SFO

I know this is long over due. By now, most of you have known, heard and we’ve chatted about my surprise birthday present which was (in case you didn’t know) a weekend getaway to San Francisco. Seemed like everyone was in on it though, so if you do fall into the latter group, you probably really aren’t my friend.

They’re now selling Fuji x Obey track bikes at Macy’s.

Chinatown.

Toronto…take note. This is a REAL taco.

SF hills will kill ya.

We chilled out at the Japanese Tea Garden for ice cold green tea and obscure Asian cookies and treats.

Ocean Beach. This place is like 10 minute bike ride from Jacob’s place. Bastard.

This is a bad picture but its from a restaurant in the Mission called Blue Plate. Its kind of a twist on modern American bistro type food. I had meatloaf, with pork belly. Jacob had pork chops and Michelle had Gnocchi. Food was on-fucking-point. However, it was hotter than hell in this place and our tolerance was definitely tested.

EMB???

Over-priced guacamole from a taco spot down on the wharf near Embarcadero. Pricey? Yes. Good-enough-to-make-you-pee? Damn skippy.

Cupcake princess.

I think Marcus McBride front side flipped this. I could be wrong (my Skate-pedia Browns will have to fact check that for me). In any case though, once a heralded skate spot that the aforementioned owned. Now a bench for the Cupcake Princess.

A watering hole somewhere in the Mission.

Don’t say the car’s topless, say the tits are out.

Don’t even front like you don’t wish you could be right then and there.

Jacob took us to this Puerto Rican spot in San Rafael called Sol Food. One of the better meals on this trip. All organic/free range (for the whities), and portion sizes/price points that were more than reasonable (for the brownies).

Fried plantain + California tomatoes + avacado + fresh, organic mozzarella cheese.

Early Sunday morning, at the Civic Center on Market, people were lining up to buy live chickens and balut.

This was the lineup for Dotties on Sunday morning. Kidding! It’s the line-up for one of the shelters off of Jones. Oh how it sucks to be homeless.

Idyllic SF.

Jacob’s broken Frejus. I’ll let him explain how this happened.

I’m in Love With a Pig

I’ve come to accept there are three things in my life that I absolutely love. Through thick and thin, the highs and the lows, there are three things that I will always hold dear to my heart.

They are Michelle, my dog(s) and pigs.

That’s right. I said pigs.

I think I almost love pigs more than I do my dog (and future dog….) however, cochons take the lower rung simply because I love consuming pigs and I don’t like consuming dogs. Truth be told, I don’t think I could ever have a pet porker and I’d be quite adverse to smoked dog shoulder. The refusal to ingest my dog I think, suggests that I love him more than I do the sow. Which warrants pig as love number 3.

But my love of pork has overwhelmed me to the point that I cannot stop thinking about eating pig, will not stop eating pig and for my summer project, will not hold any part of said pig sacred.

Nope. I didn’t stutter. This year, I’m going to tip-to-tail that motherfucker regardless how grotesque, un-healthy or how absurd the cut may be. I’m convinced this will elevate me to porker Nirvana; I will finally roll my eyes and breath deep in a state of pig bliss. Or I’ll be suffering from itis on the verge of a stroke.

From here on in, I’ll be detailing my path to porkdom and I’ll keep you updated on what goes in and what comes out.

ps: I’ve already declared to myself that I will not under any circumstances eat pig brain or asshole. I already know I don’t like those parts and neither can be prepared to be even slightly palatable.

How To Roll A Blunt

Lets get one thing straight: there’s only one way to roll a blunt. No ifs, ands or buts. There is simply only one way. Knowing this and doing it right is tantamount to a chef knowing how to miripoix vegetables or how to separate an egg yolk with nothing but his hands. Its the corner-stone of every weed head’s repertoire and is the skill that separates the wheat from the chaff; the men from the boys; the bud from the stem.

Step One:

Source yourself a nice cigar. In fact, nice is often a misnomer. The best blunts are always rolled with the shittiest cigars. Phillies, Dutch Masters, White Owls and Century Sams have earned their way into any head’s shopping list because of their ease of use. Forego the Cuban’s. Because they are hand-rolled with multiple leafs, unless you’re a seasoned blunt vet, all you’re going to do is ruin a perfectly good $30 cigar and look like a complete idiot.

Step Two:

Lick that shit. Lick a line length wise down the blunt. Make sure its a little moist. Yes, pretend you are giving female oral sex. This will help in the next step.

Step Three:

Break that shit. Run your fingernail down the length of that wet strip and split the blunt in half. Do not use a blade. Do not use scissors. That is not how your roll a blunt. That is how lazy motherfuckers without a shred of skill do it. Once you do this a million times, you’ll be good enough to get a perfect score as clean as if you used a razor. Also, tear the mouth end of the blunt off. You want flush ends. And please, don’t grow a coke-nail. You don’t need it to help slice the blunt, and it will also hurt your girlfriend when you are having fun. Not to mention you’ll have fingers that look like they belong to Gollum.

Step Three:

Dump the blunt. Meaning, dump the cigar contents. Get rid of that crap. It’s useless. You’ll be left with a shell now. Give it a light lick all around so it kind of flattens out. Don’t soak it or else you’ll have a wet piece of tissue in your hand that will rip easier than a wet piece of tissue. Make sure to break up your weed with your fingers. Break it good. It should ressemble the consistency of brown sugar. Dump your weed onto the wet side like you would a joint.

Step Four:

Roll that shit. Roll it a little looser than a joint. Not too lose or else you’ll inhale weed bits. Roll it too tight and it won’t burn. Getting the perfect roll with a blunt is the zen part of the building process. Less experienced dudes will fumble with it for a minute or so while heads (usually Black guys) are able to roll this shit in seconds. Two things to remember: The blunt wrap acts as your glue. Lick it when you want it to stick. Also, blunts are forgiving to those with fountains as mouths. It can withstand a reasonable amount of saliva and when you get good at it, it can actually work in your favor. That said, don’t juice the fucking thing.

Step Five:

Smoke that shit. What we used to do before we lit up a blunt was called ‘blessing’ it. This ment that after you tied up your end, you stuck the whole blunt in your mouth and pulled it out like you were sucking on…well. Yes, pretend you are giving male oral sex. Only do this once and make sure its damp. Then you cure it by rotisserie-ing under a lighter. The heat will dry out the wrap and seal it. Now you are ready smoke that shit.

Cardinal Rules:

- Never ever ever ever ever use a blade or scissors. The whole point of the blunt is that its ghetto and you can do it anywhere.

- Listen to rap music. The blunt is a hip-hop invention. You are doing a huge injustice to it by listening to anything other than rap when you are building it. By all means, Thin Lizzy is okay during smoking. But during construction, nothing but 90’s rap should be considered.

- Do NOT include a filter. Blunts do not need one

- Don’t roll it to look like a candy wrapper. That shit not only looks ugly, but it won’t burn right.

- Eewops while sound cool are really in-efficient. They are hard to manage and really, how much weed do you need to smoke in one setting?

And for video tutorial:

51% Momofuku, 49% Sonofabitch

David Chang is to food what Sydney Crosby is to hockey. Minus all the crying like a bitch that has become a trademark of the latter, he represents a fresh, new perspective towards eating well and not breaking the bank. He’s been heralded as the second coming of Christ for the New York restaurant scene and If you have had the delight of eating at Ssam Bar, Noodle Bar or his more recent Ko, you’ll know that he lives up to the hype.

I found this somewhat recent piece about Chang written by the too funny Alan Richman. Chang comes across as a mis-guided fuck-up that just happened onto cooking and somehow became the posterboy in the process. Hardly pretentious. Entirely self-depricating. Stubborn as a mule. And swears like a fucking sailor.

Some of my favorite gems:

It’s a mix of Asian ­ ingredients, fastidious preparations, condiments shaken from jars, and sauces poured from bottles. Other chefs might attempt to interpret their food lyrically, adding to the aura, but not Chang: “It’s American food, man. That’s all there is to explain.”

…Chang knows exactly whom he wants in the seats. “I want to cook for real people who want to eat,” he says. “When I worked at Café Boulud, I hated making food for East Siders. I hate their air of superiority. I hate investment bankers. I don’t want Momofuku Ko to come off as elitist or snobbish. I don’t want shithead bankers and the friends of dickhead traders who spend thousands.” One more thing: “My partner gets to kick me in the balls if he catches me wearing those reflective silvered sun- glasses that asshole Europeans wear indoors. I can do the same to him.”

…the dinner menu at Ssäm Bar reads, “We do not serve vegetarian-friendly items.” Just to rub a little suet in the wound, Chang says, “Vegetarians are a pain in the ass as customers. It’s always ‘I want this’ or ‘I don’t want that.’ Jesus Christ, go cook at home.”

The new Momofuku Ko has no waiters, only cooks who chat with customers, pour wine, and keep the tips. Chang says, as he has before, “I know nobody expects to make money as a cook, but cooks have to live, and they can’t live on $300 to $400 a week. It makes me mad that cooks are treated like shit and servers say, ‘Well, you choose your profession.’ Whatever you guys say, you don’t work as hard as cooks, so go fuck yourselves.”

The rest of the article is here.

Tis The Season…

…for meat sweats.

How Self-Aggrandizing Can You Be?

Last night while surfing the boob tube, I chanced upon this ad for wecansolveit.org which seems to be a feel-good NPO meant to satisfy the righteous content of people’s insipid lives.  Anyhoo, the spot they ran was rather daft and in all honesty, the most shovelled shit you could pack in 15 seconds. Listen, I’m all for saving the earth and being a good human being, but that can be accomplished by recycling and saying “hi”. Pandering to the masses by creating a spot full of revisionist history is just plain gay. I get. In an era full of rhetoric, we’ll need as much Obama-ism to motivate middle-America. But saying you didn’t wait to get involved in WWII, and effecting civil change is a bit arrogant not to mention inaccurate.

Click the pic to see the video.

Toronto Is Not a Food City

Calling Toronto the mecca for foodies is horseshit. Melting pot of cultural culinary delight? More like crock pot of culinary mediocrity. Toronto is striving to be what New York is and is miserably failing at it. Japanese restaurants owned by Chinese; pizza parlors owned by Lebanese; poutine made with grated mozzarella. We’re like a cess-pool for bastardize food done half assed.

Yes! No!

Poutine

Cheese curds + fresh cut fries + chicken gravy. Not shredded mozzarella. Not battered fries. Not beef gravy. What is so hard about this dish that Torontonians can’t comprehend?

Yes! No!

Smoked Meat Sandwiches

A smoked meat sandwich should be about 9lb of smoked warm pastrami layered between two pieces of rye bread. Maybe with some mustard on it. And that’s it. Do not garnish with any vegetation and do not try to make it all “artisan” by toasting it or whoring it in a panini grill.

Japanese Food should be done by Japanese

Sorry Chinaman Charlie, but you have to take your hands out of the Nippon pot. Like everything business related, you constantly cut corners in hopes of saving money and as a result, the end product is a hair shy of being complete shite. This is the polar opposite of the Japanese ethos, of which OCD is not only celebrated, it’s encouraged. Their anal retentiveness is why their food is so good. Do you honestly think a sketchy, greedy Chinaman could have even dreamt up sushi let alone make it?

Yes! No!

Pulled Pork Sandwiches

Torontonians are simply too hoity toity to get this dish dialed in. The thought of using the cheapest cut of pork, smoking it for hours whilst getting drunk on bad beer, then slathering a gallon of bbq sauce over it and serving it on the cheapest white bun you can find at your local Giant Tiger is light years beyond Torontonian comprehension.

Yes! NO!!!

Mexican

Lets get one thing straight: Burrito’s are not Mexican. They are a white guy’s take on what Mexican should be like. They are what chicken balls are to Chinese food. Stop bragging about the best burritos in the city because that’s like bragging about what the best brand of canned meat is.

Sports Fans Are Dumb

Every morning, I surf the stalwart sports sites and check out scores, standings and the varying opinions on everything sports related. It gives me great pain each morning to read that its yet another year the Leafs won’t make the playoffs, but great elation knowing that Tiger tied and set another record. What really tickles my fancy though, is reading the comments from all the arm-chair quarterbacks. Wow, are they a dumb lot. That adage of “opinions are like assholes…” has never rung so true…especially in the the hockey world.

I’d say about 0.5% of all the comments are insightful. The majority – if not all of them – are absurdly asinine and marred with more rudimentary grammatical errors than a second grader’s writing assignment. Hockey fans seem to have rhetoric dialed down to a science. The ability to turn 100% un-adulterated subjectivity into superlative objectivity and truth, is a polished skill that only hockey fans posses. “Of course we won, the Leafs are the best hockey team to ever exist!!! Every idiot knows that! Go Leafs Go!”

Does this surprise me? Of course not. It did however enlighten me on peculiar behavioural patterns certain fans share.

Leafs Fans

Hopelessly delusional. Or incredibly loyal. Or loyally delusional. Either way, they all are terribly stupid. In-spite of a humiliating and lost stricken 41 years, Leafs fans seem to support the Buds through thick and thin and continue to believe that the ‘mighty blue and white’ will hand out a whooping to any oppenent. It’s kind of the same way a parent never thinks their child is a retard in-spite of the chronic drooling and the inability to command more than ten words in the English language.

Sens Fans

For a city built on dogma and dedication the Ottawa faithful seem to posses neither. If you sat on a fence and pissed your pants, you’d have a Sens fan. They are tremendously fickle; supporting and on the bandwagon when they are winning but ready to hang someone and call-off their season when they are losing. Kind of like a politician I guess. Makes sense.

Habs Fans

One thing you have to admire about the French is that they always show 100% support for anything they believe in regardless whether it’s right or wrong. To Peppers, there is no mid-ground. As long as its pro-French, its all good. And with hockey, I guess it’s the same. The only problem is that when they are right – or in this case winning – they become “Mr. Told You So”. Whining and griping about perservation des Quebecois is bad enough. Gloating and bragging “De abs are de best! Champions de 24 coupes Stanley!” is just ugly.

Canucks Fans

Unless “hockey” is a new naturally organic Haida grain, no-one in Vancouver cares about hockey.

I’m An Insensitive Prick

Call a spade a spade – I am an asshole. But walk in my shoes for a minute and you’ll understand why.

Because of the cachet and stature that my employer has carved out over the past 13 years, we get a lot of requests by fresh-out-of-schoolers, wanna-be-hipsters and ambitious-take-over-the-worlders wanting to either work or intern for us. While this is music to any employers ears, its also painfully grating for us guys on the front lines…especially me…who has to deal with the intern’s ineptitude.

I have patience like Canada has Mexicans and while I’ve been trying desperately to work on being a bit more tolerable, lets just say Canada hasn’t exactly been working on opening the borders to Mexicans. That said, I’m in a position where I have no choice but to co-exist with the Mexi…err interns and needless to say, they haven’t made my life easier. In any case, whenever you guys see or talk to me after 6pm and I’m grumpy, here are the reasons why.

Common Logic – Interns lack all forms of common sense or logic. If counter intuitiveness could manifest itself into human form it would be an intern. More specifically our interns. There’s been numerous times where my colleagues and I stare at each other in puzzled confusion, amazed at the lack of common sense our helpers posses. Our best example was one shinning star who decided it was better to borrow the company-rented van without permission to fetch coffee instead of walking the 3 blocks. He then got stopped for speeding and refused to pay the ticket. Sure, a lot of these “kids” need their hand held from time to time, but I assure you, drag these horsies to water and I’d bet the farm they’d piss in it.

Basic Human Experience – Extending on Common Logic, I think many interns are devoid of any basic experiences that your average human being encounters on a day to day basis. And I’m not talking about setting up equity, or filing taxes. I’m talking about the simple things in life like…ummm…mailing a letter. Some of my favourites are:

Organizing Magazines Chronologically – I’ve had a few interns draw blank expression when asked to complete this task. This usually means either they have no idea what the word chronological means or they are more familiar with the Wicken calendar (the Roman calendar really throws them for a loop).

Making Phones Work – “This phone’s not working.” “What’s wrong with it?” “There’s no tone thingy.” “No dial tone? Hmmm. Check to see if its plugged in properly.” “Ok. How do I do that?”

Mailing Items – I had an intern who couldn’t figure out how to mail things. We have one of those pre-paid post machines that will stamp your mail. Of course, like any machine designed to make life easier, it gives you options: regular mail or registered mail. To an intern, this means nothing. The word registered is enough to throw them right off their fucking axis causing their minds to spin uncontrollably. Said intern took an entire 30 minutes wrestling with these two options before she said to me “Nick, I can’t mail this. It just keeps asking me to register with them or something.” “Do you mean it asks you to send registered mail?” “I dunno. It just says register.” Keep in mind it says Regular Mail and Registered Mail…in bold….and enumerated….with separate buttons. I then asked her if she’s never heard of registered mail. She flashed me a look like I was asking her to explain how a circular particle accelerator works and blurted out a “No. Of course not.”

Propriety – Because our brand was built on hedonism, partying and good ol’ fun, a lot of interns presume the company is run by a bunch of fuck-ups with monkeys at typewriters (well it kind of is). A lot of them will try to get away with as much inappropriateness that’s un-becoming to even a crack whore. They’ll also try to conduct themselves in situations that don’t even warrant that behaviour (ie: trying to have a coke party…in the office…at 3pm…on a Wednesday.) Some of the best social faux pas so far: Intern asks to be ass-raped at staff Christmas party in the bathroom; Intern asks to be railed on sink in said bathroom at staff Christmas party; Intern boasts to corporate client that we do drugs and drink all the time; Intern declares to coworkers in drunken stupor, that she wants to be touched and felt all over; Intern leaves for 3hr lunch; Intern asks to stay home because they are too hung over but still wants to be given a credit.

Lack of Initiative – Our interns will very rarely ever rise to the occasion. We’ve had a couple that were standout, and subsequently went on to be full-time employees or do really well for themselves with another employer. But for every one franchise player, we’ve had maybe ten pine-riders. We’re pretty much the Miami Heat of the work world with the occasional D-Wade’s and Shawn Marion’s. Then the rest of the roster is filled out with Smush Parker’s.

Ten Reasons Why You Should Ride The TTC

1. Variety. The TTC offers probably one of North American’s most dynamic operating schedules. While other transit commissions and associations run on very strict and rigid schedules – often never swaying from their outlined times – the TTC takes a far more liberal approach. Why stick to such an in-flexible and constrictive time-line when you can mix it up? Every 10 minutes? Boring. Lets do every 30 seconds until the 4th streetcar, then every 20 minutes, then every 5 minutes then every 30 minutes then stream 6 cars one after another so it looks like a TTC parade. Again…variety. Some would call this ‘inconsistency’ and to them I say hogwash.

2. Relaxing Pace. In such go-go-go city like Toronto, it’s nice to know that the TTC offers a calm and laid-back commute for its riders. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a casual 2 km, 60 minute ride on the Queen car. Contrastingly, there’s nothing I hate more than leaving the house (Queen and Roncesvalles) at 8am to be at the office (Queen and Dunn) at 815. The idea of it frays my nerves. Like the TTC, I fully believe that a 1km commute should take no less than 1hr. This is why I applaud the TTC for implementing a “take your time” approach to travel. Those long, but much sought after 60 minutes allows me the time to contemplate all that is wonderful about our fair city and marvel at our state of the art transit system. Besides, it’s always fun to stare out the window and see which pedestrians you can race.

3. CAMH. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always wanted to roam the halls of CAMH. Part of it out of curiousity, part of it out of spectacle. Its like going to the zoo to see Ling Ling the birthing panda or hoping to see zoo-keepers feed a fawn to the lions. Well much to my pleasure, the zoo – in this case CAMH – has come to us! Thanks to the wonderful insight of the Harris government, the CAMH locals now ride the TTC 24/7 fully interacting with drivers and passengers alike. Up close and personal! It’s like African Lion Safari!

4. Traffic. Like you, I hate cars. They are a cancer to this planet and our way of living. As a result, I’ve taken a pro-active stance against automobiles by supporting the TTC and their highly successful anti-car weapon: the streetcar. If God was an urban planner, he couldn’t have fleshed out a better strategy. Clog the dense and much traveled city streets with as many streetcars as possible, plop them in the middle of the road, and prevent motorists from passing and overtaking them at all times. This subsequently forces automobiles to stay behind these giant city snails, backing up traffic for blocks and causing gridlock at any given point during the day. This either irritates drivers to the point where they’ll stop driving or completely snap and run someone over which will ultimately land them in jail…..which will ultimately reduce the amount of drivers on the road. Which is ultimately genius.

5. Intimacy. The TTC has a penchant for getting intimate and interactive (sorry MUCH). When’s the last time you took transit where the streetcar or bus was a cavernous tin can? EXACTLY! I’m a social being and I like being close to people. So close that not only can I smell the curry on Harjit’s breath, but I can see the fucking cardomom seeds stuck in his teeth. The TTC my friends, is the glue holding our social fabric together.

6. Price Point. Cities around North America are dropping their fares like flies. $2 for the New York Metro? Fuck that. The TTC boasts an impressive rate of $2.75 and climbing. And we don’t even cover a third of the area that MTA covers. Now that’s efficiency. Fuck, we’re like gold bullion of transit; we’re the crude oil of mass transportation. If public trans was streetwear, we’d be goddamn Supreme.

7. Drivers that care. Admittedly, this is something the TTC has to work on. Roughly half of the caring work force goes out of their way to inform you about local traffic laws (like jaywalking to catch the bus) or to give you a brief synopsis on the economics of clearly showing your metro/day pass. The other non-caring half (I like to refer to them as the Dog Fucker ilk) simply let you on the streetcar/bus, without piping up a single word. They’ll maybe glance you a smile but you’ll be hard pressed to find one that will initiate conversation about proper transfer usage. I say the latter lot needs to be dragged out and shot in the street. Goddamit, I’m paying for my ride and I demand that I have the Rider’s Rights and all its subsections read to me.

8. Simple Subway System. Three lines, that’s all you need. I could care less about reaching the far corners of the city or navigating the downtown core by train. Anymore than three lines, and your map just looks like clutter. Have you seen New York, London or even Tokyo’s subway map? Take it easy design faux pas. It looks like Etcha-sketch had a case of the oops-poops and shat out its intestines. Yeah, yeah, so what you can go from Hoyt-Skimmerhorn t0 Spring Street then up to 125th and then over to Corona on one fair. Your subway map still looks like shit.

9. Excitement. Without fail, riding the TTC ensures that you’ll either be a part of or witness some form of confrontation. Again, this is exactly like point 3 but instead of the zoo, now we’ve got the Diesel Playhouse front and center. And I’m all for it. Talk about added value. All that’s needed to perk up your day is a CAMH local blurting out the N word during rush hour around Eastern Commerce and suddenly, that $2.75 was worth every red cent.

10. Aroma. There’s a certain scent that’s unique to TTC streetcars. It’s somewhere between urine mixed with body odor mixed with gear grease. And while many may consider this smell more putrid than comforting, there’s something quite telling about having a consistent smell affixed to an object made out of metal and plastic. This ranks right up there with new car smell and gasoline. Its a distinct aroma that conjures up vivid memories and colorful images of pixies playing with gleeful children.