Just on the off chance that you haven't already seen this mind-blowing blog roll of blistering viscera, I'm linking it here for your future enjoyment:
http://cooksuck.com/
I ain't no Cuisine Machine. I'm not savvy with a saveloy or particularly veget-Able. But even I can make a plate of Nachos that doesn't look like a third world abortion. Get on it.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
I hope it's not inappropriate for me to hyperlink this, but this blog - written by one of my oldest friends - is so touching. So confronting.
http://wabiblog.com/2012/02/06/black-dog/
I very rarely stop to think about how lucky I am to have never been bitten by Churchill's naughty puppy. Everybody gets down on things in their life at times, and I get accused of it far more than most due to my insistance that self-depricating jokes are funnier than a dog on a skateboard. 2011 was more than a challenge; I consider most of that year the lowest emotional point of my life. But in the end, it was little more than dark brush-strokes buried in the canvas of a much bigger picture, especially compared with the relentless daily plights endured by people like my father and Amber.
A few months ago, an acquaintance died. She hung herself under a bridge in a public park in which many of our mutual friends had been drinking. Very few members of her inner circle had noticed the black undercurrents of her moods, the patterns of her alcahol use. It was only after the fact that people were able to piece together her continual bandaging of damaging feelings with the booze. It came as a shock to me. She was early twenties, vivid, and gorgeous. Heart-shaped face, peach-coloured dreadlocks, the picture of confidence and creativity. A mask she painted on every day.
This girl lost her battle, but there are many more still fighting her war. I admire their strength, their resilience. I don't have a scrap of that integrity in me. I know I can't stand them on my shoulders so that they may see what it's like above the waterline, but for whatever it is worth, they have my understanding, and they have my support.
http://wabiblog.com/2012/02/06/black-dog/
I very rarely stop to think about how lucky I am to have never been bitten by Churchill's naughty puppy. Everybody gets down on things in their life at times, and I get accused of it far more than most due to my insistance that self-depricating jokes are funnier than a dog on a skateboard. 2011 was more than a challenge; I consider most of that year the lowest emotional point of my life. But in the end, it was little more than dark brush-strokes buried in the canvas of a much bigger picture, especially compared with the relentless daily plights endured by people like my father and Amber.
A few months ago, an acquaintance died. She hung herself under a bridge in a public park in which many of our mutual friends had been drinking. Very few members of her inner circle had noticed the black undercurrents of her moods, the patterns of her alcahol use. It was only after the fact that people were able to piece together her continual bandaging of damaging feelings with the booze. It came as a shock to me. She was early twenties, vivid, and gorgeous. Heart-shaped face, peach-coloured dreadlocks, the picture of confidence and creativity. A mask she painted on every day.
This girl lost her battle, but there are many more still fighting her war. I admire their strength, their resilience. I don't have a scrap of that integrity in me. I know I can't stand them on my shoulders so that they may see what it's like above the waterline, but for whatever it is worth, they have my understanding, and they have my support.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
It's been raining here for seven days. The fog won't lift. Oh ye, how the mountain-top tranquility is eclipsed by long lines of tail-lights at the Hungry Jacks drive-thru.
Peege and I thought it might be fun to grab a pair of gumboots for Kath for her birthday. We traipsed all over town, visited two shopping centres, three fishing stores and a Horseland, and came up with nothing. Ironically, even a store named 'Rivers' didn't have any anti-wet footwear. It's been one year since the floods and people are freaking out a little, I think. Buy all the gumboots, horde all the bread, prepare to write all your histories at once. Not me, though. I'm going to use all this low-hanging cloud to practise my Monkey Magic moves in the dark.
Peege and I thought it might be fun to grab a pair of gumboots for Kath for her birthday. We traipsed all over town, visited two shopping centres, three fishing stores and a Horseland, and came up with nothing. Ironically, even a store named 'Rivers' didn't have any anti-wet footwear. It's been one year since the floods and people are freaking out a little, I think. Buy all the gumboots, horde all the bread, prepare to write all your histories at once. Not me, though. I'm going to use all this low-hanging cloud to practise my Monkey Magic moves in the dark.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Boy howdy, is there a rancid gush of New Year's Resolution banter and whimsy on the blogosphere right now. It's not surprising, given that we've just bid adieu to 2011 with a single salty tear running down our fat-handed attempts at milky Zooey Deschanel palour.
Personally, I've learned my lesson from the last decade of making totally unsustainable promises to myself just because it happens to be the one day of the year when everybody else does. I won't be partaking in twice-daily Zumba or volunteering at a rabid dog colony or shucking back wheatgrass with every meal. But having taken the opportunity to reflect on my life, there are two simple things I would like to do:
1) Effectively halve my intake of Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate. Perhaps get that shit down to one family size block a week.
2) Let go of the maniacal iron fist of fear that controls my blogging habits, and start updating regularly for public consumption (or public apathy, whichever it works out to be). Kim Jong Il is dead yo, it's been ages since Poland was invaded and even Maggie Thatcher has chilled out and moved to the beach with a bitters in her hand. What's the worst that could happen? Some pimply teenage Vancouver groover takes exception to my opinion on black metal? Whatever. A bloke from work discovers I have tattoos under all those floral cardigans? Big deal. A fake-tanned mop handle with a series of near-identical 'selfie' pics in her Facebook albums decides I'm not that interesting? Well yeah, so's yer duck face.
So here I am. Freshly resolved to punish y'all with feverish frequency. Come at me, 2012.
Personally, I've learned my lesson from the last decade of making totally unsustainable promises to myself just because it happens to be the one day of the year when everybody else does. I won't be partaking in twice-daily Zumba or volunteering at a rabid dog colony or shucking back wheatgrass with every meal. But having taken the opportunity to reflect on my life, there are two simple things I would like to do:
1) Effectively halve my intake of Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate. Perhaps get that shit down to one family size block a week.
2) Let go of the maniacal iron fist of fear that controls my blogging habits, and start updating regularly for public consumption (or public apathy, whichever it works out to be). Kim Jong Il is dead yo, it's been ages since Poland was invaded and even Maggie Thatcher has chilled out and moved to the beach with a bitters in her hand. What's the worst that could happen? Some pimply teenage Vancouver groover takes exception to my opinion on black metal? Whatever. A bloke from work discovers I have tattoos under all those floral cardigans? Big deal. A fake-tanned mop handle with a series of near-identical 'selfie' pics in her Facebook albums decides I'm not that interesting? Well yeah, so's yer duck face.
So here I am. Freshly resolved to punish y'all with feverish frequency. Come at me, 2012.
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