Make Just One Person Happy

Friday is my birthday, and I want something from you.

Each of you.

All of you.

Whether you work down the hall from me, or across Portland; whether you live in Seattle, Salem or Los Angeles; regardless of whether you are in Minnesota, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Idaho or even the UK, I would like you to do me a favor.

Just one simple thing.

Sometime on Friday, at any time of the day, I would like you to go out of your way to do one good thing.

Sure, you probably do good things all the time, but I mean one extra, unexpected, consciously executed good thing. It does not have to be big. In fact, it can be rather small.

Call your mom. Have lunch with your kid. Make a donation. Help an old lady across the street. Adopt an orphan. I don't care.

Maybe you are a regular reader, or maybe you just popped in from Google on a search for "Pepperocinis" or "Assapalooza." Maybe you comment every day. Maybe you have silently lurked for months, never knowing quite what to say.

Well, here is you chance to participate.

If you feel like it, once you have done your good deed, I would invite you to ANONYMOUSLY share with the rest of us what you did.

Yes, yes, I'm turning into a big hippie pussy. Bite me. Go do a good thing.

The Strip

Rumor round town has it that Daisy has been spotted recently dancing at Dino's.

Well, it's suspected that it's Daisy. I mean, just how many one-armed strippers can there be in Portland?

Now, generally, this makes me sad. As any long-time reader will know, Daisy is a bit of a mythical goddess around these parts, the pre-beatified post-thalidomide patron saint of the lounge, as it were.

It is my dream, one day, to wander the halls of the courthouse with a slutty-Santa-suited Daisy in tow, handing tinsel hats out to all of the whining plaintiffs...

But I, again, digress...

"So, what's the problem?" you may ask. "At least she's working isn't she?"

Well, yes, but she's working at DINO'S!!
Here, this what the Portland Mercury had to say recently about the place:

"I've got two things on tap, Bud and water, so which is it going to be," growled Theresa, the barkeep who looks like "mamma" from "Throw Mamma from the Train." Dino's Inn is the nadir of dive bars. Not only does the bartender look frightening with her beard and mustache, but the two-a-night dancers on the foosball table-sized stage might also scare the bejesus out of you. A recent night included a one-eyed, mid-40's woman who stripped down to nothing but her eye patch, and an overweight beast with baloney nipples. Pool is 25¢, but the cue stick will inevitably hit a wall or a video poker patron while you try to play. RV

Sadly, it's all true. I know. I've been there.

Well, Tom and I have been there.

I admit that I've been to some rather sketchy, sticky and/or stinky establishments in at least five states, but nothing, NOTHING, compares to the unholy display of wretched despair found inside of Dino's.

Late, on one of our epic nights of debauchery, Tom and I wandered willingly through the chipped red door, which was swollen with rot. The jabba-like Theresa, mentioned above, was likely the same hairy lady we found behind the bar.

Now the rule was, to claim to have visited, we had to sit, tip and drink one beer; which we managed to do despite adverse conditions on more than one occasion.

But this... This!

Before our gaze was met, and we were turned to stone by the bar-wench Medusa, we averted out collective sight and spun toward the ramshackle stage behind us, where, for all I could tell, a fat 75-year-old man was taking his clothes off.

Our spin continued until we had turned 180 degrees. In one fluid synchronous spiral, Tom and I retreated with haste, and have yet never returned...

Which brings us to today.

It was lunchtime, and I had to get across town to drop my video camera off for some repair. Thee most direct route carried me over the Hawthorne bridge, toward the fashionable edge of Southeast Portland. As I passed familiar landmarks, I noted that Dino's was coming up ahead, and thoughts of Daisy flashed before me. I was sad that she had been rejected by the fancier clubs, and forced to work in the horrid dive like that..

But as I drew closer, I noticed something intriguing. The building had new paint. The old jutting sign was gone. There was a temporary banner hanging from the wall!

Dino's is gone! Gone to hell. Gone for good. The new club is called theHawthornee Strip, and I can only hope that the old staff has been replaced. So, now the quandary begins.

You know what I'm thinking... So, who's in?

I Should Not Take Breaks

I'm working a lot this week, trying to top off my billable hours before the end of the year. Sometimes, when you work hard, it's important to take breaks.

Unfortunately, when I do, I sometimes come across videos of men, dressed as girls, who chain themselves to livingroom furniture...

Also, unfortunately, said crossdresser doesn't allow his videos to be embedded. Here's the link though...

Monday Fashion Minute

Peasant Food

Nothing exorcises the spectre of hunger like the rough crustiness of peasant food. It's the same everywhere. Sure, the ingredients change from continent to continent. In the Americas, south of the equator, a poor farmer's table may serve hand-flattened tortillas with rice and beans. In Japan, you might find fresh caught sushi with mamasan's homemade rice balls. On the sun-scorched shores of the Mediterranean, hungry families feast of flat bread, lamb meat and baba ganoush...

It is the chunk-cut nature of the flavorful finger food that defines the fare. It is the home-grown boldness generations-old recipes. Inspired choices dictated by scarcity, served on grandma's wooden platters. It is farm-freshness, or fish still cold from the sea.

And so I sat, Sunday at noon, the girls of the house napping soundly down the hall. I was left to my own devices for lunch, and not eager to be ambitious.

A crisp green Granny Smith was first in hand, followed by the blocky remainder of a smoked Gouda wheel. Half a day-old baguette was fetched from the fridge, and I finally opened the briny jar of pickled herring. Lunch was eaten from the cutting board with no more utensil than a paring knife. Rain fell hard against the windows. The fire was warm, but the dark winter beer was cold.

Funny

"I don't know. Just say something funny." She said, as we discussed plans for the office Christmas party.

The associates and staff get gifts each year, tokens really, for the four partners. Over an afternoon of roast beef and stiff drinks, proper small talk will devolve into inappropriately inebriated fits of hoots and giggles.

Somewhere along the way, the presentation of the presents must be made, and someone, Lorax-like, must speak for the plebes...

And this year, that someone so happens to be me. By the time most of you read this, it will already be over. With luck, they will laugh. With more luck, I will still have a job come next Tuesday.

I think I will try to keep it short.

hmmm... this could get interesting

The Perfect gift

Multimedia message

Christmas is coming the goose is getting fat. Put another something in the something something ...

Something About March

It's that time of year again. It's the beginningg of the gin-&-tonic family's December-long birthday bonanza!

Starting with today, we wish Mrs G&T a hardy happy birthday. I won't say how old she is, but I will confirm that she is older than me by twelve days.

In middle, is the monkey. In three days, she will be 2. However, we celebrated this afternoon. Thanks to the loyal Loungers who braved the sea tots. The monkey thanks you for the the books.

Then, twelve days from now, I'll be 36.

Ass Promised

Once again, this afternoon, I had to explain to someone that not everyone who comments on the Lounge knows each other. You're not all one big blog clique of inbred kissin cousins. Sure, some of you have seen others of you naked. Take Tom and Dr. Brian for instance...

And to be sure, some of y'all have gotten to become familiar in these here comment sections. Ryan has added Dave as a myspace friend. Lisa writes to Allie. And now, even Familytrain pokes his head in from time to time.

We've all heard about Leah's reproductive system. We've all read about Carl's trips to China. But most especially, we've all become familiar with Amanda's Ass.

We've written about it. We've thought about it. We've joked about it. But now, we all have the opportunity to look at it. Without further ado, here is the long awaited photo, (with her permission) of Amanda's ass.



eh... So, it's not exactly madthumbs.

And no, that isn't road rash. If you look closely enough, you'll see that the bruising is vaguely in the shape of a hand. Ahoy matey! Adventure on the high seas indeed...

Thanks to Amanda for sharing the goods for the sake of the Lounge!

Amanda's Overrated Ass

I have in my possession one photo of Amanda's ass.

I have her permission to post the photo.

I'm just wondering what it's worth to you.

Assapalooza

I misjudged my audience.

Here I thought cerebral folks would value an introspective investigation of my memory's minutiae. Silly me.

I knew all along what the regular and repetitive readers of the lounge want. Why they want nothing less than ASS. And lots of it!!

So, here you go! Here is some fine smooth ass for you!!

Ya, that's what I'm talking about!! Let's look at more ass!!

Oh Fuck ya! Ass! Ass!

And for the ladies, (and Dr. Brian) here's some hot man ass!

Oh goddamn, look at all that ass! Forget all those words and shit! Who cares about a well written turn of phrase?? Let's look at more ass!

Oh my god, so much ass, I may never write anything ever again!

Roxanne

Have you ever swept an entire grocery store? Down every aisle? Around every vegetable stand? Charging oncoming customer carts with your dust mop, like a matador, one handed, swerving parabolic arcs with panache?

It was 1986. I was working the night shift.

I would map out my dry mop maneuvers. I would start with the general merchandise on the south end, and work in zig-zag-fashion down each aisle until I reached the sticky-floored produce and meat aisles along the north wall.

As the cotton-millipede-like mop-head glided over polished tile, its many fabric tendrils would stretch out, snatching bits of dust and dirt, pushing it along like a bow wave. The trick was to see how far I could push the accumulated debris, before it flanked the wide gliding scrubber, and spilled like a dusty contrail behind me.

I could usually make it to the dairy section, the halfway point, before needing to scoop.

It was late Spring, and some dreary deity decided to drown Los Angeles with a deluge. The rain had been falling hard, and my usually-dry and frequently-smooth surfaced floor was tacky and tracked with moist, but drying, mud. "Dry Mop" was a misnomer. I worked my way along my usual path, avoiding black foot prints (I'd get those with the wet mop in a few minutes) aiming with vengeance for the light-brown, dry and flaky footprints, which fled with fear before my oncoming broom of doom.

I rounded the dreaded cookie aisle. I passed the row those hateful butterscotch Keebler abominations, and pushed on toward the rear of the store. Just then, without warning, without even a buzz or pop, the lights went out.

Completely out. Pitch black. I don't know whether you've ever been in a grocery store during a blackout at night in a thunder storm, but it's dark. Dark like Dick Cheney's heart.

Dark.

I froze. I was completely without reference. My once taken-for-granted bearings were gone. The absence of any horizontal reference made me dizzy, and I sat down.

In aisles to my right and to my left, I heard the voices of similarly stranded clerks, apparently with more advanced training than I had, giving the same instructions to assumed customers. "Stay put. Don't move. If the lilghts don't come back on, we'll come and find you with flashlights."

That sounded comforting. I wondered where the flashlights would come from, or who would come find the stranded clerks. Then, I remembered, somewhere up in front, probably in the office, was our night manager, Roxanne.

Perhaps I wanted to make sure she was there. Perhaps I wanted further emergency instruction. Perhaps I was just getting freaked out by the darkness, but in the best calm-voice I could muster, I called out her name.

Then, out of the darkness, somewhere in the vicinity of the bakery, a nervous sounding female voice called out: "Roxanne?"

Then in a best-impression of a British pop singer, I think from behind the dairy case, Some one sang out, "You don't have to put on the red light!"

Nervous laughter erupted in the darkness, from the canned-fruit aisle, from produce and from all over the store. Now egged on, or perhaps in just an attempt to lighten the mood, a chorus of (likely-high) dairy clerks attempted a few more lines. Soon, however, the lights and the familiar whirring and humming of refrigeration snapped back on. The singing stopped, and Roxanne's familiar voice was heard over the loud speaker, thanking shoppers for their cooperation and the dairy choir for their performance.

The light seemed bright. The shelves seemed almost white. However, the mud was still on the floor, and I still had my mop...

I thought about that blackout this morning, as I sat in a dark office staring at a blank computer screen. Power went out around 9:00, which can cause, as you may imagine, complications for a law firm.

The bubble wand and filter in my aquarium were silent. The printers and copiers slept silently. The phones were dead. Small quiet conversations down long dark hallways carried with clarity. It was oddly soothing.

Natural light is plentiful in my atrium-like office, and active attorneys found ways to work. I huddled near my sliding glass door, and read a large notebook of medical records with a very low-tech highlighter pen. As I sat there, I noticed that the new janitor had recently swept the dirt and mud from my private patio, and I began to hum old Police tunes quietly to myself.

2 Ornaments

As the wife was hanging ornaments on our goddamn giant tree, she noted that only two out of our assortment of tree baubles were mine, or me-related.

So, if anyone was wondering, Amanda found THIS

Size Matters

Some folks prefer them lean and trimmed. Others prefer full and bushy. Most folks like the smell.

Strangely, women seem to prefer short ones, while men like them big. And everyone likes the balls that go with them.

I speak of Christmas trees, of course, and I got mine today. The G&T family headed out on a short quest down the local rural highway to a quaint family tree operation. The good tree folks sat huddled around a blazing fire with free cider in the crockpot and murky directions for navigating around the acres of evergreens that circled their home.

The missus, the Monkey, and I wandered through the evenly-spaced woods, comparison shopping along the way. The Monkey, now nearly two, trudged on like a trooper, sustained along the path by her giant supply of now-warm cider.

City boy that I am, I had my gloves and my saw, ready to harvest our selection from the soil, which brought back memories of holiday lumberjack expedition in Idaho a few years ago...

Seems that my wife's tree hunting history was different that mine. Growing up with a sister and father who were asthmatic, our tree always came out of a box... Her family, however, would snowshoe for miles up into the BLM back county of the Saw Tooth National Forest, chop down a suitable tree, and tote it back to the car via dog sled, or somesuch...

All of which came as a surprise to me during my first Christmas in Idaho. There were snow shoes for starters, easy enough to master, but a disaster if one slipped off. Then there was the moderate hike, which nearly killed the lower-elevation cousins (myself included). After taking turns, cutting in rounds, to hack through a minor three-inch diameter trunk, The only person left who was acclimated enough to breathe was my mother-in-law. So, she carried the tree out of the forest while the burly, but gasping, men followed...

So, today's trek was nothing like that. With the exception that I got to murder the tree myself. Down in the mud. In the rain. And carry it back up the hill to the waiting truck.

Thing is, the tree looked to be good sized, but not too tall, while we were surrounded by other trees. Now, however, inside the house? It's crazy tall. Crazy.

Crazy!

Thank god for vaulted ceilings.

There is something about a big tree though. It gives one hope. Hope for bigger presents, that is.

The Cavern

"You know there are 7 secret levels below us don't you? It's where they keep the secret security offices, and store the popcorn."

Yes, I'd heard that before. Everyone who grows up down there hears about the secret underground levels all the time. It's popular conversation while standing in line for Space Mountain or the Jungle Boat.

She had long brown hair, green eyes, and shiny glossy lips that smelled of strawberry. So, I listened intently and acted surprised. I was 14. She probably was too, and we were standing in line for the Matterhorn.

We waited with others from our group, a motley hodgepodge of sweaty teens, dowsed in varying doses of hairspray, cologne and hormones, roaming the Magic Kingdom for a day. The Matterhorn was an in-line toboggan ride. Strictly boy-girl-boy-girl, nestled between each other's legs. That is what awaited us at the end of that impossibly slow-moving line.

And we all knew it...

Finally, a fair-haired boy in lederhosen led us to our alpine bobsled of love. Strawberry wasted no time planting herself between my knees. An unfortunate doofus with a large forehead and tacky jacket shared the compartment behind ours with his obnoxious girlfriend. We overheard their whispered negotiations. He was apparently allowed to put his hands inside her shirt, but only after the ride started. Oh, but, he wasn't allowed to undo her bra.

The the track brakes released with a pneumatic woosh, and we were underway. The toboggan slipped slowly into the first cave with that smooth precision only Disney engineers can create. Once in the dark, I immediately detected the distinct sound of tongue kissing behind me. Strawberry wiggled subtly against my thighs, while my hand migrated slowly from the hand rail to her outer perimeter.

CLACK CLAcK CLACK CLACK CLACK... The romantic reverie was broken by the jarring jerking chain lift elevating our cars up out of the darkness, up above the park, up toward the fake snow-packed summit. We were released again and glided smoothly, only to be caught quickly by the second stretch of chain lift.

Motorized mountain goats blinked at us, and distant screams of exhilaration were heard echoing through the mountain. Once we reached the top, the cart was set free , and we began our high-speed hurtle through icy caverns back toward ground level.

Dashing alternately through darkness and light, we hugged the outside rails, then dipped back into an tinkling ice cave. Blue-white crystals flashed past us, while bursts of tinkly tinkly music completed the effect. We rounded the curve in the cavern and came to a rather sudden and completely unexpected stop.

Seems we were stuck.

Seems the whole ride was stuck.

Something somewhere broke, and all of the sleds were stopped. A friendly yet authoritative voice told us so. It also told us to stay in the toboggan and someone would get us.

Get us? Well, yes, but not for about 45 minutes, and not all of the strawberry-scented sexiness in the world was enough to get the never-ending tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle out of my head.

Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, the ice wall to my right opened, and two foxy blonde girls with green lederhosen and tan legs stepped out to greet us.

"Come this way." they instructed.

Bewildered, and reeling from the artificial ice-noise, we climbed out of the sled and followed the tight-bloused girls into the well-concealed freight elevator.

Down, down we descended into the bowels of the Matterhorn. Down through the secret levels. The work shop. The toboggan lot. The break room. The lockerroom. Down to the bottom. Down, below the mountain. Down to the underground hallways.

That was as much of the grand tour that they wanted to provide, and we were whisked briskly back into the daylight. However, I had seen enough.

I had seen behind the Mouse's veil. I was shown things most people will never see. I saw what I never thought I would see.

Which is how I felt this afternoon.

Following the media frenzy, I delved not-so-deeply into the undercurrents of the blogosphere to seek out the un-edited photos. Without much effort, I found them.

All of them.

In the background, I saw the familiar smarmy smirk of Paris Hilton. She sat in a car, seemingly stewing in sweat and semen, swilling one more for the road. Paris was waiting for her new best friend to swing away from the paparazzi, and get back into the car. There was more binge-drinking to be done, and she wanted to go.

In the foreground, was Paris's new best friend, Britney. She was dressed for a night on the town, wearing a tight-fitting black cocktail dress. She was awkwardly posing for the publicity pictures, feiging a candid moment, she overcalculated her sneak peek, and hiked the hem of her skirt way way way up her hips.

And there, in the focal point, what I never thought I'd see, what I never even really desired to see, was the clean-shaven somewhat-saggy panty-less winking vagina of Britney Spears.

The mysteries of one more dark cavern revealed. Oh, and, that tinkly ice-cave music music you hear is probably her latest release.

7 in Kansas

I know many Brians, Dr. Brian being only one of them. All from varying backgrounds, most were born between 1968 and 1972.

I have previously shared my theories concerning our mothers and the movie, Brian's Song. So I won't go into that again here.

Suffice to say, I once knew a guy named Brian, which, in light of my opening paragraph, shouldn't be a surprise to any one.

This Brian was a year or two older than me, and came from a fairly affluent family. By "affluent," I mean his family lived in a gated hillside community in Southern California where wealthy white folks lived to get away from brown-skinned folks. That, however, was not Brian's fault, nor is it the point of this post.

Brian was a very nice guy. Book-smart, spiritual and musically-talented, he often went out of his way to help those in need, usually preaching the gospel to them along the way.

Well, as these stories often go, one day, Brian lost his fucking mind. Bonkers. Nuts. Goony as a loon.

I was at home. He dropped by. He had lost weight quickly as he apparently was living on a peanut and water diet. Everything he owned was in his car. He had a wild maniacal look in his eye.

He bounced around my house, never quite sitting in one place for more than a minute. He spoke rapidly, repeating phrases, laying out his plan for surviving the apocalypse.

"I'm going to drive to Panama and bury a bicycle in the jungle." He said.

"uh." Was all I managed."

"Then, during the tribulation, before the rapture, if we run out of gasoline, I can walk to Panama and dig up my Bike."

I thought for moment, then, "That's an awfully long walk."

He was ready for that though, "Oh, not to worry, I will walk from town to town, preaching the gospel in Spanish, and stay with believers along the way. Hey, do you have any spaghetti??"

He then went into a frighteningly obtuse exposition about pasta and pan lids. I zoned out.

Insanity, as you well know, annoys me.

While he went on, I reviewed his plan in my head. Something bothered me about it, and I'm not talking about the obviously insane part. Something about it flipped a switch, and I was slow to identify what it was.

Later, after he was gone, in the still quiet of the night, I finally figured out what it was. What if he COULDN'T find his bike?? What if he walked all the way back to Panama through persecution and plague, only to realize that the jungle is a big place and his bike was lost?? What if someone stole it?

These are the things that I fret about when I am far from my belongings. I am a firm believer in "A place for everything, and everything in its place," and the tropical jungle is no place to bury a bike, regardless of how crazy you are or who you think your god is.

Which leads me to this morning.

I drove this morning, earlier than was prudent, out to the quaint rural hamlet of Mc Minnville for a deposition. Names and facts are not important. All you need to know is that the deponent did a bad thing and it is going to cost him a lot of money.

As we slogged our way through the questions and answers, it became apparent that the small smelly old man was land rich but cash poor. He had also accumulated many separate investment, checking and savings accounts, IRAs, 401ks, and various funds for stashing cash. They were spread out all over the state. Thing is, they were all near empty, containing but mere pocket change for the sake of keeping them open.

But WHY??

Why not have one account, and funnel the remaining meager funds into it?

Then there was the forgotten account. It was a retirement account that he had forgotten about. It potentially had thousands of dollars in it. However, the fund manager had since stopped sending statements, and he had forgotten all about it.

That raised several lawyerly eyebrows all around the room. However, it just confirmed my fear about spreading my things out beyond my scope of control.

But then came the topper. Seems there was some land too. 7 parcels to be exact, located in a small town in Kansas. 7 parcels purchased in the 70s, when he was a young man living in the area. The land was cheap, and he needed a place to park his mobile home until surrounding land prices improved.

As time went on, he moved away, and has continued to pay $13 per year in property taxes. No rent. No improvements. He has not even gone back to look at it since 1978. One field divided into 7 lots, sitting empty. Perhaps tempting trespassers? Squatters? Adverse possessors?

If I held land, unseen for 28 years, unimproved, and unguarded; I would never be able to sleep. I would worry about it all day and all night. Worrying about the upkeep, and worrying about liability. I cannot abide a loose end. It would drive me CRAZY.

...Which would be convenient. If I owned land in Kansas, and lost my mind in the trade, I would at least have a place to bury my bicycle.

Haka Monday

I think I may start to do my own little Haka before depositions...

Erudite Friday

Here's a little Shakespeare to get you through the weekend: