31 10 2003

Happy Halloween.
Nothing more comforting than the smell of sulpher and gunpowder to rouse you from a nap.


Costume for what? Oh.

30 10 2003

Right. Tomorrow is Halloween. Well tonight I must formulate a costume then. Somewhere between my nap and dinner and ‘work’.

in case someone asks

28 10 2003

I came home from work today and being hungry and impatient I decided to cook some pasta. While kicking off my work boots and putting away dishes I put a pot of water on the stove. Instinctively I reached for the salt and shook in a few dashes.
I paused.
Why do I do that? Add salt I mean. Ever since I was a wee lad I knew salt was to be added when boiling water. It had something to do with making water boil easier. I also remember more recently a cooking show explaining that if you don’t add a little salt when cooking starches it takes a lot of salt later to get the same amount of seasoning. Even in the first days of cooking KD I seem to remember the instructions (I assume they still exist) mention adding salt to the water.
Those of you who know the reason are probably gripping your keyboards already. If some of you want to settle an argument, read this: Salt does not lower the boiling point of water nor does it help water boil faster.
Quite the opposite. Salt raises the boiling point of water. It allows water to stay hotter before turning to vapor and boiling off. Therefore food cooks faster because the water is hotter.
It all has to do with atmospheric pressure. Imagine if you will column of air above your pot of water. Exactly the same size as your pot, but really really tall. I mean really tall. Like 68 kilometers tall. All that air has to weigh something right? A tower 68 kilometers tall, even if it is made of air, has to weigh something. Well it does (Approximately 14.7lbs per square inch) All this pressure is what holds those little bubbles of vapor on the bottom of the pot.
This is what leads to a misconception of cooking at altitude. Because there is less atmospheric pressure at altitude (less air pressing down) the vapor (steam created when water is heated) is released at a lower temperature. Sure the water boils faster but the actual temperature of the water is lower. (On Everest it would be as low as 75 Degrees C as opposed to the usual 100 Degrees at Sea Level) And altitude doesn’t mean a plane or mountain, it can even mean simmering your sauce longer in Kamloops.
There you have it, a train of thought brought on by a simple couple pinches of salt. (as for the oil or no oil when cooking pasta: It does nothing to the pasta. The food barely touches it as the oil sits on top and the food stays in the water. What it does do is increase the surface tension of the water and help reduce foaming and boiling over.)
Pasta lesson endeth.


27 10 2003

I know.
I have been neglecting my blog. I have either been too busy or to lazy. I’m not sure if it is either or both. I haven’t been taking as many pictures either. I just don’t seem to be in the mood. Perhaps I’m jamming in some activities before it gets just too damn miserable out.
Today one of our circular saws was stolen from the jobsite. We left for lunch and someone walked into the house and took a brand new saw. Like two days old brand new. Luckily a neighbour saw him and someone followed this guy back to his apartment building.
When we got back, we got the story and a few of us including the neighbour who witnessed it went to pay him a visit. I stayed so some work could get done. It turns out the guy was home but didn’t answer the door. Our guys called the cops but they were busy with an armed suspect or something. Finally somehow contact was made with the guy. He was old, and already had one black eye. He claimed he didn’t know what was going on, lied and lied somemore. So one of our guys unplugged the phone and said,
“Well when your memory comes back you can stop by with the saw and get your phone back.” Great plan but it turns out it was the guy’s roomate’s (Colet) phone. So we ended up with some other contents of the apartment.
Sure enough the saw showed up about 45minutes later. The guy couldn’t stop lying. He was saying how he bought the saw from some kid. We said that there were witnesses who saw him leaving with the saw. Oh it must have been someone else in my Jacket. I just got it back and it was all dirty. He said he didn’t have the saw and he didn’t know anything about it, then he said he knew where he could get it, but couldn’t say where because he didn’t remember. Then he is back to the story that he bought it off some kid and if he ever sees him again he is going to punch him.
We just suggested he take his stuff back and never be seen around here again. Oh and don’t forget your bag, you might need it to steal something else.


25 10 2003

Just a quick entry. I am doing a impromptu poll of peoples Halloween plans.
So what are you doing for Halloween? Where are you going? Who you going with and if it isn’t a big surprise what are you dressing up as?

88 lines about 44 women

21 10 2003

Actually 268 CDs with between 10 to 20 songs each. Average would be closer to 13 though. Still: 268 x 13 = 3484. Approximatly three thousand four hundred and eighty-four songs to associate titles with in 2 nights. Last night being one of them.
What the hell am I talking about? As mentioned in the previous post, Kevin is getting married, I’m the dj, and mischiff supplied the music. Now I have to familiarize myself with his music. Take every time you ever said, “What the hell are we listening to.”, “Who sings this song?”, then re-mix every song you do know and add in the soundtrack to every high school dance. Times that by two and you have begun to experience the titles and sounds bouncing around my skull last night.
I removed the headphones and crawled into bed at 1am last night. I’m sure I am in for another like that tonight. Tomorrow I have to size, cut and install 250 feet of window trim and flashing then drive to Nanaimo pick up the dj rig then drive to Qualicum and set it up and test it. Somewhere in there i would like to get a haircut. Crap, and bring clothes. I can’t forget those.

pulling on my waistband

19 10 2003

My asexual moment of the night: Crawling into my extra deep bathtub.
What is it with guys and bathtubs? Pardon me, homophobic guys perhaps? At least us guys who take on overly manly moments when talking about chicks and cars and sports. What I am getting at is the ridiculous shifty-ness men possess when the bathtub topic comes up.
After a rain soaked football match, guys wouldn’t be caught dead saying, “I can’t wait to get home and take a bubble bath!”
Shower? Fine.
Hot-tub? Sexy.
Bath? Gay.
What is it? I don’t get it. I must admit I am just about as guilty as the next guy. I have lived in my new place for almost two months and just had my first bath tonight.
Go sit in a six man hot tub with 10 naked guys, and as long as you have beer it is a party! But sit alone in bathtub and *bing, your gay. Generally the only time the word comes up is when guys are telling stories about landing in them after discovering the stress threshhold of a shower curtain rod.
A girl talks about a bath, guys get giddy. A guy mentions a bath he’s either talking about about the aforementioned girl or the aforementioned girls hair in the drain. The more references to ‘snaking the drain’ the better.
I really didn’t think I was going to sit down tonight and write about taking baths. It all started with one pair of underwear after the shower. I reached into my underwear drawer and looked at my options on top. Don’t get me wrong, my options are limited. Boxers or Boxer briefs. A few different name brands, colours, and model years would round out my choices. I grabbed an old plaid pair of Calvins (klein not hobbes), (and why are they pairs? There is barely a pair of legs, but I guess still leg holes will do) So I pulled on my well used/loved pair of leg hole boxers. I started to giggle.
I am a stereotypical male who keeps his underwear WAY past their prime.
Why do we do it? I don’t know. They are very comfortable obviously. I not only have kept them, but I wear them, and I just chose them over others. They have a hole in the crotch, a tear on one leg, the waistband’s elasticity is barely discernable from the rest of the fabric, and who knows what the ass looks like. It feels like it is all there as I sit here and type this very sentence.
I started to giggle not only at the fact that I noticed the shabby state of my undergarment, nor because I noticed the direct contradition of my bath and threadbaren drawers. No, I sit here and tell you this because of my good friend Kevin.
Kevin is getting married on Thursday afternoon. He has asked me to dj his wedding, and I graciously accepted only after mischiff graciously offered to loan me his music (/me bows). For 5 years Kevin and I (along with Paul) were roomates in Whistler. We have many stories to share, and some to not. This is one of them I will share.
For whatever the occasion, most presumably the bar, we were preparing for an evening out. The three of us were in our respective rooms getting changed into what I can only assume was really bad nineties fashion when Kevin barks out with laugher and calls my name. I recognize this call, it means he wants to show me something. Paul’s room is upstairs from us and Kevin’s room is directly at the opposite end of the hall from mine. I lean my head back so I can look down the hall and see him wearing only a shirt with his underwear up around his chest. All of his underwear around his chest, there is no underwear left down under.
He ripped right through the middle stepping into them. He grabs the waistband and pulls it apart like Hulk Hogan. I am shaking my head at him but I’m laughing because he is laughing. He runs bare assed back into his room, steps out into the hall and pulls another pair on this time with each leg in the respective hole. He pauses at the knees, looks at me, then stands up clean and jerk style and hoists his Calvins right through his Ben and Jerry’s. Clear up to his neck, giggling the whole time. Don’t think of him as a masochist, the boxers were the of the same threadbare state I mentioned earlier.
He had found the courage to discard his depleted BVD’s.
As a fellow male, I had to appreciate this. I did, for about 5 seconds until I admired, and then became inspired. I turned to Kev in western showdown style, grabbed the crotch of my flannels and flash flung my hands out infront of me broadway magic style. Without the use of a cape, hat, nor magic wand I had just removed my jockeys.
The hallway had became dim in a flurry of buttons, elastics, prints, laundry labels and even the odd scrap of glow in the dark lettering. In a matter of seconds, under a din of laughter, a soundtrack of rips and tears, and the odd snort for air we purged our privates of overdue intimate wear.
Poor Paul; he comes downstairs to find out what all the excitement is only to find Kev and I naked from the waist down standing in a hallway littered with bits of cloth, elastics hanging from our ears and us laughing hysterically about it all.
I seem to remember one of us attempting a pair of undies that werem’t quite ready to be released into the wild. They didn’t go as easily as the rest.
These are the sorts of things young males do in the name of chicks and booze. Tearing your underwear off by giving yourself an atomic wedgie infront of your roomate is ok. Just don’t mention the Bee-Eh-Tee-Ayech.