Saturday, December 31, 2005

Coming, Yoda Is...

“The dark side clouds everything. Impossible to see, the future is.”

The Yoda story, as requested by Tom, is coming. However, it must be told correctly, and it cannot be told tonight.

“Soon will I rest, yes, forever sleep. Earned it I have. Twilight is upon me, soon night must fall.”

Thursday, December 29, 2005

I Love Lesbians

Who doesn't like the sight of two pretty girls kissing? I mean really, be honest. It's just a nice thing, very sweet, sugar and spice...

Problem is, it doesn't excite me anymore. Oh sure, there was a time when really dirty girl-on-girl porno would get the old heart racing, make the palms sweaty and send me looking for a bathroom with a lock on the door, but that's all changed now. It's just a hollow empty shell of titillation that once-was. Nothing, not even a twitch of the old turkey neck.

It's to be expected, you see? There's always something for everyone. It's just that the definition of my "something" tends to be a bit dynamic, as it were. It was once Japanese girls in knee-high stockings. Then, it was small-nippled pasty- skinned waifs. Pregnant. Redhead. Whatever.

It keeps changing, but I could always fall back on the lesbians. Well, until recently that is. I've discovered that I have lost the taste for filthy photos of naked girls committing crimes against nature... Over and over... Zippo. Nadda. It's gone. No accounting for taste. At least I still have the redheads. I think freckles might be the next big thing.

Now, don't get me wrong. I still love my lesbian friends. They are much easier to get along with than most guys, AND we share common interests! I just don't need to see them groping their girlfriends anymore.

Of course, there is one friend, who until recently, remained squarely in the closet. A couple of years ago, this girl, let's call her "S," led a pack of jackals at my sister's church to criticize and condemn my sister for getting divorced and violating the holy sanctity of the marriage vow, and, blah blah blah... Some friend! Well, anyway, turns out that Miss Sanctimoniousness has now left her own husband for another woman (not that there's anything wrong with that per se). Not only her husband, though, but also the two third-world children they just adopted (purchased). I love hypocrisy!

With so much lesbian turmoil surrounding me, I thought it was only fitting this last week to see a T-shirt that a friend's brother got for Christmas. It read, "I ♥ Lesbians." And really, I do. I just don't have a need to see them in full carpet-cleaning mode any longer. Oh, and, they should learn to stay away from fundamentalist protestant churches... Just sayin...

That's right babies, I'm back. Miss me?

Holy Jesus on a Popsicle Stick

That's what I'm talking about folks! That's what guest blogging is all about.

Thanks to Abestis for sharing his secrets for eating pink, and the fine photos of Christina.

Thanks to Amanda for pictures of naked people.

Thanks to Tom for being old. (Also, thanks to Tom for the new Thomas Guide to Portland. For all of your specialty map needs, remember to email TOM.)

Thanks to Leah for coming out of what ever is left of her old rickety closet.

And finally, thanks to the fifth anonymous guest blogger for remembering my birthday. I'm not sure why that person remained anonymous, but their identity is safe with me. Oh, and is it wrong that the stick-figure porn turned me on?

Happy Birthday Brian!

Posted By Guest Blogger: abestis

As a tribute to our fair blogger, I offer the following. A poll is in order to suss out Brian's favorite - please post in the comments accordingly. I'm thinking #3 is closest to his taste. Brian? In any case, Happy Birthday!

1. What Brian hopes to see when he "goes toward the light."

2. What Brian sees when he eats strawberry ice cream.

3. For when Brian has been bad. Very, very bad.

4. What Brian hopes to find every time he rents a cheap hotel room.

5. The reason Brian nearly became a dermatologist.

6. Why Brian likes it cold.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Not another birthday?!?!

Guest Blogging In Session

As some of you already know and the rest of you have guessed from recent posts, tomorrow is Brian's birthday. And, despite the fact that he insinuated to all of us guest bloggers that there must be something more interesting to write about them him (and I'm not really disputing that point), I couldn't bring myself to pass up the opportunity to do something for our lounge host with his birthday so close to my assigned day. So, I've found a random assortment of "gifts" to give him that hopefully the rest of you will enjoy as well.

1. An obvious place to start is number 1 on his laminated list. This will finally give him the opportunity to undress Nicole Kidman himself. Of course, he will have to dress her first, but why quibble over details.

2. Another no brainer is to provide a picture of Christina Ricci's mammoth mammaries. Oh, all right. Here is another one.

3. Knowing his love of kilts and scotch, I was glad to find this commercial.

4. Who doesn't love a little camel toe?

5. The original movie makes him cry, but this version may not.

6. It isn't a birthday without a little porn.

7. The secret to a happy Brian is stockpile of mandarin oranges. Well, apparently, he isn't the only one to feel that way. There is an entire festival devoted the the humble mandarin.

8. Finally, an update on the crazy lady with the restraining order against David Letterman seems to be in order. I'm not sure how threatening to break people's legs isn't a threat, but I would love to hear her reason that out. Maybe we will get lucky and Brian will invite her to guest blog next time.

Enough from me. I leave the rest up to you, dear readers. Make sure to leave your warmest, most heartfelt birthday wishes for Brian in your comments.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Life's Little "What Ifs"

By Guest Blogger Princess Leah

Ya know those days when it's too gray out, or you're too hung over, or you're just lying on your couch staring at the ceiling and you start thinking about "what if." There are big what if's, like "What if I'd gone to med school instead of law school." (Anyone who knows me and my complete ignorance of all things science will get a laugh out of that.) And then there are the small what if's. "What if I'd taken the freeway home istead of the surface streets, would I be home already?" But I'm talking about the most disconcerting of all what if's. The ones that seem small at the time, but end up changing the entire course of your life.

When I left Salem after law school and moved to Portland, it was my heart's desire to live in trendy Northwest. I mean, hell, I was young(ish) and single and starting out a career. Why not pay double for half the space so I could stumble home from the bars without driving? So off I went in search of the uber hip apartment. I found a small sunlit studio and put down my deposit. Until my mother stepped in. Laugh if you must. And she pointed out, as only a mother can, that not even half my stuff would fit in such a small space. So off I go again, mother in tow this time, to find the larger apartment I rented. Not so sunlit, not so cute, but all my stuff fit. So what, right? Yeah, except three doors down from me in the unhipper apartment was the man I married a year later. We never would have met if I'd lived in the studio I'd originally picked out. The small choices that end up huge.

Five years later and we've had two kids and one on the way. We've bought a house and each started our own businesses. We argue about housework. And this year for Christmas, my husband bought me a painting. Not just any painting. He knew I loved a particular artist. This is her work. Did he buy a print that I'd admired at a discount? No. He called her. He called her and hired her to create a painting for me of the trendy Northwest neighborhood where we first met. Top that, boys. And all because I picked a different apartment to live in several years ago.

Look out for those little what if's. Ya just never know.

Monday, December 26, 2005

The Old Guy in the club

Guest Blogger: Tom

Each morning I work wax stylishly into my hair and tighten the laces on my all black Chuck Taylor high tops. I listen to the latest indie bands on my satellite radio. I read witty and pithy books by hot young writers. I bash Bush. I have an IPOD. I still look for clothes at Urban Outfitters. In fact, I am downright cool. Yes, I do understand that cool people don't use the word downright, but work with me.

Recently, I've discovered something new about myself. I'm not cool.I'm just old. Not old enough to have open discussions about my bowel movements with anyone who will listen, but old enough to have considered writing about them on this blog. You see I don't really feel any older, but there does come a time when you realize that most of the bands you love broke up ten years ago. When I approach a group of college age individuals, I still see myself as one of them. Youth culture always remains the same age. Later when I look in the mirror I realize to my horror that I am an accountant wearing a polo shirt.

No one thinks I'm cool anymore. Many would argue that I was never cool. I am one step away from that old bearded earringed eccentric trying to dance with the young hipster girls at the She Wants Revenge show. Twirling aimlessly. Beer in hand. Rocking my head back and forth. Shouting woohoo louder than anyone.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

A Little Taste of Home

Warning: Guest Blogging

Brian didn’t schedule anyone for today or tomorrow due to potential familial obligations on these oh so important holidays. As I have made my twice yearly trek to Florida to spend as little time as possible in the same room as my family, I decided to post.

There are two aspects of my personality that my father and stepmother actually appreciate, mainly because it reflects well on them. The fact that I’m mildly retarded and have a bawdy sense of humor are not the two. They like that I make art that they think is aesthetically pleasing and skillfully done, and they like the fact that I cook well. My father is a wine snob and is often discussing the correct wine pairing for meals. I facetiously asked yesterday what the correct wine to pair with enchiladas was and he took me to the wine rack to discuss it in earnest. I looked at him and told him the answer was Dos Equis. He didn’t appreciate the humor. Admittedly it wasn’t that funny, but still... There is one recipe that invariably I am asked to make at every visit—and tonight is the night. And in deference to Brian’s love of Martha Stewart and meat, I will share it with you now so that you can impress even the toughest critics. If you’re a vegetarian or keep kosher, just take my word for it.

Pork Medallions with Balsamic-Honey Glaze

Makes 4-6 servings.

If there are any leftovers, serve it cold in sandwich form. It’s damn tasty. Just ask Brian.

Balsamic-Honey glaze:
4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
1/2 cup balsamic vinegar
3 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoons Full Grain Dijon mustard (I like Maille the best)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 3/4 to 2 pounds pork tenderloin
Canola oil, for searing

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
To make the glaze: put garlic and rosemary in a small bowl. Add the vinegar, honey, olive oil, mustard, stir to combine. Add salt and pepper, to taste.
For the pork: Slice the tenderloin into 1-inch thick medallions (rounds). Cover the bottom of a medium skillet with a light film of canola oil and heat over medium-high heat until hot. Add the pork slices in 1 layer, season with salt and pepper, and sear for 1 minute. Turn and sear for 1 more minute, until lightly browned. Transfer the slices in 1 layer to cookie sheet or a shallow baking dish. It is in your best interest to place a piece of foil on the bottom of your chosen dish as the glaze caramelizes during its time in the oven.

Spoon the glaze over the pork medallions; flip the pork and repeat.

Roast for 8 to 10 minutes, until a thermometer inserted reaches 140 degrees F for medium. Remove from the oven and keep warm, loosely covered until ready to serve.

When you are ready to plate the pork, spoon the caramelized glaze over the cooked pork.

And if you’re wondering, some nice wines for this meal are:
Rioja Reserva or a St. Milon. “I really like Rioja and pork. The Spanish had a thing against the Muslims and became the pork capital of Europe,” states my father. I can only wonder what my high school European history teacher would think of that statement.

I got this recipe from here about five years ago. It’s one of my favorite places to look up recipes, as you can look them up by ingredients. Great when asked to make a dish, and you want to compliment the other aspects of the meal.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Are You Looking At My Bum? Cheeky Monkey!

Warning: Guest Blogging

People who are willing to get naked in public are often the people who should wear a turtleneck and some long, loose trousers. Hopefully the correct size, maybe even two sizes bigger.

If anyone has been privy to a demonstration in San Francisco, they can empathize. There is always a man who feels the need to protest the latest travesty by stripping and flaunting his tragic genitalia for all to gander at.

This is also the case with the male models in my life drawing class. Most, if not all have genitals that should never ever be seen, let alone concentrated upon for careful study and graphically reproduced. One guy is difficult to look at not only for what’s going on in his tighty-whities, but also due to his classroom demeanor. Various names exist, but my favorite is “Lord of the Rings Guy.” With his double chin flaccidly swaying with every energetic leap into a new pose, he raises his sword or staff (depends on his mood, I suppose) as if he were a D and D character come to life. I wish I could say that I was mature enough to handle it, but obviously I’m not. He always manages to stare defiantly at the students drawing, which is terribly unnerving as I am often trying not to completely lose my shit.

My composure failed me on a Friday afternoon. I was already bored. The graduate assistant was going to let us go home early, but then she changed her mind and asked the model to choose to leave or pose again. Lord of the Rings Guy is no slacker; he’s a font of energy and excitement. He loves being naked and flexing his flab for all to see. He said that he’d like to do a very special pose. The class as a whole groaned audibly. The graduate assistant told him to make it a ten minute pose. What ensued took easily twice that time. “This pose requires a bit of set up. It comes from a film entitled Dragonfly starring Kevin Costner,” he began. This is when I had to slowly start to turn around and look at my friends in shock and horror. For the next ten minutes he shared the lengthy and uninteresting plot points and denouement of a craptacular film that barely made half of its budget in the six weeks it floundered at the box office. As he came toward the end of the synopsis my friend Morgan insistently motioned for me to turn around. As I did I saw that the model was bending over to retrieve something from his bag of tricks. It was a small, plastic, anatomically correct male baby doll.

The model cradled the baby in his hands reverently as he kneeled on the model stand and gazed in wonder at a baby doll that had the same size penis as his own.

While I was in Japan, I “borrowed” some of my host brother’s porn out of curiosity. There is a law in Japan that states that pubic hair cannot be shown. Nor can penetration. So how does a film get around that? A digital mosaic which only gives the vague impression of what is going on downstairs. (I should mention that this law is ignored quite often; my host brother just had a crappy porn collection.)

As I stood behind my easel trying to draw the negative shapes around the model and his baby doll, without actually drawing the figures themselves, I wanted nothing more than a Japanese filmmaker to make it all go away...

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Better Than A New Car?

Posted By Guest Blogger: abestis

I'm wrapping up my guest blogging time here at the Lounge. I had a good time, I hope you did too. Though I echo Brian's interest in seeing what the other guest bloggers have to say, I question his motive. Personally, I think Brian is just painting his picket blog with the white wash posts of others. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, the fence gets painted. Hopefully, this stretch doesn't look like ass.

Oooh. One more thing. The elections are coming. Time to get behind your candidate!

Eat The Pink

Posted By Guest Blogger: abestis

As a guest blogger, you feel some liberation in what you are able to do. More to the point, you feel OK talking about things you otherwise wouldn't. This being the Lounge, there is not much that is off limits. That being said, due to the graphic nature of the following post, I realize some may be offended by my words. Its not my blog, so that’s OK with me.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Some of you may already have inferred the direction of this post from its title. Certainly the men in the audience know what I’m talking about and perhaps some of the women do as well (God bless those of you who do). For my money (yes, sometimes I pay for it), there is almost nothing better than eating the pink. The juicier, the better, I say. When I go down for the pink, more often than not I come up with my face wet and smiling with a sweet sheen of enjoyment. If I’m planning ahead, I’ll make sure I have a wet nap or towel handy to clean up afterwards. Tidy and anal, yes (though that is a different post). Not to brag, but in the good times, I’ve done it days in a row and even multiple times a day.

In fact, I ate the pink the other night…twice.

My wife didn’t even seem to mind (though she did think I made a pig out of myself). I don’t really care what she thinks, because when it comes to barbeque, I’m a slave to the pink.

Some of you may be wondering what I'm talking about (the rest of you are just disappointed about what I'm not talking about). You see, one of the hallmarks of good barbeque is a beautiful pink ring (aka "smoke ring") just below the surface of a piece of well prepared meat. Now, the smoke ring is a result of a reaction between smoke (specifically, nitrates), the meat (oxygen carrying myoglobin tissue in muscles) and time. Personally, I think the smoke ring itself has a unique flavor of its own, others contend that it is just evidence of a good pitmaster. However, all are in agreement about what the presence of a smoke ring really means.

You see, one thing that makes barbeque great is that you often start with a borderline inedible piece of meat and, through the application of smoke, time and carefully controlled heat, turn it into something wonderful. I think that combination of art and science is part of the beauty of barbeque. Anyone can take a good steak, grill it well and eat like a king. But you don’t get that beautiful pink smoke ring from grilling, you only get it from barbeque (which is different than grilling, which is different yet from smoking, which is another post…Brian?).

Look at the triumvate of barbeque fare: pork shoulder (aka pork butt), beef brisket and pork spare ribs. These cuts are full of fat, connective tissue and all sorts of meat oddness that, under normal conditions, no one would touch. To be sure, beef brisket chews like a Goodyear tire if cooked like a steak. Only the time and low temperatures of good barbeque technique transforms the inedible connective tissues in those meats (specifically collagen) into lip smacking goodness (for those interested in the details, collagen only melts into yumminess from low heat over long periods). The pink, thus, is a testament to the time and careful attention paid to make a good meal. And that is a good thing (Brian's Martha fetish just got its wings).

What's the point of all this? Well, none, really. That's why I thought it would be a good Lounge post. Also, I thought the whole pussy euphamism would entertain the audience. Though reading it now it just seems like I haven't gotten enough of the real thing for a while. Until I do, I'll just keep eating barbeque.

At least my wife won't mind.

Over The Top

Posted By Guest Blogger: abestis

I don't like to see this. I love Brunson. I think he is a poker genius. I suspect he doesn't have the cake to make a $700 million offer on his own so odds are, he got mixed up with some unsavory folks. The attorney withdrawal is curious, though equally likely because Brunson and partners didn't pay his bill. I mean, he was too busy kicking ass in the $5,000 No-Limit Shorthanded game at the World Series of Poker this July to be also spearheading his very own takeover bid of WPT. Maybe he'll reraise by testifying against some WPT insiders who profited from the stock swings. In any case, would hate to see him go down over something like this.

It's just so...Martha (sorry, Bri).

God, Repackaged

Posted By Guest Blogger: abestis

NYT reports that creationism and intelligent design are the same thing!

HARRISBURG, Pa., Dec. 20 - A federal judge ruled on Tuesday that it was unconstitutional for a Pennsylvania school district to present intelligent design as an alternative to evolution in high school biology courses because it is a religious viewpoint that advances "a particular version of Christianity."


Judge Jones also excoriated members of the Dover, Pa., school board, who he said lied to cover up their religious motives, made a decision of "breathtaking inanity" and "dragged" their community into "this legal maelstrom with its resulting utter waste of monetary and personal resources."


"To be sure, Darwin's theory of evolution is imperfect," Judge Jones wrote. "However, the fact that a scientific theory cannot yet render an explanation on every point should not be used as a pretext to thrust an untestable alternative hypothesis grounded in religion into the science classroom or to misrepresent well-established scientific propositions."

I love how the judge "excoriated" the school board for lies and "breathtaking inanity." Amazingly good stuff. Something we can all learn from. Your Gin and Tonic Homework: use any variation of "breathtaking inanity" in a sentence ("The Gin and Tonic Lounge is breathtakingly inane.")

I felt a little guilty posting this in Brian's absence as I infer from his other posts that he is (or was) a good God fearing Christian. I may be smote.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Let's Get This Party Started!

After a quick arbitration in the morning, I'll be hitting the road, I-5 to be precise, family in tow. I'm looking forward to seeing friends and relatives, but most of all, I can't wait to see what the guest bloggers are cooking up.

I've already had a small glimpse at what is to come, and I can say with confidence that we're either in for a real treat, or we're destined for public humiliation on a wide scale. Who knows, maybe both.

Anyway, I have approximately 900 miles to cover in the next two days, and some of the road will be treacherous. So, please join me now as I bow my head in prayer for a journey-blessing:

Oh Mighty Christina Ricci,
Hallowed be thy boobies
Thy acting is impeccable
and thy lips be red as rubies

Oh most pale Christina
Hear this, my soul's petition
Grant that I may drive in peace
With no snow or dire collision

Be it thy wiley will
Pout at me with thy lip
and part the traffic in my path
as I progress throughout my trip

Bless me O' Christina
Whilst I have cast mine eyes
from Miranda and from Monster
Yea, Prozac Nation is my prize

Blessed be the doe-eyed girl
and blessed be my travel
Blessed is the road oft taken
Though it be paved or gravel

Crazy People Are Funny!

Letterman Lawyers Fight Restraining Order

Attorneys for television talk show host David Letterman want a judge to quash a restraining order granted to a Santa Fe woman who contends the celebrity used code words to show that he wanted to marry her and train her as his co-host.

A state judge granted a temporary restraining order to Colleen Nestler, who alleged in a request filed last Thursday that Letterman has forced her to go bankrupt and caused her "mental cruelty" and "sleep deprivation" since May 1994.

Nestler requested that Letterman, who tapes his show in New York, stay at least three yards away and not "think of me, and release me from his mental harassment and hammering."
Attorneys for Letterman, in a motion filed Tuesday, contend the order is without merit and asked state District Judge Daniel Sanchez to quash it.

"Celebrities deserve protection of their reputation and legal rights when the occasional fan becomes dangerous or deluded," Albuquerque attorney Pat Rogers wrote in the motion.
Nestler told The Associated Press by telephone Wednesday that she had no comment pending her request for a permanent restraining order "and I pray to God I get it."

Letterman's longtime Los Angeles attorney, Jim Jackoway, said Nestler's claims were "obviously absurd and frivolous."

"This constitutes an unfortunate abuse of the judicial process," he said.

Nestler's application for a restraining order was accompanied by a six-page typed letter in which she said Letterman used code words, gestures and "eye expressions" to convey his desires for her.

She wrote that she began sending Letterman "thoughts of love" after his show began in 1993, and that he responded in code words and gestures, asking her to come East.

She said he asked her to be his wife during a televised "teaser" for his show by saying, "Marry me, Oprah." Her letter said Oprah was the first of many code names for her, and that the coded vocabulary increased and changed with time.

Her letter does not say why she recently sought a restraining order.

Rogers' motion to quash the order contends the court lacks jurisdiction over Letterman, that Nestler never served him with restraining order papers and that she didn't meet other procedural requirements.

One Small Step

America sent men to the moon to out-pace the godless Soviets, and prove that capitalism was the superior economic model. Under the watchful eyes of first Kennedy, then Johnson, NASA set a goal, and (assuming the conspiracy theorists have it wrong) they took the necessary actions to achieve their goal.

It is important to have goals. Without them, you will never have the motivation you need to get your lazy ass off the sofa. Columbus sought China. Bill Gates sought to make a buck or two selling software.

I take the same philosophy in childrearing. If you want your child to do something, make them want it. Make it a goal that they want to reach.

So, the Howler Monkey has been doing a lot of standing and shuffling, much like old dad after a night at the Boom Boom Room. It has been clear that walking is not far away, and tonight, it finally happened. The wee lass took her first awkward shuffling steps.

I was right there, of course, prompting her all the way. I had to give her a goal. I had to make her really want to take those first few steps. So what was it? With what did I tempt and taunt the tot into taking those first steps??

Beer. Yes, I held out my half-empty beer bottle (New Belgium Brewing Frambozen Cranberry Brown Ale, in case you were wondering) and she lunged for it. The Monkey walks for beer. I couldn't be more proud. She is truly her daddy's little girl.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Year One

This time last year, the missus had an IV stuck in her arm, and was sleeping comfortably in a hospital bed. I was lying on the dad-couch half-ignoring Men in Black II on the TV, and half-staring out at the frozen parking lot below.

Three hours earlier, we had been eating at McMinnamins, trying to decide on a middle name. That conversation continued in the car on the way to the hospital. We're never good at making quick decisions.

The howler monkey was born the following afternoon, on December 20. Three days after the wife's birthday, five days before Christmas, and nine days before my birthday. Jesus, this is a busy month for us!

So, now she's one year old. She can stand on her own, and feed herself (sort of). She can say Dada and Mama, and something like Doggie that sounds more like Daddy. She likes to put small things inside bigger things, and she mostly sleeps through the night. Not bad progress for a year.

Happy Birthday Monkey!

Coming Soon

In a couple of days, the holiday season will be taking me away from unfettered internet access. A small handful of regular readers have volunteered to guest blog in my absence. So, be sure to check in over the next week or so, and see what they have to say...

Oh, and don't be shy, everyone likes to receive reader comments.

White Elephant

Hurray, I got an apron for Christmas!! (Or should I say, "The Holidays?")

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Look Away, I Dare You!

Blue Ball Machine

I'm pretty sure the longer you look at this thing, the more subliminal commands get embedded in your brain.

I, Uh, Well....

...I suppose it's better than the gay Batman porn.

Remember to turn up the volume, you're gonna wanna hear this one.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

I Married an Older Woman

Ok, so, she's older by only 12 days, but still, she is older than me.

Anyway, today is the fifth anniversary of Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic's 30th birthday!!

In honor of her special day, we all get to share her eye-candy birthday treat...

Here's a little Spike for you...

And a little Lex...

Happy Birthday Sweetie-Poo!!

Friday, December 16, 2005

A Very Wookie Christmas

Remember to turn up the volume!

Click on Chewbacca's head for your personal holliday greeting.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

"I Believe You Have My Stapler..."

I got a new stapler.

It's a red Swingline 747, the Nicole Kidman of Staplers. Apparently, I'm not the only one excited about having a new red Swingline 747.

My Stapler

Rumor has it, while making The Movie, Mike Judge wanted Milton's stapler to be red. However, Swingline, the Microsoft of stapler manufacturers, did not make a red model. So, Mike took a black one and hand-painted it red himself. Then, after The Movie, Swingline was inundated with demands for a red model. So, they started making them. The Red Swingline has now become the best selling stapler of all time.

Hurray for bandwagons!!

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

A Tale of Tails

I am not a woman. I do not understand women’s clothing. I do not understand the rules about women’s clothing, or how it works.

I don’t know why women’s shirts are too short. Why can't women’s tops reach down past their waist? I mean, Jesus, I’d spend half the day just tugging at the bottom hem to pull it down. And why are those shirts always worn with low-rise pants?

OK, so actually, I do know why: “Weee, look at my bellybutton!”

We all know the look: low-waist faded jeans with adorable cowgirl boots, waistband hugging the hips about 1 inch from the mons pubis. Jeweled staff piercing the navel. Tramp-stamp (freshly inked) on the lumbar notch bisected by the waist-strap of the uncomfortably-hiked thong panties. Baby doll blouse, two sizes too small, exposing most of the lower torso.

While this look was once reserved for strippers and women from Kentucky, it has now become mainstream. Mind you, I am not complaining. I mean, I enjoy the sight of a buxom babe deliberately displaying plumber’s crack. Hey, Free Show! I don’t even have to tip them a dollar. However, my entertainment aside, what the FUCK are these girls thinking??

We took the Monkey to Sears for her Christmas photo. Yah, I know, Sears… What can I say, we’re cheap parents. Anyway, this was a new experience for me. I’d never actually accompanied a baby to a photo studio before. Let’s just say, I now know what to expect in Dante’s fourth circle…

It apparently takes three semi-trained portrait bimbos to get a stubborn baby to smile and actually take the picture. This may surprise you, and it apparently surprised the employees of the children’s photography studio, but babies are small. All work done with them must necessarily be done near the floor, which, for an adult, means bent over.

If I had a job where I expected to be bent over, or on my knees, for long periods of time in a small room with strangers, I may choose clothing that would conceal my gaping ass crack, but not these three whooping and cooing baby wranglers. No sir, not these slaves to trashy fashion. Without a moment of hesitation, all three assumed “The Position,” elbows on the ground, asses in the air, varying degrees of actual ass-flesh pouring from the over-worked denim.

Sexy, no? Well, to be honest, maybe a little bit, but there were certain complicating factors. First, they were shooshing, ooping, and awing at my little girl. Second, Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic WAS in the room with us. Third, each and every one of them, when assembling their respective thongo-centric ensembles, forgot to remove the tag from the back of their panties, and each of the three tags was standing at attention, waving at me like little white bunny tails.

Forget whether it may or may not be socially questionable to use your slutty underwear as a fashion accessory. It’s not even worth asking. If you want to be slutty-sexy, then be slutty-sexy. However, assume for the sake of argument that your goal is to be slutty-sexy. Then, what the fuck has to be wrong with you to not realize that it’s repulsively ridiculous to leave your GODDAMN TAG ON YOUR PANTIES???? If you feel the need for a little white accent on your coccyx, buy a bunny tail.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Finally Got the Lights Up

Didn't quite use all 10,000 lights that came with the house, but it was a busy weekend...

Monday, December 12, 2005

In Good Company

AFI, the American Film Institute, isn't so much an institute per se, as it is a repository of old film stock. In recent years though, they have become better known for sparking water-cooler fist fights with their marvelously controversial count-down programs (100 years-100 movies, etc...)

Well, instead of hosting obnoxiously opulent crap-fests like the Emmys or the Grammys, AFI has assembled two knowledgeable, but independent, juries, one for movies and one for TV. Each jury was charged with naming the 10 best within each medium for the year. Here is this year's AFI list of best television series:


All of the big-boy critical darlings are there, 24, Deadwood, House... Fan favorites, Lost and Grey's anatomy, are alsoon the list. Even indie-cable sleeper, Rescue Me, makes an appearance, but wait, what's this? Do my eyes deceive me? Do you see what I see?

Why, our very own Battlestar Galactica made the list. Are you surprised? Are you scratching your head with wonder? Well, if you are, then you simply have not been paying attention. I have been hopping up and down, waiving my arms, trying to tell everyone that this show is worth watching. It shares a title and a hair-thin premise with the 1978 original, but little else.

Gone, is the clunk and the camp. In, is the drama, suspense and refined story telling. Lurking terror is often implied, but rarely shown. The heroes are flawed. The villains are sexy and believe in God.

Damn straight, it was one of the 10 best shows of the year.

I don't even know what the fuck Veronica Mars is.

The Mysteries of the Force

Darth Vader slowly extended his long red light saber, and held it firmly in his stiffly outstretched arm. His plastic cape shifted awkwardly as his left arm swung backward to counterbalance the weight of the right. He did not fall over; the Force was with him. The Dark Lord of the Sith was flanked on both sides by the entire Imperial Army, which consisted of one Death-Squad Commander, two Snow Troopers, one Boba Fett, and six battle-worn Storm Troopers.

Princess Leia had been captured, and was bound with a twisty-tie. Darth Vader had come to interrogate her beneath the ficus in the giant ceramic tortoise. At the far-end of the coffee table, Luke, Han (with the small head), Chewbacca, Lando and Obi-Wan were strategizing the rescue. Obi-Wan had the mad Jedi skills, but Han’s shooting arm was permanently hooked in gun-fight position. So, naturally, Han Solo would be handing out the dark-side ass whooping this evening.

R2 and C3PO were holding vigil in the Millennium Falcon, parked precariously on the sofa plateau, primarily because they did not come with accessory weapons.

The Force was strong with their plan, the time was right. They would send Luke first to draw fire. With luck, he would get hit, as he usually did, and die a hero. And then… It was time for dinner.

It was 1980. I was 9 years old.

Slowly, reluctantly, I collected all of the accessory weapons, and put them in the hermetically sealed Tupperware container. I scooped up the good guys next, and carried them to my room, laying them out on the floor against the wall, ready for action. Next, I collected the bad guys and did the same. This was precise work. I was anal about these things. I could not tolerate the misuse or mishandling of toys. I mean, my god, I still have all of the accessory weapons, even the tiny shard of plastic passed off as Princess Leia’s gun…

The remaining memories of that evening have passed into obscurity. Dinner, probably, followed by homework perhaps, maybe TV. It’s impossible to say. However, the following day has been indelibly burned into my psyche forever.

I returned from school, probably ate a snack, and quickly decided to dive back into the Rescue Under the Ficus! The good guys returned to their stations, the bad guys to theirs. Various appropriate armaments were doled out. However, I discovered, there was one extra gun. It was a Storm Trooper gun, that was plain to see.

Quick count: One, two, three, four, five. Five…. Five Storm Troopers!!!??? OK. Don’t Panic. Check the room. Not there. Look again. Definitely not there. Look under the coffee table. Look in the ficus. Dig through the couch. Look under the bed. Ask mom. Ask dad. Ask sister.

Ah… sister…

No, she had no opportunity. No one visited the house while I was gone. Mom did no cleaning around the battlefield or the bedroom. We had a dog, but he lived outside.

I broke out into a cold sweat. It was gone. Storm Trooper number six was gone. Vanished. Disappeared, with no explanation. It was not where I had played with it. It was not where I had put it away. I had collected its gun, so it had definitely been there the night before, and no one, NO ONE, had a single goddamn answer for me.

To this day, I have no idea where it could have gone. I find myself driving down the freeway, or sitting in arbitration, and my mind will wander through thoughts of conspiracy and secret hordes of stolen Storm Troopers. The truth is out there, but I will never discover it. And worst of all, I still have the goddamn superfluous gun, stored securely in a sealed crate in my parents’ garage.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

News Updates! For the Love of God...

Item 1: Richard Prior died on Saturday of a heart attack.

Um, I was surprised to find out that he didn't actually die several years ago.

Item 2: The good folks at Southern Tools spammed me with an advertisement for the Bit Master.

I find that funny. Unless of course it was one of YOU that forwarded my email address on the them. In which case, I will hunt you down and eat your liver.

Friday, December 09, 2005

Beautiful People

Congratulations to Mr and Mrs Brian Warner on their recent nuptials.

Here is a honeymoon photo of the happy couple, Brian and Dita, in Australia...

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Breeding Ground

I once thought of day care as baby storage. I've come to find out, that's not necessarily true. No, it's far worse. It's a breding ground for disease.

The Howler Monkey puked in her sleep sometime Tuesday night. We thought it was the yogurt we fed her. She seemed fine Wednesday morning, all monkey-eyed and howly. However, when I arrived at the tot-palace, it was inhabited by very few children and several bored-looking adults. Seems that everyone puked in their sleep that night, and only a small cadre of bad parents, like me, drug their ill children out into the frigid Pacific NW winter morning for a round of professional baby sitting.

The call came around noon. Fever.


The Monkey's mother met me at home for the tot-swap, and I returned to work.

Seems that it was a 24-hour stomach bug. Monkey is marvelous. Monkey's mother, on the other hand, slid slowly into nauseous neverland and hit the hay early tonight.

Now, there's me. Feeling fit and fine, all evening that is, until 45 minutes ago. Now, I can feel the sinking sensation. Ears are hot. Muscles getting sore. I can actually feel it coming over me, like one of those fast-motion movies of clouds rolling in. Neck is getting sore. Hands are getting tight. You are actually reading a play-by-play of me getting sick. Fascinating! I Believe this is clearly compelling blogging at its best.

I just coughed, seriously. Shoulders and arms getting stiff. Small rumbles beginning in my stomach. Having observed the pattern with the other members of my house, I will vomit by morning. Now, there's something to look forward to.

Fortunately, I should be fine by Saturday. I do believe, however, that I am becoming feverish. Yes, I am definitely flushed. This is so interesting. Ooh, low back pain, nice. Definitely flu-like. I'd be enjoying this much more if I wasn't so certain that I'll be miserable by night's end.


Hard to focus now. Experiencing minor light-headedness. Nausea increasing. Fatigue increasing, as is upper-extremity weakness. Hey, did anyone see War of the Worlds? You know, the crazy Tom Cruise version. Watched that tonight. Not bad. I respect that they kept the microbe-saves-the-day ending. Oops! I hope I didn't ruin that for anyone... So, my question is, was that Miranda Otto who played Tom's ex wife? She's so hot! She was the perfect Eowyn.

Oh lord, nausea seriously increasing now. Oh god, and I had Salmon for dinner. Ech... That's not going to be pleasant. Starting to get a little disoriented. Neck soreness increasing. No chills yet, though, thank god. Just belched; tasted like dinner. Face feels warm. Eyes watering. Noise from my gut getting louder. Fatigue... Fatigue....


Eyes watery and blurry. Headache. I think I should go sleep near the bathroom door... This is starting to get shitty... No wonder the Monkey was cranky on Tuesday. Nose running now, increasing post-nasal drip. Pretty light headed now too. Need bed... I feel like crap.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Better Than "The Brown Bunny"

So, I've created a couple of short animated films for your enjoyment.

No, they are not pornographic.

They are, obviously, works of fiction. They are certainly not based on any actual persons or events...

Yes, I know that "Tequila" is spelled with one "L."

Click the links below.



Tuesday, December 06, 2005


One regular reader, and frequent anonymous comment logger, has already heard my oral sketch of this post. In the cast-away corner of the local Thai restaurant, the corner where they seat the bad kids who converse too loudly about inappropriate things, over my bowl of meaty Massaman Curry and her platter of clumpy Pad Thai, I spun the following yarn. She cast that sad glance toward me, like the one you would pitifully point toward a retarded child. I took that as a sign of approval. The story goes something like this….

I have a hazy recollection of some darkened dance space. It was like a living room, but it was behind a restaurant. The restaurant was closed, but the bar was open. Open, that is, with a capital O.

It was a birthday party for a co-worker, whose generous husband had rented the sub-hip space for about 100 of his wife’s closest friends. The food was varied, but plentiful, and the drinks were free.

“Drinks were free,” of course, is one of the most beautiful phrases known to Brian-kind. Feeling that it would be rude to snub the host’s hospitality, I felt fit to make the best-use of my god-given gift of bimanualism. “Two fisting,” they call it. Trusty Gin-and-Tonic on the right, certainly not the first of the night, and a pink-and-frilly (all-too girlie) Cosmopolitan on the left.

Dancing. Yes. I was forced to confess to the misssus, later the next morning, that I had danced shamelessly for all to see, whirling-dervish like, balancing in a seaman-like manner my twin cocktails without spilling (noticeably) a drop. Bad 80’s music popped and whined from the speakers. (Play some Skynyrd!!) (Oh wait, they did play Skynyrd…)

A few drinks later, after the porn-centered gag-gifts were presented to the girl of the hour, the evening ended.

Contrary to popular opinion, I do not drink like that every night. Sure, maybe back in law school, when you could find me studying in the Tahiti Lounge, I may have drank like that. Just, not these days.

So, maybe I drank water and took aspirin before going to bed. Maybe I didn’t. Hard to say really. What’s harder to say is just what sort of pain shot through my head at 6:30 Sunday morning when the Howler Monkey, who had been strategically placed against my head, let out her mighty morning YEEEEEOOOUUUGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

After some rag tag tot care, distracting maneuvers mostly while Mrs. Gin-and Tonic got her self up and put-together (Yes, a Saint.), I was able to nap until the crack-of-noon. Whereupon, I shuffled miserably to the poofy-couch and planted my nauseous ass back down.

The weekend had been intended to be active and production-filled. Christmas lights, billable hours, and monkey time. Sunday turned out to be, however, a 6-hour marathon of drinking cranberry juice, driving the poofy-couch, and watching Science Channel specials about flying to, and landing on, various comets, asteroids and space rocks the size of Texas.

As the pounding spike in my forehead dissolved over time, I discovered a pattern in the Science Channel advertising. Well, not so much a pattern, as much as it was one commercial being played over and over and over. I became intimately familiar that day with a company called Southern Tools, and what appears to be their only product.

It’s the Bit Shooter. Basically, it’s a rapid-change multi-bit screwdriver. Looks intriguing, but probably crap. $19.99. Seems pricey, but it comes with interchangeable bit cartridges. So, who knows?

Here’s the thing, though, for $19.99 you get not only the Bit Shooter and the four bonus interchangeable bit cartridges, but you also get a free cordless power drill.


Doesn’t that seem odd? I can’t place my finger on it, but I am certain, somehow, in some way, the Chinese are behind this. Regardless, as long as I’m not getting the autographed Battlestar Galactica poker set, it would make a nice gift…

Monday, December 05, 2005


This is not The Greatest Song in the World, no.
This is just a tribute.
Couldn't remember The Greatest Song in the World, no, no.
This is a tribute, oh, to The Greatest Song in the World, All right!
It was The Greatest Song in the World, All right!
It was the best muthafuckin' song,
The greatest song in the world.

-Tenacious D

So, this post is a tribute to the post that shall never be. I wrote it, and it was good. It was pithy and to the point. It was based on fact. No names were used. Not even gender was identified.

It was prurient. It was deviant. It was disgusting. It was true. It was hilarious.

I had to delete it. (But not before sending it to the person that it was about. That person knows who they are. That person is a filthy drunken pervert.) Suprisingly, even I have limits...

Somehow, through all of the layers of secrecy and annonymity, many of you would know exactly who I was writing about, and the lounge is not about telling other people's humiliating secrets. (As much as it's killing me not to do so.)

(I mean, really, this was some seriously funny, but insanely fucked-up, shit.)

So, here's to the post that will not be,
And the embarrasment averted.
Here's to the secret that shall stay hidden.
Here's to the drunk and perverted!

Two Front Teeth, My Ass...

All I want for Christmas is THIS.

It's almost enough to make me believe in Santa Clause again.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

I Am Not Kasey Kasim

I do not take requests.

However, when a loyal reader says something like,"I want more half naked sci-fi chicks," it's hard to say no...

Ah, Mila, her white-tape pantsuit was the only thing that kept 5th Element from flopping. It's not hard to find nude photos of her on the internet, rather it's the non-nude pictures that are elusive.

Gillian Anderson, was once the number-one search term on Google, fueled primarily by the lusty desire of geeks like me.

OK, more Tricia Helfer, because, really, who can get enough of her? James Callis, who plays Dr. Baltar, actually gets paid to roll around with her on the set all day long... Life is cruel.

Grace Park, plays Lt. Sharon 'Boomer' Valerii, a Cylon who looks like a human. Actually, since there are many copies, she plays several Cylons named Lt. Sharon 'Boomer' Valerii. Many Boomers have died. One is carrying a half-human baby. God I love that show!

Was Buffy the Vampire Slayer really Science Fiction? I'd say it was more fantasy than Sci FI, but who cares when you can see Alyson Hannigan in her underwear??

Every boy born between 1969 and 1971 was named Brian, and Carrie Fisher as princess Leia in the slave girl costume was every Brian's first wet dream.

Friday, December 02, 2005

Ain't Exactly Seabiscuit

So, Princess must be bored and lonely. She's been sending me loads of blog material. Most of which is useless drivel, but I couldn't pass this one up.

Man enters plea in horse-sex case

By Seattle Times staff
Wednesday, November 30, 2005 - 12:00 AM

An Enumclaw-area man has pleaded guilty to criminal trespass Tuesday in a case in which a Seattle man died having sex with a horse.

On July 2, James Tait and a 45-year-old Seattle man went onto a neighbor's property to have sex with a horse, charging papers say. The Seattle man sustained a perforated colon and died from his injuries.

Authorities say Tait helped run a nearby farm where people had sex with animals.

Tait, 54, was given a one-year suspended sentence on condition he pay a $300 fine, perform eight hours of community service and have no contact with the horse owners. The horse owners told a reporter over the summer that police showed them a home video of the July 2 incident that investigators seized from Tait's home.

The couple identified their barn and their horse.

So, here's my problem with this story. When you hear about people having sex with animals, you get a generic image of a lonely shepherd on the hillside grabbing a sheep by the haunches... But go back and read this article closely. The deceased died from a PERFORATED COLON!! That's an INTERNAL injury my friends. Do the math.

Political Science

Thanks to Princess for this:

You have two cows.Your neighbor has none.You feel guilty for being successful.Barbara Streisand sings for you.

You have two cows.Your neighbor has none.So?

You have two cows.The government takes one and gives it to your neighbor.You form a cooperative to tell him how to manage his cow.

You have two cows.The government seizes both and provides you with milk.You wait in line for hours to get it.It is expensive and sour.

You have two cows.You sell one, buy a bull, and build a herd of cows.

You have two cows.Under the new farm program the government pays you to shoot one, milk the other, and then pours the milk down the drain.

You have two cows.You sell one, lease it back to yourself and do an IPO on the 2nd one. You force the two cows to produce the milk of four cows. You are surprised when one cow drops dead. You spin an announcement to the analysts stating you have downsized and are reducing expenses.Your stock goes up.

You have two cows.You go on strike because you want three cows.You go to lunch and drink wine.Life is good.

You have two cows.You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk.They learn to travel on unbelievably crowded trains.Most are at the top of their class at cow school.

You have two cows.You engineer them so they are all blond, drink lots of beer, give excellent quality milk, and run a hundred miles an hour.Unfortunately they also demand 13 weeks of vacation per year.

You have two cows but you don't know where they are.While ambling around, you see a beautiful woman.You break for lunch.Life is good.

You have two cows.You have some vodka.You count them and learn you have five cows.You have some more vodka.You count them again and learn you have 42 cows.The Mafia shows up and takes over however many cows you really have.

You have all the cows in Afghanistan, which are two.You don't milk them because you cannot touch any creature's private parts.You get a $40 million grant from the US government to find alternatives to milk production but use the money to buy weapons.

You have two cows.They go into hiding.They send radio tapes of their mooing.

You have two bulls.Employees are regularly maimed and killed attempting to milk them.

You have one cow.The cow is schizophrenic.Sometimes the cow thinks he's French, other times he's Flemish.The Flemish cow won't share with the French cow.The French cow wants control of the Flemish cow's milk.The cow asks permission to be cut in half.The cow dies happy.

You have a black cow and a brown cow.Everyone votes for the best looking one.Some of the people who actually like the brown one best accidentally vote for the black one.Some people vote for both.Some people vote for neither.Some people can't figure out how to vote at all.Finally, a bunch of guys from out-of-state tell you which one you think is the best-looking cow.

You have millions of cows.They make real California cheese.Only five speak English.Most are illegals.Arnold likes the ones with the big udders.

I Don't Think So

It has been suggested that I might be gay. While there's nothing wrong with being so, I am certainly not gay. I mean, If I were gay would I post this to my blog?

Or this???

Or this?

There's just no way that I could be gay...

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Rudolph The Subtextual Reindeer

Am I wrong? Did I simply drink too much wine tonight? Have I been watching too much Six Feet Under??

At the risk of sounding like "Dr." James Dobson, after my 35th annual viewing of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, it suddenly struck me that there is an enormous and thinly veiled homoerotic subtext running through the 1964 claymation Christmas special centered around the shiny-nosed buck.

While Rudolph himself has to hide his true self under the cover of a false nose to avoid locker room hazing, and eventually wanders into the wilderness with other outcast boys and men, the true persecuted homo is Hermey, the elf.

Hermey, with his fey grin and golden waves, is unable to keep up with the manly elf tasks like painting toy wagons. His mind wanders off to splendid fantasies about being a dentist! Of course his Macho elfin father-figure just doesn't understand. Now, simply exchange "dentist" for "interior decorator" or "jazz dancer" and the truth of the story becomes clear.

And what do these two misfit boys do? Why, they wander off into the woods with a burly redheaded truck driver. Subtle.

Of course, they all eventually end up on the Island of Misfit Toys, a transparent metaphor for San Francisco in the 1960s. Clever.

And the Bumble? First he opposes them. Then he reveals himself to be one of them. I'm calling him a catholic priest. Perhaps, he, in fact, represents all catholic priests.

Have a holly jolly Christmas, my ass. The funniest thing, pointed out by Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic, is while the message is about tolerance, the story is rampant with narrow-minded sexism. So, make way for the queens, but leave the girls at home.