Saturday, September 30, 2006

Musical Tradition

My great grandmother was a kind, caring and loving woman. She raised many children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Each summer, her kitchen would fill with the aroma of fresh-made peach jam, and plum preserves from the trees in her back yard.

She would come over to our house in the evenings, and we would play Yahtzee and Gin Rummy for hours on end. We would stay up late on the sofa, and she would tell tall tales from the past. She would also sing sadly-sweet songs from from her youth to season the stories and send us of to sleep.

One of her favorite songs, which she would deliver with a slow-tempo drawl (she was actually from Pennsylvania), was called "STAY IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD." ( c.1899)

It went a little something like:

Lilac trees ablooming in the corner by the gate,
Mammy in the little cabin door.
Curly headed pickaninny comin' home so late,
Cryin' 'cause his little heart am sore;
All the children playing 'round have skin so white and fair,
None of them with him will ever play,
So Mammy in her lap takes the little weeping chap,
And says, in her kind old way:

Go play in your own back yard
Never mind what the white child say
Now what do you suppose that they could do
To a black little coon like you
So, stay inside of the high yard wall
And Honey, don't you cry so hard
Go play as long as you may
But stay in your own backyard.

Ev'ry day the children as they passed old mammy's place,
Romping home from school at night or noon,
Peering thro' the fence would see this' eager little face,
Such a wistful, lonesome little coon;
'Till one day the little face was gone forever more,
God had called this dusky little elf,
And Mammy in the door sat and rocked as oft before,
And crooned to her old black self


Seriously, that was her favorite song.

At some point in my youth, I became too distracted with friends and girls and cars and such. My great grandmother would still come over, but I had no more time for stories and old songs. Eventually, she died, and all memory of that song slipped from my mind.

Then, one day, years later, I heard the word "pickaninny" spoken out loud, and the horrible lyrics came flooding back into my head. I was horrified as I reviewed them one-by-one, recognizing the sweet-seeming old song's segregationalist intent... Like the pledge of allegiance, or the 223rd Psalm, some words you recite without ever paying attention to the meaning.

Grandma was, as I stated, dead by this time, so I never had the opportunity to clarify what she felt in her heart whe she sang the tune. (What the Hell were you thinking, old woman?!?)

Therefore, in her honor, I would like to clarify her personal understanding of the song's lyrics on her behalf:

An African-American single working mother
With an eco-friendly home garden
Waited for her charming son (with his traditional afro-centric hair style)
to return home from his under-funded public school.

As she stood in the doorway of her government-subsidized affordable-housing unit,
She saw her son approaching.
He appeared visibly distraught.

Upon lengthy questioning, her son informed her
That he had been the victim of a string of hate crimes.
Fearing for his safety, but being a pacifist at heart,
The mother instructed her son to practice conflict avoidance,
And play within the safe confines of the housing unit playground facility.

Over time, the boy's absence was noted by his fellows at school.
The friends became concerned with the mother's over-zealous seclusion strategy.
However, the good Lord took pity on the boy and eventually killed him.


I'm sure that's what grandma meant. I'm sure of it!

Reading for Comprehension:
1. What, YOUR great grandmother never did anything horrible?
2. When I finished writing this, the time was 11:11. Just saying...
3. I tried to add a pickaninny picture to the post, but I feel too much shame.


Friday, September 29, 2006

Intelligent Design

A significant portion of my weekend wardrobe consists of various cotton T-shirts emblazoned with words and images, printed to promote one business venture or another. In-N-Out cheeseburgers, The Hat pastrami, McMenamins beer, Cylons, and even Mitch's Syndicate.

I am, at times, a walking billboard. It's a good trade off though. I declare my personal interests (You can tell a lot about a man by the burger he eats), and the shirt producers get free publicity.

Bearing this in mind, I am aware that many folks have been begging and clamoring for Gin & Tonic Lounge Wear. "Where are the hats?" You ask. "Where are the T-shirts?"

Well, it's time to design the Fall fashion line up, and I need your help. I'm thinking T-shirts, but I need some input on the design.

One idea is a couple of one-armed pole dancers in silhouette with the caption: "Lewdapalooza!"

Another is a picture of me (or Jehovah) pointing, with the caption: "YOU need a tinsel hat!"

So, I throw it out to you. What will be the first great G&T Lounge T-shirt design? Tell us what you think.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Tom Is Not My Friend

Well, actually, Tom IS my friend. He's one of my very best friends. However, that is regular-reader Tom. Tom from California. Husband of Mrs. Tom. Father of Spawn of Tom. Occasional Dead Honkey character Tom. THAT Tom is my friend.

Creepy ubiquitous Tom from Myspace, however, is not my friend. That Tom is a bit of a buddy whore. Just sign up for his second-rate social service, and Bob's your uncle, Tom's your friend.

The first thing most Myspace users do is delete Tom. On that note, he is most literally no longer my friend.

Myspace is so easy to use. It is seemingly user-friendly, disarming and inviting. It is a perpetual portal for self expression. It is addictive, like crack.

It is free to use, and fun to fix up. Each personal page projects a public persona, like a digital dorm room. I originally signed up to pimp the Lounge, but over time, my own myspace account has begun to demand more and more of its own attention from me.

I know that it's a popular service, and that it has scads of users, but I was somewhat shocked to discover recently that analysts for Myspace's parent company, News Corp, have estimated that the service could have a potential value of $15 Billion in just a few years.

That's "Billion," with a "B."

Of course, whenever you hear a surprisingly-high projected value for a company, you know only one thing is certain, a big fat For Sale sign in the lawn...

As a sale property, though, Myspace is one hell of a fixer-upper. So, with this in mind, I began to make a list of the little details that might need to be fixed before the deal is done.

1. It must stop breaking the fuck down every goddamn day. I mean really, if my car broke down this often, I would have already sued the car manufacturer.

2. How difficult can it be, really, to search music by song?? I mean, why do we really need to know that Jethro Tull performed Aqualung? Why can't we just search for the song??

3. It is asanine that we cannot comment on our own comments sections. I realize that I am not listed as my own friend, but come on, that's just plain retarded.

4. Oh, and, where's the nudity? I mean, HEY, Goddamn it! Where is it?!?

So, Tom, and Tom's friends at News Corp, good luck on your little corporate bake sale. Best wishes on your billions, but really, just one thing: Could you please patch the roof before you go?

Reading for Comprehension:
1. How many times today did you use the phrase, "myspace is being a bitch?"
2. Does that make Myspace a $15 billion bitch?
3. You don't have a myspace page? Why the hell not?

Technorati Tags:

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Married to the Sea

As you know, Dead Honkey, the official web comic of the Gin & Tonic family of blogs, isn't what you would call "funny," at least by commonly accepted standards.

However, every once and a while, you come accross one that is. Thanks to Anonymous for turning me on to Married To The Sea. Here is a sample, but be sure to check out the full site.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. Have you ever cheated at Magic: the Gathering?
2. Who knew that Dr. Brian made shoes in his spare time?
3. Mmmm... disenfranchised farm women! Just sayin...

Office Coffee

Must it always be so?

Must mass-brewed office coffee, simmering in the same brown-stained bulbous pot, always be bad? Is it the little pre-measured foil packets of stale grounds? Is it the never-been-cleaned, circa 1967, industrial-sized strainer? Is it the crunchy rusty water that gets fed into the strainer?

I don't know.

What I do know is that office coffee almost universally tastes like dirty socks. And no, before some smart ass asks in the comments, I have not actually ever tasted dirty socks. Dirty underwear yes, but they weren't mine.

I digress...

I live in a cold place where it rains a lot. I blog at night, which leads to poor sleeping habits. My job has its tedious side. All of these things add up to one plain fact: Caffeine addiction.

I drink many many many cups of coffee throughout the day. The Starbucks solution, therefore, becomes time and cost prohibitive. Although, I do so enjoy meandering among the coffee snobs and pretentious prats who rattle off orders of the most obnoxious concoctions. My Starbucks order is simple: "Medium coffee."

Inevitably, the wickedly hip barrista, with the simply-scrunchied-been-up-all-night-having-rodeo-sex-and-didn't-have-time-to shower-this-morning hairdo, will ask: "room for cream?"


"extra bold Kuala Lumpur Eco Terrorist Blend, or Guatemalan Sissy Boy Mild?"

"I don't care."

I enjoy watching the sneer...

Anyway, one anonymous friend has found a solution. She brews good coffee herself and defends the decanter at her desk. Coffee-craving co-workers of hers, who contribute to the coffee fund, get to consume the premium Joe. Great idea. However, I am too lazy for this approach.

So, that means marching, time and again, to the break room to face yet another demoralizing cup of crappy coffee.

This morning, however, (well, yesterday morning by the time you read this.) I received a special treat. Mrs. Gin&Tonic, as some of you know, recently moved her cubicle from Salem to Portland. Before she left, though, she stocked up on magic beans from the best independent coffee house in all of the Pacific Northwest. (Yes, you secret Seattle readers, I'm taunting you!)

I'm talking about the Governor's Cup, in Salem, Oregon. Yes, I know, you are saying to yourself, "Can anything good come from Salem?" Well, yes. It has damn-good coffee, and we have some of its beans!

As I bundled up the monkey and grabbed my gear, I noticed the coffee pot waiting for me on the tall table with one of our auto-electro-gizmo heated travel mugs sitting next to it. The missus had made an early-morning pot of the Governor's Cup Coffee, and there was enough left for my commute. It was some of the best coffee I've had in a very long time.

Thanks Mrs. G&T!

Reading for comprehension:
1. What is your favorite coffee place?
2. What is your regular order?
3. Room for cream?

Sunday, September 24, 2006


That seems to be a popular topic these days. Friendly folks write about it. Greedy bloggers Google it. Taggers tag it. Diggers digg it. There is something like 50 million blogs out there, and everybody just wants to be loved.

There is a lot of well-meaning advice to be found. Most of it, however, is horse shit. Therefore, in an attempt to contribute to this, my blogging community, I shall outline my official philosophy of generating high-volume blog traffic.

Rule #1: Be compelling

Sure, I stole that rule from Howard Stern. In short, this means, be interesting. Write the words and post the pictures that readers want to see. Better still, write the words and post the pictures that the readers can't believe they're seeing.

For instance, nothing turns heads like NAKED PHOTOS OF TRICIA HELFER

See? See how quickly you clicked on that link! You probably didn't know that she plays #6 on Battlestar Galactica, but you looked anyway. (By the way, if you are offended by partial-frontal nudity, I should probably apologize. However, I won't.)

The point is, you don't have to link to nudie pics, but what ever you do, make people feel a need to look.

Rule #2: Advertise

OK, the experts will tell you to "contribute" to the blogging community. Basically, this just means, visit a lot of other people's blogs and leave behind a link to your own.

For instance, in the immediate future, I intend to inundate all of your blogs and Myspace pages with the following banner:

Of course, Dave already hit us with this one:

And in the next few weeks, you will be sure to see this one:

Rule #3: Exploit the vanity of your readers

Everybody likes to see their own name in print. So, it's a no-brainer to make frequent reference to your readers. Birthdays, births, marriages, divorces, gender re-assignment. Publish personal praise. They'll keep coming back.

In recent days, however, I've discovered an even more insidious manipulation of human narcissism: Link exchange. There are blogs that exist for no other purpose than to publish links to other blogs. Basically you exchange links with the blogger. Then, becaus you are your own biggest fan, you keep checking back day after day after day to see whether your blog has been linked, featured, or even reviewed.

There are two such blogs that I have linked to, and I have already been reviewed favorably in one of them. Both sell add space, so, this is a brilliant scheme for them to bring raw readers into their sites.

So, that's it. Keep it interesting, manipulate human nature, and get the word out. Of course, I have a depressingly small number of daily readers. So, what the hell do I know...

Reading for comprehension:
1. Have you told a friend about the Lounge?
2. Do you tingle with anticipation when I write about you?
3. You really just read this thing for the comments, don't you?


Five Years and Two Months

I lay in bed, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. The inky blackness of night slowly dissolved into a ghostly blue. My ears attuned to the predictable symphony of creeks and pops as the house slowly settled on its foundation for the night.

My mind rewound and replayed the phone calls and deadlines of the day. I drafted the next day's blog in my thoughts, which would never be written or remembered. I re-casted the actors who would play the characters in the movie version of the book I wished to write.

This is the point in the nightly ritual when I usually fade out and sink into the sweet cocoon slumber. On this night, though, I remained awake. Admittedly, it was a little early for me, but I had been nodding off on the sofa. I was tired.

It was then that I did it. I opened my eyes, and turned my head to look at the calming green LED number shining from the clock beside my head.


"Of course," I thought. "Of course it's 11:11. Now I suppose I can get to sleep." And that, I did. It is just an arbitrary time on a never-accurate time piece, but it keeps popping up. A.M. And P.M., at home and at work. More often than seems normal or coincidental. A quick peak at the time reveals the four digits, almost on a daily basis now, for about the last week and a half.

I have long been consumed with the concept of the "all-1" moment. It only occurs twice in one day every hundred years or so. The next such occurrence will take place in about five years and two months (depending on when you read this.)

On November 11, 2011, at 11:11:11 a.m. and p.m., the date and time will be: 1111111111. Of course that is assuming you drop the millennium and century from the date, and only use the decade and year. Follow me?

If you follow military time, this will only occur once, in the morning.

Now, there was only one day in all of history that truly had two "all-1" moments. That day was, obviously, November 11, 1111 a.d. However, there weren't many folks who could tell time back then, let alone track seconds. So, there probably wasn't much fuss about it. Theoretically, there was also November 11, 1111 b.c., but the folks who were alive on that day had no idea what the date was, so it doesn't really count.

The last time this event occurred, my great grandmother was the age of my daughter. I suspect in five years it will be attended with much hoopla and spectacle. I hope that I don't miss it, and once it's over, I hope to get some sleep.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. So, what particular chronological anomalies do you obsess over?
2. Where do you expect to be on November 11, 2011? (It will land on a Friday)
3. If I wrote a book about my life, who should play me in the movie?

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Fall is in the Air

It's that time again. I used to look forward to it. Now, I apprehend it with dread. It is the new Fall television season, and this year, it is a craptastic wasteland. It is a new low, even by sketchy television standards.

Hey, if any television executives happen to wander in to the Lounge, let me help you out. You are not losing audience shares because of cable, the internet, Netflix, movies or video games. You are losing your audience because you inflate your weekly schedule with barely-sufferable dumbed-down sanitized drivel. You killed Firefly. You killed West Wing. You killed Northern Exposure. You killed Millennium. You are killing Deadwood. You kill anything with a heart or a spark.

You load us up with low-budget low-brow melodramatic "unscripted reality" bullshit. For drama, you give us the same three doctor/lawyer/cop shows, re-issued and repackaged with different actors year after year after year.

Why are your audiences leaving? It's because we hate you.

That having been said, there are still a couple of bright spots on what is an otherwise dark horizon. This year, my television viewing will be limited to the following few shows:

1. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. My God, what an awful title. However, after one episode of Aaron Sorkin's latest cocaine-infused opus, I am hooked. As expected, the writing is smart, fast and funny. There is depth and darkness. There is controversy. There is wit.

While many of the players and settings are allegorical, loose caricatures of real people and places, one reference Monday night was not. They named Pat Roberton by name and called him out for the narrow minded bigot that he is. BY NAME! I'm sold. I love this show. Fortunately, it has no competition at 10:00 on Monday.

2. Smallville. Yes, it's past its prime. The teenage Clark Kent is now 30, or something. Lex Luthor is still simmering in cartoonish pre-evil. Superman cannot yet fly. However, the women are still hot, and writing is still creative. Which means...

3. I'll have to DVR The Office. It's on opposite Smallville, but the miracle of modern technology allows me to record one while I watch the other. Oooh... High tech!

4. Deadwood. So, I don't have HBO. That means I'll just have to wait for Season 3 to come out on DVD, and get it from Netflix. God bless Netflix. Of course HBO is canceling the show, those Cocksuckers...

5. And finally, of course, there is Battlestar Galactica, the best show on basic cable (or broadcast telelvision, for that matter.) Season Three begins on the Sci Fi channel on October 6, at 9:00. Season 2.5 was just released on DVD, so there is no reason you can't catch up in time.

Just remember, start with the miniseries and watch it in order. Don't skip around, for the love of pete!

This means that the Lounge's sister Blog, And Thy Have a Plan, will be warming up from its long dormancy. So will Lee Adama is a Cylon.

I know I preach endlessly about this show, but I only do it because I love you, and I want you to have good telelvision. So far, I have converted Mrs G&T, Anonymous, The Other Anonymous, Mrs. The Other Anonymous, Ryan, and Carl. Are you next? You better Frakin' believe it.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

If You Can Read This, You Are Too Close

Rock Lobster!

It was Prom. It was 1989 in sunny Southern California. The big bash took place on a big boat.

The Queen Mary, one-time luxury liner, now permanently parked in Long Beach, has been transformed into a tacky touristy hotel. The parkay promenade is free to walk, and is therefore lined with poor teens making out on any given Friday night.

Way back on that one particular night, an entire graduating class descended upon her well-buffed ball room, to act out and suffer through the long practiced ancient rites of spring.

Being the dying days of the 80s, as they were, skirts were ruffled, hair was sprayed, and my mauve bow tie matched my date's mauve dress.

There is much to say about the prom, Tom dancing with his future wife, for instance... But I shall leave that for another post. No, the key here is the host. The DJ. The man of the hour.

Well, the late hour anyway. He showed up long after he was due, and he was visibly drunk. His name was Jim Trenton, and I'm sure I've talked about him before. (oh yes, the Alpha Beta post) any way, Jim was known on KROQ as "Poorman," and somehow, we wrangled him in to DJ our prom.

The best thing about the drunken balding DJ was that he brought schwag. KROQ schwag. Lot's of it. He had a stack of highly-coveted KROQ bumper stickers, and he was autographing them.

If you grew up in Oregon, or Montana, or bumfuck wherever, you may not understand. At that time, and in that place, There was nothing cooler than getting your hands on a KROQ bumper sticker. They were not for sale. It was proof that you were present for at least one KROQ sponsored event. It declared your allegiance to alternative music. It proclaimed your intellectual superiority over those Top 40, heavymetal, hip hop and country ass holes.

The sticker went in the back window of your shitty car, usually flanked by the quasi-obligatory Smiths sticker on one side and by the Cure (or other similar pre-emo alterna-goth group on the other).

As the night progressed, I approached the dais and asked Poorman to sign a sticker for me. Unfortunately, it appeared that the drinking had continued after his arrival.

"Egh... What's your name?" The heavy dance beat was deafening this close to the speakers.

"BRIAN!" I yelled over the din.

"Er, Mike?" He wobbled a bit, but grabbed the sound board to steady himself.


"Right.. eh.. OK..." [scribble, scribble]

He then handed me my very own KROQ bumper sticker. Written in dark black felt-tip ink, I read: "To Mike [scribble, scribble]." He seemed to have had difficulty writing his own name.

I never stuck that sticker on the back window of my VW Rabbit. I figured the autograph might be worth something someday. I found other stickers to stick, declaring my allegiance to that certain style of music.

Now, however, I have no stickers on my car. There is generally nothing wrong with Bumper stickers. They are fine, I suppose, don't get me wrong, but I don't think that thoughts, which can be condensed to fit neatly on a bumper, can be complete. That, and my thoughts tend to shift and grow. Like a tattoo, I'd hate to be stuck declaring something I later disagreed with.

So many personal positions (political, social, environmental or religious) stated succinctly on a sticker are about as far as their holders are willing to think about them. That troubles me greatly. We are becoming a society of sound bites. Our allegiances and philosophies have the breadth and depth of a six-word motto.

I don't care who you are, or what your thing is, if the sum total of your thought, platform, or opinion can be summed up in a bumper sticker, then you are wrong, even if I agree with you.

Oh, and don't get me started on the Jesus fish...
Reading for Comprehension:
1. I saw an old man getting out of his car in front of the courthouse with American flag stickers all over the back of his truck, and a big sticker that read: "My country, right or wrong." I wanted to punch him.
2. I think that left turn was a bit sharp.
3. So, what's your favorite bumper sticker?


I poked the dead fish to dislodge it from beneath the bubble wand, and it jerked back to life and swam away.

I believe that I now have the healing power to bring the dead back to life.

Circle of Life

In the fish tank this morning...

The last of the mollies has died. It has also, unfortunately, wedged itself into a crevice under my bubble wand.

One of the Red Wag Platties has laid another egg sack, this time tangled in one of the fake plastic sea trees.

The bi-sexual Ramhorns are currently wrestling in one of the other fake plastic sea trees. They also seem to have spawned a new baby snail.

All of the various tetras remain aloof.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Monday Morning

I'm a little tired tonight, but I didn't want to leave you with out anything new for Monday morning. So, here's a little Bobby Darin to start your day...

Friday, September 15, 2006

Two Girls from Frankfurt

Lynne and Tessa, two girls from Frankfurt, lipsynching their way to internet stardom. I'm not sure who they are, how old they are, or what the hell their point is. All I know is, I can't stop looking at them.

OK, so it's a long shot, but if they read this, and they ever decide to visit Portland, Oregon, I have a nice guest suite with a private bath that they are welcome to stay in.

Be sure to catch the last video link, it's like a best of...


Naughty little home page

Gouging My Eyes Out with a Dull Spoon

Yes, I have pounded my shoe on the podium here before, on numerous occasions, regarding a variety of horrible awful mind-numbing movies. Well, this is going to be another one of those. You might as well click back to myspace now and forgo the Lounge for today...

In anticipation of the upcoming Casino Royale, I have been reviewing related material as a sort of warm up.

I started with Layer Cake, Daniel Craigs last indie-hit, and it was really quite good. You should definitely Netflix it, if you haven't already. However, that's not what I watched tonight.

No, this evening I squandered several perfectly good blogging hours watching Casino Royale. The original 1967 abonimation. (Yes, I know there was a one-hour television version in 1954, but that featured an American named "Jimmy Bond." So, it doesn't count...)

No, I'm talking about the all-star non-Broccoli hodge podge, which languished under the misdirection of five different directors. All of the mighty thespian prowess of Orson Welles, Peter Sellers, Woody Allen, David Niven, John Houston, Peter O'Toole, William holden and Ursula Andress couldn't put this craptastically-scrambled Humpty back together again.

Characters who simply disappeared in the middle re-started from scratch later on. Some characters simply vanished in mid-developement without discussion. Loose story lines were left to drop untied. Set design and style continuity shifted and reverted with each scene. Accents evolved and hopped continents in mid-dialogue block. Psychedlic montages erupted without warning or need. Character names changed seemingly at random.

Troublesome characters (or characters played by troublesome actors) seemed to consistently meet an explossive demise. There seemed to be about 8 or 9 James Bonds. There was one Jimmy Bond, and several women with the ID code: "007." Entire sequences would go by without connection to any sense of universal plot.

I am feeling angry and surly. I feel like several hours of my life have been stolen. Over all, I'd say that this was an irresponsible indulgent quixotic extravagance on the part of some coked-up sweaty shifty shitty film producer. I want to find this aging traitor to humanity and squeeze the contents of his colostomy bag back into his body, then punch him in the neck.

Alas, the poor bastard is probably already dead.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. I should have gone to bed an hour ago, but I feel so aggitated and insulted by this monumental pile of pig shit, that I had to finish this post.
2. However, I am so bile-ridden that I'm not even going to proof read or correct typos.
3. I actually gave "the bird" to the closing credits. Dick Cheney should be forced to sit and watch this movie over and over and over...

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Highly-Placed Sources Suggest

Mr. Gin & Tonic has it on good authority that the Lounge was visted late last night by a long-lost mid-ranking government lackey. (No, not my wife...)

I am very pleased to welcome Jason to the Lounge!

Bringing Sexy Back

Never say that I don't look out for the ladies. That's right, my fine feminine fans, it's time for some eye candy.
Kenny prefers the stubby lightsaber.
He practices his "Jedi-Face" in the mirror.
I think he's close to mastering it.

Jaime enjoys parasailing, scuba diving, candlelit dinners, and long walks on the beach. He believes his soul mate is "just around the bend." Could it be you?
Little Fanchon believes he can fly.
He would like to take you under his wing for a romantic flight around his water bed.

This is Charles. That’s all you need to know.

Herb coined the phrase "It's on like Tron!" Which was popular for about 17 minutes.
Now, folks around the office have gone back to just punching him in the hallway.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006


It is really no secret that much of my youth was wasted on religion. Tempted as I may be, the tequila working its wicked way with my words, I shall refrain from a scathing diatribe against the folly of faith for the moment.

Suffice it to say, one thing I learned from 20 years of bible study and Sunday school was that Jesus like parables. Holy hell, did he ever like to tell stories! One of the best, admittedly, was the parable of the Good Samaritan.

Basically, a guy gets mugged. All of the upright-uptight religious right pass him on the street, and leave him to die. Only the lowly Samaritan stops to help, and is therefore the most blessed.

Not wanting to be outdone by the alleged son of Jehovah, the modern Fundamentalists made up their own similar parable, based loosely on the Good Samaritan, but designed more to disparage the competition than to preach compassion. For the full text of the slanderous saga, click here.

For those of you too lazy to read, the gist is that a man falls in a fairly shitty hole, and breaks his legs. Mohammed finds him and shouts down, "hey, don't eat pork, and pray toward Mecca five times a day."

Buddha then finds him and tells him his problem was the result of desire. Marx tells him that he can only be free through class struggle and revolution (Marx misrepresented once again...)

Freud suggested that the man subconsciously wanted to be in the hole. New Agers suggested that the man had bad karma or negative energy (or something). Finally, and this is the important part, Jesus found the man, got down into the hole with him, and carried him out.

Nice story. Brings a tear to the eye.

So, I got to thinking, "what if I fell in the hole?" What if I were the man, and I laid in the shitty pit with broken shins? What if my regular readers walked by? What would they say? Hmmm... I wonder....

Inog: "Hey, that shitty pit reminds me of this squalid village in Laos where I ate a small child for Brunch!"

Mrs. Inog: "So, If I make an offer to perform a rescue, and you rely on my promise to your own detriment, am I bound to perform? What is your remedy if I don't? Am I equitably estopped from non-performance? Oh wait, maybe this is a Torts question..."

Dr. Brian: "If you were a cute blonde girl, I'd rescue you. Mind if I masturbate into the hole anyway?"

Ev: "Ha, you lying in a muddy hole with broken legs reminds me of highschool!"

Lisa: "Quit your bloody whining. We'll have you tubed and shipped out of there in no time."

Valdez: "Broken legs? You crack me up!"

Princess Leah: "I better not get too close to the hole, my pneumonia may turn into tuberculosis! And I might get pregnant again!!"

Mitch: [pushes Leah into the hole]

Ryan: "I liked the original story about Jesus better..."

Dave: "Hey, this gives me an idea for a new Dead Honkey..."

Amanda: "I feel that the hole is analogous to the classical western repesentation of man's inhumanity to... Hey! Goddamnit! Can you see up my skirt from down there??"

Mrs G&T: "You fell in a pit?? This is worse than the hickeys on your forehead."

Margus: "Jesus, you should see the size of the holes we have in Minnesota."

Tom: "Is this some metaphor for Brian being gay?"

Anonymous: "I blame Leah for Brian being in the hole."

The Other Anonymous: "This blog hasn't been good since last October. Brian deserves to be in in the hole."

Daisy's Missing Arm: "Need a hand? ahahahahahahhahaaaaa...."

Christina Ricci: "I've got a hole you can fall into..."

The Kayak Paddle: "Rivers? Holes? Christ, I need to buy you a fucking helmet!"

The Hat: "Let ME float away, huh? Guess who dug this goddamn hole!"

Reading for Comprehension:
1. OK, who am I missing?
2. Did I get you right?
3. What else might you say to me if I were lying in a hole?

Business Proposition

(Thanks to DR. Brian for this one)

Johnny wanted to have sex with a girl in his office, but she belonged to someone else.

One day Johnny got so frustrated that he went up to her and said, "I'll give you a $100 if you let me have sex with you."

Sadly, the girl said, "No."

Johnny said, "I'll be fast. I'll throw the money on the floor, you bend down, and I'll be finished by the time you pick it up."

She thought for a moment and said, "I have to consult my boyfriend."

So, she called her boyfriend and told him the story. Her boyfriend, being savvy, instructed her to ask him for $200 and pick up the money very fast. He surmized that Johnny would not even be able to get his pants down quick enough. The girl, therefore, agreed and accepted the proposal.

Half an hour passed, and the boyfriend waited for his girlfriend to call. Finally, after 45 minutes went by, the boyfriend called and asked what happened.

Sounding out of breath, the girl explained, "The bastard used quarters!"

Reading for Comprehension:
1. Always consider a business proposal in it's entirety before agreeing to it, or you WILL get screwed!

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Bad Girl Giving Head

Reading for Comprehension:
1. Heh heh... made you look.
2. 10 points to Gryffindor if you can name the famous head.
3. 20 points to Slytherin if you can name the naughty lady.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Bier Hier, Bier Hier, Oder Ich Fall Üm!

It is September, and that can mean only one thing: Oktoberfest.

"But, doesn't Oktoberfest happen in October?" you may ask.

Well, yes, but only if you live in Bavaria. Due to some eternally-mysterious, archaic and poorly-understood international rules (like the offside rule in soccer), Oktoberfest must occur in September anywhere outside of Southern Germany.

The beautiful Willamette Valley, being roughly 4,800 miles from Bavaria as the crow flies, is clearly in the September category.

Which brings us to a breathtaking church on a bluff, built by monks, but shared with nuns. The Mt. Angel Abbey stands vigil over the creepily-idyllic community of Mt. Angel, Oregon. White picket fences, clean streets, and toothy neighbors who say "mornin" with a smile (and mean it).

There is a certain northern European flair to the town. The lederhosen runs deep though, and every September, the tidy little town tips the scales with drunken gluttonous revelry. Polka music and Oompa Bands weave in and out of the maze of deep-fried fair food. Sausages stand erect on skewers, and someone, somewhere is always singing something from the sound of music.

And then, of course, there are the beer gardens.

The first time I went, back in 1994, I drank a gallon and a half of beer. 6 quarts to be precise. I was trucked in on a school bus, chartered by the law school, and deposited on the outskirts of the orgy-engorged village. All of the access streets remain closed for the weekend, and we had to wander, like refugees, in search of food and drink.

Once in, it didn't take long to survey the scene, and make a bee-line for the converted warehouse beer garden. The chaotic cacophony of rural hedonism stunned me, but I soldiered on. I closed ranks with my sturdy roommate, Mike, and my future Viking-like roommate, Lars.

Drunken women whirled in circuits around the dance floor, over the dancing tables, and around the beer counter. The attractive people in the crowd were covered in sexually-implicit meat market stickers that said such things as "Fresh meat," "Hot and Tender," and "spicy." The less-attractive people had less stickers. It was a game. That much was obvious.

I got drunk fast and stayed that way. I remember dancing the polka with a lovely girl from Latvia. I recall Lars pissing on my shoes. I'm pretty sure someone fell off the roof of the bus on the way home.

The following years were less adventurous. Well, with the exception of the second year I suppose. I do recall a foxy Indian (dot, not feather) girl sitting on my lap on the bus, pouring a bottle of tequila over both of us. I don't think I kissed her, but I'm confident that I groped her sticky brown boobsies.

In the years since school, I managed to make it to Mt. Angel just a couple of times. Once during the day for the family-friendly festivities, which I shan't bore you with. The second, only a few years ago.

Gone are the stickers in the beer garden. They are replaced now, by design, with Mardi Gras beads. And that can mean only one thing...

The missus and I went with another duo, who shall remain un-identified. The duo are long since done, and certain halves have gone off and married others. All of the interested parties are readers. So, suffice to say, at the time, everyone was drinking beer.

Through a series of never-fully-understood events, my missus and the Mister of the mystery duo decided to sit for a spell and rest. The young Miss was feeling it, however, and co-opted me to escort her on quest to earn beads.

A pimp was what I was, and earn beads, she did. A lot of beads. In addition to beads, I was also able to negotiate a bonus $5 gratuity from a crew of beadless perverts. By the end, we left laden with baubles, victorious and inebriated.

The Mt. Angel Oktoberfest is ALWAYS a good time. I want to go this year, and I'm looking for a crew. I've tried to raise the rabble rousers at work, but alas, no takers. So, now I take it to the Lounge. Oktoberfest or Bust! Any takers?

Reading for Comprehension:
1. So, what are you doing September 15th?
2. Can you dance the Polka?
3. What would you do for a cheap string of flashy plastic beads?

Monday, September 04, 2006


This is the last of the rhyming titles.

Unfortunately, this one will also mostly write itself.

Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, was killed today, apparently by a stingray barb to the heart, while filming on Batt Reef, near Port Douglas, Queensland, Australia. He is survived by his wife Terri (from Oregon!), daughter Bindi Sue, 8, and son Bob, 3.

Sure, Steve was a lunatic, but we've all gotten stuck while channel surfing to watch him chase "the most dangerous snake in the world," and we all could do the same bad impression: "Crikey!"

I suppose a guy who makes his living wrestling 14-foot crocodiles, and picking pit vipers up by the tail, has to have a stunted life expectancy, but come on, a stingray??

Many of us wondered whether it was all real. Just how much control was there? How much danger was he really in?

Well, now we know.

Goodbye Steve. Thanks for the adventure!

Reading for Comprehension:
1. What's the biggest reptile you've wrestled?
2. Have you ever perfected your own personal death roll?
3. Cage match: Crocodile Dundee vs. The Crocodile Hunter?

Friday, September 01, 2006


I received a call from the Missus this morning. She was passed by a caravan of campers making the annual journey to the Gorge amphitheater in George, Washington.

Yes, it's a real town. Yes, it's just down the road from Martha.

This the the weekend that the Dave Matthews Band plays the Gorge, and I'm not going. Having made many migrations across the Columbia Rive and the long hot Yakima Valley, we decided to take a pass this year.

I will be a little sad tonight as the sun goes down, knowing in my mind that the throng of thousands will be dancing and drinking on the general admission grassy half-bowl. The sun will set purple and orange behind the stage and the river will run black below.

Festive revelry will run all night in the adjacent campground. Midgets will dance on RVs and teen girls will wander, in search of easy beer.

Contrary to popular belief, there will be very few hippies. There will be minor tribes of frat boys and gaggles of sorority girls. There will be yuppies. There will be slackers. Gen X will be heavily represented, but there will be an ample compliment of Ys as well. Alcohol will flow like water and clouds of herby smoke will roll in like fog.

Perhaps next year. Perhaps in deed.