The Japan-only bonus track from ‘Random Access Memories’
Better or worse than the Ghetto Bus tour?
“Gawk at the exterior of an apartment building Driver’s character bench presses iron.” Does it get any better than this?
If it doesn’t, may I suggest your funds could be better spent on almost anything else.
Ah, yes. The Cocktail Chart of Film & Literature from Pop Chart Lab, who have previously charted the varieties of coffee, the history of Apple, America’s bike lanes, the composition of classic cocktails, the wonders of serif fonts, Gotham’s villains, and the 64 guitars that defined rock history.
Serve with recipes form The Artists’ & Writers’ Cookbook.
I’ll be referring to this for regular Friday @Ubotka Cocktails. Research. Lots of it.
On Making Lobster Bisque
First tasted in a tiny French restaurant newly opened in a Loyalist city where the owner chef told us it was the spiky red shells that made this silken delight. All bisques are judged against this one. He made exceptional dishes for fast food people. The restaurant is an insurance office now, the owner moved on to pass his gift to those more appreciative.
It takes a bucket of shells to make a bowl of bisque. That never used to be a problem. Getting rid of all the shells was the challenge. We forgot once and three days later the garage smelled like a dead whale- a putrefying wall of stench that seeped under your very skin, making your eyes water in repulsion. From then on it was my brother’s job to bag up the shells and takes them to the garbage bin at the end of the road. My mother’s theory was there was no town law against abandoning crustacean carcasses there. Still, she told him to wait until it was dark.
I don’t know where they went when Dad was alive. He’d come home from a week’s surveying for the placement of wharves and local fishermen would have filled his trunk with lobster. He’d bring up the pot from the basement and soon the kitchen was filled with steam and friends cracking open shells and stubbies of beer around the table built by his father, who never ate lobster because that was poor people’s food.
The parties died with Dad.
That first summer it was almost possible to pretend that life was unchanged because Dad never came to the shore until the end of August. We had weeks of waves and sand dunes and searching for shells. The cousins, in a rented cottage, would show off their new skills, and challenge us to beat them at games we’d never heard of with rules that were announced after the infraction. I suspect I never won, because I don’t remember who did. We were all fair skinned and freckled. Nobody wore sunscreen, there was only baby oil and iodine for those in a hurry to tan. I burned. You look like a lobster. We’d pull the pealing skin off each other’s back.
Other days our mother would pack us into the Wildcat with the towels and swimsuits and she’d visit with the friends she left behind when she married. They’d sit on the patio for hours sipping G&Ts. Same water, different beaches. We’d order lobster rolls at the clam shack on the way back to the house because Kool-aid and crackers is no kind of meal for a child, thank you very much.
What do they do with all the shells? Nothing, they throw them away. Or take them to the dump. Or bury them at the back of the garden. There is no such word as compost in our vocabulary. It’s as foreign as bisque.
The highlands of Cape Breton still wear the winter’s snow, sun highlighting the connecting waters.
My heart is still there. Minus the snow.
Bermuda in the distance. Home of the Lavigne family, with special thanks to Justin for all his help.
Such a small island, but covered with memories.
And at independent booksellers like McNally Jackson in SoHo, customers who want “The Great Gatsby” can purchase only the original: not a single copy of the new, cinematic edition will be for sale.
“It’s just God-awful,” Kevin Cassem, a bookseller at McNally Jackson, said on Tuesday. “ ‘The Great Gatsby’ is a pillar of American literature, and people don’t want it messed with. We’re selling the classic cover and have no intention of selling the new one.”
(We love you Kevin.)
This cover is fabulous and instantly recognizable. Messing with it is an act of hubris. Then again, what I’ve seen of the movie trailers has led me to believe that an Australian director will fair no better than a British one in understanding Fitzgerald’s America.
The Sheepdogs Couldn’t be more Canadian if they Tried
Yes this is a RollingStone video, and it’s not as if the organization needs the extra click, but I couldn’t resist this sketch of Prairie rockers, The Sheepdogs.
Forget the cover of Rolling Stone—they curl. For that alone they’ve become my new favourite Canadian band.