Light Bulb

Thomas Edison did not actually invent the light bulb. What Edison actually discovered was a new method for stealing inventions from college students. Sadly he got away with it as the youth of America had no way to fight back, being deprived the advantage of inventive revenge. Wacky schemes and the all important rock montage would not be developed until the late 70s and would not become widespread until the Teen Movie explosion of 1981.

While light bulbs are plugged into electrical outlets, they actually run on fairy magic. The fairies make the filament glow while sucking electricity through a straw. The Electricity is just a front from the powerful “Keep Magic Secret” lobby.

The light bulb is probably a Chinese Invention, everything else seems to be.

New Cocktails: Coping Mechanism

When one is wiping out a group of people, one must follow a few simple rules. Remember that it must be stopped once a week as it is considered impolite to commit genocide on a Tuesday. It is also important to remember to keep a cyanide capsule at all times because no one wants to be caught murdering an entire group of human beings.

Always when deciding on the group to be eliminated, always use age-old methods. Never pick a group based on musical tastes, or style of clothing. These things are transitory and will often make you look like a cranky wanker rather than a monster bent on destruction. Religion and ethnic background are the most popular methods for selection, however it is not unheard of to choose a group based on medical conditions or political affiliation. The reasons for selection aren’t terribly important, so long as they sound either insane or amazingly petty to outsiders. The idea is to look like a complete douche when put on trial for crimes against humanity.

When one has selected a group, means and methods are up to the individual, however some things are now considered bad taste. Rubbing one’s genitals, buttocks, or the tangled guts of fallen foes against the sacred places of those fallen is strictly out of bounds. Likewise, phrases like “Ethnic Cleansing” and “Special Treatment” are no longer in fashion. One must now use phrases like “Riding the Chicken” and “Swatting the Monkey” in their place.




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The Australian Barn Owl

The Australian Barn Owl neither is neither an owl nor a denizen of barns. It's actually a small apple like fruit. The Australians credit the name as "Something to screw with the English, ya know?" It should also be noted that it comes from New Zealand.




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If You Don’t Know What a Libertine is, I Won’t Have Sex With You… Apparently

I don’t know why, but it sounds shallow to say that I didn’t sleep with someone because she didn’t know what the term Libertine meant. I feel it's snobbish, somehow, to set your standard on a single word. However, looking back on the situation... yeah that’s totally why we didn’t bang.

See, I met her through a mutual friend. Now he had some specific things to say about her, because he was kind of a tight-assed misogynist who I think was probably struggling with some issues regarding his own sexuality. That’s neither here nor there, but it’s important to understand that he said she was a slut who’d fuck boys or girls because she didn’t care and she was a slut. Yes, he started and ended the sentence with the slut declaration. Now, if you know me, you know where this is going. I had to meet this person. If this guy I knew was going into full granny pearl clutching mode, I had to meet the person who was causing those pearls to be clutched.

And she was... really good looking. I mean, really cute and had the sort of body that makes a guy in his mid-twenties sit up and take notice. And she had... a habit. She would laugh and lean against whoever was nearest and press herself against them and press her cheek next to theirs and laugh and it was MUTHAFUCKIN’ enticing. She had a certain sexual aggression, which I like, and a confidence of self which I’m also a fan of. Her stated preferences, sexual and otherwise, put check marks in a lot of boxes for me. I'm way into sluts is what I'm saying.

One of the first conversations we had, she was driving and either I mentioned that he had told me about her or she had asked if he had. I can’t remember and I don’t intend to go into the fine details of the memory palace to find out. I could, but what the fuck is the point? The important part of this story is that I admitted he had indeed mentioned her to me.

“He said you were something of a modern day libertine.” I said, she said she studied poetry and literature, so I figured that little softball would be good.

“What does that mean?” She asked, which I judged to be a decent question, because that statement could go multiple ways.

“Well, I’ll admit, those weren’t his exact words. I’m not sure he knows what a libertine is.”

“Well, I don’t know what that is.” she admitted, and I kind of deflated a little.

“He intimated that you were a sexually free individual.” I said, because I had all these two cent words, I’d already paid for them, fuck if they were going to rest on the goddamn shelf!

“Did he call me a slut?” She asked.

“Yeah, that was closer to his terminology.” I said. “And he said you didn’t make distinctions between genders.”

“I’m bi if that’s what he means.”

And that was the first problem, there were others, but that was a problem. I mean... I mean... I mean I’m sitting here on the bench, I’m sitting here on the not getting Altoid blowjobs bench, because she doesn’t know what a libertine is. And do not think for one moment that was her idea, because telling me she had Altoids and mentioning how amazing they made her blowjobs was very much her idea. Her ideas had to do with me getting peppermint blowjobs as a starter. Then we’d go over to a friend and she would show me exactly how bi she could be.

Looking back as I am now, I should have been all over that. She was hot, into me, and while trying to court me explained that she had absolutely zero limits if only I would make suggestions. She enjoyed the sort of music I liked, she enjoyed the kind of sexual shenanigans I enjoy. And there was no good reason to avoid this, besides having a slight, niggling feeling that to bang her would be a violation of Rule #2, which I knew better than to ignore. Her habit of sliding her hand down the front of my shirt to run her fingers through my chest hair could have overcome that though, I’m pretty sure.

But she didn’t know what was meant by the term “libertine” and a apparently, that’s my Rubicon. Or my Durin’s Bridge if you are of a geekier mindset. Instead, we did nothing. There is more than the one word, she had a certain level of incuriosity about the world. She just wasn't someone I could stoop down to mentally and she wasn't up to climbing my mental tree. As a result, I never laid an indecent hand on her (my right, if you're keeping track) , or even kissed her, because she missed out on basic terms. Had she known what the term meant, I could have been – it’s unsavory to say what (or where) I could have been, frankly.

So the moral of this story, and there is one, is that frogs should never give rides to scorpions. Or something. I don't know, do what you want.

Interesting Facts: Blue Whales

The Blue Whale is actually the smallest of all cetaceans. The reason people think it’s the largest is due to it having hired a Washington D.C. public relations firm to look after its image. It is also the least trustworthy of whales, prone to lying and blaming others for its problems. In many ways, the Blue Whale is entirely to blame for the Credit Crunch of 2008.




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Assassination Etiquette

When one has been hired by a discerning gentleman, to remove another gentleman for various reasons, one must abide by the highest of standards. It matters not that the risk of capture raises or the difficulty of the kill becomes increased. If one does not wish to deal with certain issues, one should not become a “Personal Removal Expert” and simply retain the title of “Thug what kills people for money” which can hardly even be called a job much less a profession. If one desires pay and respectability, one must adhere to professional codes of conduct.

Introduction to Client
One must always meet prospective clients in the most discrete and secure locations possible. Never show off, boast or otherwise make a spectacle of oneself. One must always retain a sense of dignity that comes from being able to kill everyone in the room. The client must always feel that you are the most dangerous thing within fifty miles, and that all other things are submissive to you. It is important to radiate a sanguine and calm nature to the client, while making sure they understand that when they come to you, the job will be performed to their exacting specifications.

While one may wish to ask for money upfront, one should only take clients who can offer assurance of being able to afford one’s special services. The unspoken risk of penalty for non-payment will make sure the client pays on time. Always make sure to understand the exact target. One simply does not have group rates, only single persons or possibly husband and wife teams if extra money is provided. Always make sure to exactly outline the specifics of the job before you commence, including under what circumstances each will consider the job completed and when you will be paid. Under no circumstances however, should one ever explain their methods to the client. All the client ever needs to know is that the job will be completed within the specified time.


Investigating the Target
One must deeply investigate the target for removal carefully. One should never refer to this step as “stalking” as stalking is something a “Thug what kills people for money” does. This is simply researching the target carefully to find the best moment to efficiently remove the subject from the population. Learn every facet of the target’s life and habits. If possible, get to know the target intimately in order to fully understand them.

A well-laid plan is essential. One must pick a time and place to eliminate the target with as little fuss as possible. Choosing the proper tool is just as important and should be an integral part of the planning stage. Method and means are just as important as time and place. Choose a tool that fits the subject, and always make sure the method is well thought out. Careful planning is the key to everything.

Outside Assistance
Optimally, the number of accomplices should be kept to a minimum. However, one might need to procure weapons, papers, vehicles or entry into important places. When these cannot be procured on one’s own, one may find it necessary to work with others. When this happens, always keep information to a minimal. Never allow anyone to know anything besides the exact technical specifications of what one needs.

Prices should always be agreed upon in advance and no matter what changes might have to be made, they should always be honored. A true professional will also hand over any plans and scrap material when the job is finished. Payment must of course be made either in cash or through a known agent or bank. Never deal with unknown moneychangers.

Removing the Target
While one may need to eliminate members of security or other staff, unless forced by circumstance, killing staff is beneath the true professional. Such showboating as walking through the front door and taking out an entire security retinue is strictly gauche. One must always pick a time and place where the target is either unguarded or otherwise vulnerable to delivery. It serves no purpose to engage an entrenched entourage head on when slipping in the back can work just as well. Remember, no one is paying you for the staff.

When eliminating a target, one must make sure to provide as clean and neat a service as possible. One must remember the phrase “die young and leave a beautiful corpse” and apply it to the target. There is no reason to leave gallons of blood, exposed organs, or any remains that would make an open casket funeral an unwise prospect. Leave as small a mark on the body, or make a small wound that would be covered by a suit. One should always make sure to leave a small calling card, so as to let people know that a true professional has performed this act.




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Etiquette: Committing genocide

When one is wiping out a group of people, one must follow a few simple rules. Remember that it must be stopped once a week as it is considered impolite to commit genocide on a Tuesday. It is also important to remember to keep a cyanide capsule at all times because no one wants to be caught murdering an entire group of human beings.

Always when deciding on the group to be eliminated, always use age-old methods. Never pick a group based on musical tastes, or style of clothing. These things are transitory and will often make you look like a cranky wanker rather than a monster bent on destruction. Religion and ethnic background are the most popular methods for selection, however it is not unheard of to choose a group based on medical conditions or political affiliation. The reasons for selection aren’t terribly important, so long as they sound either insane or amazingly petty to outsiders. The idea is to look like a complete douche when put on trial for crimes against humanity.

When one has selected a group, means and methods are up to the individual, however some things are now considered bad taste. Rubbing one’s genitals, buttocks, or the tangled guts of fallen foes against the sacred places of those fallen is strictly out of bounds. Likewise, phrases like “Ethnic Cleansing” and “Special Treatment” are no longer in fashion. One must now use phrases like “Riding the Chicken” and “Swatting the Monkey” in their place.




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New Cocktails: Fortune and Glory

Does anyone over the age of 30 actually believe in that whole “One Last Job” myth anymore? I did once, and as a celebration of that One Last Job, (the one in Munich not the one in Peru or the one in Lyon or the one in Madrid) that I did with Elsa and Josephine. But there is never truly “One Last Job” in this business. That’s the most important thing to remember. Because if you can keep going in this business and not get burned or killed, then someone is going to ask you to go in for that score that you just can’t refuse.

Still though, this is a great little number to drink after you’ve gotten to the end of a big job. Once you’ve got the 270 million in bonds, or the hard drives, or the Rembrandt, or whatever it was that we were getting in Peru... I honestly never knew what was in that case but the Israelis REALLY wanted it pretty bad.

1 Measure Goldschlager
1 Measure Krug Clos Du Mesnil 1998
1 Measure Peppered Vodka You can get Absolute Peppar if you must, but really it’s best to do these things yourself.


Place all in a mixing glass, stir twice (and only twice) with a Bar Spoon, pour into Cocktail Glass. =

Interesting Facts: Corfu

The Kalif or Boss of Corfu has, by tradition, six wives and two husbands. This is because while a new Kalif may have more, they must never have less spouses than the last. When Margaret McGonagall became Kalif in 1842 she brought her then Husband and another man who she promptly married as well. This means that the Kalif of Corfu is the only world leader to have a gay marriage that is mandated by local laws. This is extraordinary, as the Greek Government has been convinced that Corfu sank into the ocean and became a part of Spain in 1422.




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Tales I Tell: Mount Olympus

Did I ever tell you about the time I set fire to Mount Olympus? I won’t make excuses, and I refuse to dwell on details, but I will say that no one cheats me out of my payment and leave it at that. One might think they’re all-powerful and have all that “Power of a God” crap going on, but when it comes to thermite, everything burns. I don’t like going to those sorts of extremes, but sometimes people have to be taught a lesson.


So, yeah, long story short is that I can’t go back to Greece until I get a new fake passport.

Old Cocktails: Martini

It is of the utmost importance to know what sort of drink one is ordering when at a bar. If one gets it wrong, one will not be accepted into any but the lowest and least interesting circles of society. It is for that reason that we stress how important it is to make sure one knows what mixed drinks they are asking for and can create those drinks on a moment’s notice.

A Martini is made up of four to six parts gin and one part vermouth. You put these liquids into a glass with ice and stir before straining the mixture into the severing vessel. An olive on a stick, or possibly a piece of lemon peel may also be added if one is feeling frisky. Any other addition is merely pointing to poor breeding and a sorry upbringing.The true artist knows when to stop, and will leave perfection alone.

If you shake a martini, you deserve to have the lousy watered down excuse for drink that bruised gin and melted ice will give you. Also, that’s called Bradford, and not a Martini. While popular fiction has implanted the idea of what a martini is, that idea is wholly and completely wrong. Similarly, if someone asks for a Vodka Martini, you are allowed to tell them that there is no such drink and then stab them in the eye with a swizzle stick. It may seem like a breach of etiquette to lash out with violence, but it’s the only language those people understand. Likewise, if anyone ever asks in your hearing for "A dirty martini. Really dirty, make mine positively filthy." and then adds it with "Haw, haw. I'm so clever." You are not only allowed, you are expected to kill that person by drowning them in whatever vessel contains enough liquid to get the job done. It's the only way they'll learn.

Vodka mixed with Vermouth already has a name, it’s called a Kangaroo and the inclusion of vodka makes it hideously undrinkable. James Bond’s horrific abomination of a shaken martini made of 3 parts gin, one vodka, and ½ a measure of Orange Bitters with a dash of Quinine (Since Kina Lillet is no longer available) also already has a name. It’s called a Vesper and not a Martini. Again, I point you to the fact that even Ian Fleming knew he would deserve to be stabbed in the eye for that.

Tell you what, print this out, put it on a card, and then tattoo it over your heart. (Probably backward, so you can read it in the mirror)

Martini
3 shots gin (while I love Bombay Sapphire for anything else, the best gin for a martini, in my experience, is Hendrick’s)
½ shot Dry Vermouth
½ shot Sweet Vermouth

Put lots of ice in a glass, then introduce the ingredients like a gentleman. Stir gently with a bar spoon and then strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Serve either with a single olive on a stick, or if you are part of the advanced class, rub a lemon peel on the glass before pouring and serve straight.

Etiquette: Jointing a Gangster

When one has recently killed and must dispose of a gangster, special care should be taken to ensure the proper disposal of that gangster. Cutting the legs, arms and head from the torso makes moving easier and allow the body to be buried over a larger area. One must be careful when disassembling said gangster though, for both etiquette and expedience. Never use a hand saw to cut the body to pieces. This is both messy and if performed improperly, needlessly time consuming. Never attempt to cut through bones, as this will add to cutting time, and may dull or damage tools.

Instead, use a large carving knife, and dismember the gangster as you would a turkey. Always cut at the joints, where the tendons can be easily sliced. Cut at the shoulders and hips. Step on the joints and use the pressure of your boot to pop the balls from their sockets. Place each limb in a separate, double bagged sack.

When decapitating, take care in your cutting to avoid the spinal bones and understand the head will take some time to remove. To avoid this step, simply smack the jaw area with a hammer to dislodge or break the teeth. This will make identification through dental records more difficult. Burning of clothes, papers and other goods is also recommended during this step.

When removing the body, always make sure any blood has been properly cleaned up. The polite murderer never leaves a mess behind them. Remember, others may have to use this space later. Consideration for their feelings is important. You may think you’re sending a message by leaving the head of your defeated foe on the table, but the only statement that makes is that you failed to notice you didn’t have the head with you when you left. A simple card, or symbol mailed later will suffice to let people know what you did.



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Why Do You Still Need Feminism? (A Discussion About Food Preparation)

We sat at the counter and ate and drank. "Did you make the spaghetti sauce?" she said.
"Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can."
"And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?"
"Yep. Got that from my mother."
She shook her head. "Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing."
"Nope. I'll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark."
"Why?"
"If you'd cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It's because I'm a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti." I said.
She did. Me too.

Promised Land - By Robert B. Parker (1976)


There is something you are taught in therapy, I have been told. I myself have never had more than a brief fling with therapy (it becoming obvious quite quickly that it actually wasn’t me that had the problem the one time I went in for real) but I have been told and I have read a lot. You’re not supposed to make “You Statements” when you talk about something bothering you, but rather “I Statements”. It’s not supposed to be “You do this to annoy me!” but instead go for “I am annoyed by this.” which brings charges that therapy makes people selfish, because they talk more about themselves than they do about other people. I’m often thrown by this, because the complaint often becomes “She just talks about herself and doesn’t want to gossip anymore.” or “They won’t just sit and listen to me anymore!” and I check out of the conversation from there. As a result, I’m going to try to use a lot of I Statements here, because I want to talk about how a thing effects me as well as others.


I’ve listened to a lot of Men’s Rights stuff over the last few years, and almost agreed with some of it. The problem is that they often loose me the more they talk, see if you can see where I’m going with this little playlet.

MRA – Men aren’t allowed to be what they want in this society!
Me – Okay, you’ve almost got something of a point there. (Let’s see what you do with it)
MRA – We’re as trapped as women by the expectations of modern life.
Me – Here! Here! (Why can’t a man wear a dress?)
MRA – Which is why feminism needs to go away!
Me – I’m sorry?
MRA – Women need to get back into the kitchen and remember their place!
Me – Wha-Huh?
MRA – And then men can be MEN again!
Me – What in the seven levels of hell are you talking about?
MRA – Bitches won’t date me! I’m Unwillingly Celibate!
Me – Um....
MRA – I mean, I open doors and everything.
Me – Okay, you need to shut up now or I will beat you to death with this small decorative elephant that a relative gave me as a memento of their trip to Mexico. Why a brass elephant from Mexico, I’ve always wondered, but I will kill you with it.
MRA – You’re just saying that because *URK*!
Me – *thump* Muthafucka! *thump* I did say. *thumpthumpthump*


NOW! Why was I even listening to this person at the start? It has to do with the quote I started with. A person starting with that phrase can go one of two ways, you can either go towards some idea of gender equality, or towards the idea that you should be handed “hot bitches” free with every oil change. I am not going to go into the whole argument here, but if you shower and if you open doors because you’re polite (instead of making a speech about chivalry and how now people OWE YOU for being a decent person) then things will actually go easier for you. It’s not that women love jerks, if they did, they’d go for some of you self-professed Nice Guys.

That’s not even what I called you all here to discuss!

I cook, I have always cooked, ever since I was a child I have cooked. When I have cooked, there have always been people who have treated this like it’s some kind of magic. As if I stood back away from the stove, rolled up my sleeves and yelled “Ala-ca-muthafuckin-ZAM!” and with a brilliant yellow flash (which would mean there was sodium in the mixture) there was suddenly food. Even people who themselves knew how to cook treated this mystical skill of mine like something I learned at the feet of Wong Fei Hung. Because I was a male, and cooking, it was regarded as an odd and noteworthy event.

I was quite old before I realized that I actually could cook quite well, enviably well in fact. That it wasn’t just people reacting to the notion of a male-child applying the mystic roots and ancient flames to ingredients in order to create food from non-edible matter. The concept of a male cooking has become less noteworthy over the last twenty years or so, but well into my early twenties it was still an odd and interesting thing to talk about. That I was basically the only one in our house that did the cooking, was often seen as weird and frankly wrong.

Now, Syd can cook some. In that she can cook some things, when she puts her mind to it. I suppose if she had to cook all the time, she would probably be good at it, but she doesn’t need to. Holly could just about toast bread and spread peanut butter on it without burning the house down. She was more than happy to let me do the cooking, because she had no interest at all. In fact, most the women I’ve dated haven’t had much use for the notion of cooking, allowing someone else to do it as much as possible. Just a thing, like so many others. Women I have dated have many a similarity. ANYWAY. I get annoyed at the idea though, that because I cook I am performing magic. It’s bad enough when I actually do something magical, like make a marshmallow. It’s doubly annoying when someone treats any application of heat to food like I’ve performed some kind of goddamned miracle and should have statues erected in my fabulous honor. (Note, I’m not saying cancel the statue, it’s a great statue, but honor my skills as a world-class lover, not as someone who can cook.)

The problem with all gender issues boils down to the cooking thing for me. Sexual identity means something to me, because all identity issues mean something to me. How you identify yourself is important, because without self-identity where are you? What you decide to be, who you are, how you act, how you present yourself to the world, it all has an impact. Sometimes it’s changing everything about you (even fixing physical errors you were stuck with by the cheap dvergar laborers that the gods hire for people construction) and sometimes it’s just doing what you feel most comfortable with.

Cooking should not be considered some kind of transsexual affair, and I should be considered a hero for doing it. And yet, I was by people who thought they were admiring me. I often got treated like I was some brave pioneer, throwing off the yoke of gender identity roles while... I dunno, cooking without an apron. I have never worn an apron, I don’t tuck a towel into my belt either. I just keep a hand towel on the stove and this isn’t important. I was actually called “Pretty Brave” by someone who was well meaning and thought they were delivering a compliment. When asked to elaborate, they said some people would “call you queer for doing that” and that “it’s kinda gay for a guy to cook” but that I made it “look masculine”. I almost felt bad killing that person and leaving their body in a peat bog but it was the only way people will learn! Now remember, that was supposed to be a compliment. It didn’t feel like one at the time, and the person began to see how I felt about it as the interview continued.

No one has ever tried to insult me, or threaten me because I canoodle in the kitchen (cooks have VERY big knives) but they do belittle the event with this notion of gender normativism. It’s deeply insulting to think that only a woman is really supposed to cook, and it harms both me and the woman not cooking to say so. That, if I may conclude where I intended to begin, is why I still need feminism. Yeah, it’s not as big as other people’s, but I’m a cis-gendered middle class white male. If I don’t like something you do or say to me, I’m still legally allowed to burn your house down (unless you are an upper-class white male) because, you know, privilege. That’s just it though, as a therapeutic tool, this has to be about me, not about you. Still though, it’s a sign, one that comes even up to the cis-gendered middle class white guy level that says “Shit’s still broken!” and asks us to fix it. The deeper we go, the more problems we're going to find, and if this one made it to the surface...

When I’m still being applauded for being a man that cooks, and rape culture is still a thing that people pretend doesn’t exist, and gender stereotypes are still rigidly enforced... can any of us say we’re truly free? There are eight million stories in the Naked City Internet, this is one of them.

Interesting Facts: Vuvuzela

Despite what you've heard, Isambard Kingdom Brunel actually invented the vuvuzela. He did this mostly as an early attempt at trans-continental communication. This became untenable when the trans-Atlantic telegraph cable was put in place.

Augustus Caesar really, really hated the vuvuzela. He thought they were a plot hatched by the Milk Marketing Board. But then, he was nuts. In actuality, it was a plot from the powerful Fortune Cookie Cabal.

Little known fact: Rita Hayworth started off as a Vuvuzela saleswoman.


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New Cocktails: Samurai Girl

Do you know why this cocktail exists? Satire. Someone asked me why I have no “Japan-themed” cocktails, since I love samurai movies so much. So I came up with this adaptation of a frozen margarita on the spot. The worst part is, it’s actually a decent drink. The reason it’s a Samurai Girl is twofold. One, the sweetness marks it out as a girl drink. Two, I had just got done watching Azumi and decided that was as good a thing as any to nail this drink to the wall.


2 parts Sake You don’t need high quality stuff, but you should get something with a + Value
2 parts Tequila
1 part Irish Cream
1 cup Frozen Strawberries
1 cup Orange Juice
1 cup Crushed Ice


First, remember to be sensitive when dealing with other people’s cultures. Second, as you’re probably already drunk when you make this, forget what I just said. Be as stereotypical as possible. If that means strapping on a six gun and donning a ten gallon hat, so be it. This is no time to be a decent human being. Put everything into a blender that you use for no other purpose besides mixing cocktails. Explain in a loud voice that if you used it for anything else you would dishonor yourself and have to commit to Harry Kerry, whoever he is. Probably some drunken Irishman, amirite? Anyway, whip the contents until smooth. Serve in a margarita glass and garnish with a cherry skewered on a mini samurai sword to show the full range of your cultural sensitivity.

Champagne in Paris: How It Became Evident That I Am a Character in a Movie

You know what? I am a fictional character, and I have incontrovertible proof. Have I told you the champagne story? No? Okay, sit down and I will unfurl this tale of truth. That’s a fancy way of saying this is a true story. This is one story of about a hundred and sixty three, but in a way it’s the story that proves everything.

I had been in France for all of three hours. I’d fallen asleep on the train from Chuck The Gallbladder and we were looking around Paris. I was there with my girlfriend at the time, since it’s France, we’ll call her Lezette. It sounds better than to say I was visiting a girl name Holly, which makes it sound like I was dating Angela from “Who’s The Boss” a contention she would agree with, but I would argue.

Now, in Paris there is an Obelisk. There was a giant Ferris Wheel, in front of The Louvre and in front of the Ferris Wheel there is still and obelisk. I only mention the Ferris Wheel that stood in the Place de la Concorde because I was given a choice. We could see the Ferris Wheel, or we could see the obelisk. This is important. I had an illusion of choice. If you are caught up in the story, you believe that I could have either gone to the obelisk or the ferris wheel. Not true, because I am not a real person, I am the main character in a movie. I have no agency, I have no free will, the writer and the director decided that I had to go to the obelisk.

Wait, I must set the scene, that’s important too. October in Paris is like May in Michigan. It’s warm, but it also rains and everything weather wise has that sort of constant changing aspect that brings a touch of magic to whatever you’re doing. The ground is wet from the rain, but it’s warm and inviting and there is going to be an adventure if you just go out and find it. It was night, I can’t remember how late, but late enough that the sun was gone. Not so late that the city was deserted. I’ve been to Boston, New York, LA, Cleveland... nothing shuts down like Paris does. After Midnight it’s like walking around a Film Noir where you know stuffs happening somewhere, but the streets are deserted.

So anyway, it was probably around ten at night, still warm and inviting and still fun to be had. Now, for reasons that aren’t always clear to outsiders I was being silly. I didn’t just walk, I stopped across the road saying “Gobalisk, goblalisk, gobalisk.” If you repeat the word “Obelisk” quite quickly, it sort of sounds like that and if I think something sounds sort of like something I push it and make it sound like that. This is both sort of childish and something that Lezette found deeply attractive at the time. She’d grown up in a world where people acted with dignity, a world where people wanted the approval of others, a word where people did not stomp and bounce their head and repeat the word “Gobalisk” over and over. She lived in a world where people behaved themselves, and did the things adults are supposed to do. In short, she had never seen someone who so utterly and completely failed at the single most important life-task of all, giving a shit.

Now, while I am completely distracted by my goofiness, a Frenchwoman approaches me with a bottle of champagne and a paper cup. Yeah, I’m talking a Dixie Cup here. She then approaches and speaks the sort of gibberish you get in France, probably a local dialect of some variety. Anyone know what the hell The French are supposed to speak? No, of course not, they’re just making up sounds! We’re just all so intimidated by the French being all French that we don’t call them on their bullshit.

Lezette makes a hand wave, because she never actually did ANYTHING in her life before I came along. I however, did everything until that moment in my mid-thirties, but that’s another story. This was Ocotober of 2001 and I did everything. So this woman is standing with her Dixie cup and her bottle and Lezette is trying to wave her off and if speaking apologetically in the local gibberish and I interject because that’s what you do when you are fictional. I spoke up, and I asked a question, and I caused a problem.

“Hold on, what’s she saying?” I asked, and it was that moment that the whole fake language thing dropped. See, French people can all speak English, most of them can do so better than those raised with the language.

“Oh,” She said smiling and it was that moment that I got a good look at this woman under the unflattering sodium lights. “Tonight is my hen party and my friends say I have to give a stranger champagne.” She then paused for a moment and added. “For luck!”

Her friends waved to me as I looked over at them and I smiled. I’m pretty sure Lezette was having the internal conflict equivalent of a conniption fit. This is not the sort of situation she had ever been in, or envisioned she might be in. A complete stranger, probably a lunatic, offering a cup of what simply had to be poison, so they could distract us before stabbing us to death. Our bodies would wash up on the shores of Lower Mongolia, which for those of you paying attention is a landlocked country. In her head though, we were dead the moment she talked to us.

“Okay.” I agreed “If it’s for luck.”

I took a big gulp, and the French woman and I stand cheek to cheek, she with a crystal flute and I with my Dixie cup while her friends photograph us. I wish her luck, she refills my Dixie cup, and we part ways. I stick my arm through Lezettes and we walk towards The Fountain of River Commerce and Navigation and she sort of looks at me and the conversation begins...

“I have lived in Paris for two years, and you’ve been here for roughly two hours.”

“Yeah. You want some of this?”

“Sure.”

“Is it any good? I know nothing about champagne.”

“How the hell do you do that?”

“Limited experience with it I suppose.”

“I have never had someone offer me champagne. she just walked up to you and gave you champagne.”

“You would have refused to have anything to do with that situation.”

“No one has ever even offered.”

“Sorry.”

“It makes me feel like the sidekick in a movie.”

“It’s my world. You’re just living in it.”

“No.”

“No?”

“These things don’t really happen in real life, you’re a character in a movie. You can’t really exist. You have to be a fictional character.”

This wasn’t the last conversation I would have about this subject. It wasn’t the last I would have with her, or with other people. There is the fact that people have trouble telling the difference between me telling a true story like this, and a tale of complete balderdash. Someone actually said to me recently “If anyone I know has traveled back in time and shot Hitler six times, it was probably you.” which tells you exactly the sort of thing I’m up against.

We’ve all been there.

I was sitting in a bar in Malta, waiting for my contact with a briefcase full of something unsavory, drinking the local excuse for beer, listening to a guy from Wales explaining the power of the Hulkamaniacs, when it occurred to me I needed to have my medication checked. Seriously, I have no recollection as to how I actually got to Malta, nor do I remember exactly what was in the case, or if ever I knew. All I can remember is that I was supposed to get it to Serbia and that the man at the other end would finish paying my fee.

I do remember that girl at the end of the bar though, but it would be hard to forget her after all the trouble she caused. Still, how many of us haven't gotten on the wrong side of the Mafia now and then over some little cutie in a bar? She’s fine by the way, living under an assumed name some place nice. That’s all the detail you need. Pretty sure there’s no one left alive with a grudge, but you can never be too sure.

I did eventually get the case into Serbia, and got myself out, but that’s a story for another day.

Old Cocktails: Manhattan (Paris Edition)

Back in the day, when I was living in Paris, I came across this drink. I was making my living by pretending to be a swami, bilking tourists and millionaires out of their “hard earned” cash while telling them “futures” which turned out to be “eerily accurate”. Of course, since I told most of them that they would be robbed blind and might end up dead, and the whole thing was a front for a band of robbers, the accuracy was more my way of trying to warn them and less powers from the darkest reaches.

One of the people who helped arrange clients for me to talk to was a young Italian named Josephine Tutaunt. Why an Italian girl was going around with a faux French name evades me to this day, but as I was calling my self Gregor DiCinzo, I can’t really complain. The recipe I am about to divulge is the one I remember best because it was the one Josephine liked to sip between… things we did in her little Pigalle apartment.

It was not like I had never had a Manhattan before, it being a fairly well known mixer, but the way the young lady in question made them was divine. Normally and properly, it’s supposed to be Kentucky Bourbon, Italian Vermouth and Angostura Bitters with a maraschino cherry dropped in with a bit of the syrup. However, nothing Josephine did was either normal or proper, that was my favorite thing about her. Her way of making them went as such…

4 Measures Irish Whiskey
2 Measures Vermouth
2 Drops Angostura Bitters
2 Drop Lemon Bittrs
1/2 Measure Grenadine
1 fresh strawberry (sliced in half)

Put the whiskey, vermouth, bitters and grenadine into a mixing glass with ice. Stir with a bar spoon while promising your current plaything all the enjoyment they’re about to have. Strain into two Cordial Glasses and drop the strawberries into the drinks. Drink slowly, paying special attention to remove the strawberry from the glass using only your tongue. Make passionate and continual love until another drink is required.

Serves two. If you have more than one plaything waiting, increase the amounts accordingly.

Shelter Protocol

When the Atomic War strikes and Armageddon is upon us, rules of etiquette and decorum still apply.

While it is important not to allow your personal bomb shelter to become over-crowded by waves of your panicking neighbors who came less prepared, one should remember not to allow the situation to get away from oneself. Brandishing a weapon might become necessary at some point, but even the lethal force is rarely considered polite. Never start with the shotgun, simply explain that the shelter only holds so many and there simply is not longer any room.

Never resort of vulgarity. Screaming “Back off motherfucker, or I’ll spray you all over the landscape” rarely makes anything better and never earns us any friends. Instead a simple “If required, I will shoot you… motherfucker” spoken in a calm and steady voice will be sufficient in most circumstances.



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Interesting Facts: Callisto

Callisto, the fourth moon of Jupiter and the third moon of Saturn (by weight) is actually a former asteroid that was caught and tamed by the gas giant’s gravity. It was originally a small scrap of rock, but has filled out quite nicely under the care of a loving owner. Callisto is actually the fifth name this moon has had. Each society to discover it has given it a different name, although all of those names have turned up as characters on Xena Warrior Princess.

Scientists speculate that below the surface of Callisto lies the biggest depository of raspberry jam existent in the galaxy. By 2036, NASA hopes to launch a probe that will be able to drill into the candy shell of Callisto can extract the jam for immediate retrieval. It’s hoped that the jam will arrive before the raspberry blight, which will wipe out the species in 2051. Said blight being long planned by the powerful Cherry Confederation who have long been tired of Raspberry’s popularity with the jam buying public.




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New Cocktails: It Sure Does Burn

It’s an odd thing, gaining a reputation in the international underworld community as a great bartender. Anyone can put a bullet in a public leader, or garrote a troublesome witness, but knowing how to make a good Mai Tai is something akin to magic. It can get you out of a lot of trouble, if people know about your skills. No one wants to kill a mixologist, or a cook. You can read a book, or listen to an mp3 player, or watch a dirty movie on your phone, all the other old skills have been taken over by technology. People sitting around an old barn outside Belgrade waiting for their contact need to eat and they need to drink. Even if you’ve betrayed people in the past, all can be forgiven when you take what had been thought of as meager supplies and deliver a tasty meal. If you can also mix the local paint thinner with whatever other liquids are at hand and produce something that doesn’t make people despair of life with the first sip, you will be like a protected species.

So I was in that barn outside Belgrade, and OF COURSE I’d hidden the money away. If I’d given it to that lot they’d just have spent it on the thug equivalent of sweets and comic books. No, far better it stay in my hands, I think we can all agree on that. The thing is, the guys I was working with had these... ideas about people not sharing out the wealth. Fortunately, I knew about this ahead of time. While we waited I made them up this little cocktail and got them to drink it.

1 measure vodka
1 measure Benzine
1 measure Gin
1 measure Hydrogen Peroxide
1 measure Ronsonol Lighter Fluid

Place a glass pitcher no metal or plastic please, onto the bar. Pour each ingredient into the glass carefully and put in the refrigerator. It’s best if no one actually sees you mixing this, because if they knew what you were up to they’d kill you. And considering what you’re up to, they have a point.

Stir with a wooden spoon, to avoid any possible corrosion. You’re dealing with some nasty stuff, after all.

Now, when it comes to service you probably will only have access to some kind of bar glasses but really you want martini glasses if you can get them. Pour the concoction into the chilled glasses, and stir with a peppermint stick three times counter clockwise.

Now, it’s at this point that you get a little unconventional. Wait for everyone to have a sip. If you’ve mixed right, it will be unpleasant for them, but they won’t actually notice that you’ve poisoned them. You take out the pencil torch you’ve been keeping in your pocket and light yours up. It’s at this point you hurl the rest of the pitcher’s contents at your befuddled former compatriots. The whole thing should go up quite magnificently and they may spill some of their own drinks and that’ll add to the blaze. It’s at this point that you grab the pistol under the bar and start shooting. Now I used a Walther P99 but anything with a reasonable magazine capacity can be brought to the party. Remember, you are double crossing armed thugs who have killed many times, now is not the time to pretend you never miss or that a Baby Browning .25 is as good as a Glock 9mm.

How Hipsters Taught Me The Beauty of The World

Scientists say that complaining is a part of life. It’s unavoidable, because it’s a necessary part of existence. It’s chemical, people MUST complain about things. If you have nothing to complain about, life ends, so you must find whatever tiny irritant exists to have something to complain about.

Now, we’re supposed to hate hipsters, despise them in fact. We’re supposed to call them shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space for being the total shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space that they are. BUT WAIT! Just hang on a moment, give me a few minutes of your time and let me tell you about how Hipsters changed my mind about life, the universe and everything.

In 2008, Polaroid (or what remained of it) announced it would no longer be making instant film. The hipsters, true to their rather worthless form, treated this as the sign that the apocalypse had begun. They rushed to LiveJournal and tumblr and bitched and moaned about how unfair it was. Oh the howls, oh the moans, of the gnashing of teeth and wailing into the wind my dears, my darlings.

“Oh shut the fuck up!” cried many a denizen of this fine internet.

“First World Problems!” Declared others in a firm and steady voice.

BUT! If I may, allow us to examine this from another angle, I think you may see that actually these hipsters carry with them the promise of heaven.

YEAH! I said it. Promise of Heaven.

Think about this for a moment, if you will. Or rather, dig if you will the picture...

This life is a sad veil of tears, yeah? But there are, in mythology, beings called messengers or envoys. These beings enjoy a more joyous and perfect life. In Greek, the word used to describe such perfect creatures is ángelos. They bring us glad tidings, they bring us hope. We can look towards these creatures, some beautiful, some hideous, some both, and know that perfection can be achieved.

Now consider this for a moment. There are mortals who enjoy lives so encapsulated by bliss, so crystalline and flawless, so utterly and completely perfect that the only thing, THE ONLY THING, that they have to complain about is that an economically unviable product, from a bankrupt company, was no longer going be to available for their use. The rest of their time is spent liking things before they were cool, buying albums they bought on itunes a months ago on vinyl, and growing their facial hair. We’re still complaining about pain, physical pain. We complain about crippling depression, bigotry, sickness, and the simple basic difficulty of getting over the betrayal of loved ones. We are too much of this earth, ever too much in the sun.

While we concern ourselves of these base and low concerns, these... these... these plaid clad angels with ugly horn rim glasses and handle bar mustaches walk among us. Yes, you might argue that there is a reason people stopped having handle bar mustaches, but they disagree and besides it took her so much effort to grow. Who are we to disagree? They are, as I said angels, walking abroad among us in this world.

YES! Brothers and Sisters! I say unto you, that these angels are a promise of a better world! One where the only thing we have to worry about is Polaroid film and someone, somewhere, liking something before we liked it. They are a PROMISE my dears, my darlings. They live in a world of unutterable beauty, of inexcusable perfection. They are our angels.

In point of fact, they’re better than angels. Real Angels are like... Wheels of Fire! With a giant eye looking out from the middle. If one of those showed up, you’d think Sauron had just showed up and you’d just sit there trying to scream, but no words would come out. At least with a Hipster you know the reason you’re not saying anything is because you’re biting back a lot of comments.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this is satire, that I’m being comical. That’s a reasonable supposition, particularly if you’ve read me before, but no! I’m being serious.

The world is a beautiful and glorious place, and all I had to do was to look at it like these mindless creatures, who are so far above that even thought is beyond them. They live in a jewel of perfection of a world, and we just need to work hard and achieve that level for everyone. There is a place so beautiful it causes rancor and endless cynicism for its inhabitants. Don’t you see? We no longer need the gods, we don’t need to look forward to heaven. We, and these beautifully hideous creatures, we can form such a place.

My dears, my darling, do you know what that’s worth? Heaven can be a place on earth. They say in Heaven, love comes first. In 2010, The Impossible Project started producing new lines of Polaroid Cameras and film for the old cameras. Heaven, my dears, my darlings, is a place on earth.

I will forever find comfort in these beautiful, mad, frightfully stupid bastards. You can too. Maybe you were afraid before, I’m not afraid anymore.



It should be said, when I explained this to Syd she opened a browser and brought up this image...



So, maybe it’s not a universal theory.

New Cocktails: Spaghetti Western

Gonna be square with you, there is no interesting story to how this one came about. I was sitting on the Drax Space Station with Commandette Debbie, and you can only bang so often before “We be doin’ it in zero G” looses it’s novelty (14 times, in case you’re wondering) and you just settle in for some old Spaghetti Westerns which you can watch because all the movies were being fired into that satellite we’d “appropriated” for the purposes of aiming a laser guided bomb into... well you heard all about that I’m sure. Anyway, there was a faux gravity bar, spinning Babylon 5 style up there. As we were watching the movies, I made this cocktail inspired by the viewing material. After we blew up the station and landed back on Earth, she asked me to make her another drink and as I was dealing with that whole plot convenient amnesia thing and could only remember that one drink, I perfected it while we waited for rescue from Borneo.

2 parts Tequila
1 part Lime Juice
1 part Rum
1 part Limoncello

Put ice in a glass and build cocktail with lime juice, limoncello, rum and then tequila. Serve with Mexican/Italian fusion dishes.

If the Food Didn't Kill You, You Probably Cooked it Fine.

People get very defensive about articles like these, you know why? Because they resent someone stating their preference as solid fact. And I think they REALLY resent someone who, to them, is completely unproven telling them that they can't cook. I have never heard of this person before in my life, why the hell should I listen to them? No, really. I've never heard of them, and at least the way the article quoted them makes them sound like a complete dickhead.

I'm gonna throw it down right here. I'm gonna say it. There is no right or wrong way to cook an egg. There is a preferable method that will yield the result you are looking for, but there is really no wrong way. This is very much an issue of tone and I'll bet 4 out of 5 people who commented on this article didn't really read it, they just reacted to the smug, irritating tone. Some of them clearly only read the kind of offensive headline and wrote the whole thing off from there. Because being told you're doing it wrong is an instant way to get people worked up though, and works as effective click bait, they went with that. Problem is, people are now not going to buy this person's book, because they think he's an asshole who tells you that you can't cook. And people are basically tired of being told they're doing everything wrong by worthless foodies who are a blight on humanity. And how hard would it be to say "This is a great method that you might like." instead of "UR DOIN IT WRONG!" which annoys people? It's not just this article, almost every other food article is dedicated to telling you that you're either cooking wrong, or eating wrong, or dining out wrong, or having the wrong thing, and I just think about my Grandma, who would have put a stiletto between your third and fourth rib if you told her she shouldn't be eating what she's eating.

And, allow me to state for the record, if you served my grandmother the runny-ass eggs this person is suggesting, she would have garroted you. Grandma didn't fuck around when it came to breakfast and I still have a scar across my left shoulder from the day she grazed me with a .22 for over cooking her bacon. Light and fluffy, that's the scrambled egg my grandmother showed me. And when the person teaching you killed six men with a ball peen hammer the night before, let's just say you pay attention. Are grandma's eggs cooked wrong? No. Was Grandma wrong? A little impetuous perhaps. I still maintain those last two were trying to surrender. However, I loved my grandma too much to deny her the joy of smacking their heads like grapefruit. Grandma loved the old ultra-violence so.

Anyway, the method explained here is fine, but don't think it's the one true way. I can take either to me honest, but that's because I'm agreeable. Always be agreeable, no one wants to try and kill the guy who agrees to things and once hung a Bulgarian on a meathook for seven hours patiently and agreeably watching him bleed out. To be fair, he did have that coming, and I was doing the whole smiling and nodding and saying "Yes, for the love of god." bit which worries people to no end when you can make it go seven hours. You don't kill my protegee, them's the rules.

There is no one true way in cooking. Cook things the way you want to eat them, learn different methods so you can find out what you like, and leave people who tell you that you're eating or cooking wrong tied to a tree in the desert and listen for them coyotes. That's what Grandma would ave done to this guy. Grandma loved to hear a man being torn apart by coyotes. She was a cruel woman, and deeply unfair in her cruelty.

Love you grandma, miss you everyday.

Etiquette: Human Sacrifice Ritual

When sacrificing a virgin to your dark gods in exchange for unholy powers, always remember the young lady in question may not be familiar with all aspects of the ritual. If you’ve had the girl retrieved from a nearby village the moment of blood shed may in fact be the first she’s hearing of the while thing. You need to always be patient and understand that any screams for help are only as a result of her lack of understanding for your mad need for power.

Never shout at the virgin or make her feel that her reluctance to give up her life is in anyway causing you the slightest bit of difficulty. Just because you’re going to rip out her heart and rape her corpse, that’s no reason to cease being anything but a gentleman.



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Interesting Facts: Gamera

The 1965 movie Gamera and subsequent sequels are actually docudramas about a giant space borne turtle with rockets for flippers that invaded Japan in 1960. Gamera became a friend to all children and to make up for his initial destruction of Tokyo agreed to star in the movies based on his life, giving his fee to a charity set up to the victims of Kaiju attacks.

Kaiju is a bigger problem in Asia than North America or Europe, though neither of these continents has been entirely free of them. South America and Africa often have attacks of giant monsters though. They are frequently forced to combat monsters that look a lot like giant men in rubber suits. Interestingly, Godzilla actually is a giant who insists on wearing a massive rubber suit when destroying countries.



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New Cocktail: Scarlet Joy Martini (A Drink For Pretentious Tossers)

Oh, didn’t you know about this one? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s very new, and of course very in at all the most exclusive places. Still, I suppose I could see my way to letting you in on the secret of how to make one. Is it clear that we invented this drink just outside of Portland in 2005? Is it also clear to you that they still serve it to this day and it is quickly becoming known as a Portland Martini? Yeah, the hipsters never got the joke. This is not actually a martini, it contains exactly nothing that would make a martini. That was what Cecilia demanded when we invented it. We also decided on the formula, two things they’ve heard of, one thing that’s obscure*.

Cecilia was a beautiful girl, and an incredibly talented photographer. Something of a hipster herself, she always had distain for the hipsters we had to deal with. In fact, she said she was an Uber-Hipster because she was a hipster before it was cool and her distain for the others meant she was in the 1% of hipsterdom. You can see why the relationship only lasted two months, can’t you?


4 ounce Absolut Vodka
4 ounce Pavan Liqueur Or some other Orange Liqueur. (But if you’re not going to go for the really obscure stuff, why bother?)
½ ounce Raspberry Syrup
4 ounces Pom Wonderful pomegranate juice


You want to just swirl the raspberry syrup around the ice, so put that in the shaker with a handful of ice. Rattle it around for a while and then strain off the excess, if any.
After that it done, put the juice and hooch into the shaker and shake the dickens out of it. You’re doing this because it would be an insult to a good martini to shake it.

Now here is where Cecilia started breaking my heart. See, she insisted on a martini glass because otherwise, she argued, how would people know it’s supposed to be a martini. She argued that the hipsters would call bourbon, sugar, and bitters a martini if you served it in a martini glass. I on the other hand, argued that all you had to do was tell them it was a martini. I later proved this by giving a hipster an old fashioned in an old fashioned glass and convinced him it was a martini by no greater magic than asking him if the martini tasted right to him. He said it was a pretty good martini, but the bartender had used a cheap scotch, despite the fact that it was the traditional bourbon.

So I say, go whole hog. The point is that there is nothing here that you would actually find in a martini. As such, go with a short highball glass. You’ll note I went with a rather cheap glass. Because going with a nice one would give the impression that you cared. Which, like, you totally don’t. As if. Anyway! Garnish with a maraschino cherry and wonder to yourself, perhaps aloud in a sarcastic tone, why you put up with these people.


Note: This recipe makes two drinks, because whoever orders one invariably wants to force one on someone else as well.


*I wouldn’t have had the pomegranate juice if it weren’t for the formula. I would have gone for alum or something like that. If you replace the vodka with gin, and the orange liqueur with vermouth, you can make a respectable sweet martini out of this. The pomegranate juice needs to be cut in half, or swirled with the ice, but otherwise it’s not bad.