I almost smashed into a Seawall tree the other day while watching for incoming bikes on the path I was stealing from them. I now know that I should always look where I’m running. Bikes are still softer than trees.

When the power goes out, one is left with much time to ponder. This is for Don Estorbo de la Bodega Dominicana, a very sweet, big, black cat. Day in day out.

This is funny if you are just a touch geeky, so I’m actually reprinting it all integrally. Sorry, the source had rather questionable taste, so I won’t quote it. Mea culpa, but hey... It was found on StumbleUpon, though.

Computer: Monitor, display this document, ok?

Monitor: No prob, boss.

Computer: OK, now it looks like Mouse is moving around so, Monitor, will you move the pointer icon accordingly?

Monitor: Anything you ask, boss.

Computer: Great, great. OK, Mouse, where are you going now?

Mouse: Over to the icon panel, sir.

Computer: Hmm, Let me know if he clicks anything, OK?

Mouse: Of course.

Keyboard: Sir, he’s pressed control and P simultaneously.

Monitor: Oh God, here we go.

Computer: (sighs) Printer, are you there?

Printer: No.

Computer: Please, Printer. I know you’re there.

Printer: NO! I’m not here! Leave me alone!

Computer: Jesus. OK look, you really ne...

Mouse: Sir, he’s clicked on the printer icon.

Computer: Printer, now you have to print it twice.

Printer: NO! NO! NO! I don’t want to! I hate you! I hate printing! I’m turning off!

Computer: Printer, you know you can’t turn yourself off. Just print the document twice and we’ll leave you alone.

Printer: NO! That’s what you always say! I hate you! I’m out of ink!

Computer: You’re not out of in...

Printer: I’M OUT OF INK!

Computer: (Sighs) Monitor, please show a low ink level alert.

Monitor: But sir, he has plen...

Computer: Just do it, damn it!

Monitor: Yes sir.

Keyboard: AHHH! He’s hitting me!

Computer: Stay calm, he’ll stop soon. Stay calm, old friend.

Keyboard: He’s pressing everything. Oh god, I don’t know, he’s just pressing everything!

Computer: PRINTER! Are you happy now?! Do you see what you’ve done?!

Printer: HA! that’s what you get for trying to get me to do work. Next time he...hey...HEY! He’s trying to open me! HELP! HELP! Oh my god! He’s torn out my cartridge! HELP! Please! ERROR!

Monitor: Sir, maybe we should help him?

Computer: No. He did this to himself.

It certainly isn’t unexpected. The initial memo arrived a good week in advance, followed by a memo confirming the memo, and finally an email repeating both memos and sealing the deal. An annual building-wide fire drill is to be taken seriously. Well, I had intended to. But as it turns out, the week has already gone in all kinds of deviant and stressful directions, and today, 30 minutes from the bell, I am feeling very strangely disconnected from this plane of reality. My temperature is fine but I might be having visions. There are fevers a thermometer cannot detect.

Earlier, I crossed over to officeland from my outpost, feeling like a peasant who leaves the countryside to walk into a busy and dangerous city. There were armed officeguards walking around with grim faces, applying the law. I recognized Rules, with his round glasses, Policy, boring but ever-watchful, and Etiquette, stiff and always so proper. I was there to inquire of who was the Floor Warden on this 20th floor that is now my den, but having found out and about to retreat, I noticed that the massive officephotocopier was looking at me with menacing intensity. A few seconds of distraction on my part caused an officelemming to interpret my lasting presence as a sign of interest and the Book of Answers was laid flat on a table. « Let’s see, she said, who is the Floor Warden on your floor. » She meant the Deck. It was my floor but it no longer is, since I now hibernate on the 20th.

« Ah, she added, you and M. are the floor wardens, good. » She was about to close the Book when I raised an eyebrow. « That’s interesting, I said. M. no longer works for us, and I am now here on the 20th. » She looked puzzled. The Book had become one of Questions. « Well, then, she hesitated, who would..? » « That would be the supervisor on duty, I answered. I’m probably still technically the warden, but the odds of me being present on the deck in case of a fire are microscopically thin. » « Ah, she said again, that’s good. We’ll have to update the book. » She slammed it closed with satisfaction. Things had been rectified, in her mind at the very least. I could have sworn the photocopier had crawled an inch closer to me.

So I left officeland behind and climbed up here to the Deck. It was 9:00 am and I had a half hour before the drill, which I intended to use wisely by briefing the troops like I’d seen in movies. We had elected to stay closed to the unsuspecting public until after the exercise to avoid having to force people to walk down 40 flights of emergency stairs, or leaving them behind alone with my favorite teddy bears, which would have been even worse. But the troops had been summoned early so that we could prepare and rehearse.

...

I clear my throat. « The whole purpose of a fire drill, I begin in my best speech tone, is to prepare for the real thing by removing improvisation from the future situation and ironing the kinks. We are going to pretend this is real and... » I have to stop in the middle of a brilliant sentence, having caught a movement from the corner of my eye, over by the north windows. But the three troopers on duty and I are supposed to be alone on the deck. I make a mental note to drink more water later. Fighting to reconnect with my train of thoughts, I finish the briefing. That motion again, just over there, to the right, it was blurry but I saw it.

K. and A. head downstairs to set up the ticket desk. Hurry back up, I silently press K. I want out of here. It’s 9:15. I discuss a few more things with J, orange vests, PA system, different alarms, coconut buns. Then I decide to head down myself. I opt for the freight elevator, press the button and wait. It’s 9:20. I’m cutting it  close. Suddenly feeling a presence behind me in the otherwise empty kitchen, I slowly swing around and find myself face to face with a semi-transparent green smile. A ghost. A thing. Floating in mid-air. I knew we weren’t alone! Bloody fever. I think I’m sweating a bit.

The ghost is rather funny looking, reminding me of the little guys in Ghostbusters. It points to its watch - yes, it has one - and waves a finger at the elevator. I nod, this is taking forever. I glance at the call button. It’s no longer lit up. I press it a half-dozen times. Nothing. The elevator has been turned off. Rats.

Sprinting around the perimeter to the glass elevators, I push the call button. Nothing. These are off too. Then I realize the obvious: they have cheated! They, the building security, have turned off all elevators 10 minutes early. The little green blob has followed me and giggles. He thinks it’s very funny. But my carefully conceived plan is unraveling. K. will be stuck downstairs and will not witness the evacuation procedure. I, on the other hand, have no desire to witness anything and just want to get it over with, I have a paperwork nightmare to attend.

I go back to find J. and we wait for the alarm while I discover that the ghost has many friends. As I rub my tired eyes, they are appearing from everywhere as if gathering for the drill. They seem excited and completely lack discipline, bullying each other around, which because of their lack of substance results in rather gooey exchanges. And the funniest thing is that J. never seems to notice them. He is oblivious to their presence, looking right through them at me and talking seriously about leaving the wounded behind.

The alarm rings. An unearthly voice advises us to stand by for evacuation. The specters around us boo and cheer, enjoying themselves tremendously. J. makes an announcement of his own and leaves to sweep the deck as I man my station by the empty exit. When he comes back, unaware that he has three green ghosts holding on to his legs in a comical attempt to slow him down, fighting with each other along the way, we discuss politics and agree that the alarm bells haven’t been what we expected, then we head down. The ghosts swarm the staircase with us, rushing through every door they find, counting the floors in a chorus as we pass them. I figure we won’t have done all this for nothing after all. We will have entertained Vancouver’s afterworld.

40 stories lower, we emerge into the street and cross to the rallying point where people are standing, talking about the weather and sports. My reality is still unphased. I have a headache. But the funny green things are gone. They trickled out one by one as we were getting closer to the ground. Maybe they can only live up high. Maybe it’s a sign that my fever is receding. I need an aspirin. I have to get out of here. I have to move forward. Now. This is not a drill.

As Marie was mentioning it, linking to this interesting article of the New York Times, the bees must know something... Here’s my interpretation of it:

They’re bailing before it’s too late. Everyone, grab your copy of the Guide and brace!

You had to be there. It was a long time ago. Long before AIM, and Gmail chat, and MSN Messenger, and Skype, and ICQ, and Trillian and the like, the ancestor of online chatting was – and still is – called IRC. It stands for Internet Chat Relay. I spent hours on it, in chat rooms called channels, using the ever-popular mIRC and ViRC programs, writing scripts, customizing my messages, implementing colors, offering roses, seeking privileges, learning the syntax and the codes, wasting precious time, getting addicted. Then I got Jouche addicted too. Mea culpa. And then I bailed.

Nowadays, modern chat clients are so much more powerful and user friendly, but they cater mostly to individual conversations and the idea of public channels never really took off until Facebook appeared.

The difference with IRC is that it was geeky and took quite a while to master. But entire online communities built themselves around those channels. Some of them still exist I’m sure, but I’ve lost touch. I’ve forgotten the language. I’ve moved on. Yet I keep a copy of mIRC on my laptop. One never knows. IRC remains a valuable resource when it comes to finding live, up-to-date info about the weirdest, most remote things, fast.

Here are a few quotes from actual IRC conversations. They were found here. They are much funnier if you’re a geek and if you were there.

(+ware) I rear-ended a car this morning. So there we are alongside the road and
(+ware) slowly the driver gets out of the car . . . and you know how you just get sooo
(+ware) stressed and life seems to get funny?
(+ware) Well, I could NOT believe it . . he was a DWARF! He storms over to my car,
(+ware) looks up at me and says, « I AM NOT HAPPY! »
(+ware) So, I look down at him and say, « Well, which one are you then? »... and
(+ware) THAT’S when the fight started . .

...

<frank> can you help me install GTA3?
<knightmare> first, shut down all programs you aren’t using
* frank has quit IRC. (Quit) **
<knightmare> ...

...

<pronstar``afk> my kazaa preformed an illegal opperation
<cCCPehlet`> isn’t that what kazaa is designed to do?

...

<fabz> I think we need to work on our communication.. one guy is talking crap, one just goes « lol » and the other one doesn’t understand what’s going on
<atsleek> lol
<Nefemus> what?

...

<idsif> you’re smarter than the average american
<ascian> of course. i’m canadian.

...

<Beeth> Girls are like internet domain names, the ones I like are already taken.
<honx> well, you can stil get one from a strange country : -P

** That’s a system message that appears when a user closes his IRC program. Duh. (Vince)

On January 16th, 2008 around 8:30 am, I will be landing at Paris Charles de Gaulles. It will have been five years since my feet last treaded on French soil.

On January 16th, 2008 around 10:00 am, I will be taking off from Charles de Gaulle. It will have been five years and two hours since I actually got out of the airport and into Paris. Sigh.

So near and yet so far. My steak tartare on a bank of the Seine river will have to wait... At least I’ll be leaving France behind for the best reason in the world and without even a look back. My attention will be focused forward, and a smile of anticipation will be painted on my face.

But to humor myself and make up for the huge culinary missed opportunity in Paris, I decided to go back to the source. France might be the kingdom of bread, charcuterie and cheese, but it’s also absolute pastry heaven.

And hence I give you le flan pâtissier. My favorite French pastry, period. I like it more than Calissons d’Aix, more than lemon pies, even more than croissants! A well done flan sticks together well enough to be bought at the local patisserie and walked away with, yet it will literally melt in your mouth...

Now I don’t pretend to be a specialist; worse, tonight was my first attempt ever. But I’m brave and daring, I don’t mind the hysterical laughter I’ll probably cause, and despite the wonderful Bistro Cooking book just received from Marie which still felt a little overwhelming, I found this simple recipe on the internet and translated it from the language of Molière, bien sûr. Then I took the red pill...

The dough

Called in French pate brisée, I have no idea what the translation would be... Broken dow?

- 250 g flour
- 125 g butter
- a pinch of salt
- a pinch of sugar
- a bit of water
- 30 cl of hope

Place the flour, salt, sugar and butter cut in cubes on the counter. Squash the butter flat with your fingers and remember when you were a kid. Make a crater in the center and slowly add water, mixing in from the outside. If humidity is sufficient, the dough will hold itself together. When the dough is ready, play with it no longer than 2 minutes and then become an adult again and make a nice loaf. Roll it flat and arrange on a buttered pie cooking pan. Cover the dough with aluminum foil and cook for 15 min. in the oven preheated at 180° C. Next time, buy it pre-made.

The mix

- 1 litre whole milk
- 180 g sugar
- 120 g maïzena (cornstarch)
- 2 eggs + a yoke
- 2 to 3 tsp pure vanilla extract (the original recipe called for real vanilla, which I couldn’t find)

Put aside a glass of the milk and boil the rest with the sugar. While this is heating up, mix into a bowl the glass of milk, cornstarch, vanilla and eggs. When the milk is up to a boil, poor it gently in the bowl, mixing with a whip while singing la Marseillaise. Put the new mixture back on a slow fire and cook for a while, mixing with a wooden spoon until it thickens. Boil for a few seconds. The flan should be very thick at this stage.

Poor it into the dough and even it out so that it’s really flat. Cross fingers. Cook 35 to 40 minutes. The top will turn a very dark brown. That’s it.

... Ok, that was the theory. In practice, I doubt that I waited long enough before taking my mixture off the fire, and so I’m not sure that it got thick enough. As a consequence I had to cook it way longer, probably too long and the crust was a bit tough. The top of my flan kept inflating like a balloon and I feared for my life a few times.

Earlier, I’d played with the flour like a kid, got covered in it and had a good laugh at myself. But then I completely forgot I was all white and went back out to the grocery store to get icing sugar. I got a few strange looks from customers and finally the cashier said: « Uh, you’ve been cooking, haven’t you? » and she brought her hand to her forehead, taping her temple with a finger. It could have meant « you have flour there » or « you’re nuts ». Not sure.

Any way, after over an hour in the oven, I took the flan out and let it cool down, then put it in the fridge. 45 minutes later, it had hardened to the consistency I wanted. It wasn’t bad at all for a first attempt. Tasted good, too. Nothing like the real thing yet, but there is hope. I cut and ate two slices of flan, same with my pride. And there is a lot left.

Crappy pictures.

...

Update: version two looked better but still didn’t taste perfect...

… And there’s that very neat little place that just opened up, prime location, right across from the Gates, a bit small but then again they don’t get that many customers. It’s the perfect spot to go and watch that huge line up. You sit at the terrace sipping on some sinful nectar and the action is unfolding right in front of your eyes. And believe me, these folks can get pretty rowdy. Of course at first they are so well behaved, while they still think they have a chance to get in, but when the time comes to show some credentials and only mud turns up, yeah, they just lose it. They make complete fools of themselves, arguing, yelling, swearing, completely unaware that they are thus ruining the last remaining glimpse of hope. I guess one could say in their defense that the stakes are quite high.

I don’t think I ever told you that one; a while back, good old Pete was getting tired after spending way too much time at his station to close off a long week-end. Car accidents had been lucrative for S. but since his prospective clients still have to go through screening at the Gates first, he was pacing back and forth by the terrace with a double in his hand, while Pete did his best to salvage as much of the situation as he could. Some folks, though, I tell you, they just can’t be saved. As if they weren’t thinking about the consequences down there.

Anyway, St. Pete realizes his aureole is almost completely discharged and fading in and out, making him look like a cheap neon sign by a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. So he picks up the white courtesy phone and calls upstairs. The boss answers in between creations and tries to find a replacement, but they’re all busy. He’s scanning through his alphabetical list of deities and sanctities and when he gets down to J, he says:

- Pete, dude, I would have someone to take your place for a while, but he’s been known to cause trouble and I can’t guarantee that he’ll be that much help. They say he can’t be trusted.

- Great, replies St. Pete. Just great. Well I’m just going to have to shut the gates down until I return. I can’t risk letting illegal immigrants in and Judas doesn’t even have a clue of the difference between an I-230 and an TN Visa.

- Wait, says the boss, here, I found one. He’s been kind of bored for the last 2 millenniums and I keep promising to send him back down to finish the job, but I get so caught up. He’s yours if you’d like. Just don’t say anything like crossing the Gates, it’s a bit of a sore subject…

So the boss calls Jesus over and sends him to relieve St. Peter at the Gates of Heaven. Pete explains the basic to him, briefly - they are among saints after all:

- You just sit here, Jeez, and welcome the crowd. They will walk up to you one by one and your job is to ask them questions to assess the quality of their lifetime on Earth in order to allow them - or not - to petition for an adjustment of status, a work permit, citizenship, etc… I typically use preset questions written here, you’re welcome to use them if you’d like…

Then he floats away in quest of an aureole charger while Jesus steps into his new function.

- On behalf of the entire staff and myself, announces Jesus, welcome to the Gates, where your entire life will flash back on our new triple flat plasma screen. We are open daily from now to then, and statutory holidays are no exception. In fact they are our busiest time. Please have some form of ID ready and rewind your flash file to the beginning in order to expedite the procedure. The forms for sentence appeal are located behind me on that flat cloud. You must fill all 400 copies and submit them to the proper authorities. Make sure to take a number and good luck to you all.

The first person in the line-up approaches, a blond woman in her thirties who has just died from choking on a blue Smartie; Jesus glances at the list of protocol questions and starts asking them one after the other.

- Hi. Have you lived a good life? Did you sin a lot? How would you describe your last moments? Was there love in your life? If so did you return it? How many languages do you speak? Can you tell the difference between an angel and a rainbow? Have you ever been called up here for an interview before? If so, do you remember the Light? Did you tell anybody about it? What are the last 4 digits of your bank account number (for numerology purposes)? Have you forgiven others for their sins (Bush excluded)? Have you ever watched Heaven Can Wait muted or are you carrying in excess of $10,000 dollars in will funds?...

With each question answered, he gets a clearer picture and is normally able to make up his mind rapidly about opening the Gates or not. Time passes. [Or rather it passes for you the reader because up here, it doesn’t.] While he’s interviewing the souls, Jesus notices a very old man, still far into the line-up, patiently awaiting his turn. As more candidates get past him, he can’t help but to stare at the elder getting closer and closer, and an uneasy feeling of déjà-vu comes over him. Soon, Jesus realizes he knows the man. He knows the face, the eyes, the deep sorrow, the absence, the void this old man carries with him. He’s known him, long ago.

Eventually, after many have come and gone before him, Jesus is finally face to face with the man and asks the routine questions, which get answered correctly, granting the old man access. But Jesus’ curiosity just isn’t satisfied and he keeps questioning, in hope of figuring out who the man could be and why he is so familiar.

- What was your labour during this lifetime, old man? he asks.
- I worked with wood, the old man says, I was a carpenter.

Jesus gets cold shivers. That rings a bell or two.

- Did you have a son? he asks again.
- Yes, I guess we could say that in a way, I had a son… but I lost him, answers the man.
- Could you describe him? says Jesus.
- Easy, he had wholes in his hands and feet and…

Jesus lets out a sigh and interrupts him:

- Father!

The old man’s face lights up with a smile, he takes a deep breath and whispers:

- I knew it! How you’ve grown, my dear Pinocchio!

This afternoon, I went on a mission. Multiple targets, time sensitive, low profile. I needed ink, paper, and chicken. The first part went as planned, after the bus had done a slight detour around the end of Burrard Street where the Santa Claus parade was going to end. I infiltrated Staples on Seymour, on time, zoomed in on my objective in a tight formation, grabbed two boxes of card paper, proceeded to the ink section in stealth mode and... realized I didn’t remember my printer’s model number. So much for stealth. I’d have to involve the local population. This could get messy. A first clerk didn’t really know what the hell this was all about and bailed. I glanced at my watch nervously; mission-critical time was lapsing. Then a second contact proved to be much better informed, her intell’ was fresh, we narrowed down the mark and I had my ink.

So I vacated the scene and headed on foot towards the next operational bus stop that would lead me to my point of entry into the chicken zone. On my way there, I had to fight with slow and probably hostile crowds of thousands of local gathered along Burrard to watch the parade. I had my weapon handy and shot a few rounds, part of my daily recon’ into Vancouver, which are posted below.

Finally, I was on site, Safeway on Davie. Two blocks from home. Mission almost completed. I reviewed my orders briefly, grabbed some limes, thyme, garlic and steered towards the meat section. Arrived. Scouted it. Scouted it again. Rubbed my eyes. Scanned the entire section once more. There were no chickens. Chicken legs, chicken breasts, chicken wings, chicken parts, chicken soup, but no chickens. As in « whole chicken », which was part of the mission brief received by email earlier.

I must admit I might have flinched for a second. A warrior has moments of weakness too, or even fear. In fact there is no such thing as fearless people, only fearless moments. The thought of a failed mission flashed through my mind. But I stayed in control. I’ve seen worse. I’m used to being on my own behind enemy lines. I’m resourceful and well trained.

So I soon came up with an alternative plan. We’ll call it plan B. The crappy grocery store up the hill. I broke into a controlled field run, designed to be extremely fast but still appear as a simple walk to enemy sentinels. I didn’t even look crossing the two streets, relying on my peripheral vision, and even jay-walked once. It’s called a means to an end.

Once at the store, there was no time to be subtle. I rushed in, took a left, panned the area for competition, found none, and stopped in front of the meat counter. On site. I spotted it immediately. It was right in front of me. The package. I snatched it. Panned again, still no unfriendlies. Then just as a precaution, I scanned the counter better, to ensure the accuracy of my lift. I scanned again. There were no other packages. The chicken I had in my hand, was the last one. I looked at it closer, noticed the mention organic - score - scrolled down to the price and read: $14.35. Swallowed. The only bloody chicken available for me to buy in a radius of 10 blocks was a fourteen dollars organic chicken. And not even that big, on top of that. I guess they feed them good stuff, so they don’t inflate.

I completed the mission and returned home. There a new, more detailed mission order sent by email shortly after the initial one, stated: « 1 chicken, rinsed, patted dry (you can also use chicken pieces) ».

Oh well. Maybe I’ll get a medal...

 [To be continued]