Electric" or somesuch. I told the lady that she had the wrong number and she seemed confused. I was thinking "No, lady, I'm fucking with you. This is really Seivert, and I really don't want your business at 7am." I told her goodbye and hung up and went back to sleep. The whole thing lasted maybe 7 seconds max.

As I started to drift back off to sleep, I started to think "What number did she misdial? Maybe it was 2299? 9292?" And then I passed out. Only when I woke up naturally did I realize that I don't have that 2929 number any more, but for some screwed up reason that was the first idea that came to my head.

I fucked up my own phone number trying to figure out why someone else couldn't get the number they were dialing right. I guess I can be wrong. This time it was because I was half asleep. I can accept that, and besides, I had nobody to apologize to. Is that arrogance?

Posted by gav at 10:28 PM | Comments (0)