Last night I had a dream I had a can of WD-40 for lunch. That’s right, I’m sitting in this cafeteria, and there’s the can on my tray, and I pop open the lid and squirt it into my mouth like breath spray.
This morning, I woke up with a wicked sore throat.
IM conversation after the illegal TTC strike. Fortunately I wasn’t affected. Can you say VPN?
quanta: only the ttc can pull something like this – and get away with it
V: it’s pure and utter bs so who is at fault? union or mgmt
quanta: doesn’t matter.
V: they both suck!
quanta: when something like this, you know the fault lies in both sides somehow – an endemic dysfunctionality
V: yep… planned miscommunication by both sides
If you may recall, the TTC threatened a strike for other reasons just last year.
You must understand the Drake to embrace it. When I was waiting for two of my boys to get out of the loo last Friday night, I spied an intricate set of circular brushed metal meters, the type you might see on an old-fashioned water boiler. They were set against the wall in a mess of thick steel piping, and were labelled with locations such as “LOUNGE” and “PATIO”.
Every red line in every meter was jammed firmly to the right, past the maximum value inscribed. Except one. Oh, it was maxed out too, but it also pulsated, almost imperceptible in its tight vibrations, to the beat of a subwoofer that reverberated some distance away.
And this was only 10 ‘oclock.
The Drake Hotel is a former flophouse on Queen St. West that has gentrified itself into a “scenester” (as Space Cadet calls it) type of place that has no qualms in charging you $30 for eight slices of spring lamb. Thanks to a few million in angel investment, it’s become a tumble of bohemian and art deco and beautiful bodies, smack dab in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city. And mind you, the lamb doesn’t taste like $30, but you are still having an incredible time.
Afterwards, thanks to an inside connection (thanks T!), we went to the front of the line at Devil’s Martini. Lots of sound, lots of liquor, and lots of bodies. It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.
Aside: Everything went swimmingly except for my annoying cab ride home. Cabbie claims he takes credit card, but when we get to my place, we find out his machine has run out of ink. Since I only had a ten, I suggest him driving me to the ATM about two klicks away, as long as he keeps the meter off.
So we drive up to the ATM, I get the cash, I step back into the cab and give him the fare plus tip, and he tells me to get out and walk home because he “can’t afford to drive [me] back for free”. I argued – at least as much as you can argue at 3am after drinking screwdrivers – but to no avail. I walked two kilometres home and only realized when I entered the front door that I left him a tip – a tip that technically would have been enough to cover the trip.
Maciej Ceglowski waxes on about eating steak in Argentina, where beef is cultivated from feral, free-roaming, pampas-munching bovines and prepared with near-religious care. (The folks at Metafilter unanimously agree, and that’s no small feat.) Here’s an excerpt:
The afternoon steak is the workhorse steak, the backbone of the day. It’s the steak that gets you around the city, ensures a successful nap, steers you into the bar and (most importantly) gives you the mental clarity to choose the right cut of meat in the restaurant that night. Misorder the first steak and you will either find yourself losing steam by eight o’clock, when no restaurant is open, or scampering to find an awkward third bridge steak, to tide you over until dinner.
Sorry for the radio silence. I saw this dog in Bloor West Village on Sunday. I felt like this dog.
I’ve just come back from a very hectic week out of town on a business trip. 18 hour days, lots of narcoleptic-esque sleeping while sitting in chairs, an encounter with a breathalyzer (blew triple zeros), and a lot of climbing of ladders and fiddling with plasma screens and SXGA projectors. This was all followed by a ride home in a schoolbus for 5 hours to Timmins, then a 2 hour flight back to Toronto at 4am this morning, so I was taking things easy on Sunday. Fortunately the deliverable is done; mission accomplished!
Best conversation of the trip: a coworker was talking about another person’s propensity to pronounce the noted beverage – now with 5% real juice – known as “Orangina” __(orange-jee-nah)__ as __orange_jie-nah__:
“You can tell what’s always on HIS mind!” he joked.
“You mean the capital of Saskatchewan, right?” I winked back.
“The capital of Sas-Cat-Chew-On, is more like it…”
Overheard in my barbershop:
Impressive Man: Hawaii is like New York on the beach.
Impressed Woman: I’m sold!
I saw this sign in front of a health food store on Bloor West Village. It’s for Vigora!
The first thing that came to my mind was those old Ricola commercials, the one with the Swedish yodeler and his, er, giant horn. Is that wrong?
Is it a knockoff of Viagra? Heavens no. They probably never heard of it. Just a coincidence. This is Vigora we’re talking about! Apparently it’s all natural, herbal, tested only on volunteer animals, and just super great. Or words to this effect. Personally, I find the only way to keep my “partner smiling for a week” – as the sign attests in that nudge nudge wink wink way – is to buy her a bag of tortilla chips and seven layer dip.
But hey, chicks dig guys who take placebos from signs written in endearing but broken English. I’ll let the sign speak for itself: “Get Super Energy!”
So Silverlotus and I went to City Grill and grabbed a quiet table upstairs for dinner. I inadvertently ordered a portabello mushroom soup complemented by chunks of grilled chicken and a portabello mushroom sandwich with brie and sweet potato fries.
I called it an “Iron Chef meal”.
It was pretty good actually.
Saw this at Japango, a sushi restaurant on Elizabeth Street – Sushi Chef Hello Kitty!
The sushi bar is motorized, so when you turn it on, the sushi platters revolve around the Mouthless One.
After a five year hiatus, I finally tried Indian cuisine again. I’ve shied away from everything except samosas because of a bad experience at a buffet in Hamilton (6 curries. Six colours, same taste).
But I went to Mantra on Elm Street, and I really enjoyed myself. There was salad and chutney, chicken in some orange sauce, and some awesome vegetable korma. There were even samosas, and nothing was fiery spicy, which my stomach doesn’t take a liking to. Vegetable korma! Where have you been all my life?!
The best thing was how everything smelled. The air was lit up with the aroma of spices. It was like having a room filled with Dristan.