"How to" indeed

Today I wanted a little information about something I'd heard. There supposedly exists a small-batch bourbon whiskey of remarkable flavor that happens to be drawn from the cask and bottled uncut, leaving it at around 122 proof (that's approximately 61% alcohol by volume). If the interwebs are to be believed, it does exist and is actually supposed to be a pretty good drink.

Of course, if the interwebs are to be believed, searching for that meant I was also likely to be interested in how to deal with a faux pas, find a job in a growth industry, "help a suicidal student", and how to ski.

Thanks, interwebs, I can feel myself getting more well-rounded every damn second.

Image dump

The last couple weeks have been a bit harder on the ol' word-making parts of the brain than I'd like. So instead of some comments about something or other, here are a bunch of teeny-tiny photos from my mediocre phone camera. This are the images that I seem to have thought were worth reproducing:

Back to back to back...

Okay, so I ain't been on for a while. That's 'cause I've been getting re-married. Which isn't to say that I was divorced, but that the first time around was done on the quick and on the Q.T. It was almost like we eloped, except for the questionable choice of moving right back to the same island her family was on.

D'oh.

So once I got the visa I could get to work, which was a prerequisite for paying for the reception that seemed to be much in demand amongst people who'd heard that my special lady friend was now rocking a legally recognized husband.

Except she's already got a professional reputation in her field, and thus is in no hurry to start rebuilding it under a different name. And she's not my special lady friend!

Anyway, turns out that planning and executing a wedding reception takes up time. A damn lot of time. Time spent worrying about stuff that I would ordinarily never even be aware of. Like caring who sits next to whom, or whether there's going to be enough space on the dance floor, or whether the omnivores are going to eat too much of the vegetarians' options.

Okay, seriously, there was a whole roast pig to eat there. Like, over 175 pounds of slow-cooked pork. The pig roast was the most commented-on thing on the invitations, and people were lining up to see the pig before they even noticed the bride's dress. But for some reason, people still nearly ate all the fucking vegetarian lasagna before the actual vegetarians got a chance to.

But I digress. I've been busy, doing nuptial-type stuff. But today was my first Sunday off in a while, so it was a perfect chance to do some manly-type stuff. I bought lumber, saws, nails, big-ass brooms, and a bunch of cast-iron weights. Butch, man, butch! GRRRR-RARR!

Oh yeah, The Professor Brothers rock my historical world. (NSFW)

Next time: eh, whatever, man. You know how I live.

Chemicals, chemicals, non-franchise chemicals!

Now that I'm back amongst the ranks of the employed, I'm going to have to re-state my support for coffee. A legal, socially acceptable stimulant, it's sometimes the only thing that keeps me upright and functional. Now, the shaved apes I have to work with may be happy drinking cup after cup of instant Nescafe all day, but this particular simian needs something a little bit better. Yes, there are two Starbucks and one Costa on my way to work, but I like options. Besides, if I've learned nothing else from the films of Sylvester Stallone, it's that you should support the little guy, the unlikely artist with something to say, the underdog, the heavily armed veteran and the arm-wrestling-truck-driving single father.

Hmm. Seem to have lost the track there. Anyway, if you'd like to find a non-Starbucks coffee nearby, try Delocator.com (or Delocator.ca or Delocator.org.uk, depending on where you're aiming to go) for a postal/zip code search of independently owned coffee shops and tea parlors and such.

(Thanks for the heads up, Secret Agent K!)

Small Victories

Special Agent K, who is much more observant than I am, said something that I often forget to mention about living abroad. That the sense of accomplishment that can be had from figuring out how to do stuff, especially in another language or culture, is like proof that your brain still works. Despite some out of date directions, I was able to successfully get to the right office, fill out the right papers and get a re-entry permit. That really felt good. It was like winning a sports match and figuring out a puzzle at the same time.

Riding high on that mark in the win column, I decided to look up a guy I met who said his shop sold big and tall suits. (That's another nice thing about living here. There are people who are willing to be civil, or even kind, just for the sake of being friendly to a foreigner. I'll have to remember to try and be good to other people someday...) So I went to his shop, and found they did have big and tall suits. Suits for people with up to a 130cm waist and 185 cm height.

Have I told you yet that I'm about 190 cm tall?

That was kind of a come down: to be reminded that, even by extra-normal standards, you don't fit.

Then again, no one leaves their home country to live abroad with an realistic goal of "fitting in." Mostly I was cheesed off because I really wanted a new suit. And really, the guy from the store seemed geniunely disappointed that they didn't have anything that would fit me.

So let's score the day a win by split decision. 'Cause in the end, I did figure out how to do some stuff. And I was never able to buy suits easily in the US anyway.