Sasquatch wish you Happy New Year!!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Holiday Prescription
Dr. McDreamy prescribes a Happy Holiday Season to everyone.
And no, I'm not gay. It's just that the loyal female readers deserve a little eye candy now and then...
I mean sure, he has sensitive eyes and big hands. I suppose his tussled hair would be fun to run my fingers through too.
But really, I'm not gay!
(not that there's anything wrong with it)
And no, I'm not gay. It's just that the loyal female readers deserve a little eye candy now and then...
I mean sure, he has sensitive eyes and big hands. I suppose his tussled hair would be fun to run my fingers through too.
But really, I'm not gay!
(not that there's anything wrong with it)
Admiral Cain Requests
The admiral welcomes you back to the fleet, and requests that you have a frakkin great New Year!!
She also requests that you provide her the use of your ship, stores and raw materials to aid the struggle against the Cylons...
(Oh, and if you or your loved ones have any critical engineering skills, she'll need those too...)
She also requests that you provide her the use of your ship, stores and raw materials to aid the struggle against the Cylons...
(Oh, and if you or your loved ones have any critical engineering skills, she'll need those too...)
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
All Systems Are Go
One viewing of Charlie Brown Christmas - Check.
Lights on the house -Check.
Presents purchased - Check.
Turkey brining - Check.
Camera batteries charged - Check.
187 viewings of the Grinch - Check.
Children well-lied-to regarding the coming of St. Nick - Check.
Christmas Eve Chili - Check.
Christmas-light tour with hot chocolate and carols - Check.
Required assembly assembled as required - Check.
1 viewing of "The Sound of Music" - Check.
1 viewing of "It's a wonderful Life." - Warning: incomplete.
Cookies and scotch left out for Santa - Check.
Oh well, George Bailey will have to wait until next year.
All systems are GO.
We are good for Yule Tide.
Commence festive holiday cheer.
Lights on the house -Check.
Presents purchased - Check.
Turkey brining - Check.
Camera batteries charged - Check.
187 viewings of the Grinch - Check.
Children well-lied-to regarding the coming of St. Nick - Check.
Christmas Eve Chili - Check.
Christmas-light tour with hot chocolate and carols - Check.
Required assembly assembled as required - Check.
1 viewing of "The Sound of Music" - Check.
1 viewing of "It's a wonderful Life." - Warning: incomplete.
Cookies and scotch left out for Santa - Check.
Oh well, George Bailey will have to wait until next year.
All systems are GO.
We are good for Yule Tide.
Commence festive holiday cheer.
Monday, December 24, 2007
How the Grinch Got Punked by Those Christmas-Loving Bitches
-By Quentin Terrantino (and Mr. Gin and tonic)
EVERY bitch
Down in Ho-ville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch
Who was Bad-ass, most certainly
Did Not
The Grinch hated Christmas, and the suckers who dug it!
But don't ask him why cuz he'd tell you to "Suck it."
It could be he hadn't got laid in a while.
It COULD be his pending lewd-conduct trial.
But I think that the most likely reason to be
That his prostate was swollen and he just could not pee.
But,
Whatever the reason,
His dick or his crime,
He just hated Christmas, and had too much time.
So he stood looking down at the bitches and ho's,
Who were selling their asses, their breasts and their toes.
Christmas cash, every ho in ho-ville was earning,
Profiting from cheap thrills and the yearning...
"They're laughing and drinking and fucking like bunnies.."
"Slapping their asses and stuffing their cunnies..."
Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously clicking,
"I must find a way to stop all this holiday dicking."
For tomorrow
He knew...
Was the big festive day
For all down in Ho-ville
Whether straight or quite gay.
All the hoes and the bitches, the marks and the Johns
Would feast and get rowdy before getting it on.
And the Crowd and the stench and the great carnal din
And the horribly opulent circus of sin...
And THEN they'd do something he liked least of all
Every ho down in Ho-ville, the fat and the tall
Would lie close together and start with the moaning.
They'd roll and they'd rub and the hoes would start groaning
They'd groan and they'd groan.
They'd moan moan moan moan!
And the more that the Grinch would consider this moaning,
The more the Grinch though,"I must stop this boning."
Then he got an idea!
A wicked idea!
THE GRINCH GOT A MOTHERFUCKING WICKED IDEA!
"Oh, fuck this shit, I'll teach them a lesson."
And the Grinch looked around for his old Smith and Wesson.
"I'll kill them all cold; It's really quite fair."
And when he stormed into Ho-ville, he was loaded for bear...
Ho-ville was quiet, the frolic was done.
And he slunk down the street, and he pulled out his gun.
Until, from a window, a ho said, "Hey, hun..."
He said to himself, "This is stop number one"
He kicked in the door, and he made quite a noise.
He was then quickly assaulted by a barrage of sex toys.
Dildos and handcuffs and beads of all sizes...
But he was hurt most of all by the spanking devices.
Then the Grinch was confronted by, yes, you know who...
A giant transvestite by the name, "Cindy-Lou."
She had been a marine just before turning tricks,
She could bench 350, but loved to suck dicks.
"You ain't no Santy Claus," Cindy-Lou said.
"And I am gonna hit you hard in the head."
Just then the Grinch ducked and pointed his piece.
And he shot, but he missed and killed Cindy-Lou's niece.
Then there was a great tussle right there on the spot
And at once the old Grinch knew that he had been shot.
He was bleeding, he knew, it was simple to see,
Perhaps in the leg or the hip or the knee.
He punched and he kicked, though losing the bout.
The end was quite close, as he was bleeding out.
"I still win in the end." The dying Grinch said.
"No more Christmas for me, because I will be dead."
The Grinch was laid out, all cold in the snow.
Iced-over by morning. (It was 20 below...)
And they say his heart stopped from the shooting and thumping
But he died with a grin, free from holiday humping.
EVERY bitch
Down in Ho-ville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch
Who was Bad-ass, most certainly
Did Not
The Grinch hated Christmas, and the suckers who dug it!
But don't ask him why cuz he'd tell you to "Suck it."
It could be he hadn't got laid in a while.
It COULD be his pending lewd-conduct trial.
But I think that the most likely reason to be
That his prostate was swollen and he just could not pee.
But,
Whatever the reason,
His dick or his crime,
He just hated Christmas, and had too much time.
So he stood looking down at the bitches and ho's,
Who were selling their asses, their breasts and their toes.
Christmas cash, every ho in ho-ville was earning,
Profiting from cheap thrills and the yearning...
"They're laughing and drinking and fucking like bunnies.."
"Slapping their asses and stuffing their cunnies..."
Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously clicking,
"I must find a way to stop all this holiday dicking."
For tomorrow
He knew...
Was the big festive day
For all down in Ho-ville
Whether straight or quite gay.
All the hoes and the bitches, the marks and the Johns
Would feast and get rowdy before getting it on.
And the Crowd and the stench and the great carnal din
And the horribly opulent circus of sin...
And THEN they'd do something he liked least of all
Every ho down in Ho-ville, the fat and the tall
Would lie close together and start with the moaning.
They'd roll and they'd rub and the hoes would start groaning
They'd groan and they'd groan.
They'd moan moan moan moan!
And the more that the Grinch would consider this moaning,
The more the Grinch though,"I must stop this boning."
Then he got an idea!
A wicked idea!
THE GRINCH GOT A MOTHERFUCKING WICKED IDEA!
"Oh, fuck this shit, I'll teach them a lesson."
And the Grinch looked around for his old Smith and Wesson.
"I'll kill them all cold; It's really quite fair."
And when he stormed into Ho-ville, he was loaded for bear...
Ho-ville was quiet, the frolic was done.
And he slunk down the street, and he pulled out his gun.
Until, from a window, a ho said, "Hey, hun..."
He said to himself, "This is stop number one"
He kicked in the door, and he made quite a noise.
He was then quickly assaulted by a barrage of sex toys.
Dildos and handcuffs and beads of all sizes...
But he was hurt most of all by the spanking devices.
Then the Grinch was confronted by, yes, you know who...
A giant transvestite by the name, "Cindy-Lou."
She had been a marine just before turning tricks,
She could bench 350, but loved to suck dicks.
"You ain't no Santy Claus," Cindy-Lou said.
"And I am gonna hit you hard in the head."
Just then the Grinch ducked and pointed his piece.
And he shot, but he missed and killed Cindy-Lou's niece.
Then there was a great tussle right there on the spot
And at once the old Grinch knew that he had been shot.
He was bleeding, he knew, it was simple to see,
Perhaps in the leg or the hip or the knee.
He punched and he kicked, though losing the bout.
The end was quite close, as he was bleeding out.
"I still win in the end." The dying Grinch said.
"No more Christmas for me, because I will be dead."
The Grinch was laid out, all cold in the snow.
Iced-over by morning. (It was 20 below...)
And they say his heart stopped from the shooting and thumping
But he died with a grin, free from holiday humping.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Holiday Break
The holiday/birthday season is in full swing. Therefore, this little ray of daily sunshine is bolting its doors. The Lounge will be closed through Christmas.
Jesus, relax, it's only like four days...
(Mitch, this is the post you've been praying for...)
Monogram
December being what it is, what with birthdays, Christmas, and the like, helpful questions are occasionally asked, often vague, but designed to delve into deeper holiday desires.
And so, when I receive shadowy inquiries from family or friends, I don't think much about it, and simply reply.
Yesterday, however, the missus emailed me with the following question: "If you were going to receive something monogrammed with a single initial, would you choose [G] or [T]?"
(obviously G and T are not my actual initials, but you get the idea...)
Seems like a simple question and I clicked on "reply" to answer. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought. I pondered. I weighed.
How do I identify myself? Do I see myself in light of my first name, and thus my first initial? Do I project the G in public? Do I tell the world, "This is who I am?"
A first name is so individualistic. It is narrow. It is personal, to be sure, but does not provide a broader history. It says, "I am the sum of my own personal experience. I am alone in the world. There is nothing more to me than the smile and handshake I gave you when we met."
On the other hand, there is the last name. Mine, as most know, was adopted, which creates its own unique history. The last name tells the story of the family, the roots, where you came from. It is painted on broad cloth, and connects the dots to names and places in the past.
So, which to choose?
Having thought too long and too hard for what should have been a simple question, I broke it down to this: First initial for something casual. Last initial for something formal or business-related.
So, what would you choose?
And so, when I receive shadowy inquiries from family or friends, I don't think much about it, and simply reply.
Yesterday, however, the missus emailed me with the following question: "If you were going to receive something monogrammed with a single initial, would you choose [G] or [T]?"
(obviously G and T are not my actual initials, but you get the idea...)
Seems like a simple question and I clicked on "reply" to answer. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought. I pondered. I weighed.
How do I identify myself? Do I see myself in light of my first name, and thus my first initial? Do I project the G in public? Do I tell the world, "This is who I am?"
A first name is so individualistic. It is narrow. It is personal, to be sure, but does not provide a broader history. It says, "I am the sum of my own personal experience. I am alone in the world. There is nothing more to me than the smile and handshake I gave you when we met."
On the other hand, there is the last name. Mine, as most know, was adopted, which creates its own unique history. The last name tells the story of the family, the roots, where you came from. It is painted on broad cloth, and connects the dots to names and places in the past.
So, which to choose?
Having thought too long and too hard for what should have been a simple question, I broke it down to this: First initial for something casual. Last initial for something formal or business-related.
So, what would you choose?
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Thanks For Your Concern
Standing at his chair side workstation, his blue work bib bespeckled by bits of decayed dental debris, saliva and blood, our resident dentist viewed with dismay the dearth of witty remarks left by readers here in the Lounge.
As the well-sedated patient reclined and waited with the crooked sucky tube dangling from her cheek, vacuuming her spittle, the good doctor took his shot with glee, noting that he could hear "Crickets" among the silence...
Sure, a fair assessment of the state of the comments. They come and go. I think it goes in cycles. Or, as Mitch has noted, the posts about me not posting for a while tend to get the most attention...
However, Dr. B's question about where my readers went is unfounded. While the comments are scarce, the actually readership is at an all-time high. For the last two weeks, every day, between 100 to 200 individual visitors have been coming by. Many actually stay for at least a few minutes to look around.
And they come from everywhere.
Many of you have the Lounge link saved and visit us directly. Some of you use news readers. Many, however, come to us using various search engines, Google most of all.
And the fun there is to read the search terms that bring people in...
"Ass," of course, is the #1 search term leading people to the Lounge. The pronunciation of "Pepperoncini" is also still quite popular, as is "Christina Ricci," "Dita Von Teese," and "girls with guns."
Still, sometimes, the searches surprise me. First, for the nature of the search itself, and second, how that search finds the Lounge.
For instance, it is no surprise that Googling "slutty strippers" will lead to the lounge, but "Spokane Christian Club" caught me by surprise.
Also, apparently, folks like to search for the manager of the Tualatin Best Buy, apparently to send him their complaints too. Unless, I guess, he is simply narcissistic, in which case, he inadvertently came across my own scathing criticism.
"Nude Cuisina" has come up. Though, I'm not certain why. Nor am I clear how I became a source for pictures of "Breakfast Burritos."
Recently, some hapless romantic searched for: "lapiz azul anniversary ring." Which of course led them to my popular Spanish declaration about the size of my blue pencil. I think he wanted to search for "Lapiz Lazuli," but there isn't anything I can do for him now.
And then there are those who simply visit for the dirty pictures. Small blond girls with hunting rifles. Visigoth costumes. Dustin Hoffman.
But really, it comes down to pictures of ass. And, of those who search relentlessly for ass pictures, none search more diligently than horny Arab boys from Riyadh. Seriously, I think there must be a gin & tonic ass-fetish club there or something. No one visits for ass pics more.
Well...
...Except for Canadians. Those freeze-dried socialists to the north love to look at ass, and they come to the Lounge in droves looking for it.
Truth be told, I do love the attention. So, now it's time, with a warm welcome to our Canadian and Saudi visitors, to pander...
Enjoy the ass, boys!
As the well-sedated patient reclined and waited with the crooked sucky tube dangling from her cheek, vacuuming her spittle, the good doctor took his shot with glee, noting that he could hear "Crickets" among the silence...
Sure, a fair assessment of the state of the comments. They come and go. I think it goes in cycles. Or, as Mitch has noted, the posts about me not posting for a while tend to get the most attention...
However, Dr. B's question about where my readers went is unfounded. While the comments are scarce, the actually readership is at an all-time high. For the last two weeks, every day, between 100 to 200 individual visitors have been coming by. Many actually stay for at least a few minutes to look around.
And they come from everywhere.
Many of you have the Lounge link saved and visit us directly. Some of you use news readers. Many, however, come to us using various search engines, Google most of all.
And the fun there is to read the search terms that bring people in...
"Ass," of course, is the #1 search term leading people to the Lounge. The pronunciation of "Pepperoncini" is also still quite popular, as is "Christina Ricci," "Dita Von Teese," and "girls with guns."
Still, sometimes, the searches surprise me. First, for the nature of the search itself, and second, how that search finds the Lounge.
For instance, it is no surprise that Googling "slutty strippers" will lead to the lounge, but "Spokane Christian Club" caught me by surprise.
Also, apparently, folks like to search for the manager of the Tualatin Best Buy, apparently to send him their complaints too. Unless, I guess, he is simply narcissistic, in which case, he inadvertently came across my own scathing criticism.
"Nude Cuisina" has come up. Though, I'm not certain why. Nor am I clear how I became a source for pictures of "Breakfast Burritos."
Recently, some hapless romantic searched for: "lapiz azul anniversary ring." Which of course led them to my popular Spanish declaration about the size of my blue pencil. I think he wanted to search for "Lapiz Lazuli," but there isn't anything I can do for him now.
And then there are those who simply visit for the dirty pictures. Small blond girls with hunting rifles. Visigoth costumes. Dustin Hoffman.
But really, it comes down to pictures of ass. And, of those who search relentlessly for ass pictures, none search more diligently than horny Arab boys from Riyadh. Seriously, I think there must be a gin & tonic ass-fetish club there or something. No one visits for ass pics more.
Well...
...Except for Canadians. Those freeze-dried socialists to the north love to look at ass, and they come to the Lounge in droves looking for it.
Truth be told, I do love the attention. So, now it's time, with a warm welcome to our Canadian and Saudi visitors, to pander...
Enjoy the ass, boys!
Head Song
"Play the Head Song, Daddy!
Play the Head Song!"
"Um, what?" I said, as I looked up into the rear view mirror. Wide-eyed and grinning, the girl repeated that she wanted to hear the Head Song.
I scanned my mental catalogue of children's tunes for the Head Song. I came up with nothing.
"How's that one go?" I asked.
She then broke into a rather complete version of the now-familiar chorus.
(Did I mention she'll be three in two days?)
The Crane Wife 3 - the Decemberists
And under the boughs unbowed
ll clothed in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed
Each feather it fell from skin
'Til thread bare while she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
A grey sky, a bitter sting
A rain cloud, a crane on wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter sting
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
(Really, she's almost three...)
Play the Head Song!"
"Um, what?" I said, as I looked up into the rear view mirror. Wide-eyed and grinning, the girl repeated that she wanted to hear the Head Song.
I scanned my mental catalogue of children's tunes for the Head Song. I came up with nothing.
"How's that one go?" I asked.
She then broke into a rather complete version of the now-familiar chorus.
(Did I mention she'll be three in two days?)
The Crane Wife 3 - the Decemberists
And under the boughs unbowed
ll clothed in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed
Each feather it fell from skin
'Til thread bare while she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
A grey sky, a bitter sting
A rain cloud, a crane on wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter sting
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
(Really, she's almost three...)
Monday, December 17, 2007
12 Days
As most of you know, I married an older woman. Older by 12 days, and I'll never let her forget it.
Happy Birthday to Mrs. Gin & Tonic!!
Get drunk. Go shopping. Have a good day!
Happy Birthday to Mrs. Gin & Tonic!!
Get drunk. Go shopping. Have a good day!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
18 Years
I recently sat is a small smokey cigar bar, surrounded by dark wood fixtures and literate kitsch; I was sipping slowly and savoring my glass of 18 year old scotch.
Then, I began to ponder.
Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.
Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...
There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.
Then, I began to ponder.
Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.
Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...
There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
2:00
So, each day at 2:00 p.m., two things generally happen. I have already discussed one of them.
The other is that our pal, Fred, usually sends me a link to the best Overheard in the Office post of the day.
Today was no exception. However, I believe that today's post was perhaps the best one ever...
OVERHEARD IN THE OFFICE
The other is that our pal, Fred, usually sends me a link to the best Overheard in the Office post of the day.
Today was no exception. However, I believe that today's post was perhaps the best one ever...
OVERHEARD IN THE OFFICE
Ding! Fries Are Done!
OK, first, happy birthday to Leah.
Second, and more importantly, THANK YOU to Dr. B for the following:
Ding! Fries Are Done!
(Completely safe at work, but do turn up the volume so you can hear it. Don't worry, nothing scary will jump out at you...)
Second, and more importantly, THANK YOU to Dr. B for the following:
Ding! Fries Are Done!
(Completely safe at work, but do turn up the volume so you can hear it. Don't worry, nothing scary will jump out at you...)
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Taking Submissions
Obviously, the tap is closed. The muse is on sabbatical. I got run over by the "dumb" truck.
Sitting here, staring at the screen for the last hour and a half, only coming up with ideas that I already came up with back in 2006, it has become clear that the creative mojo is low.
It happens. I'm not worried.
So, I'm taking submissions. I'm looking for 100 pithy-zippy words. Anyone wanna guest blog?
Really, anything. Tell us a story. Tell us a joke. Post some pictures. Travel log. Shopping list. Whatever! Those of you who know me can email me your submissions... Otherwise, leave a comment, and I'll find a way to reach you.
Anyone?
Bueller??
Sitting here, staring at the screen for the last hour and a half, only coming up with ideas that I already came up with back in 2006, it has become clear that the creative mojo is low.
It happens. I'm not worried.
So, I'm taking submissions. I'm looking for 100 pithy-zippy words. Anyone wanna guest blog?
Really, anything. Tell us a story. Tell us a joke. Post some pictures. Travel log. Shopping list. Whatever! Those of you who know me can email me your submissions... Otherwise, leave a comment, and I'll find a way to reach you.
Anyone?
Bueller??
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Deep Blue Something
OK, folks, the #1 all-time sexiest is:
I mean, no offense to Christina, Dita or Scarlett, but c'mon...
I mean, no offense to Christina, Dita or Scarlett, but c'mon...
Mediation
I will be in mediation much of Tuesday. I have been up late preparing for it. I have no time to blog with any sincerity tonight.
Instead, I will provide you with THIS LONG LIST of reasons why college women should be encouraged to drink...
Oh, and, while the initial link is safe, the sub-links when you get there probably shouldn't be opened at work, especially if your boss likes to spy on you...
Instead, I will provide you with THIS LONG LIST of reasons why college women should be encouraged to drink...
Oh, and, while the initial link is safe, the sub-links when you get there probably shouldn't be opened at work, especially if your boss likes to spy on you...
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Toboggan of the Beast
The tall man stood sentry at the end of the long driveway. He held a long pole, marked in red with sequential numbers spaced evenly every 12 inches.
He was the master of the estate, the patriarch of this small semi-agrarian venture. He greeted me warmly and gave a quick guided tour of the acreage. Somewhere in the shadows of the dense tannenbaum forest, one of his sons was gunning the motor of the chainsaw.
I, however, had my own handsaw in hand. I wasn't about to let some long-haired teenage hooligan harvest my tree for me. Not, at least, in front of my daughter....
"Daddy, why is that skinny greasy-haired hippie cutting down our tree?"
No, not in a million years. I mean, sure, the father was a strapping lumberjack-like man with a sensible haircut. So, I suppose he probably could have adequately operated the saw... but as usual, I digress.
I wandered through the semi-mystical rows of towering Christmas trees. Many, long since rejected, yet never harvested, were now far taller than they should ever have been allowed to grow. Small clearings emerged, where saplings had been started. The missus followed behind with the boy strapped along side. The girl, in her "adventure boots" and "action pants," marched along beside me.
As we hunted high and low, something, I noticed, started to change. The temperature dropped, the air grew still, and a silence fell upon us. All at once, from the sky, began to fall soft white flakes; slowly at first, but it quickly gained momentum.
Initially, it didn't stick, but soon a thin white coating began to cover everything. Perfect, really, if you think about it.
The small snow fall reminded me that this is supposed to be a snowier-than-usual winter in Oregon, which reminded me of the slippery slope leading to my house last year. And, while we had plenty of food, water and heat last year, we were woefully unprepared in one significant way: We had no snow toys.
Sleds, to be specific. Nothing for sliding down the long smooth steep incline out my front door.
Today's snow soon melted, but promised, like Frosty, to be back again some day. So, in the spirit of being fully prepared, the girl and I hit Fred Meyer this afternoon to seek our own personal Rosebud.
Proudly, we sailed through the store with our obnoxiously-long industrial-grade black plastic sled protruding like the bow of a frigate from our shopping cart. The girl was gleeful. I felt like an adequate dad, now having purchased the requisite family sled.
Or, "Toboggan," as the label read. It is apparently handy, according to the same label, for both sledding and carting goods through the forest to go ice fishing. I think, though, that I will stick to sledding.
Then, as we waited for our turn in line at the check out counter, I noticed something peculiar, something that had to be intentional. Printed in bold, in the middle of the aforementioned label, it read: "Model #666."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "It's the toboggan of the beast..."
Now, we just have to wait for the snow.
He was the master of the estate, the patriarch of this small semi-agrarian venture. He greeted me warmly and gave a quick guided tour of the acreage. Somewhere in the shadows of the dense tannenbaum forest, one of his sons was gunning the motor of the chainsaw.
I, however, had my own handsaw in hand. I wasn't about to let some long-haired teenage hooligan harvest my tree for me. Not, at least, in front of my daughter....
"Daddy, why is that skinny greasy-haired hippie cutting down our tree?"
No, not in a million years. I mean, sure, the father was a strapping lumberjack-like man with a sensible haircut. So, I suppose he probably could have adequately operated the saw... but as usual, I digress.
I wandered through the semi-mystical rows of towering Christmas trees. Many, long since rejected, yet never harvested, were now far taller than they should ever have been allowed to grow. Small clearings emerged, where saplings had been started. The missus followed behind with the boy strapped along side. The girl, in her "adventure boots" and "action pants," marched along beside me.
As we hunted high and low, something, I noticed, started to change. The temperature dropped, the air grew still, and a silence fell upon us. All at once, from the sky, began to fall soft white flakes; slowly at first, but it quickly gained momentum.
Initially, it didn't stick, but soon a thin white coating began to cover everything. Perfect, really, if you think about it.
The small snow fall reminded me that this is supposed to be a snowier-than-usual winter in Oregon, which reminded me of the slippery slope leading to my house last year. And, while we had plenty of food, water and heat last year, we were woefully unprepared in one significant way: We had no snow toys.
Sleds, to be specific. Nothing for sliding down the long smooth steep incline out my front door.
Today's snow soon melted, but promised, like Frosty, to be back again some day. So, in the spirit of being fully prepared, the girl and I hit Fred Meyer this afternoon to seek our own personal Rosebud.
Proudly, we sailed through the store with our obnoxiously-long industrial-grade black plastic sled protruding like the bow of a frigate from our shopping cart. The girl was gleeful. I felt like an adequate dad, now having purchased the requisite family sled.
Or, "Toboggan," as the label read. It is apparently handy, according to the same label, for both sledding and carting goods through the forest to go ice fishing. I think, though, that I will stick to sledding.
Then, as we waited for our turn in line at the check out counter, I noticed something peculiar, something that had to be intentional. Printed in bold, in the middle of the aforementioned label, it read: "Model #666."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "It's the toboggan of the beast..."
Now, we just have to wait for the snow.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Sinus Infection
This snotty clog in my nose is taking the wind out of my sails, so to speak. What senses I have left are dulled by the cough syrup. I'm going to bed.
In the mean time, here is a picture of your mom:
In the mean time, here is a picture of your mom:
Solidarity
The Lounge is on strike.
In support of my brothers and sisters on the picket line, I will be on strike for the remainder of the day.
I mean sure, it's not like they work in a coal mine or anything, but still, royalties are royalties...
In support of my brothers and sisters on the picket line, I will be on strike for the remainder of the day.
I mean sure, it's not like they work in a coal mine or anything, but still, royalties are royalties...
Oh, and, Happy Birthday to MITCH!
Monday, December 03, 2007
No Cuts, No Butts, No Coconuts
FLASH!
I saw the light, but it was too late. It was another goddamned Portland photo radar van. I tried to reconstruct what the unfortunate photo would look like.
The first one I received, in Beaverton, not so long ago, caught me in mid-grimmace, hunched over like troll.
Sure enough, two weeks later I reveived the tell-tale envelope from the City of Portland.
And thus, I found myself standing in a snail-paced line at the traffic court for over two hours this morning. Yes, yes, I could have sent in my paperwork last week, but I procrastinated.
No one wanted to be there. It's not fun for anyo ne to... be... It's.. .uh
Oh fuckit. This post isn't going anywhere. It isn't interesting. It isn't funny. So, basically, I witnessed a near-fist fight in line at the courthouse. Fortunately, the sheriff deputies arrived and simmered the scene down. I was left feeling uncomforatble and put upon, but really, I just realised, I have nothing interesting to say about that. So, I'm going to put an end to this post right now.
Oh, but, here's a picture of some girls in panties for you instead...
I saw the light, but it was too late. It was another goddamned Portland photo radar van. I tried to reconstruct what the unfortunate photo would look like.
The first one I received, in Beaverton, not so long ago, caught me in mid-grimmace, hunched over like troll.
Sure enough, two weeks later I reveived the tell-tale envelope from the City of Portland.
And thus, I found myself standing in a snail-paced line at the traffic court for over two hours this morning. Yes, yes, I could have sent in my paperwork last week, but I procrastinated.
No one wanted to be there. It's not fun for anyo ne to... be... It's.. .uh
Oh fuckit. This post isn't going anywhere. It isn't interesting. It isn't funny. So, basically, I witnessed a near-fist fight in line at the courthouse. Fortunately, the sheriff deputies arrived and simmered the scene down. I was left feeling uncomforatble and put upon, but really, I just realised, I have nothing interesting to say about that. So, I'm going to put an end to this post right now.
Oh, but, here's a picture of some girls in panties for you instead...
Personal Scent ***UPDATE***
So, it isn't bad, per se...
It's kinda clean, and not too sweet or flowery. It smells like America. It smells how I would expect Steve McQueen to smell.
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to linger long. After the initial stinging shock of application, it cools as the alcohol base evaporates. A pleasant subtle scent remains for a short time, which by lunch, was mostly gone.
Of course, I am applying it judiciously, not bathing in it. No sense in sharing the scent with the strangers on the elevator.
I'll give it another whirl on Tuesday.
It's kinda clean, and not too sweet or flowery. It smells like America. It smells how I would expect Steve McQueen to smell.
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to linger long. After the initial stinging shock of application, it cools as the alcohol base evaporates. A pleasant subtle scent remains for a short time, which by lunch, was mostly gone.
Of course, I am applying it judiciously, not bathing in it. No sense in sharing the scent with the strangers on the elevator.
I'll give it another whirl on Tuesday.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Aquavelva
So, our pal Dave recently posted on his myspace blog that, for various nostalgic reasons, he would start wearing Old Spice aftershave.
In typical smart ass fashion, I flippantly declared that I was more of an Aquavelva man, mostly because I enjoyed the linguistic properties of the word "Aquavelva." Plus, I thought it was funny...
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Admit it, you like it too. It sounds exotic, yet familiar. It makes your mouth make pleasurable motions. It makes you feel that you are making an erudite vocabulary ordination.
It was a joke, though. I was joking. I suspect Dave was serious about his Old Spice strategy, but I, however, was not. I am not, actually an Aquavelva man.
But then, I started thinking about it. Why exactly was Aquavelva my go to comedic scent selection? Why did it come so easily to my mind?
I think it's because my dad used to wear it.
And so, I found myself this evening pushing a heavily-loaded grocery cart down the toiletries aisle at Albertsons, as I passed the heretofore-overlooked man-stink shelf. Never having been one for perfumes, it had been a long while since last I looked at it.
And there it was. Same squatty bottle. Same translucent alien blue (like a Gin&Tonic under black light.) I surreptitiously unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Memories of youth flooded back. It smelled like my dad. It smelled like 1974. It smelled like clean white T-shirts and a 1969 Ford Mustang.
I put the bottle in the cart.
So, I'm going to take a cue from Dave and give it a whirl. I will cultivate a signature scent. (Apart from the usual scotch and bacon grease odor...) I expect good things, like greater respect, expanded influence, and more-powerful persuasion.
Of course, I am always prepared for the prospect of crushing disappointment.
In typical smart ass fashion, I flippantly declared that I was more of an Aquavelva man, mostly because I enjoyed the linguistic properties of the word "Aquavelva." Plus, I thought it was funny...
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Admit it, you like it too. It sounds exotic, yet familiar. It makes your mouth make pleasurable motions. It makes you feel that you are making an erudite vocabulary ordination.
It was a joke, though. I was joking. I suspect Dave was serious about his Old Spice strategy, but I, however, was not. I am not, actually an Aquavelva man.
But then, I started thinking about it. Why exactly was Aquavelva my go to comedic scent selection? Why did it come so easily to my mind?
I think it's because my dad used to wear it.
And so, I found myself this evening pushing a heavily-loaded grocery cart down the toiletries aisle at Albertsons, as I passed the heretofore-overlooked man-stink shelf. Never having been one for perfumes, it had been a long while since last I looked at it.
And there it was. Same squatty bottle. Same translucent alien blue (like a Gin&Tonic under black light.) I surreptitiously unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Memories of youth flooded back. It smelled like my dad. It smelled like 1974. It smelled like clean white T-shirts and a 1969 Ford Mustang.
I put the bottle in the cart.
So, I'm going to take a cue from Dave and give it a whirl. I will cultivate a signature scent. (Apart from the usual scotch and bacon grease odor...) I expect good things, like greater respect, expanded influence, and more-powerful persuasion.
Of course, I am always prepared for the prospect of crushing disappointment.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Mr. Gin & Tonic: The Playboy Interview
Anyone who has taken a crap in my downstairs bathroom knows that is where I keep my magazines. Shutterbug, Popular Photography, National Geographic, Playboy. Yes, Playboy. While the articles are generally pretty good, I admit, I really read it for the pictures...
And so it was, as I sat tonight, thumbing through the current issue, passing various celebrity interviews, it dawned on me that I've never been the subject of one. No one has posed 20 questions to me. I have never even been deposed...
And I have to wonder... what would it be like?
Playboy: So, Mr. G&T, tell us, where did you come from?
Mr. G&T: [smiles warmly] Humble beginnings, my friend. My mother was a fish monger, and we lived on the shore of a cold Canadian lake. My father was the inventor of the Betamax. He is a bitter bitter old man.
Playboy: Would you say you had a difficult childhood?
Mr. G&T: Looking back in hindsight, I suppose, but when all you know is nightly penitent flagellation and snake handling, you don't realize that you're unhappy...
Playboy: So, are the rumors true about your wild college years?
Mr. G&T: Well... [smirking] I mean everyone experiments a little... Look, all of the animals consented, none of the photographs survived, the various rashes and infestations cleared up, the scarring is almost undetectable, the charges were dropped, the restraining orders have long since been lifted, and I met some of my best life-long friends in rehab. So, no harm no foul, as they say...
Playboy: OK, but, what's this Conquistador thing we keep hearing about?
Mr. G&T: Oh that... [rolls his dark eyes] I think that story has developed a life of its own. Really, it was nothing. Nothing at all.
OK, look, I was on vacation with a few close friends on a small island in the South Pacific. It was real rustic, thatch-roofed huts, topless serving girls, you know what I'm saying... Anyway, I don't know whether it was sun stroke or the peyote, but I started to lose my grasp on certain small things like, my name and what century I lived in...
Basically, for a short time, I thought that I was Vasco DeGama. I went around with a pot lid and a spatula trying to "colonize" the other huts in the resort. Really, someone should have kicked my ass, but instead, it started a new island tradition...
Playboy: Fascinating! And, what's this we hear about you starting your own religion?
Mr. G&T: No, no, no! I think this is the most misunderstood thing about me. I don't want to start a new religion. What I've said was, I think I am the next incarnation of the Dalai Lama. I keep trying to get the word out, but no one wants to listen... I mean, I'm not really Buddhist, so I guess I've got that working against me... You know if the whole Lama thing doesn't pan out, I may just look for work in the televangelist industry instead.
Playboy: We're concerned about the drinking. Is it just a persona, or do you really get drunk every day?
Mr. G&T: Oh, no, no, not every day. Just on days that end in the letter "Y."
Playboy: Can you tell us your proudest moment?
Mr. G&T: You know, the birth of each of my children (the ginlettes) were amazing events, emotional, indescribable. However, my proudest moment was probably just a couple of months ago when the Lounge hit 300 individual visitors in one day.
Playboy: Yes, the Lounge. Why do you blog?
Mr. G&T: I try hard, you know, to bring some spark of excitement to what would otherwise be all of my friends' dreary days. A little laugh, a little spark, a little titillation. I like to test the frontier of free speech. I like to create an open forum for radical self-expression.
But really, what it comes down to, is me.
Me and, well, my narcissistic obsession.
Playboy: Any regrets?
Mr. G&T: I regret that I didn't buy a bigger bottle of gin at the liquor store yesterday. Oh well, time to switch to Scotch...
And so it was, as I sat tonight, thumbing through the current issue, passing various celebrity interviews, it dawned on me that I've never been the subject of one. No one has posed 20 questions to me. I have never even been deposed...
And I have to wonder... what would it be like?
Playboy: So, Mr. G&T, tell us, where did you come from?
Mr. G&T: [smiles warmly] Humble beginnings, my friend. My mother was a fish monger, and we lived on the shore of a cold Canadian lake. My father was the inventor of the Betamax. He is a bitter bitter old man.
Playboy: Would you say you had a difficult childhood?
Mr. G&T: Looking back in hindsight, I suppose, but when all you know is nightly penitent flagellation and snake handling, you don't realize that you're unhappy...
Playboy: So, are the rumors true about your wild college years?
Mr. G&T: Well... [smirking] I mean everyone experiments a little... Look, all of the animals consented, none of the photographs survived, the various rashes and infestations cleared up, the scarring is almost undetectable, the charges were dropped, the restraining orders have long since been lifted, and I met some of my best life-long friends in rehab. So, no harm no foul, as they say...
Playboy: OK, but, what's this Conquistador thing we keep hearing about?
Mr. G&T: Oh that... [rolls his dark eyes] I think that story has developed a life of its own. Really, it was nothing. Nothing at all.
OK, look, I was on vacation with a few close friends on a small island in the South Pacific. It was real rustic, thatch-roofed huts, topless serving girls, you know what I'm saying... Anyway, I don't know whether it was sun stroke or the peyote, but I started to lose my grasp on certain small things like, my name and what century I lived in...
Basically, for a short time, I thought that I was Vasco DeGama. I went around with a pot lid and a spatula trying to "colonize" the other huts in the resort. Really, someone should have kicked my ass, but instead, it started a new island tradition...
Playboy: Fascinating! And, what's this we hear about you starting your own religion?
Mr. G&T: No, no, no! I think this is the most misunderstood thing about me. I don't want to start a new religion. What I've said was, I think I am the next incarnation of the Dalai Lama. I keep trying to get the word out, but no one wants to listen... I mean, I'm not really Buddhist, so I guess I've got that working against me... You know if the whole Lama thing doesn't pan out, I may just look for work in the televangelist industry instead.
Playboy: We're concerned about the drinking. Is it just a persona, or do you really get drunk every day?
Mr. G&T: Oh, no, no, not every day. Just on days that end in the letter "Y."
Playboy: Can you tell us your proudest moment?
Mr. G&T: You know, the birth of each of my children (the ginlettes) were amazing events, emotional, indescribable. However, my proudest moment was probably just a couple of months ago when the Lounge hit 300 individual visitors in one day.
Playboy: Yes, the Lounge. Why do you blog?
Mr. G&T: I try hard, you know, to bring some spark of excitement to what would otherwise be all of my friends' dreary days. A little laugh, a little spark, a little titillation. I like to test the frontier of free speech. I like to create an open forum for radical self-expression.
But really, what it comes down to, is me.
Me and, well, my narcissistic obsession.
Playboy: Any regrets?
Mr. G&T: I regret that I didn't buy a bigger bottle of gin at the liquor store yesterday. Oh well, time to switch to Scotch...
Mustard
Mustard is, in all reality, the best condiment.
Ketchup is retarded, and salsa? Well, salsa is mostly just a dip. Mayonnaise is OK, but really has little-to-no flavor.
Is butter a condiment? I don't think so.
No, really, mustard is the best condiment. Yellow. Brown. Hot. Honey. Dijon. It's good on burgers, sandwiches, sausages, fries and dogs. It adds depth to chili, and a zing to salad dressing.
The more I think about it, the more I know I'm right.
Fine, look, Tabasco is good too. Damn good, even on things where mustard can't go, like pizza and wings, but in the end, Tabasco is too much, too overpowering with peppery goodness.
Mustard is smooth, heated with suppressed rage. It is flexible. It is reliable.
Mustard is the best condiment, and with that, I can finally shut down the computer and go to bed.
Ketchup is retarded, and salsa? Well, salsa is mostly just a dip. Mayonnaise is OK, but really has little-to-no flavor.
Is butter a condiment? I don't think so.
No, really, mustard is the best condiment. Yellow. Brown. Hot. Honey. Dijon. It's good on burgers, sandwiches, sausages, fries and dogs. It adds depth to chili, and a zing to salad dressing.
The more I think about it, the more I know I'm right.
Fine, look, Tabasco is good too. Damn good, even on things where mustard can't go, like pizza and wings, but in the end, Tabasco is too much, too overpowering with peppery goodness.
Mustard is smooth, heated with suppressed rage. It is flexible. It is reliable.
Mustard is the best condiment, and with that, I can finally shut down the computer and go to bed.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Wicked Cold
I clipped the Christmas lights to the rain gutter, orderly, well-spaced, jutting rigidly outward in a festive multi-color array.
The process is simple, and has been reduced over the years to a memorized pattern. I know where to place the ladder. I know where to run the extension cable. I know exactly how many strands are needed to span the face of my house.
I can put them up blind-folded and half drunk if necessary, and I usually do...
This year, though, the going grew slow, as my fingers were seized by the biting cold.
Now, anyone that knows me, knows that I'm not one to shy from dipping temperatures, but goddamn it was cold out! As I was reaching overhead to clip the lights to the lip, I relied upon tactile touch to guide my efforts. My frosty blue-tipped phalanges, however, were lost behind the veil of hypothermic numbness.
The cold has continued, and just this morning I was forced to face an onslaught of small talk about the workplace, which resulted in the utterance of the inevitable and unfortunate phrase: "Colder than a witch's tit."
Which, obviously, has caused me to ponder
Just what in THE hell does that mean??
Witch's tits are cold?? Why is that? Is it from spending too much time in the lap Satan? Does performing mystical fellatio on Beelzebub's boner cause a decrease in breast tissue temperature? Is that in the bible? I don't remember it being in the bible, and believe me, I've read most of it...
Further, I doubt there being any scientific studies on the matter either.
Literarily, how many cold-tittied witches have there been? Sure, there was the Wicked Witch of the West, but she had more of a penchant for melting than freezing... And Glenda the Good Witch, well, she was all warm sunshine and smiles. I couldn't imagine there being even a slight dip in degrees about her bosom.
Then there is Willow. Good Willow. Gay Willow. Evil Willow. You cannot convince me that there is a single thermodynamic deficiency in her lovely and perky sweater puppies. Damn you! don't even try.
And Samantha Stevens? Derwood didn't appear to have any complaints. Not one. Neither of them.
And so, I am left to ponder the origin of the conversational cliche. Sure, the vast cerebral breadth of the information super highway could perhaps answer my mostly-rhetorical inquiry, but alas, I am tired and now bored with this post.
The process is simple, and has been reduced over the years to a memorized pattern. I know where to place the ladder. I know where to run the extension cable. I know exactly how many strands are needed to span the face of my house.
I can put them up blind-folded and half drunk if necessary, and I usually do...
This year, though, the going grew slow, as my fingers were seized by the biting cold.
Now, anyone that knows me, knows that I'm not one to shy from dipping temperatures, but goddamn it was cold out! As I was reaching overhead to clip the lights to the lip, I relied upon tactile touch to guide my efforts. My frosty blue-tipped phalanges, however, were lost behind the veil of hypothermic numbness.
The cold has continued, and just this morning I was forced to face an onslaught of small talk about the workplace, which resulted in the utterance of the inevitable and unfortunate phrase: "Colder than a witch's tit."
Which, obviously, has caused me to ponder
Just what in THE hell does that mean??
Witch's tits are cold?? Why is that? Is it from spending too much time in the lap Satan? Does performing mystical fellatio on Beelzebub's boner cause a decrease in breast tissue temperature? Is that in the bible? I don't remember it being in the bible, and believe me, I've read most of it...
Further, I doubt there being any scientific studies on the matter either.
Literarily, how many cold-tittied witches have there been? Sure, there was the Wicked Witch of the West, but she had more of a penchant for melting than freezing... And Glenda the Good Witch, well, she was all warm sunshine and smiles. I couldn't imagine there being even a slight dip in degrees about her bosom.
Then there is Willow. Good Willow. Gay Willow. Evil Willow. You cannot convince me that there is a single thermodynamic deficiency in her lovely and perky sweater puppies. Damn you! don't even try.
And Samantha Stevens? Derwood didn't appear to have any complaints. Not one. Neither of them.
And so, I am left to ponder the origin of the conversational cliche. Sure, the vast cerebral breadth of the information super highway could perhaps answer my mostly-rhetorical inquiry, but alas, I am tired and now bored with this post.
Irregular
AP is reporting that Vice President Dick Cheney was diagnosed with and treated for an irregular heart beat on Monday.
(That's it, really, no punch line. There's just no sport in shooting fish in a barrel.)
(That's it, really, no punch line. There's just no sport in shooting fish in a barrel.)Sunday, November 25, 2007
Blessed are the Cheese Makers
The entire city of Tillamook smells like cow shit.
This, however, is not necessarily a bad thing.
Friday, and the sun was shining. I cruised in relaxed fashion down highway 101, south from our sleepy little holiday resort village. Sure, there was a grocery store there, but Larry's market was a little on the pricey side and short on selection.
I needed taco fixings for dinner and a few other tidbits. I figured a 15 minute drive to the nearest Fred Meyer (Kroger, for you east coast readers) could save me about $100. So, off I drove in search of ground beef, garlic and avocados.
I drove through the tiny sea-side town of Garibaldi, and recalled the day, many years ago, that the missus and I stumbled, unaware, into the middle of Garibaldi Days, a quaint civic celebration of the town's founding that seemed to center on yard sales, halter tops and a pervasive fish odor.
Garibaldi Days provided a surprise hillbilly adventure, and I got out with both of my kidneys intact, but this time around, I didn't feel like lingering.
I passed the Jetty Fishery, and recalled the accident photos that I reviewed oh-so-many years ago. I don't actually recall whether I was suing them or defending them. I just remembered that some drunken sailor slipped on some slippery seagull guano and broke his leg or something. Maybe I'm thinking of another case. Anyway, the sign still looked the same as it did in those old Polaroids.
Then, I saw the slight rise of the small bridge that would deliver me into the cheese capitol of Oregon. At this point, my mind seized up as it was overcome by two strongly competing memories.
First, there is an unusually-designed and ridiculously dangerous traffic triangle at the north point of the bridge, which "helps" filter traffic to and from Highway 101 into a sleepy little residential neighborhood nestled in the surrounding shrubbery. Certain events that occurred at that traffic triangle were the source of a particularly gruesome police report, and a subsequent Court of Appeals case.
Second, it called back long-suppressed memories of teenage indignation. Having been abducted from friends, a girlfriend, my freshly minted driving privileges, and hauled off to Canada with my entire family in a van, I was less-than-enthusiastic, and entirely aghast to learn that we were mere minutes from touring a cheese factory... Good Lord! So long ago...
And so, once again, I crossed the bridge, and entered the coastal farming community of Tillamook, Oregon. Tillamook is famous for two things: dairy products, and the cows that make them. And once you cross the bridge, you can smell the cows.
The cheese factory is ginormous. It is 100% cornball, but if you live in Oregon, you must go there (like the sea lion caves) at least once.
I have now been 3 or 4 times. The free samples are yummy, and watching the little men in white jumpsuits down on the factory floor, stirring curd and chopping chunks of cheddar is mesmerizing.
However, I was not there for the cheese (well, actually, I did need cheese for the tacos), and I drove past the factory. Fred Meyer was only a few blocks away.
Stepping out of my car, I noticed two things. First, the smell of cow shit was suddenly stronger. Second, there was a pile of Legos laying on the ground at my feet, obviously dropped and abandoned by some sticky dim-witted kid, who didn't have enough appreciation for his Legos to take care of them.
I stooped and scooped them up because, hey, free Legos!
I took it as a sort of omen. I was on vacation. The sky was blue. I was going to make tacos for dinner. You don't just find Legos like that out in nature. Surely, somebody was smiling upon me.
I stored my new lucky Legos in my daughter's Dora backpack for safe keeping, and went inside. However, as I toured the produce department, picking ripe limes, cloves of fresh garlic and sweet yellow onions, something hit me. It was the cow shit again. I could smell it in the store!
Without that smell, however, there would be no cows. There would be no cheese factory or even the town. Without the cow shit, there would be no grocery store there for me to go to, and I would have never found my lucky Legos.
So, there it is, the moral to the story. At least I think so... I mean, I have been drinking, so...
OK, maybe it's like this, when on the road of life, you find yourself surrounded by a cloud of cow shit, turn it into yummy cheese. Oh, and, keep your eyes out for Legos.
This, however, is not necessarily a bad thing.
Friday, and the sun was shining. I cruised in relaxed fashion down highway 101, south from our sleepy little holiday resort village. Sure, there was a grocery store there, but Larry's market was a little on the pricey side and short on selection.
I needed taco fixings for dinner and a few other tidbits. I figured a 15 minute drive to the nearest Fred Meyer (Kroger, for you east coast readers) could save me about $100. So, off I drove in search of ground beef, garlic and avocados.
I drove through the tiny sea-side town of Garibaldi, and recalled the day, many years ago, that the missus and I stumbled, unaware, into the middle of Garibaldi Days, a quaint civic celebration of the town's founding that seemed to center on yard sales, halter tops and a pervasive fish odor.
Garibaldi Days provided a surprise hillbilly adventure, and I got out with both of my kidneys intact, but this time around, I didn't feel like lingering.
I passed the Jetty Fishery, and recalled the accident photos that I reviewed oh-so-many years ago. I don't actually recall whether I was suing them or defending them. I just remembered that some drunken sailor slipped on some slippery seagull guano and broke his leg or something. Maybe I'm thinking of another case. Anyway, the sign still looked the same as it did in those old Polaroids.
Then, I saw the slight rise of the small bridge that would deliver me into the cheese capitol of Oregon. At this point, my mind seized up as it was overcome by two strongly competing memories.
First, there is an unusually-designed and ridiculously dangerous traffic triangle at the north point of the bridge, which "helps" filter traffic to and from Highway 101 into a sleepy little residential neighborhood nestled in the surrounding shrubbery. Certain events that occurred at that traffic triangle were the source of a particularly gruesome police report, and a subsequent Court of Appeals case.
Second, it called back long-suppressed memories of teenage indignation. Having been abducted from friends, a girlfriend, my freshly minted driving privileges, and hauled off to Canada with my entire family in a van, I was less-than-enthusiastic, and entirely aghast to learn that we were mere minutes from touring a cheese factory... Good Lord! So long ago...
And so, once again, I crossed the bridge, and entered the coastal farming community of Tillamook, Oregon. Tillamook is famous for two things: dairy products, and the cows that make them. And once you cross the bridge, you can smell the cows.
The cheese factory is ginormous. It is 100% cornball, but if you live in Oregon, you must go there (like the sea lion caves) at least once.
I have now been 3 or 4 times. The free samples are yummy, and watching the little men in white jumpsuits down on the factory floor, stirring curd and chopping chunks of cheddar is mesmerizing.
However, I was not there for the cheese (well, actually, I did need cheese for the tacos), and I drove past the factory. Fred Meyer was only a few blocks away.
Stepping out of my car, I noticed two things. First, the smell of cow shit was suddenly stronger. Second, there was a pile of Legos laying on the ground at my feet, obviously dropped and abandoned by some sticky dim-witted kid, who didn't have enough appreciation for his Legos to take care of them.
I stooped and scooped them up because, hey, free Legos!
I took it as a sort of omen. I was on vacation. The sky was blue. I was going to make tacos for dinner. You don't just find Legos like that out in nature. Surely, somebody was smiling upon me.
I stored my new lucky Legos in my daughter's Dora backpack for safe keeping, and went inside. However, as I toured the produce department, picking ripe limes, cloves of fresh garlic and sweet yellow onions, something hit me. It was the cow shit again. I could smell it in the store!
Without that smell, however, there would be no cows. There would be no cheese factory or even the town. Without the cow shit, there would be no grocery store there for me to go to, and I would have never found my lucky Legos.
So, there it is, the moral to the story. At least I think so... I mean, I have been drinking, so...
OK, maybe it's like this, when on the road of life, you find yourself surrounded by a cloud of cow shit, turn it into yummy cheese. Oh, and, keep your eyes out for Legos.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wirelessless
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving
We here at the Lounge wish all of you a safe, sober and culturally sensitive holiday.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Jihad
She stood there, in her ass-hugging hipster art pants. Black faux-denim, to match her heart. Her over-calculated under-prepped appearance created an aura of social superiority. Her lifeless eyes spoke of disdain.
She huffed, and rolled her eyes at me, standing there in my basic white dress shirt, dorky haircut and matching brown-leather accessories.
It was workday morning. We were in a coffee shop located in the heart of the business district downtown.
I chanced a smile, and said, "Good morning!"
She responded with slumped shoulders and a grimace, slowing disappearing behind drawing drapes of raven hair.
Perhaps it was my lack of tattoos. Perhaps it was my pre-1980 birth date. I certainly wasn't staring at her heavily-tattooed tits, and I tip well!
I was hoping to get a medium coffee and a breakfast pastry. Instead, I got an insult.
Now, the coffee is good and they are conveniently located in my building. However, rude indulgent insolence seems to be the rule. Time and again, the coffee-serving snatches at the Coffee Plant continue to abuse my patronage and patience. And really, when it comes to food service, I can only take so much slack-assed self-importance.
And so, I have declared Jihad. Holy War. I pray to Allah (or whoever) that the Coffee Plant goes under, and the cunty cabal have to go out and find real jobs for real employers who will force them to wear polyester polo shirts with peppy name tags, and teach them to smile warmly at customers far less friendly than me. I pray they seek work at Chillies, Petsmart or Bullwinkle's. I pray for the humiliation that will take their oh-so-mighty coffee-making smirks off their worthless tragically-aloof faces. I pray for plagues, calamity and catastrophe of biblical proportions to befall this Sodom of coffee. I pray for the utter collapse of the Coffee Plant, and yearn for their horror of realization that the world does not, in fact, revolve around their little, and literal, hole in the wall.
Jihad!
Curse them! I will not drink their wretched brew.
On the same note...
Fuck Jack-in-the-Box too!
Really, all I wanted was a spicy chicken combo with a diet coke. I mean, how hard was that? Sure, the two-way intercom ordering system is imperfect, but it belongs to them. If for some reason, the burger-boy cannot make out the final few words of the order, then perhaps he should ask politely: "excuse me, what was that last part of your order?"
What he shouldn't say, especially in a loud condescendingly angry tone, is: "What??"
And! When midget-hooligan Eminem-look-a-like burger punk forgets the fries and drink, and the customer is looking expectantly, waiting patiently for the frosty beverage, the proper response in NOT to cock his head and shrug with an impudent sneer.
So, my level of animosity toward the local J-in-the-B has not risen to the point of protest or boycott. However, they ARE on my list...
She huffed, and rolled her eyes at me, standing there in my basic white dress shirt, dorky haircut and matching brown-leather accessories.
It was workday morning. We were in a coffee shop located in the heart of the business district downtown.
I chanced a smile, and said, "Good morning!"
She responded with slumped shoulders and a grimace, slowing disappearing behind drawing drapes of raven hair.
Perhaps it was my lack of tattoos. Perhaps it was my pre-1980 birth date. I certainly wasn't staring at her heavily-tattooed tits, and I tip well!
I was hoping to get a medium coffee and a breakfast pastry. Instead, I got an insult.
Now, the coffee is good and they are conveniently located in my building. However, rude indulgent insolence seems to be the rule. Time and again, the coffee-serving snatches at the Coffee Plant continue to abuse my patronage and patience. And really, when it comes to food service, I can only take so much slack-assed self-importance.
And so, I have declared Jihad. Holy War. I pray to Allah (or whoever) that the Coffee Plant goes under, and the cunty cabal have to go out and find real jobs for real employers who will force them to wear polyester polo shirts with peppy name tags, and teach them to smile warmly at customers far less friendly than me. I pray they seek work at Chillies, Petsmart or Bullwinkle's. I pray for the humiliation that will take their oh-so-mighty coffee-making smirks off their worthless tragically-aloof faces. I pray for plagues, calamity and catastrophe of biblical proportions to befall this Sodom of coffee. I pray for the utter collapse of the Coffee Plant, and yearn for their horror of realization that the world does not, in fact, revolve around their little, and literal, hole in the wall.
Jihad!
Curse them! I will not drink their wretched brew.
On the same note...
Fuck Jack-in-the-Box too!
Really, all I wanted was a spicy chicken combo with a diet coke. I mean, how hard was that? Sure, the two-way intercom ordering system is imperfect, but it belongs to them. If for some reason, the burger-boy cannot make out the final few words of the order, then perhaps he should ask politely: "excuse me, what was that last part of your order?"
What he shouldn't say, especially in a loud condescendingly angry tone, is: "What??"
And! When midget-hooligan Eminem-look-a-like burger punk forgets the fries and drink, and the customer is looking expectantly, waiting patiently for the frosty beverage, the proper response in NOT to cock his head and shrug with an impudent sneer.
So, my level of animosity toward the local J-in-the-B has not risen to the point of protest or boycott. However, they ARE on my list...
Sunday, November 18, 2007
They Should Write Songs About Me
So, my dad was friends with this guy, see? And this guy, well, he was a bit of a hooligan. A well-meaning hooligan, but really, He liked to drink a little too much.
So, one day, after many years of rabble rousing, he decided to settle down, and he built for himself a fairly impressive beer hall. And his joint did quite the business. Seriously, folks from all over the place came to drink his beer. It was the best party every night.
Now, eventually, as these places always do, the beer hall began to attract certain unwelcome characters. But really, there was one young guy in particular who was a complete and total ass hole. Always starting fights, roughing up the crowd. He even started sneaking in at night after close.
Well, my dad's pal tried to keep this guy out, but he kept coming back. He hired security guys, but they were no match. No one would help. Not even the police. So, being young and cocky, I stopped by one night to see what I could do.
Sure enough, this bugger barged in while I was there, and wasted no time going berserk. I took stock of the guy, big, ugly, tended to drool, but I was confident I could take him.
So, we grappled a bit, did some damage, turned over a few tables. In the end though, I broke his arm...
...clean off.
Bleeding and whimpering, the bastard went running home to mama, which was a problem, because she was an even bigger bastard than he was.
And so, she and I had words, but eventually we ended up hittin it... So to speak.
In gratitude, my dad's buddy gave me the bar, which was sweet! Because, well, I like to drink.
Time passed, however, and I grew old. One day, this young, but familiar-looking, jerk off comes tearing into the bar, causing quite a ruckus. I obviously had to do something, and I was quickly reminded of my tussle with the earlier trouble maker. Turns out, though, this punk ass is the son of that old bitch whose other son I beat down. Funny, I thought, as I opened a can of whoop-ass, this guy looked a little like me...
(Oh, by the way, the movie is good, go see it in 3-D if you can...)
So, one day, after many years of rabble rousing, he decided to settle down, and he built for himself a fairly impressive beer hall. And his joint did quite the business. Seriously, folks from all over the place came to drink his beer. It was the best party every night.
Now, eventually, as these places always do, the beer hall began to attract certain unwelcome characters. But really, there was one young guy in particular who was a complete and total ass hole. Always starting fights, roughing up the crowd. He even started sneaking in at night after close.
Well, my dad's pal tried to keep this guy out, but he kept coming back. He hired security guys, but they were no match. No one would help. Not even the police. So, being young and cocky, I stopped by one night to see what I could do.
Sure enough, this bugger barged in while I was there, and wasted no time going berserk. I took stock of the guy, big, ugly, tended to drool, but I was confident I could take him.
So, we grappled a bit, did some damage, turned over a few tables. In the end though, I broke his arm...
...clean off.
Bleeding and whimpering, the bastard went running home to mama, which was a problem, because she was an even bigger bastard than he was.
And so, she and I had words, but eventually we ended up hittin it... So to speak.
In gratitude, my dad's buddy gave me the bar, which was sweet! Because, well, I like to drink.
Time passed, however, and I grew old. One day, this young, but familiar-looking, jerk off comes tearing into the bar, causing quite a ruckus. I obviously had to do something, and I was quickly reminded of my tussle with the earlier trouble maker. Turns out, though, this punk ass is the son of that old bitch whose other son I beat down. Funny, I thought, as I opened a can of whoop-ass, this guy looked a little like me...
(Oh, by the way, the movie is good, go see it in 3-D if you can...)
Saturday, November 17, 2007
50 Below
It's the weekend before Thanks Giving and no one seems to give a fuck. Thanks to Inog for the sole bikini waxing comment. Readership is drastically down over the last 72 hours, well-under 50 visitors per day. All of my regulars seem to have slipped away for the holiday.
I've been thinking, since no one is around, it seems like a fine time to make a few anonymous confessions. You know, unload a few things that have been weighing heavy on my shoulders.
So, right off the bat, I feel I should admit that I like to wear women's underwear.
This, of course, is a picture of me in my favorite pair, relaxing after a long day at the salt mines. I guess maybe I should have waxed first.
Also, I should admit, I suppose, that I have been actively involved in the "furry" lifestyle for many years. While I have a particular Thing for Warner Brothers cartoon characters, I also appreciate just the basic free-lance rodent costume as well.
And, as long as I'm getting things out in the open, I would also like to admit my long-time obsession with the peppy and groovin sounds of Burt Bacharach.
Wow, this is really great. I'm already starting to feel so much lighter. Like a giant burden has been lifted. And, since no one is reading any of this, it's entirely safe!
OK, I'm on a roll! What next? Oh right, Huffing!
Forget Scotch, give me a paper bag and some White Out.
Oh, and, right, I confess, I don't sort my recycling.
Thank god no one will ever see this!
I've been thinking, since no one is around, it seems like a fine time to make a few anonymous confessions. You know, unload a few things that have been weighing heavy on my shoulders.
So, right off the bat, I feel I should admit that I like to wear women's underwear.
This, of course, is a picture of me in my favorite pair, relaxing after a long day at the salt mines. I guess maybe I should have waxed first.
Also, I should admit, I suppose, that I have been actively involved in the "furry" lifestyle for many years. While I have a particular Thing for Warner Brothers cartoon characters, I also appreciate just the basic free-lance rodent costume as well.
And, as long as I'm getting things out in the open, I would also like to admit my long-time obsession with the peppy and groovin sounds of Burt Bacharach.
Wow, this is really great. I'm already starting to feel so much lighter. Like a giant burden has been lifted. And, since no one is reading any of this, it's entirely safe!
OK, I'm on a roll! What next? Oh right, Huffing!
Forget Scotch, give me a paper bag and some White Out.
Oh, and, right, I confess, I don't sort my recycling.
Thank god no one will ever see this!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Bees
It's a fact, the bees are dying.
Millions of them are dying each day. Entire hives. Entire subspecies are swarming to extinction each and every day. Science has done little to quell the catastrophe. Religion has done even less.
Forget global warming. Forget peak oil. Forget the rising tide of Islamic nationalism, killer asteroids or even the bird flu.
No, life as we know it will end, because of the bees.
They are responsible for 65% of all petroleum products on the market today. Bee secretions and hormones are harvested to manufacture nearly all of today's antibiotics and honey has been proven to contain natural derivatives that cure cancer, HIV and male pattern baldness.
Also, bees are necessary for the pollination of every single crop in the world. Science is entirely unable to duplicate what bees do. Without bees, there will be absolutely no food.
Worst of all, without bees, there will be no wax, and without wax, there will be none of this:
Looks like fun huh? I bet you'd like to learn the mystical art of the bikini wax to impress you family and neighbors. Well, here's an extra special bonus, because, well, I'm good like that.
Have fun kids, wax safely:
Millions of them are dying each day. Entire hives. Entire subspecies are swarming to extinction each and every day. Science has done little to quell the catastrophe. Religion has done even less.
Forget global warming. Forget peak oil. Forget the rising tide of Islamic nationalism, killer asteroids or even the bird flu.
No, life as we know it will end, because of the bees.
They are responsible for 65% of all petroleum products on the market today. Bee secretions and hormones are harvested to manufacture nearly all of today's antibiotics and honey has been proven to contain natural derivatives that cure cancer, HIV and male pattern baldness.
Also, bees are necessary for the pollination of every single crop in the world. Science is entirely unable to duplicate what bees do. Without bees, there will be absolutely no food.
Worst of all, without bees, there will be no wax, and without wax, there will be none of this:
Looks like fun huh? I bet you'd like to learn the mystical art of the bikini wax to impress you family and neighbors. Well, here's an extra special bonus, because, well, I'm good like that.
Have fun kids, wax safely:
Thursday, November 15, 2007
37
37 is certainly squarely in "The Late 30s."
"Near 40" is another way to put it.
"Statistically at Death's Door" is perhaps the most accurate.
37 looms in my headlights, about a month away down the highway of time. One thing is for sure, though, no matter how old I may be, or which birthday is to come, Dr. Brian will always get there first.
And today, he turns 37!
Happy birthday little buddy!
"Near 40" is another way to put it.
"Statistically at Death's Door" is perhaps the most accurate.
37 looms in my headlights, about a month away down the highway of time. One thing is for sure, though, no matter how old I may be, or which birthday is to come, Dr. Brian will always get there first.
And today, he turns 37!
Happy birthday little buddy!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Waterfalls
I had no idea.
For years, I have made the drive, nice as it is, eastbound on I-84, on my way to such far-off places as Hermiston, Pendleton, Boise and Ketchum. It is a magnificent drive, mystic, and full of wonder.... Rough-hewn cliffs of black volcanic rock carved and etched not so long ago by a series of mighty ante-ice age deluges.
The Columbia River Gorge, with a broad interstate paved along the river's edge, provides one of the most unique driving experiences you will find anywhere. Yet, in days gone by, the drive was actually much more interesting...
Just off the beaten path, not far from the mighty metropolis of Troutdale, a small side road winds up the cliffs, away from the flat smooth freeway. This is the old Historic Columbia River Highway, and until this weekend, I had no idea that it existed...
Mama had a morning meeting, and I was left on double-tot duty. Itching for adventure, and an alluring destination to distract the kids, I packed up with our pal Fred, and headed out for another camera safari.
Fall, having hit the Pacific Northwest, the weather was moody, the foliage was aflame, and the light was right for photos... Thanks to Fred for the recommendation, we diverted from the freeway, and took the road less traveled. The old highway. The way of the waterfalls...
The girl hunted (not-so-hard) for just the right leaf to bring home to mama. There were about a gajillion to choose from, but still, I think she grabbed the best one of the bunch.
There seemed to be just enough water, leaves, hot chocolate and adventure to fill up the morning. Everyone was happy and took long naps, which made me happy. I didn't even have to sedate them with alcohol...
For years, I have made the drive, nice as it is, eastbound on I-84, on my way to such far-off places as Hermiston, Pendleton, Boise and Ketchum. It is a magnificent drive, mystic, and full of wonder.... Rough-hewn cliffs of black volcanic rock carved and etched not so long ago by a series of mighty ante-ice age deluges.
The Columbia River Gorge, with a broad interstate paved along the river's edge, provides one of the most unique driving experiences you will find anywhere. Yet, in days gone by, the drive was actually much more interesting...
Just off the beaten path, not far from the mighty metropolis of Troutdale, a small side road winds up the cliffs, away from the flat smooth freeway. This is the old Historic Columbia River Highway, and until this weekend, I had no idea that it existed...
Mama had a morning meeting, and I was left on double-tot duty. Itching for adventure, and an alluring destination to distract the kids, I packed up with our pal Fred, and headed out for another camera safari.
Fall, having hit the Pacific Northwest, the weather was moody, the foliage was aflame, and the light was right for photos... Thanks to Fred for the recommendation, we diverted from the freeway, and took the road less traveled. The old highway. The way of the waterfalls...
The girl hunted (not-so-hard) for just the right leaf to bring home to mama. There were about a gajillion to choose from, but still, I think she grabbed the best one of the bunch.
There seemed to be just enough water, leaves, hot chocolate and adventure to fill up the morning. Everyone was happy and took long naps, which made me happy. I didn't even have to sedate them with alcohol...
Bueller? Bueller?
I awoke briefly last night, my face lying in a puddle of drool on my desk. I actually fell asleep while blogging.
That was a first.
So, I'll finish that post tonight. In the mean time, click on Ben Stein below to see something interesting!
That was a first.
So, I'll finish that post tonight. In the mean time, click on Ben Stein below to see something interesting!
Monday, November 12, 2007
Purified
Drink water from your own cistern,
And running water from your own well.
-Proverbs 5:15
We had a floater, dead in the water. The bloated body of the transsexual African bobbed beneath the net with dull lifeless eyes.
This was the third body in as many days. Some nefarious agent was at work. Death was run amok.
I retrieved the body from the water and delivered it with care to the toilet down the hall, where I promptly flushed it into ignominious eternity. Fish number three. Third of Four. One was left, and she wasn't looking good.
Whereas, the 20-gallon tank at my house has been home to fish who have lived long past their welcome, years in fact, my 30-gallon tank at the office has been like an aquatic death camp. Scores of fish have now swam from countless clear plastic transport baggies into the spacious confines of lace rock and blue gravel, only to turn belly-up within days of arrival.
The sexually-dimorphic Kenyi were first. Mean-spirited African Cichlids, they are vegetarian, but kill other species for sport. Various attempts were made to balance one yellow male with three or four blue females. None of the attempts succeeded. All of the fish died.
Yet, I continued to buy groups of them. I bought them at expensive fish stores. I bought them at cheap fish stores. I balanced the hardness, temperature and acidity of the water to their liking. I tested and treated for ammonia and nitrite. I tested and treated for chlorine and chloramine. I filtered. I aerated. I patiently waited out a ridiculously long and cloudy nitrate cycle.
Still they died.
I switched species, and went with hardier and far more generic varieties. Still they died.
I bought snails to tidy up the debris. The snails died too.
Nothing seemed to be able to survive for very long in the tank of death. Nothing could live.
Courageously, I have decided to persevere. I have the support of my office mates. I am committed to making the tank work, and I don't care how many fish have to sacrifice their lives for me to do so.
I do, however, have a new plan.
I'm certain, 100 years ago, when my building was first constructed, that the architect spared no cost, and installed only the finest plumbing technology available. Over time, however, even the best pipes can go bad, and upon close inspection, the water coming out of the faucet appears to have a slight brownish discoloration.
Fine, it's the water. However, being several floors up and miles from home, the prospect of carting water in anything greater than 5-gallon volumes proved to be impossible, or, at least, impracticable.
And so, last week, I spoke with a very helpful, yet slightly confused, man named Hector, and placed an order. And today, when I walked in, I was pleasantly pleased to see six 5-gallon plastic bottles of pure filtered clean cool water waiting for me.
And so it has come to this. Each month, my friendly local water delivery man will bring me 10 gallons of clean clear purified water with which, I will fill my tank and keep my fish alive.
And running water from your own well.
-Proverbs 5:15
We had a floater, dead in the water. The bloated body of the transsexual African bobbed beneath the net with dull lifeless eyes.
This was the third body in as many days. Some nefarious agent was at work. Death was run amok.
I retrieved the body from the water and delivered it with care to the toilet down the hall, where I promptly flushed it into ignominious eternity. Fish number three. Third of Four. One was left, and she wasn't looking good.
Whereas, the 20-gallon tank at my house has been home to fish who have lived long past their welcome, years in fact, my 30-gallon tank at the office has been like an aquatic death camp. Scores of fish have now swam from countless clear plastic transport baggies into the spacious confines of lace rock and blue gravel, only to turn belly-up within days of arrival.
The sexually-dimorphic Kenyi were first. Mean-spirited African Cichlids, they are vegetarian, but kill other species for sport. Various attempts were made to balance one yellow male with three or four blue females. None of the attempts succeeded. All of the fish died.
Yet, I continued to buy groups of them. I bought them at expensive fish stores. I bought them at cheap fish stores. I balanced the hardness, temperature and acidity of the water to their liking. I tested and treated for ammonia and nitrite. I tested and treated for chlorine and chloramine. I filtered. I aerated. I patiently waited out a ridiculously long and cloudy nitrate cycle.
Still they died.
I switched species, and went with hardier and far more generic varieties. Still they died.
I bought snails to tidy up the debris. The snails died too.
Nothing seemed to be able to survive for very long in the tank of death. Nothing could live.
Courageously, I have decided to persevere. I have the support of my office mates. I am committed to making the tank work, and I don't care how many fish have to sacrifice their lives for me to do so.
I do, however, have a new plan.
I'm certain, 100 years ago, when my building was first constructed, that the architect spared no cost, and installed only the finest plumbing technology available. Over time, however, even the best pipes can go bad, and upon close inspection, the water coming out of the faucet appears to have a slight brownish discoloration.
Fine, it's the water. However, being several floors up and miles from home, the prospect of carting water in anything greater than 5-gallon volumes proved to be impossible, or, at least, impracticable.
And so, last week, I spoke with a very helpful, yet slightly confused, man named Hector, and placed an order. And today, when I walked in, I was pleasantly pleased to see six 5-gallon plastic bottles of pure filtered clean cool water waiting for me.
And so it has come to this. Each month, my friendly local water delivery man will bring me 10 gallons of clean clear purified water with which, I will fill my tank and keep my fish alive.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Blue Flavor
I would cringe every time I heard it.
Mr. N. The Boss. The Owner of the little college-town pizza joint that I occasionally managed would, at times, wander from the closet-like office to help behind the bar.
Being a pizza place in Southern California, we sold great quantities of embarrassingly bad beer. Miller... Bud... Michelob... You get the picture.
When Mr. N. was behind the bar, however, he would always ask, in his own friendly way, "So, what flavor of beer would you like?" Not "What type of beer," or even "Which beer." No, he would ask "What flavor." Which, considering our selection, was limited to varying shades of horse piss.
Likewise, it rubs me the wrong way when someone identifies an artificial flavor by it's color. For instance instead of saying that they would like a grape-flavored sucker, someone might say, I'd like a purple-flavored sucker. And, while most artificially-grape-flavored foods do taste more akin to purple than actual grape, the flavors do possess nominal titles.
This is no less true for Jell-O. Now, first, I have ranted about THIS BEFORE. Second, that is not going to stop me from ranting about it again. And third, I was reminded of all of this, this morning during breakfast.
All but the boy, who still gets the boob, were hungry. I haven't been to the store recently for any type of responsible grocery shopping, and breakfast supplies were low. So, in full family fashion, we packed up and journeyed to Stuffies to gorge ourselves on the cheap breakfast buffet.
We swept through like a tot-laden tornado, juice, eggs and yogurt trailing in true Hansel-&-Gretel style behind us. Tray heavy and loaded, the girl tugging at my pant leg, I followed a few steps behind the missus, who was handling the bobbing boy.
There was one final food station to pass. The last outpost of buffet goodness before setting up base camp in a booth. This is where they keep the pudding. This where they chill the fresh fruit. This is where I would find the Jell-O.
Jell-O, I believe, is a perfect food. Well, actually, it's not really food at all, more of an artificially flavored and colored gelatinous farm by-product. By I digress...
I'm a Grade-A #1 sucker for Jell-O. I love it. I love everything about it. However, as with most of these lame food-related blog posts, there are rules. And here they are:
Jell-O Rule #1: The only reasonable colors for Jell-O are Red and Green. Not yellow, orange, pink, or purple. Most certainly, by god, Jell-O should never be blue, or any shade thereof whatsoever.
Caveat to Rule #1: The red Jell-O must be artificial cherry flavored. Green must be artificial lime. No exceptions. These are the only two acceptable forms of Jell-O.
Jell-O Rule #2: Do not put shit in the Jell-O. No grapes, no pineapple, no carrots, and in the name of all things holy, no cottage cheese.
And so we approached the Jell-O station at Stuffies, the missus running point just a few paces ahead. She knew that I was apprehensive of the Jell-O. She knows the thing I have about it. She sensed the tension and darted forward ahead of me, turning quickly with a concerned look...
"No, It's no good." She warned, turning herself bravely between me and the Jell-o.
I stopped, disheartened. "What, then?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"Don't look," she warned, "It will only make you mad."
"It's not..."
"Yes," she confirmed, "The Jell-O, it's blue."
Mr. N. The Boss. The Owner of the little college-town pizza joint that I occasionally managed would, at times, wander from the closet-like office to help behind the bar.
Being a pizza place in Southern California, we sold great quantities of embarrassingly bad beer. Miller... Bud... Michelob... You get the picture.
When Mr. N. was behind the bar, however, he would always ask, in his own friendly way, "So, what flavor of beer would you like?" Not "What type of beer," or even "Which beer." No, he would ask "What flavor." Which, considering our selection, was limited to varying shades of horse piss.
Likewise, it rubs me the wrong way when someone identifies an artificial flavor by it's color. For instance instead of saying that they would like a grape-flavored sucker, someone might say, I'd like a purple-flavored sucker. And, while most artificially-grape-flavored foods do taste more akin to purple than actual grape, the flavors do possess nominal titles.
This is no less true for Jell-O. Now, first, I have ranted about THIS BEFORE. Second, that is not going to stop me from ranting about it again. And third, I was reminded of all of this, this morning during breakfast.
All but the boy, who still gets the boob, were hungry. I haven't been to the store recently for any type of responsible grocery shopping, and breakfast supplies were low. So, in full family fashion, we packed up and journeyed to Stuffies to gorge ourselves on the cheap breakfast buffet.
We swept through like a tot-laden tornado, juice, eggs and yogurt trailing in true Hansel-&-Gretel style behind us. Tray heavy and loaded, the girl tugging at my pant leg, I followed a few steps behind the missus, who was handling the bobbing boy.
There was one final food station to pass. The last outpost of buffet goodness before setting up base camp in a booth. This is where they keep the pudding. This where they chill the fresh fruit. This is where I would find the Jell-O.
Jell-O, I believe, is a perfect food. Well, actually, it's not really food at all, more of an artificially flavored and colored gelatinous farm by-product. By I digress...
I'm a Grade-A #1 sucker for Jell-O. I love it. I love everything about it. However, as with most of these lame food-related blog posts, there are rules. And here they are:
Jell-O Rule #1: The only reasonable colors for Jell-O are Red and Green. Not yellow, orange, pink, or purple. Most certainly, by god, Jell-O should never be blue, or any shade thereof whatsoever.
Caveat to Rule #1: The red Jell-O must be artificial cherry flavored. Green must be artificial lime. No exceptions. These are the only two acceptable forms of Jell-O.
Jell-O Rule #2: Do not put shit in the Jell-O. No grapes, no pineapple, no carrots, and in the name of all things holy, no cottage cheese.
And so we approached the Jell-O station at Stuffies, the missus running point just a few paces ahead. She knew that I was apprehensive of the Jell-O. She knows the thing I have about it. She sensed the tension and darted forward ahead of me, turning quickly with a concerned look...
"No, It's no good." She warned, turning herself bravely between me and the Jell-o.
I stopped, disheartened. "What, then?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"Don't look," she warned, "It will only make you mad."
"It's not..."
"Yes," she confirmed, "The Jell-O, it's blue."
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Harvest Moon
It was dark as I drove out of the daycare driveway. I am usually last, as it is, to pick up the kids, but the changing season and busy work schedule brought me to the pick up point well after the Sun had set.
It wasn't late, but it felt that way. I was tired, but felt good. It had been a good day. Hell, a good October...
I had a sort of strange confidence, more than usual, and a spring in my step. My handshakes were firmer. My jokes drew more laughs. Arbitrators were were seeing things my way, and well, the blog was really pretty good. (Good, at least, by Lounge standards)
The kids and I rushed down the interstate, singing songs and laughing, the dark silhouette of the tree line skimming silently by. And then, like a burst, it emerged, like a blazing orange cookie on the horizon. The Harvest Moon.
The sky lit up, like someone turned on a spot light above the freeway. Even the girl, wrapped up in the final "fee fie fiddly ei-oh" verse of I've Been Working on the Railroad exclaimed: "Daddy, the MOON!!"
It had been waxing for weeks, and was a brilliant behemoth in the inky night.
Time passes, though, and October has been chased away by the goblins and ghouls of All Hallows Eve. The November chill has set in, and the trees are finally giving up their last grasp of color.
The moon is but a sliver-like crescent today. Hollow. Frail.
I, too, seem to be moving a little slower, less likely to take a confrontational phone call, and feeling a little fat. Words are not coming quickly enough, and my mind is becoming soft and dull. Even my once witty quips have been falling flat.
Ebb and flow, I suppose. Waxing and waning. Cycles or circles, or whatever your chosen metaphor may be. I'm not worried, though, because the mojo will return. It always does. For now, I guess, I will sip scotch and sit by the fire to keep me warm under the moon-less night sky.
It wasn't late, but it felt that way. I was tired, but felt good. It had been a good day. Hell, a good October...
I had a sort of strange confidence, more than usual, and a spring in my step. My handshakes were firmer. My jokes drew more laughs. Arbitrators were were seeing things my way, and well, the blog was really pretty good. (Good, at least, by Lounge standards)
The kids and I rushed down the interstate, singing songs and laughing, the dark silhouette of the tree line skimming silently by. And then, like a burst, it emerged, like a blazing orange cookie on the horizon. The Harvest Moon.
The sky lit up, like someone turned on a spot light above the freeway. Even the girl, wrapped up in the final "fee fie fiddly ei-oh" verse of I've Been Working on the Railroad exclaimed: "Daddy, the MOON!!"
It had been waxing for weeks, and was a brilliant behemoth in the inky night.
Time passes, though, and October has been chased away by the goblins and ghouls of All Hallows Eve. The November chill has set in, and the trees are finally giving up their last grasp of color.
The moon is but a sliver-like crescent today. Hollow. Frail.
I, too, seem to be moving a little slower, less likely to take a confrontational phone call, and feeling a little fat. Words are not coming quickly enough, and my mind is becoming soft and dull. Even my once witty quips have been falling flat.
Ebb and flow, I suppose. Waxing and waning. Cycles or circles, or whatever your chosen metaphor may be. I'm not worried, though, because the mojo will return. It always does. For now, I guess, I will sip scotch and sit by the fire to keep me warm under the moon-less night sky.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Tithe 10 %, But Tip 15...
The Ranch. Blaisedell Ranch. The obnoxiously-opulent conspicuously-consumptive north end of the small college town of Claremont. Mrs. G&T went to school there. Dr. B currently drills teeth there. I, however, delivered pizza there, oh so many years ago, to pay for my state college education.
The Ranch. Shopping mall-sized bungalows squeezed onto postage-stamp-sized lots. $3.5 million for a bay window view into your next door neighbor's garage. It lies along the foothills with just enough elevation to be above the smog layer on cool days.
The Ranch. It reeked of new money. Loose money. Money without class. Hillbilly money. Convenience store empire money. Professional sports money. TV money.
Oh, but not just TV. No. I'm talking Jesus TV. C'mon, you know who I'm talking about. I'm talking about JESUS TV! I'm talking TBN!!
Can I get an Amen??
Yes, they lived there. All of them. The entire cast. Paul and Jan. The faith healers. The rock singers. The Sunday preachers. All of them. Living fat on the tithes of the poor. And goddamn, did they like pizza. Lot's of pizza. Thick crust, extra cheese and loaded with toppings.
Fortunately for me, they also liked to tip well.
None, however, ordered nearly as much pizza as the Popoff household...
It started innocently enough, one Saturday afternoon lunch delivery. The name sounded familiar enough, but I didn't put it together until later.
The house was huge. Long ivory columns guarded the the expansive veranda out front. The tasteful Spanish stucco contrasted with the south-Asian fixtures and French garden. I balanced the single steaming pie with my right hand as I pushed the Call button on the security panel.
A girl came to the door, cute, with curly blond hair. She was probably a few years younger, but had a sparkling cherubic smile. She wore a half shirt with her tight tanned belly flashing beneath. The thin tight pajama pants draped deliciously down from her low back.
She was Popoff's daughter. The preachers kid.
She also, apparently, like pizza, and began to order, in relatively short-order, pizza every day. She tipped well, and was cute, so I would surreptitiously scope out the Popoff order and take it myself.
Funny thing though, and it could happen to anyone, but an every-day pizza habit can lead to unfortunate weight gain, and soon the sprightly little cherub became a lumbering Ganesha, tipping the scales and stretching those now-unfortunate PJs...
She continued to tip though, so, I kept the pies coming...
Thing is, her dad was a famous TV preacher. Famous, that is, for being a mastermind manipulator. In case you don't recall, Popoff was the one exposed for selling "blessed socks" to the faithful. That's right, for your low low cash donation to God (checks payable to Peter Popoff) he would pray over a pair of socks and send them to you via first class mail. That way, uh, you could walk around on the cushy arch-support of the Holy Spirit... or something...
Anyway...
Being a tad bit religious myself at the time, I felt conflicted about taking the money, and the generous tips, from such an evil man, but decided in the long run, "fuck it." After all, it was his sin, not mine, AND his precious Chubby little bunny was still pretty cute...
Now, all this all came back to me, just this last Sunday, after my daughter woke me up at some unholy pre-sun hour. Bleary-eyed and cranky, I wandered out to the living room whereupon I came across a host, a veritable bevvy, of Sunday morning religious broadcasts. One worse than the other. Mostly faith-healing snake handlers, but the Catholics were on too, as were the Mormons.
And there he was, bigger than life, the long-lost evangelist and worker of miracles. Peter Popoff, healing the sick, and preaching a gospel of wealth and prosperity. He was slapping the Devil out of people's foreheads and admonishing the poor to give their last dollar to God, C/O the Popoff Ministries, as always.
But now... Now!! Oh boy, he's onto something new. No more blessed socks. No miracle mittens. No Jehovah jumpsuit.
No, now, for a low low donation of at least $25, he will send you a plastic sippy-tube of miracle spring water.
Miracle Spring Water.
(Let that sink in...)
Don't believe me?
HERE LOOK FOR YOURSELF
Where this stuff used to make me blind with rage, I am now really quite impressed. The breadth and scope of his wanton depravity is a wonder to behold. I am taken aback. I am inspired. Sure, I take joy in encouraging bad behavior in others, but really, I am an insect compared to this mammoth devil.
Hmm... I'm getting kinda thirsty. I wonder whether the miracle water is cold.
The Ranch. Shopping mall-sized bungalows squeezed onto postage-stamp-sized lots. $3.5 million for a bay window view into your next door neighbor's garage. It lies along the foothills with just enough elevation to be above the smog layer on cool days.
The Ranch. It reeked of new money. Loose money. Money without class. Hillbilly money. Convenience store empire money. Professional sports money. TV money.
Oh, but not just TV. No. I'm talking Jesus TV. C'mon, you know who I'm talking about. I'm talking about JESUS TV! I'm talking TBN!!
Can I get an Amen??
Yes, they lived there. All of them. The entire cast. Paul and Jan. The faith healers. The rock singers. The Sunday preachers. All of them. Living fat on the tithes of the poor. And goddamn, did they like pizza. Lot's of pizza. Thick crust, extra cheese and loaded with toppings.
Fortunately for me, they also liked to tip well.
None, however, ordered nearly as much pizza as the Popoff household...
It started innocently enough, one Saturday afternoon lunch delivery. The name sounded familiar enough, but I didn't put it together until later.
The house was huge. Long ivory columns guarded the the expansive veranda out front. The tasteful Spanish stucco contrasted with the south-Asian fixtures and French garden. I balanced the single steaming pie with my right hand as I pushed the Call button on the security panel.
A girl came to the door, cute, with curly blond hair. She was probably a few years younger, but had a sparkling cherubic smile. She wore a half shirt with her tight tanned belly flashing beneath. The thin tight pajama pants draped deliciously down from her low back.
She was Popoff's daughter. The preachers kid.
She also, apparently, like pizza, and began to order, in relatively short-order, pizza every day. She tipped well, and was cute, so I would surreptitiously scope out the Popoff order and take it myself.
Funny thing though, and it could happen to anyone, but an every-day pizza habit can lead to unfortunate weight gain, and soon the sprightly little cherub became a lumbering Ganesha, tipping the scales and stretching those now-unfortunate PJs...
She continued to tip though, so, I kept the pies coming...
Thing is, her dad was a famous TV preacher. Famous, that is, for being a mastermind manipulator. In case you don't recall, Popoff was the one exposed for selling "blessed socks" to the faithful. That's right, for your low low cash donation to God (checks payable to Peter Popoff) he would pray over a pair of socks and send them to you via first class mail. That way, uh, you could walk around on the cushy arch-support of the Holy Spirit... or something...
Anyway...
Being a tad bit religious myself at the time, I felt conflicted about taking the money, and the generous tips, from such an evil man, but decided in the long run, "fuck it." After all, it was his sin, not mine, AND his precious Chubby little bunny was still pretty cute...
Now, all this all came back to me, just this last Sunday, after my daughter woke me up at some unholy pre-sun hour. Bleary-eyed and cranky, I wandered out to the living room whereupon I came across a host, a veritable bevvy, of Sunday morning religious broadcasts. One worse than the other. Mostly faith-healing snake handlers, but the Catholics were on too, as were the Mormons.
And there he was, bigger than life, the long-lost evangelist and worker of miracles. Peter Popoff, healing the sick, and preaching a gospel of wealth and prosperity. He was slapping the Devil out of people's foreheads and admonishing the poor to give their last dollar to God, C/O the Popoff Ministries, as always.
But now... Now!! Oh boy, he's onto something new. No more blessed socks. No miracle mittens. No Jehovah jumpsuit.
No, now, for a low low donation of at least $25, he will send you a plastic sippy-tube of miracle spring water.
Miracle Spring Water.
(Let that sink in...)
Don't believe me?
HERE LOOK FOR YOURSELF
Where this stuff used to make me blind with rage, I am now really quite impressed. The breadth and scope of his wanton depravity is a wonder to behold. I am taken aback. I am inspired. Sure, I take joy in encouraging bad behavior in others, but really, I am an insect compared to this mammoth devil.
Hmm... I'm getting kinda thirsty. I wonder whether the miracle water is cold.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
If I had a hammer.
The Marlboro Man was wearing his Batik linen jungle smock. He was eyeing the clock behind my head, licking his yellow-stained lips with nicotine expectation, the way I eye a a bottle of scotch.
He spoke knowingly of the political climate in Jakarta, and the benevolent despot in power there. His mind wandered from the topic, and he detoured on a diatribe about the relative quality of tobacco versus cloves in the greater regions of Malaysia and Indonesia.
My mind wandered as well.
I thought about the sexy nerdy redhead two desks in front of me. I thought about the pitcher of beer I had before class. I thought about the pitcher of beer I would have after class. I thought about the redhead again. I thought about Star Trek. I thought about my girlfriend. I thought about the redhead.
The Marlboro Man looked at the clock again, and I began to consider the ethereal nature of time. The potentiality of the future. the loss of the past, and the instant measureless moment of conversion from one to the other....
Which then, slowly, turned my thoughts to that really fantastic oversized clock that I bought for my bedroom, which continued to lay in its box next to my book shelf at home. It sat there, mostly, because I was unable to hang it on the wall. Sure, I had the requisite nail. It's just, I didn't have a hammer
I didn't have a hammer.
I didn't have a hammer.
I didn't have a hammer.
I couldn't get that thought out of my head. The trail of thought had curved back into itself and formed a loop. I lost the trail of the lecture on southeast Asian politics. I lost the scent of the redhead. I forgot about the beer.
How could it be?? I had a saw. I had a socket wrench. I had screw drivers.
I just didn't have a hammer.
Maybe class came to an end. Maybe I wandered out early. I really do not know. I was obsessed. I was crazed. However, it wasn't like I had a large carpentry project waiting for me. Nor, was it like I couldn't borrow a hammer. It didn't matter. I needed a hammer.
I navigated my truck out of the parking lot, and down from Kellogg Hill, considering my options. It had to be a good hammer. A big hammer. A tool to pass the test of time. "Craftsman," I concluded, and drove toward Sears.
A short time later I stood facing the wall of hammers. Steel heads, wooden handles, some with steel shanks and rubber grips. I weighed the options, literally. I swung at invisible nails. I imagined the Viking war-hammer forebears of the domestic nail-drivers before me. I took my time. I sensed the importance of this decision, but eventually settled on a selection.
It was the Craftsman 16 oz. rip-claw hammer. The head and handle was made from a single solid piece of drop-forged polished steel. The Solid steel handle was wrapped with a durable air-cushioned slip-resistant grip and it had a hickory plug in the head to absorb shock. For good measure, it had a deep throat design for power strokes.
It was perfect, and I purchased it. I finally had a hammer.
And I still do. I love my hammer. It hangs in the same place, and I always know where it is. It's been through new homes and house remodels, apartment changes, job changes, and a countless legion of nails. It is beat up, scratched up, paint-splattered and oxidized. It is nearly two decades old, but it is my hammer. Perhaps someday, with continued care and proper handling, I will be able to pass it on to my children.
Here's a picture!
He spoke knowingly of the political climate in Jakarta, and the benevolent despot in power there. His mind wandered from the topic, and he detoured on a diatribe about the relative quality of tobacco versus cloves in the greater regions of Malaysia and Indonesia.
My mind wandered as well.
I thought about the sexy nerdy redhead two desks in front of me. I thought about the pitcher of beer I had before class. I thought about the pitcher of beer I would have after class. I thought about the redhead again. I thought about Star Trek. I thought about my girlfriend. I thought about the redhead.
The Marlboro Man looked at the clock again, and I began to consider the ethereal nature of time. The potentiality of the future. the loss of the past, and the instant measureless moment of conversion from one to the other....
Which then, slowly, turned my thoughts to that really fantastic oversized clock that I bought for my bedroom, which continued to lay in its box next to my book shelf at home. It sat there, mostly, because I was unable to hang it on the wall. Sure, I had the requisite nail. It's just, I didn't have a hammer
I didn't have a hammer.
I didn't have a hammer.
I didn't have a hammer.
I couldn't get that thought out of my head. The trail of thought had curved back into itself and formed a loop. I lost the trail of the lecture on southeast Asian politics. I lost the scent of the redhead. I forgot about the beer.
How could it be?? I had a saw. I had a socket wrench. I had screw drivers.
I just didn't have a hammer.
Maybe class came to an end. Maybe I wandered out early. I really do not know. I was obsessed. I was crazed. However, it wasn't like I had a large carpentry project waiting for me. Nor, was it like I couldn't borrow a hammer. It didn't matter. I needed a hammer.
I navigated my truck out of the parking lot, and down from Kellogg Hill, considering my options. It had to be a good hammer. A big hammer. A tool to pass the test of time. "Craftsman," I concluded, and drove toward Sears.
A short time later I stood facing the wall of hammers. Steel heads, wooden handles, some with steel shanks and rubber grips. I weighed the options, literally. I swung at invisible nails. I imagined the Viking war-hammer forebears of the domestic nail-drivers before me. I took my time. I sensed the importance of this decision, but eventually settled on a selection.
It was the Craftsman 16 oz. rip-claw hammer. The head and handle was made from a single solid piece of drop-forged polished steel. The Solid steel handle was wrapped with a durable air-cushioned slip-resistant grip and it had a hickory plug in the head to absorb shock. For good measure, it had a deep throat design for power strokes.
It was perfect, and I purchased it. I finally had a hammer.
And I still do. I love my hammer. It hangs in the same place, and I always know where it is. It's been through new homes and house remodels, apartment changes, job changes, and a countless legion of nails. It is beat up, scratched up, paint-splattered and oxidized. It is nearly two decades old, but it is my hammer. Perhaps someday, with continued care and proper handling, I will be able to pass it on to my children.
Here's a picture!
Why Do They Bother?
It's a nice room, though I'll be here too short a time to make the most of it. King-sized bed, fireplace, and a kitchenette. The back patio opens upon the Deschutes river. (The small high-country slow moving Deschutes River. Not the wild E-ticket part of the river, made famous in Current Events)
The deposition is scheduled for tomorrow. After which, I'll be heading back over the mountain.
For now, though, I can blog from bed, warm from the fire, wallowing in my own cigar stink.
This is only noteworthy for one reason. See, the room comes with a realtively-nice flat panel TV, and a wide array of cable options, including many many Showtime chanels. And, at midnight on a Monday, that can only mean one thing: Low-grade softcore porn.
Oh, but good god, why? WHY? Why must they insist on a story?? Really, it is meant to serve only one purpose. Just give me five minutes of dirty moving pictures, and let me get to sleep.
But no. They must try to tell a pointless story, and poorly at that. Perhaps it is the only way to lure already-desperate D-list actors to appear in these horrible things, degrading themselves for a few dollars and a few minutes of precious Hollywood screen time before they are chewed up and spit out by the vicious industry.
OK, so, looking at it that way makes it kinda dirty, which is hot, I guess.
Anyway, the writing, acting, plastic surgery, and story are so bad, that I'd rather sit here writing this little ditty than watch the large-juggied trollops trounce about on screen.
That's it, I give up. I'm going to sleep.
The deposition is scheduled for tomorrow. After which, I'll be heading back over the mountain.
For now, though, I can blog from bed, warm from the fire, wallowing in my own cigar stink.
This is only noteworthy for one reason. See, the room comes with a realtively-nice flat panel TV, and a wide array of cable options, including many many Showtime chanels. And, at midnight on a Monday, that can only mean one thing: Low-grade softcore porn.
Oh, but good god, why? WHY? Why must they insist on a story?? Really, it is meant to serve only one purpose. Just give me five minutes of dirty moving pictures, and let me get to sleep.
But no. They must try to tell a pointless story, and poorly at that. Perhaps it is the only way to lure already-desperate D-list actors to appear in these horrible things, degrading themselves for a few dollars and a few minutes of precious Hollywood screen time before they are chewed up and spit out by the vicious industry.
OK, so, looking at it that way makes it kinda dirty, which is hot, I guess.
Anyway, the writing, acting, plastic surgery, and story are so bad, that I'd rather sit here writing this little ditty than watch the large-juggied trollops trounce about on screen.
That's it, I give up. I'm going to sleep.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Hwæt!
Hwæt! We Gardena in geardagum,
þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,
hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.
Oft Scyld Scefing ceaþena þreatum,
monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah,
egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð
feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad,
weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah,
oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra
ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
gomban gyldan. þæt wæs god cyning!
Ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned,
geong in geardum, þone god sende
folce to frofre;
"What the hell?" You say, "Why is the Lounge talkin' all foreign, like??"
It isn't foreign folks, not by a long shot. The text above is English, some of the oldest English ever recorded, and from which we receive through time great masters of the language, like William Shakespeare, Thomas Jefferson, and Keanu Reeves.
This is the Prologue to the earliest and possibly greatest epic saga of the English language. It is, you guessed it, Beowulf.
Look, if you can't work out the phonetic cookie crumbs yourself, here is a more-modern translation:
Lo ! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements
The folk-kings' former fame we have heard of,
How princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle.
Oft Scyld the Scefing from scathers in numbers
From many a people their mead-benches tore.
Since first he found him friendless and wretched,
The earl had had terror: comfort he got for it,
Waxed 'neath the welkin, world-honor gained,
Till all his neighbors o'er sea were compelled to
Bow to his bidding and bring him their tribute :
An excellent atheling ! After was borne him
A son and heir, young in his dwelling,
Whom God-Father sent to solace the people.
OK, so, with out any help, I suppose the Old-English text looses a little in the reading. No matter, this epic poem was meant to be told aloud, around a blazing fire and several flagons of Meade. It is always best when heard. So, here's a sample: (pardon the dramatic sunset intro...)
OK, so, by now, you may be well confused. You may be asking yourself, what in the world is Mr. Gin&Tonic talking about??
Well, obviously, I'm talking about Beowulf. But the reason is that Hollywood is making a heroic stab at bringing the tale to the big screen.
Sure, they have tried before. sometimes creatively, and sometimes less-so. Here, for instance, is one of the better attempts:
OK, so, the 13th Warrior wasn't a great film, but it was creative.. Still, I'm not sure how Spaniard, Antonio Banderas, was cast to play an Arab, who gets enlisted to help Vikings fight a shadowy army of Grendels... But still, it was a provocative interpretation. And if anyone asks Fred, she's sure to give this ensemble cast of burly men a thumbs-up...
But now, some one has seen fit to throw a bountiful budget and a cast with chops at this age-old tale. And, on November 16, the legend will arrive in theaters. Here my friends, is the trailer:
And yes, that is a fully digitized, fully-frontally nude Angelina Jolie as Grendel's Mother.
Seriously, the movie comes out in two weeks. Who wants to come with me?
þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,
hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.
Oft Scyld Scefing ceaþena þreatum,
monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah,
egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð
feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad,
weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah,
oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra
ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
gomban gyldan. þæt wæs god cyning!
Ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned,
geong in geardum, þone god sende
folce to frofre;
"What the hell?" You say, "Why is the Lounge talkin' all foreign, like??"
It isn't foreign folks, not by a long shot. The text above is English, some of the oldest English ever recorded, and from which we receive through time great masters of the language, like William Shakespeare, Thomas Jefferson, and Keanu Reeves.
This is the Prologue to the earliest and possibly greatest epic saga of the English language. It is, you guessed it, Beowulf.
Look, if you can't work out the phonetic cookie crumbs yourself, here is a more-modern translation:
Lo ! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements
The folk-kings' former fame we have heard of,
How princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle.
Oft Scyld the Scefing from scathers in numbers
From many a people their mead-benches tore.
Since first he found him friendless and wretched,
The earl had had terror: comfort he got for it,
Waxed 'neath the welkin, world-honor gained,
Till all his neighbors o'er sea were compelled to
Bow to his bidding and bring him their tribute :
An excellent atheling ! After was borne him
A son and heir, young in his dwelling,
Whom God-Father sent to solace the people.
OK, so, with out any help, I suppose the Old-English text looses a little in the reading. No matter, this epic poem was meant to be told aloud, around a blazing fire and several flagons of Meade. It is always best when heard. So, here's a sample: (pardon the dramatic sunset intro...)
OK, so, by now, you may be well confused. You may be asking yourself, what in the world is Mr. Gin&Tonic talking about??
Well, obviously, I'm talking about Beowulf. But the reason is that Hollywood is making a heroic stab at bringing the tale to the big screen.
Sure, they have tried before. sometimes creatively, and sometimes less-so. Here, for instance, is one of the better attempts:
OK, so, the 13th Warrior wasn't a great film, but it was creative.. Still, I'm not sure how Spaniard, Antonio Banderas, was cast to play an Arab, who gets enlisted to help Vikings fight a shadowy army of Grendels... But still, it was a provocative interpretation. And if anyone asks Fred, she's sure to give this ensemble cast of burly men a thumbs-up...
But now, some one has seen fit to throw a bountiful budget and a cast with chops at this age-old tale. And, on November 16, the legend will arrive in theaters. Here my friends, is the trailer:
And yes, that is a fully digitized, fully-frontally nude Angelina Jolie as Grendel's Mother.
Seriously, the movie comes out in two weeks. Who wants to come with me?
Spago's
There is, of course, no one named "Spago." Well, perhaps somewhere in the world there is, but the titular chain of over-priced under-proportioned celebrity-festooned restaurants is not owned by one.
Wolfgang Puck, as you should know, is the creator, owner and operator of the chain. And just for clarification, the chain's name is not actually "Spago's." No, it is "Spago," meaning "twine," and from which we get the word "Spaghetti, " or "little strings..."
Unfortunately, there are many who insist, beyond all curative attempts at correction, to stick a possessive "S" at the end, as if it were owned and operated by Mr. Italian Twine himself.
Spago.
No possessive "S."
But it does not stop there. No, frequently, I hear friendly folks announce their intention to go shopping someplace called "Nordstrom's." Sounds like a nice place. I suppose they might have nice things. Sadly, as far as I've seen, there is no such place as "Nordstom's." Now, two blocks from my office, there is a very large red-brick retail building with a sign outside that reads: "Nordstrom." However, I am quite certain there is no "S" attached to the end.
And while they still existed, you could buy a tie, or an entire set of bed linens, at the Meier & Frank just down the street. However, you could not possibly buy anything at any place called: "Meier & Frank's"
And for your one-stop-shopping needs (groceries, garden supplies, and a gallon of paint) in the Northwest, where do you go??
That's right, you go to Fred Meyer.
Where don't you go? "Fred Meyer's" There's just no such place.
And for pumpkins, this time of year, there is no better place in all the state of Oregon than the Pumpkin Patch on Sauvie Island.
Sauvie. Pronounced: "So-vee." While it has farms and hay rides and general stores and even a nude Columbia River beach, it does not have a possessive "S."
And after all of this running around, pumpkin picking and linen shopping, where might you want to go for dinner? Well, if you are over in Beaverton, there is a fabulous little Indian place called "Swagat." If you go looking for "Swagat's," however, you are not likely to find it.
Wolfgang Puck, as you should know, is the creator, owner and operator of the chain. And just for clarification, the chain's name is not actually "Spago's." No, it is "Spago," meaning "twine," and from which we get the word "Spaghetti, " or "little strings..."
Unfortunately, there are many who insist, beyond all curative attempts at correction, to stick a possessive "S" at the end, as if it were owned and operated by Mr. Italian Twine himself.
Spago.
No possessive "S."
But it does not stop there. No, frequently, I hear friendly folks announce their intention to go shopping someplace called "Nordstrom's." Sounds like a nice place. I suppose they might have nice things. Sadly, as far as I've seen, there is no such place as "Nordstom's." Now, two blocks from my office, there is a very large red-brick retail building with a sign outside that reads: "Nordstrom." However, I am quite certain there is no "S" attached to the end.
And while they still existed, you could buy a tie, or an entire set of bed linens, at the Meier & Frank just down the street. However, you could not possibly buy anything at any place called: "Meier & Frank's"
And for your one-stop-shopping needs (groceries, garden supplies, and a gallon of paint) in the Northwest, where do you go??
That's right, you go to Fred Meyer.
Where don't you go? "Fred Meyer's" There's just no such place.
And for pumpkins, this time of year, there is no better place in all the state of Oregon than the Pumpkin Patch on Sauvie Island.
Sauvie. Pronounced: "So-vee." While it has farms and hay rides and general stores and even a nude Columbia River beach, it does not have a possessive "S."
And after all of this running around, pumpkin picking and linen shopping, where might you want to go for dinner? Well, if you are over in Beaverton, there is a fabulous little Indian place called "Swagat." If you go looking for "Swagat's," however, you are not likely to find it.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Ballad of the Bedroom Surprise
It was dark as I crept down the hallway
My kids asleep soundly in bed
I was at the drunk-end of this long day
With beer farts that could wake the dead
With stealth I slunk slow in to felt sheets
But it struck me as if with a gong
Not four did I count there, but six feets!
I knew at once something was wrong
There was my wife, but also another
A girl, I found to my horror
Four sharp rib-poking inches, Oh Brother!
Of course, Dora the Explorer...
My kids asleep soundly in bed
I was at the drunk-end of this long day
With beer farts that could wake the dead
With stealth I slunk slow in to felt sheets
But it struck me as if with a gong
Not four did I count there, but six feets!
I knew at once something was wrong
There was my wife, but also another
A girl, I found to my horror
Four sharp rib-poking inches, Oh Brother!
Of course, Dora the Explorer...
Scarlett Says
You go away. You come back tomorrow. Di di Mao! You go!
No bloggy heer today fo you. Thay nothing you to see heer. Go now.
You not human!
You come back tomorrow.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Suggestion
"Did you hear that? I think it came from within the wall..."
The kids had finally gone down, and I was slowly sliding toward an early bed. The TV was on, but I was only paying half attention. My chanel-flipping fingers had stopped on a horrible "supernatural" expose on the Travel Channel, called "Most Haunted."
A team of "experts" were gathered with a television crew, and were connected via satellite to a live studio anchor. Spooky graphics and expectant music set the scene. The cameras, set in night vision mode, filmed in eerie green darkness, and cast an unnatural glint off the eyes of the medium-in-charge.
She was a shrewish woman with a Hackney accent, her glinting green eyes darted back and forth as she made wild and unsubstantiated declarations about the "spirit activity" in the room.
She would suggest that she felt a sudden chill, and the others would instantly agree. She claimed that a particular corner of the room felt "spinney." Suddenly, everyone else felt "spinney" too. In silence, she would ask if "anyone heard that?"
"Oh yes," they would all say, though no one could pinpoint the direction of the noise.
Then came the Ouija table. Of course, once every one's hands were on the table it started to tilt, but for some reason it would not levitate. Likewise, the glass on the table would not move until everyone cast a finger upon it. Then, voila, the spirits moved it...
Essentially, there was a group of normal folks standing around an empty room in which nothing happened. However, through the powerful force of suggestion one woman was able to conjure up an spooky expectation of paranormal activity. Of course, the modern high-tech set dressings helped, but really, it was all about her.
Watching with my jaded skeptic's eye, it was fun to deconstruct the gimmickry and showmanship. But still and all, sitting here in the dark under house two days later, writing about and thinking about the show, I admit that I'm a little creeped out.
"Did you hear that noise?"
Now, I try to be resistant to suggestion. Living in 21st century America, you have to have a certain filter against the marketing masses. But still, sometimes, it seeps in.
Then, just yesterday, the girl and I were watching an informative documentary about the origins of canned food. One of the featured canners was James Dole, the founder of Dole Pineapple. The documentary went on to demonstrate the development of pineapple canning technology, and presented the current processing system.
Can by can of sweet fruit rolled by...
By the time we reached the end of the pineapple line, I was salivating. I immediately went to the pantry and pulled out a large can of Dole pineapple. I popped the lid, and devoured the golden yellow bits inside, with the help of the girl, of course...
Suggestion indeed.
The kids had finally gone down, and I was slowly sliding toward an early bed. The TV was on, but I was only paying half attention. My chanel-flipping fingers had stopped on a horrible "supernatural" expose on the Travel Channel, called "Most Haunted."
A team of "experts" were gathered with a television crew, and were connected via satellite to a live studio anchor. Spooky graphics and expectant music set the scene. The cameras, set in night vision mode, filmed in eerie green darkness, and cast an unnatural glint off the eyes of the medium-in-charge.
She was a shrewish woman with a Hackney accent, her glinting green eyes darted back and forth as she made wild and unsubstantiated declarations about the "spirit activity" in the room.
She would suggest that she felt a sudden chill, and the others would instantly agree. She claimed that a particular corner of the room felt "spinney." Suddenly, everyone else felt "spinney" too. In silence, she would ask if "anyone heard that?"
"Oh yes," they would all say, though no one could pinpoint the direction of the noise.
Then came the Ouija table. Of course, once every one's hands were on the table it started to tilt, but for some reason it would not levitate. Likewise, the glass on the table would not move until everyone cast a finger upon it. Then, voila, the spirits moved it...
Essentially, there was a group of normal folks standing around an empty room in which nothing happened. However, through the powerful force of suggestion one woman was able to conjure up an spooky expectation of paranormal activity. Of course, the modern high-tech set dressings helped, but really, it was all about her.
Watching with my jaded skeptic's eye, it was fun to deconstruct the gimmickry and showmanship. But still and all, sitting here in the dark under house two days later, writing about and thinking about the show, I admit that I'm a little creeped out.
"Did you hear that noise?"
Now, I try to be resistant to suggestion. Living in 21st century America, you have to have a certain filter against the marketing masses. But still, sometimes, it seeps in.
Then, just yesterday, the girl and I were watching an informative documentary about the origins of canned food. One of the featured canners was James Dole, the founder of Dole Pineapple. The documentary went on to demonstrate the development of pineapple canning technology, and presented the current processing system.
Can by can of sweet fruit rolled by...
By the time we reached the end of the pineapple line, I was salivating. I immediately went to the pantry and pulled out a large can of Dole pineapple. I popped the lid, and devoured the golden yellow bits inside, with the help of the girl, of course...
Suggestion indeed.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Suck
[Scene 1] [Fade in] A dark alley, wet with recent rain. Blue neon light from an obscured source reflects in the puddles. A young woman in a short skirt and improbable heels enters, running in terror, darting glances quickly over her shoulder.
Her assailant, his back to the camera, descends from the sky directly into her path. He is dressed stylishly in a long black coat. [close up of his black Bruno Maglis dangling beneath his black Dolce & Gabbana pant legs]
The woman stops, gasping, paralyzed. The man floats toward her, fanged jaws open, head tilted, eyes black. Suddenly, he stops. Over the woman's shoulder he sees another man, also floating, also with fanged jaws open. [kung fu battle ensues]
I'm getting very weary of Vampires. More so, even, than pirates. They are beyond cliche. They are overused and over done. They are a used up, dried out, comically uncreative genre. Worse, even, than westerns.
Always brooding, vaguely androgynous, sensual, sexual, undead. And then, just for a twist, they hand us what? A vampire with a soul? A vampire with remorse? A vampire with love? Or what? Maybe a half vampire? Maybe a Vampire cop?
And then what, we get to know the protagonist vampire, and he (always a "he") doesn't want to feed on humans, so what does he do? Eat rats? Dogs? Takes donations from the morgue or the blood bank? Is his refrigerator filled with bags of blood? Wine bottles of blood? Tupperware?
Look, it's been done. Done to death. Even done to un-death. Yet the same generic, creatively retarded ideas get rehashed and rehashed.
And when the fuck did vampires learn Kung Fu? I don't recall Bram Stoker writing about round house kicks and fists of fury. Seriously, when the hell did that happen? It wasn't Anne Rice either. Her vamps were more likely to go antiquing and shopping for the perfect lamp shade than to lay down any Jiu Jitsu. Was it Blade? Was it Buffy?
I can't remember, did any of the lost boys throw any punches?
There has to be some other plausible device to tell the story of an immortal. Take Highlander, for instance, or Jesus, the Gorgons, certain Jedi, the Flying Dutchman, and the Boat of a Million Years...
After all, how immortal can you be if a well-placed toothpick can end your existence...
So, enough already. Enough sexy Gothy stories about black-clad melancholy blood suckers. Enough with the black leather dusters. Enough with the vampy Matrix ripoffs. Enough with the uber-hip vampire dance clubs. Enough staking. Enough biting. Enough slaying.
The genre has simply lost it's bite. Its sun has set. It's time to lay it in its grave. At least, for the time being.
Her assailant, his back to the camera, descends from the sky directly into her path. He is dressed stylishly in a long black coat. [close up of his black Bruno Maglis dangling beneath his black Dolce & Gabbana pant legs]
The woman stops, gasping, paralyzed. The man floats toward her, fanged jaws open, head tilted, eyes black. Suddenly, he stops. Over the woman's shoulder he sees another man, also floating, also with fanged jaws open. [kung fu battle ensues]
I'm getting very weary of Vampires. More so, even, than pirates. They are beyond cliche. They are overused and over done. They are a used up, dried out, comically uncreative genre. Worse, even, than westerns.Always brooding, vaguely androgynous, sensual, sexual, undead. And then, just for a twist, they hand us what? A vampire with a soul? A vampire with remorse? A vampire with love? Or what? Maybe a half vampire? Maybe a Vampire cop?
And then what, we get to know the protagonist vampire, and he (always a "he") doesn't want to feed on humans, so what does he do? Eat rats? Dogs? Takes donations from the morgue or the blood bank? Is his refrigerator filled with bags of blood? Wine bottles of blood? Tupperware?
Look, it's been done. Done to death. Even done to un-death. Yet the same generic, creatively retarded ideas get rehashed and rehashed.
And when the fuck did vampires learn Kung Fu? I don't recall Bram Stoker writing about round house kicks and fists of fury. Seriously, when the hell did that happen? It wasn't Anne Rice either. Her vamps were more likely to go antiquing and shopping for the perfect lamp shade than to lay down any Jiu Jitsu. Was it Blade? Was it Buffy?
I can't remember, did any of the lost boys throw any punches?
There has to be some other plausible device to tell the story of an immortal. Take Highlander, for instance, or Jesus, the Gorgons, certain Jedi, the Flying Dutchman, and the Boat of a Million Years...
After all, how immortal can you be if a well-placed toothpick can end your existence...
So, enough already. Enough sexy Gothy stories about black-clad melancholy blood suckers. Enough with the black leather dusters. Enough with the vampy Matrix ripoffs. Enough with the uber-hip vampire dance clubs. Enough staking. Enough biting. Enough slaying.
The genre has simply lost it's bite. Its sun has set. It's time to lay it in its grave. At least, for the time being.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Nuptuals
Authority, once reserved solely for those who believed in god, is now vested in the likes of me. I am an ordained minister, though lazily agnostic, and I am authorized by my congregation (real and actual, located in Modesto, California) to join couples in genuine legally-binding matrimony.
Perhaps I've joined some of you, who are reading this right now.
I love weddings. They are full of magic and potential. I love being involved, and I've been involved in nearly every capacity. Ring boy, groomsman, groom, guest, usher, photographer, videographer, and flower arranger.
I've never been a bride, nor have I been a caterer. However, the single best job in the entire wedding is Minister. If done right, you can make the mothers laugh and you can make them cry. And if you can think fast on your feet, you can cover the gaffes and make the bride look good...
So, I am up for another wedding this year, in just a couple of weeks. A co-worker is getting married, and I was asked to officiate. This will be wedding number 4, though no-less unique than the three before. The bride and groom are performers, and have a certain theatrical flair. Therefore, I will be in costume.
Beginning with:
The clergy shirt. Nothing says "Divine Authority" like a black shirt with white boxy collar. I haven't worn one before, but I am technically authorized. So, soon, there will be another addition to my wardrobe. Because, you know, chicks dig a man in a uniform...
Then, to complete the ensemble, I will be in my kilt from the waist down. Gordon Regimental, square cut, box pleats, sporran, belt, ghillie brogues, dirk and flashes. The whole 9 yards. (Well, 16 yards, actually).
And yes, as a matter of fact, it is true what a Scotsman wears under his kilt...
There are pictures of the meat and potatoes to prove it.
Now, as a final note, I should confess that there will be one additional fashion accessory. A sword. A big ass broad sword, which will be drawn at the end of the ceremony. You will remember what I said about theatrical...
Anyway, it should come as no surprise, seeing how the processional is a Metalica intro...
I Love Wedings!
Perhaps I've joined some of you, who are reading this right now.
I love weddings. They are full of magic and potential. I love being involved, and I've been involved in nearly every capacity. Ring boy, groomsman, groom, guest, usher, photographer, videographer, and flower arranger.
I've never been a bride, nor have I been a caterer. However, the single best job in the entire wedding is Minister. If done right, you can make the mothers laugh and you can make them cry. And if you can think fast on your feet, you can cover the gaffes and make the bride look good...
So, I am up for another wedding this year, in just a couple of weeks. A co-worker is getting married, and I was asked to officiate. This will be wedding number 4, though no-less unique than the three before. The bride and groom are performers, and have a certain theatrical flair. Therefore, I will be in costume.
Beginning with:
The clergy shirt. Nothing says "Divine Authority" like a black shirt with white boxy collar. I haven't worn one before, but I am technically authorized. So, soon, there will be another addition to my wardrobe. Because, you know, chicks dig a man in a uniform...
Then, to complete the ensemble, I will be in my kilt from the waist down. Gordon Regimental, square cut, box pleats, sporran, belt, ghillie brogues, dirk and flashes. The whole 9 yards. (Well, 16 yards, actually).
And yes, as a matter of fact, it is true what a Scotsman wears under his kilt...
There are pictures of the meat and potatoes to prove it.
Now, as a final note, I should confess that there will be one additional fashion accessory. A sword. A big ass broad sword, which will be drawn at the end of the ceremony. You will remember what I said about theatrical...
Anyway, it should come as no surprise, seeing how the processional is a Metalica intro...
I Love Wedings!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
2:00 Confussion
The fabulous Vietnamese lunch was working its way through my GI tract, triggering whatever process typically gets triggered after lunch. About one hour had passed. It was time to take a walk down the hall.
I have followed this pattern enough times, thus far, that after five months, our semi-witty and mostly-wicked receptionist has figured it out. If it's two o'clock, and I'm walking down the hall, she knows exactly where I am going.
Which is fortunate, as today, there were client-like folks gathered about in the foyer, and I was not at liberty to announce my short-term excretory intentions.
As I passed the front desk, though, I discovered an attractive young woman in ironic hipster military wear standing there. She was quite tall and thin. Her lustrous curly hair obscuring the fine porcelain features of her face. Her tight jeans accentuated all of the important curves...
I walked out the door and down the hall. A few minutes later, and about five pounds lighter, I returned to the office. The young woman was still standing there talking to her attorney, but something was odd. It was her voice. It was very deep.
Deep, like Dennis Haysbert deep. It didn't fit. She was kinda hot, but sounded like a dude, a scary sounding dude.
I sent an electronic sticky note to the front desk, saying: "hey man, is that another tranny out there?"
(We've seen a few...)
"Why," came the response, "do you want some?"
(You'd think I'd get more respect...)
"No. Not this time. It's just that the voice doesn't match the rest of the package. She must be a tranny, right? A pretty good one?"
"Uh, no man," replied the surly receptionist, "He's a dude."
"Right," I said, " I get that, but he looks like a chick, right?"
"No, dude, he's all dude."
"But I though he was a hot chick. Does that make me gay?"
Well, you can guess what her response was. Anyway, apparently, I didn't really get a good look, and you know these crazy metrosexual guys these days... Well, hell, how about those Cowboys, huh? And the Rockies sweeping the National League...
And, wow, I really like to look at female boobs on women. Really. Hurray for boobs...
Ya, I'm gonna go turn some bolts on my car now. Chop some wood. Maybe I'll punch something too.
I have followed this pattern enough times, thus far, that after five months, our semi-witty and mostly-wicked receptionist has figured it out. If it's two o'clock, and I'm walking down the hall, she knows exactly where I am going.
Which is fortunate, as today, there were client-like folks gathered about in the foyer, and I was not at liberty to announce my short-term excretory intentions.
As I passed the front desk, though, I discovered an attractive young woman in ironic hipster military wear standing there. She was quite tall and thin. Her lustrous curly hair obscuring the fine porcelain features of her face. Her tight jeans accentuated all of the important curves...
I walked out the door and down the hall. A few minutes later, and about five pounds lighter, I returned to the office. The young woman was still standing there talking to her attorney, but something was odd. It was her voice. It was very deep.
Deep, like Dennis Haysbert deep. It didn't fit. She was kinda hot, but sounded like a dude, a scary sounding dude.I sent an electronic sticky note to the front desk, saying: "hey man, is that another tranny out there?"
(We've seen a few...)
"Why," came the response, "do you want some?"
(You'd think I'd get more respect...)
"No. Not this time. It's just that the voice doesn't match the rest of the package. She must be a tranny, right? A pretty good one?"
"Uh, no man," replied the surly receptionist, "He's a dude."
"Right," I said, " I get that, but he looks like a chick, right?"
"No, dude, he's all dude."
"But I though he was a hot chick. Does that make me gay?"
Well, you can guess what her response was. Anyway, apparently, I didn't really get a good look, and you know these crazy metrosexual guys these days... Well, hell, how about those Cowboys, huh? And the Rockies sweeping the National League...
And, wow, I really like to look at female boobs on women. Really. Hurray for boobs...
Ya, I'm gonna go turn some bolts on my car now. Chop some wood. Maybe I'll punch something too.
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