The following letter has been provided by Dr. Fingelsnit of the world famous Fingelsnit Research and BioStuff Group, a renowned and highly questionable medical establishment that specializes in almost everything except maybe the kitchen sink.
Please excuse Jo Slade’s absence from her column this week.
The column scheduled to be here today was as close to perfection as anything I have ever seen. It provided a scientifically formulated solution to world peace and personal happiness, as well as a cure for most if not all ailments, except zits, because nobody really gives much of a damn about zits. It’s a zit, get over it.
At any rate, each word was a carefully crafted masterpiece guaranteed to create a soul-searching (or gut-churning, if the reader was prone to squeamishness) reaction. Each sentence was complete with a locally-crafted full-stop period, each paragraph followed by white space of such unusual brilliance that sunglasses were required for reading.
Unfortunately, Jo Slade was in a hurry to get the column to Castanet. While running down the road, she tripped and fell down, which is pathetic when you think about it. Who trips that easily, except a klutz? As she fell, the the air turned blue and the column flew out of her hand, one word at a time, until there was nothing left except the word:
which would have made sense if the words before it and after it were in place, but they weren’t.
As she crawled around picking up the fragmented sentences, grabbing the run-on sentences before they escaped, and covering the indecent improper nouns, I arrived onto the scene. Assuming that I was, in fact, a nice person who just wanted to help, she handed the bag of words to me. I took the words, kicked her to the curb, and went straight to an American publisher who declared the scrambled words to be ‘genius’. I was given an advance of one million dollars and have since retired to a South Pacific island to meditate over the meaning of life, and to pen this excuse note.
Where is Jo Slade now? Well, following her fall, she was rushed to hospital where, upon examination (coincidentally by me), she was declared ridiculously insane. She has yet to argue her way out of that one.
Ahhh, ohhhhh yes . . . yes, yes, yes. No wait, don’t hurry, be gentle. Press slooooowwwwwly, yeah like that. Mmm, nice, so smooth - press a little harder, now oh yeah, feel the resistance, feel the movement, enjoy the anticipation. You’re almost there, almost! ALMOST! OMG!! Ahhhhhhhhh!
And you’re done, the plunger is down, your coffee is ready.
Wait, you thought I was talking about something else? My god what bad minds. I’m talking about the French press coffee system. Of course.
The French press was invented to provide lazy people with an easy way to make quality coffee. It is as fast as instant, and as easily made, but without the horrific awfulness of instant coffee.
Being lazy is exactly why Jim and I have been using this method for well over twenty years. And these days using a French press even makes us the cool kids, because now everybody is doing it. We were already the cool kids, mind you, except that nobody in the entire world realized it. Now they look at us pressing our French press, and they think, “Why can’t we be more like them? So cool, so collected, so terribly French and sophisticated.” We nod and smile, then talk about them when they leave, which probably isn’t as cool but does pair well with French press coffee.
I digress, which has been known to happen now and then.
Anyway, using a Bodum French press in earlier years was a lot trickier than it is now, because it was not in common use. A Nabob filled Mr. Coffee was still the man in those days, not some pretentious French Bodum impostor. So each time you broke the glass carafe of your Bodum, which was a guaranteed regular event, believe me, you couldn’t just run out and buy a new one. It was rare enough to find a Bodum at all, but finding a replacement carafe for it was pretty much impossible. They did exist, but only when you didn’t need one. As soon as you needed one, an alert was sent to all stores to hide their stock of replacements. I am sure this is true, because I’d see the things right up to the day when I needed one. Conspiracy? Yes, yes I really think so.
At any rate, it was a very different world than the one we live in now. French presses can be bought anywhere today, probably even at Seven-11, and they come in all sizes, makes, colours, shapes, along with replacement carafes which are always available. You can even buy a Bodum grinder now. Twenty years ago, this kind of wretched Bodum excess was a pipe dream.
You can even search online to learn how to make French press coffee, although really, I’m not sure how ‘dump coffee into pot, fill with hot water, press down, drink.’ requires instruction unless you get fancy about it.
Purchase finest quality coffee beans, preferably from a nation with an unpronounceable name. Leave bag on counter, to impress guests with your caring preference for sustainable goods. For best results, only purchase beans on sunny Tuesday mornings or rainy Wednesday afternoons. There is no reason for this. Just do it.
Sniff beans before use. Because they smell damn good.
Grind beans using fancy burr coffee grinder, then place in French press carafe. For these two easy steps, adopt a reasonably indifferent stance. Be condescending when discussing to your guests the difference between a burr grinder and the ‘other’ kind.
Arrive in Tibet, find remote stream of world’s purest water. Hand-carry water in large hand-carved wooden ladle back to Canada. Bring water to approximately 191.49 1/2 degrees. Be careful not to overheat or underheat water. Chant ‘om’ *just* as it arrives at the correct temperature.
Pour water into carafe, do not pour too slowly or too quickly. Don’t pour with bad thoughts in your mind, as this will cause the coffee grinds to experience angst, resulting in a bitter drink. Relax, mix it up, have fun while pouring. As long as you do it exactly right, you’ll be fine.
The carafes were - are - incredibly fragile and easily broken in the dishwasher. Again and again we’d open the dishwasher to find unbroken plates, unbroken bowls, unbroken glasses, unbroken cups and one very broken carafe.
Each time it happened we’d stand bereft in the kitchen, feeling closer from our mutual pain as we stared down at the broken pieces of the container that would have been holding our coffee five minutes later. We’d start to slip into the early stages of coffee withdrawal, a withdrawal that would last until we could locate a store several cities over that actually knew what a Bodum was and had replacement carafes.
It took years for us to realize the obvious: All we had to do was own a second carafe as a spare. This epiphany made us very happy, we bought and stored the second carafe, at the ready for the following month or so when we’d need it.
That was over 15 years ago. The carafe is still there, waiting its turn.
We didn’t understand about the Law of Bodum - that having a second carafe meant that the first one will never ever ever break. I could lob that sucker from ten feet away into the dishwasher and it would not so much as break a sweat, much less into pieces..
Okay, I know you’re disappointed in this column. The title held so much promise and all you got was a coffee maker story. Alright, alright - the secret is to griiiiiind slowly, not too fast now, burr! Make lots of noise, grind ‘er into life. Make ‘er sweat, so hot, so . . . damn hot, then marvel at the brown lushness awaiting the touch of your lips. So hot. . . .
Not a degree hotter than 191.49 1/2 degrees, though.
Once upon a time, in that alternate universe we generally call ‘the old days’, parents grabbed at any opportunity to show off the extraordinary beauty, exceptional intelligence, and remarkable artistic talent of their perfect children. They did this out of sincere pity for the
victim audience - who was stuck with sub-standard children. It seemed a kindness to give them a glimpse of what they might have had, in different circumstances.
First of all, you had to trap the victim. This was done in a variety of ways, but the end result was always the same, you had the victim cornered, they had no escape short of knocking you down and running, and once the trap was sprung, you opened your wallet.
They knew what it meant, too, when you opened that wallet. They knew you weren’t about to pay for lunch, not a chance. You were about to produce the wallet-sized photo of your perfect child.
They would sit, with bated breath, at the ready to draw their own wallet, and while they might be slower on the draw it didn’t really matter because in a wallet-slinging contest the speed of draw isn’t key to victory, the presentation is.
Subtle solicitation of compliments was critical to good presentation. “Yeah, so here’s the kid, guess he’s grown a bit since you last saw him.”
The victim was then compelled to say, while drawing her own wallet and barely glancing at the snot-nosed creature being presented, “Oh my, your child is SO AMAZING! Look at that good-looking boy, he will break hearts one day.”
Your response was denial, of course. “Oh, well, he just looks like a kid to me, haha, but at least he has reasonably good teeth,” - and this is the moment where you would then cite someone else saying good things about your kid, and really, you could stick any old name to the words because you were making it up anyway, and nobody was going to fact-check - “Oh but who knows, haha, maybe if we’re lucky he’ll do alright. His teacher was saying just the other day that he is exceptionally brilliant in every single way that a child can be brilliant, oh it was so embarrassing, I just wanted to say, no, good heavens, truly, this is just an ordinary kid, but she was so excited I could not get a word in edgewise.”
At this point, however, your victim would no longer be listening, she had her wallet open to her own perfect child. Your child was yesterday’s news in her mind, it was time to move on to hers, so she rushed through a quick, “Yesyesyourkidisgreat”, then added, “Oh you want to see Susan, I suppose, let’s see if I have a picture of her in here,” - despite you had given no indication that you wanted to see the little brat - “ah! there she is, we’re so hoping that one day she will grow out of that unfortunate sad-faced look she always has for photos.” You were forced to cede the floor to her mousy little scowl-face horror of a child and declare, with wide-eyed amazement, that she was the most beautiful little girl you had personally ever laid eyes on, and that her moody look would surely burn holes into the hearts of every boy in existence one day.
Thinking back on it, it seemed a lengthy process just to show off your kid, but it worked out okay, the job eventually got done, usually amid multiple martinis which helped to move the conversation on to much more interesting things such as the salacious goings-on of your open marriage neighbours.
Modern parents have streamlined the process, though, and the rules of engagement have changed considerably. Facebook has long since replaced wallets as the venue, and endless repetitive photos and videos have replaced that single little wallet-size photo of yore, yet it is still about showing other parents the shocking perfection of your child in the sincere hope that they regret having to be stuck with something so significantly inferior.
However, with Facebook update-slinging replacing wallet-slinging, you’re at a distinct disadvantage if they draw first, because to draw immediately after someone else has drawn is seen as desperate, you have to wait at least two days before returning fire. Since there is no warning of a draw about to happen, you have to stay on top of things with pre-emptive strikes. And forget singular victim in this, with Facebook it’s a veritable AK47 attack of show-offiness, with dozens of victims slain in one bloodbath massacre.
Worse, the modern process of child-centric snobbery is completely lacking in subtlety or any pretense of modesty, when showing their pictures they’ll even steal your obligatory words of praise. They pre-praise by telling you how cute she is, how handsome he is, how smart, how perfect - they say it all, they don’t leave one single thing for you to say in response. Worse, the subsequent discussion about the open marriage neighbours who are still at it after all these years never happens now, because they are on everybody’s facebook friend list and would not only read anything you wrote they would probably post detailed photos about it.
So, after enduring the unrelenting smug show-offiness of a parent who beat you to the draw, you are left without so much as a chance to fake a compliment, enjoy a decent martini, or engage in a bit of vicious gossip. All that’s left for you is the click of the ‘like’ button.
And where’s the fun in that?
Read more Old as dirt. Twice as gritty. articles
We suck up to people when we think it might help make life easier for us. Don’t deny it, everybody does it, it is human nature.
You’re sitting vulnerable in a chair with a dentist hovering over you with assorted tools of torture, and you, like most people, have the good common sense to make nice. You just do. You suck up to him in any way you think might make him be gentle. You really want him to like you. Too bad it won’t work, he just found out that the top-of-the-line Lexus he had on order arrived with a dust mark on it, so he is deeply unhappy. In fact, he hates your guts. This is a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sucks to be you. Sucks to be your teeth, or what’s left of them once he is done.
Then, barely recovered from your dentist visit, you’re about to undergo an operation, and it’s the same thing. You suck up, you play to the doctor’s ego, you flatter with the hope that he will say, “OMG, this is SUCH a nice person! Instead of using the serrated kitchen knife to fix him up, I’ll be gentle and use only the finest surgical tools this side of heaven. I’ll do ANYthing to save him, maybe even skip lunch!” Of course halfway through the operation, your surgeon will notice a grumbling in his stomach, at which point he will throw in the towel, probably inside you, and go off to lunch. When he returns, he will be annoyed because lunch sucked, and the service did as well. He probably won’t remember where he left off and will just amputate a few limbs here and there and be done with you.
The whole thing makes you feel stabby, so you head to City Hall to lodge a complaint about everything. You’re not very nice to the receptionist because what the hell, she doesn’t have the power, and besides she is in your way. You’re there to see the mayor, where is he?
And that is where you’ve made your biggest mistake. Of all the people you should be nice to in this world, the people who man those desks should be at the top of the list. Dental office, doctor office, city hall, anywhere there’s a receptionist, save your niceness for them. Not only are they the ones who have to work for eight hours a day dealing with the often prima donna testiness of doctors and dentists and what-nots who are ego-driven and not particularly nice to their staff, they are also the ones with the power to get you to where you want to go in that office. They are the ones who drive Ladas that work part-time and choke them with fumes on the way to work where they have to listen to the sob stories about Lexus dust marks. They are the ones who live in normal houses and have to endure lengthly diatribes about the mismatched paint jobs in the million dollar mansions.
If you’re rude to these receptionists, they can make things very very hard for you. They have the magical power of making the boss be available in ten minutes . . . or unavailable for the next two years.
And if your timing is bad and you’re rude at the wrong moment, they are going to see you as the last straw. You don’t want to be the last straw of someone who camps in the back yard because that’s what she can afford, but who has just finished soothing away the tears of a frustrated doctor who found out that his first-class tickets for the weekender trip to Paris are on the wrong side of the airplane and he’ll miss the sunset.
“You. Yeah you, I’m here to see Dr. Fiddlesticks, double fast, honey, I don’t have all day. You’re going to have to get off your chair and actually do something here, I’m afraid.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t speak English.”
“What? Of course you do, you’re speaking English right now.”
“No, those are the only words I know. And these.”
“Listen, stop dicking around with me and get the goddamn doctor. You’re going to be looking for another job at this rate.”
“Hmm, well, I do know some other English words, good ones, too. I’m not allowed to say them, though.”
“Damn, you’ve wasted enough of my time, just book me an appointment, make it snappy.”
“I have one available on March 30th at 2 pm, will that work for you?”
“Yes, that will be fine. It’s about time.”
“It certainly is. March 30th, 2017, 2 pm.”
“What??? Stop pissing around!”
“Mais oui, pissing? You want bathroom, si? Ya, here ist der key. You must be, what you say . . . crazy like banshee because you don’t understand that I no speaken zee English. We could speak in Latin, if you like. Do you know it? Tu es stultior quam asinus.”
“Why you . . . “