Half Donut

Maybe I'm just a nice guy. Maybe I like to make my co-workers smile. Or perhaps, I just bribe people to be my friends.

So, I brought a box of donuts to work today. Nothing fancy. Certainly not anything like Krispy Kreme. Just a box of basic donuts.

Through the course of the day, friendly folks came and went helping themselves to the powdery rings of cake. Then, over time, as I returned to the kitchen for regular coffee refills, I discovered that the donuts were being halved.

Cut in half. Half taken. Half left behind like sinners after the rapture. The sugar-coated box became a bin of unwanted donut halves.

Now, the first question is, why cut the donut in half? Trying to preserve your girlish figure by only consuming 18 grams of fat rather than 36? Does it matter THAT much?

Are you too full for that second bite of Donut? Was the first bite to filling?

Is it really just a matter of guilt? You want that donut, but some voice in your head tells you that it's wrong or bad, so you steal away with only half, assuaging your guilty conscience with your semi-self-denial? Really? I mean, it's just a donut.

Then, the second question is, if you want to take only half a donut, and the sad snacker before you wanted only the same. And, their bisected breakfast treat remains in the box, why not take it? Why cut another donut.

And especially, if several folks have done the same thing, why not take any one of the half-dozen donut halves littering the bottom of the box??

And of course, no one wants to take the last one. They just keep cutting and splitting, chopping and pinching, until all that is left is the inevitable single uneaten bite, which will certainly be found in the box by the time I get there tomorrow.

I'm going to eat it, damn it. The last bite is mine.

Good Lord, I'm tired

I'm wiped out. I'm going to bed.

I've been setting up Martha's new campaign headquarters.

Now I'm beat, and I'm going to hit the sack.

Remeber to check out Martha For President. If you have a myspace account (and most of you do) be sure to add the campaign as a friend!

Oh, also, Since I had nothing interesting to say, here are a few pictures of girls kissing:

08

Clinton
Obama
Giuliani
McCain

The two-year orgy of political obscenity has begun. Soundbites are being honed. Podium color patterns are being group-tested.

Hillary is fine-tuning her "not-a-complete-bitch" act.
Obama is perfecting his white-man voice.
Giuliani is trying to convince folks that he is really actually a Republican.
McCain is just trying not to refer to the Press as the "Cong."

Sure, there are others, but they are all ugly, and don't stand a chance. Well, ugly that is, except for Edwards and Romney. Unfortunately, Edwards has proven himself to be a second-fiddle loser, and Mitt looks and sounds like a car salesman.

So, that leaves us with the big four.

Which, once again, leaves me underwhelmed. After living for the last four years in this idiocracy (Wallmartopia?), I think I'd like a smart person to run the country. Someone who wasn't a cheerleader at Yale. Someone who will not embarrass us overseas.

I want a president with charisma and savvy. Someone with Leadership, not bound by antiquated notions or morality. Someone with business sense, yet able to play to the simple man's spirituality. Someone not beholden to any particular political party.

In short, I think I'm looking for a presidential candidate like Anton LaVey. Tragically, Wikipedia tells me that Mr. LaVey died about 10 years ago.

So, that just means I need to look a little harder.

Let's see, Charisma, business savvy, fluid morality...

Oh yes, I have just the person. Friends, fellow Loungers, I present to you the first official Gin and Tonic Lounge political endorsement:

Basement Window

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Random Quotes for Monday

"Military tactics are like unto water; for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards... Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing. Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions. He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be called a heaven-born captain." - Sun Tzu

"Armed forces abroad are of little value unless there is prudent counsel at home." -Cicero

"But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath
a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and
arms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join
together at the latter day and cry all 'We died at
such a place;' some swearing, some crying for a
surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind
them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their
children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die
well that die in a battle; for how can they
charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their
argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it
will be a black matter for the king that led them to
it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of
subjection." -Shakespeare

"I am the decider" - George W. Bush

Penny for Your Thoughts

Oh, One More Thing

PETA is an absurdley-radical, unreasonable, misguided quasi-terrorist organization, and its president, Ingrid Newkirk, is a shrill harpy-like media whore.

PETA's reckless pursuit to "liberate" domesticated animals is foolish, wasteful, and outright dangerous.

You should never-ever consider supporting PETA in any way, ever! If you feel you must give time or money to support animals in need, the Oregon Humane Society is a fantastic animal-saving organization that needs all of our help.

That having been said, please enjoy the following video from PETA:

Hero

So, they saved the cheerleader. Presumably, now, they will save the world. Unless, that is, Peter blows his own ass up.

Heroes is a fine fine television program. It has the mysterious intrigue of Lost and the persistent pacing of 24. It's on NBC, Monday nights at 9:00 (except perhaps in the Central time zone.) (Jesus, what is the Central Time zone anyway? Does anyone even live there? And if so, why can't they stay up an hour later like the rest of the goddamn country??)

Watching Heroes makes me wonder at times, usually late at night, after a drink or three, if I got to choose one super power, any super power, what would it be?

Flight?

Webs from my fingers?

Fireballs from my ass?

No... None of that. No telepathy. No levitation. No super strength or even invulnerability.

No, if I got to choose one super power, it would be x-ray vision. Obviously.

C'mon, you saw that one coming a mile away...

36

Woo hoo!! Happy Birthday to Ev!

100

At 6:05 pm, Pacific Standard Time, The Lounge passed, for the first time, 100 individual visitors in one day. This is, of course, a mile stone only for my narcisistic ego. However, I would like to take the oppotunity to thank each of you for your continued support.

I would also lilke to thank Pepperoncinis, Tricia Helfer, and Google for their part in this small achivement.

Thank you Tricia Helfer:

Thank you Pepperoncini:

Mr Snuffleupagus

It was a hot February afternoon in 1985. Eh, maybe it was 1986.

I'm really quite certain it wasn't 1987. So, let's stick with 85 or 86.

Oh hell, for the sake of getting-on-with-it, let's just say it was 1985. It was definitely in the afternoon, and it was definitely hot outside.

I arrived home from school, and splashed my books down onto my water bed. I turned back to the kitchen for a quick snack, then settled onto the couch in the living room, the only cool room in the house.

The giant Black & Decker wall-mounted air conditioner churned away, pumping pure icy air in my direction. I turned on the TV, and flipped the dial up into the high UHF channels.

Broadcast, baby, pre-cable. UHF Channel 22, KWHY, now a Spanish-language station, back then it was a humble little local independent broadcaster trying to stay afloat. Seeking to cash in on the video music movement, the little station that could borrowed Jim Trenton, "Poorman" of KROQ fame, to host an after-school music video cavalcade. Video 22 was its name, and if it wasn't exactly "edgy," it was at least a little rough around the edges...

I sat steaming on the sofa, the cold air condensing the water vapor rising form my body, I tried to focus on the unfamiliar video playing on the screen before me. I hadn't seen it before, and I wasn't even sure who it was.

The man was tall and lanky. He had bushy blonde hair, and a British accent. A motley assortment of nurses and other various unfortunate folk seemed to be following him on some macabre parade. Admittedly, I missed the first few notes of the song, but what I heard appeared to be somewhat irritating.

There was a bass-heavy disco rhythm, and the lyrics seemed to be repetitive refrains limited to a call-and-response of:

Say Captain
Say wot
Say Captain
Say wot
Say Captain
Say wot you want...

I failed to catch the artist's name. However, I assumed the enigmatic singer held the self-imposed rank of "Captain." The song, while simple and banal, had gotten stuck in my head, much like an infection. At the very least, I wanted to figure out who the offending artist was.

The following day, around the lunch table in the cafeteria, I shared my puzzling musical experience and, based on my singular recall of the lyrics asked whether any of my comrades recognized the little ditty.

Tom, Brian, Mark and Dave all looked at me blankly. None had heard or seen such a thing, and Tom, at the very least, accused me of making the whole thing up. Tom's theory caught on quickly, and the others joined in on Tom's accusations.

It didn't help that I couldn't let it go. Nor did it help that the mystery video never aired again in the days, weeks, and months that followed.

Years passed, and while the ridicule receded, it never quite ended. Until one day, in 1989, out of the blue, Dave came up to me with a very somber face, and in a hushed conspiratorial tone, he admitted that he had come across the wayward recording, and provided the name and identity of the mystery man with bushy blonde hair.

His name was Captain sensible, and the song, "Wot" was his solo project while he was taking a break from playing with The Damned.

Well, I'll be damned.

I was not around when Mr. Snuffleupagus was outted on Sesame Street. This, I suppose was the next best thing. And as a special added bonus, here is the Captain's magnum opus, Wot:

Migraine

Misuse (or over use) of the word "Migraine" gives me a headache.

Notice that I did not say: "It gives me a migraine."

That is because "Migraine" is not synonymous with the word "Headache." In fact, the term "Migraine" is not even synonymous with the phrase: "Really really bad fucking headache."

That's right, contrary to what you've been brainwashed to believe by over-the-counter pain relief advertisements, "Migraine" is NOT another word for "headache!!" It is a medical syndrome, and it has OTHER symptoms.

Please get it through your simple tension-headache-ridden skulls. If you have a really really bad fucking headache, it is possible (and in fact 85% likely) that all you have is the really really bad fucking headache, and you do not have Migraine Syndrome at all.

The real Migraine Syndrome is a neurological disorder. True, one of its common symptoms is headache. However, its other (overlooked) symptoms also include: altered mood, irritability, depression, euphoria, fatigue, excessive sleepiness, craving for certain food, stiff muscles, Sensitivity to touch, constipation or diarrhea, increased urination, flashes of white or multicolored lights or forma­tions of dazzling zigzag lines. Some patients complain of blurred, shimmering or cloudy vision, as though they were look­ing through thick or smoked glass.

Some complain of tunnel vision. Others, a feeling of pins-and-needles in the hand and arm as well the nose, mouth, face, lips and tongue. Other symptoms can include auditory or olfactory hallucinations, vertigo, and hypersensitivity to touch.

So, if you find yourself with a really really bad fucking headache, but you haven't woken from sleep covered in your own piss, with a sensitivity to the plastic-Jesus nightlight in the corner of your room, please DON'T tell me that you have a migraine.

Instead, just tell me you have a headache, OR, if you are prone to hyperbole, you may tell me that you are suffering from the worst goddamned debilitating headache you've ever experienced in your whole pain-filled life. That's OK too. Either way, I'll go get you some Ibuprofen and a glass of water.

Because I'm good that way.

Hall and Oates

Pri-i-i-vate eyes
[clap clap]
been watchin you
They see your ever-y moo-oove

Darryl Hall and John Oates

Darryl Hall and John Oates



Darryl Hall and John Oates

Hall and Oates
Oh ya...

I know nothing of their music.
In fact, I don't really have anything to say about them.

I just like to say their names.
Darryl Hall and John Oates.
Hall hall hall.
Oates oates oates...
Hall-n-Oates.
Hall AND Oates.
HALL and oates.
hall and OATES.

DARRYL HALL AND JOHN OATES!!

I LOVE SAYING IT MAN!!

Just Add Water

With a talkative two-year-old tugging at my leg, I attempted to throw together a quick dinner for the family. A simple Jambalaya simmered in the pot, glistening with sausage and bespeckled with shredded peppers.

The monkey mugged for a cracker. The sad-faced dog hovered patiently in the corner waiting for the first wayward scraps to strike the floor. My mind raced for a second course. A main course, in my mind, always requires a side dish. If for no other reason, something to sop with...

biscuits.

No, no Bisquick left in the cupboard. um... um... ummmm...

Cornbread.

Yes! A can of Marie Callender Cornbread Mix peeked out from behind the rows and rows of Mandarin Orange cans. "Add Water!" It read in bright bold letters on the front. Simple instructions for a simple meal.

Pan well-greased, I folded-in the pale yellow batter, and slid it into the pre-heated oven. A half hour later, the golden corn pillow came out, steaming and smooth, bearing fine contrast to the chunky spice-colored Creole rice pot.

Wine? No, beer. Full Sail Amber, bitter with heavy Oregon hops to smooth out the cayenne. Golden Irish butter melted into the yellowy grainy cornbread. I raised the sweet square to my mouth. And that is where I detected the first sign of trouble.

It smelled... Like...uh... what? what? Oh yah, FISH!!

Unfortunately, it was too late. The taste buds detected the foulness before the nose could. Now, you and I both know that FISH is not an ingredient to cornbread. Nevertheless, it smelled and tasted like sea food. I went back to the mixing bowl and sniffed. Yes, definitely fish.

And, I don't mean a nice delicious bass. No, I mean FISH, like the deck of a fishing boat at rest under the July sun. It made my mouth taste like fear. I welcomed the thought of vomit, which would at least taste a little better.

Hunger compelled me to cleanse my gullet with more beer. Then, after opening a third, I finally sat down and finished the Jambalaya, which, all things considered, turned out pretty well.

Thursday Update

Lindsay is in rehab.

Howard Stern and his staff were discussing, this morning, the Lindsay dilema (Hot vs. Insufferable)

Roads in and around Portland are mostly clear. Although, I had to park at the bottom of my street last night due to ice. There is still plenty of snow on the ground.

Our nextdoor neighbors have secretly moved out. I didn't notice they were gone until the Dad showed up on my doorstep two nights ago asking to borrow a flashlight. Apparently, they moved late at night, and no one knew the difference.

Anyway, their house has a similar floor plan as mine. It has a lovely yellow paint job, sits next to a fabulous little park, and it is likely to go on the market in the very near future.

Anyone want to be my neighbor?

Camera: I have already purchased a third lens. I've purchased a second book, and I'm considering taking a class.

Is your, uh, is your wife interested in....photography, ay? Photographs, ay?

Photography?

Snap-snap, grin-grin, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more?

You mean holiday snaps, eh?

They could be, they could be taken on holiday. Candid, you know, CANDID photography...

No, no, I'm afraid we don't have a camera.

Oh. (leeringly) Still, mooooooh, ay? Mwoohohohohoo, ay? Hohohohohoho, ay?

Look... are you insinuating something?

Oh, ho, no, no, no ...yes.

Out of the Sandbox: Tricia Helfer

It may be rumor, or it may be fact. I have no idea. Story goes, when you register your website or blog with Google, you stay on the back burner, or "in the sandbox," until such time as Google determines that you are not a fly-by-night operation.

Well, based on the trusty old sitemeter, it seems that I am finally off of Google's double-secret probation. I've been getting a flood of referrals from Google in the last month or so...

Funny thing is (some of you already know this) the referral link from Google links back to the visitor's original Google search terms. This means I can see what terms were search that led to the Lounge.

And yes, that is a little creepy, but it is still fun nonetheless.

Surprisingly, the second most popular search term that leads to the Lounge has been "Assapalooza." Seems that folks, mostly on the east coast, really want to find Assapalooza. And for that, they come to me.

More surprising, however, is the number one search term that leads folks here to me. That term, of course, is "pronunciation of Pepperoncini," one of my finer early posts...

So, the punch line is, earlier today, I got a call from Tom, who kindly informed me that Tricia Helfer, Number Six on Battlestar Galactica, was on Howard Stern. (Tom and I both subscribe to Sirius satellite Radio.) Later, however, while reviewing my stats, I discovered a spike in Google referrals for folks searching for naked pictures of Tricia Helfer.

Coincidence? Perhaps. Just in case, though, I'd like to extend a warm welcome to all of the Howard fans who have happened by. You can click HERE for the naked pics of Tricia!

Snowdog

Woke up to six inches of fresh powder on the back-yard ski slope. Our steep street, while perfectly good for sledding, is not ideal for driving. According to the local news, the freeway between my home and office isn't any better.

Snow day!

Fire in the fireplace. Monkey in fleece. I take the dog and the camera for a hike around the back yard. Technically, the boy is half husky, but he has traditionally been a little timid with regard to snow.

Well not this year. By some miracle, the Snowdog switch has been flipped!

The girls are now napping, and I am sipping scotch. Fluffy white flakes continue to fall from the sky.

Oh, and the mighty mountain predator is curled up in a ball behind my desk...

What to do with Lindsay

Oh good god.

I didn't see it coming.

I had no warning.

I didn't mean to do it.

I was utterly taken by surprise, distracted as I was by Britney's sagging vag, and Paris's vapid gaze; by the endless swirl of nightclub gluttony and flashes for the paparazzi flash bulbs; by the endless parade of thong straps and see-through gauzy get-ups. It honestly never dawned on me before this afternoon, and I was shocked, literally, by my realization:

I appear to be undeniably attracted to Lindsay Lohan.

The green (sometimes blue) eyes lighting the Irish freckles, contrasting with the reddish brown hair, all mix toxically with her creamy ample bosoms.

On the one hand, I know all too well that she is nothing more than a untalented spoiled trampy media whore.

But then, I spy the see-through publicity portraits and the slighty-drunk slutty bedroom eyes...

Look, when I say "attracted" I don't mean in that "Hey, I think you have an interesting personality-let's get lunch" sort of way. Hell no! I mean it in the "Hey baby, Let's lick each-other's tonsils" sort of way... She's kinda hot, but entirely insufferable. Seriously, I don't know what to do!

I need better standards.

A Message From Darth Vader

Good Morning. I am Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith.

As some of you are aware, the planet of Alderan was recently destroyed. The decision to obliterate it was a difficult decision to make. Every shred of intelligence gathered from our Bothan spies (and other sources) led to the single conclusion that the rebel base was there.

As it turned out, the rebel base was not on Alderan at all, and the planet didn't really have to be destroyed. The decision, while made in consultation with the Emperor and Grand Moff Tarken, was ultimately mine.

All mistakes made in this matter, therefore, were also mine. I take full responsibility for them. To that end, I have used the Force to crush the necks of my top advisers.

For the last several days, I have meditated upon this problem while sealed in my hyperbolic isolation chamber. I thought long and hard about how best to proceed. Our best course of action now seems clear.

Today is a day that will long be remembered. I am please to announce the kick-off of Operation Alderan Freedom. The plan is to send 12 legions of storm troopers along with the imperial fleet to attack a small moon at the edge of the galaxy, which seems to be inhabited by annoying little monkey children.

I know that some of you are critical of this plan, but honestly, I find your lack of faith disturbing. So, I would like to invite you to join me, and together we can rule the universe!

Thank you, and may the force be with you.

Nudini, the Naked Magician??

Ever find yourself sitting in front of the computer, too tired to go to bed? Maybe you've been blogging. Maybe you've been researching lenses for your new camera. Maybe you spent hours driving Roman legions across North Africa, playing the latest "Total War" release. Who knows...

What I do know, is that I shouldn't surf in this condition. If I do, I end up with something like this:

Cruel Drool

Case files arrive in orderly stack, set at right angles, along the left side of my desk. Transmittal sheets, demand letters, police reports, claim activity indexes, and the never-ending assembly line of medical records, chiropractor narratives, and massage logs.

One case blurs into the next. Rear-ender. T-bone. Side-swipe. Air bags. Seat belts. Neck pain. Head ache. Lumbar disc bulge. MRI. Wage loss.

And then the whining begins.

But, it's all so much white noise, formless buzzing, without meaning. It is all so sterile and distant. It's words on paper and lies under oath. The abstract idea of a crash holds no emotional meaning for me any longer.

But then, the weather changes, and on a day like today, at slightly higher elevations, like that around my office, the temperature dips below freezing. The bright blue January sky lets the warmth contained by clouds to evaporate, and the northwest rain-soaked streets become ice skating rinks.

I sat eating a yellowy goo at the Mediterranean buffet, just up the hill from my office. The goo was good, and tasted unidentifiably familiar. I sat beside the big bay window facing the street. Slowly, one-by-one, I began to notice the cars heading up the hill having more and more problems. The ice sheet was thickening, doing nothing for uphill traction.

One unfortunate lady ("dumb bitch" according to my lunch companion) refused to put down her cell phone while she careened one-handed backward down the hill in her minivan. Eventually, a tire caught a patch of dry pavement and she stopped, straddling the line, blocking both lanes of traffic, still talking on the phone.

While she waited, the impatient man in the Volvo behind her made an end run. Now, Volvos are great cars, with great safety control features. However, ice is ice, and rubber is rubber.

He slid out of control inches from the minivan. The boy sitting behind me gaped with amazement. His dad gave an, "oh Oh OH!" My lunch buddy grinned with grizzly excitement. Even I, jaded as I am to the very notion of an automobile collision, set my jaw against the gory exhilaration. I wanted so badly, with passionate desire, to see the metal twist, and to hear the screech and ripple of a tearing fender. I wanted to hear the crack and smash of breaking glass.

But it never came.

Moments later, another car slid by, down the slope, on a trajectory toward another van stopped at the bottom of the ill. And again, disaster was averted by mere inches. The disappointment of the patrons and wait staff, now gathered around our window seat was palpable. The spectators, all of us, wanted action. We wanted to see the crash. We wanted to witness the destruction. I, for one, felt a lust-like urgency for it to happen.

ultimately, I was let down. Probably for the best. No one, it seems, was hurt. It wasn't until later, upon reflection, while I drove the monkey home from monkey care, that I contemplated the feelings that I had experienced. Was it blood lust? Perhaps. Though I wished no specific ill on the participants.

Why is it that millions of NASCAR fans pay big money to watch hours of racing with the mere hope of a five second thrill? Why does freeway traffic stall for miles behind rubbernecking gawkers at an accident scene? Why do we revel in the ill-fate of others?

Maybe it's just me. I'm really OK with that.

I suspect, though, that it's all of us. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's a subconsciously sadistic surge. Maybe it's an inherent celebration of our Darwinian superiority over the less-fit in our gene pool.

Who knows.

I do know that my companion and I both drove out of the parking lot, leaving much room in front of and behind our cars. I, for one, got back to my office in one piece.

By Now, You Should Know How These Things Go

So, I was watching a bootleg video of Dita, when... Blah blah blah...

I was really low on Scotch!... Blah blah blah...

...and that's when I went to Albertsons. Blah blah blah... Really, it was a nice creamy havarti... Blah blah blah...

..there were just too many pictures of Amanda's ass... blah blah... only one arm... Blah blah blah...

...but it was actually in Britney's vagina, etc... blah blah blah...

...giant penis made of legos...

Blab blah blah...

...when he found himself in the middle of a circle Jerk in Hell with Hitler, Satan and Dick Cheney...

Blah blah blah...

...picture of Christina Ricci...

XY

Father of girls, my ass!

Test

Tdpt

--
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Subscription Prescription

Time
Life
People
Hustler

Can you learn anything about a person by the magazines they subscribe to? Some lawyers think so. Many prospective jurors have been booted because of poor periodical purchases, or due at least to the spectre of bad taste, based on nothing more than the the titles of the mags, rags and journals delivered to their homes.

Is that fair?

I don't know. Do you read Guns & Ammo or The Utne Reader? Esquire, GQ or Details? Do you read Playboy for the articles and Newsweek for the pictures? Do you subscribe to Martha because you like her cupcakes, or because you think she is a sultry corporate temptress?

Are you a Cosmo girl? Or is Road and Track more your speed?

Entertainment Weekly? Variety? Premier? Are you in the biz, or do you just like movies? Maybe you just like movie stars. In which case, perhaps you prefer Us, Star, or People.

And what to do with Playgirl? Sexually independent heterosexual feminist, or horny gay man?

For years, I subscribed concurrently to Maxim and National Geographic. Taken as a whole, it would not be unfair to make certain assumptions about my personality based on those two bits of information.

I have let them run their course, however. I have let the subscriptions run. I ignored the bright red warnings in the mail, and simply waited for them to stop arriving. I have been thinking, however, of replacing them.

But with what? That is the question.

Something with scantily clad women to be sure, but also something with topical newsiness. Something political with a Libertarian twist. Something with men's gadgets, gear and silk ties. Something with popular abstracts of scientific exploration. Something about digital techno toys. Something geeky. Something prurient. Something with photos of photons, quarks, quasars or galactic collisions.

I just don't know.

Any suggestions?

Geek Deeply

Jan 8, 2007
8:29 PM
Arrived at FedEx location
PORTLAND, OR

Those are the words I have been waiting for. Those are the words for which I have been searching and scanning, minute by damn-near minute. I have already downloaded and read the 180-page owners manual. I have left the link to the FedEx tracking site up on my computer since last week, refreshing frequently to find word, any word, on the updated status of the trek across the country.

"Do you know where your camera is?" You may ask.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Last Tuesday, I was pleased to read that it had left Texas, and was on its way to Oregon. However, later in the day it struck me, my poor lonely little camera was in a box on a truck in the middle of goddamn nowhere. What if there was an accident, or a hijacking, or a fire? What if the driver got lost? You know how I am about my stuff.

Being on a truck in the middle of the highway, in the middle of the night, in the middle of Texas is about as far out of my control as an object can get...

So it was, a few days ago, as I dined over sushi with a friend. I told her about my crazed obsession with the camera purchase. She observed that while she knew I was a geek, she was amazed by my capacity for geeking deeply. I assured her this was not the first time....

There was my addiction to The One Ring Dot Net during the never-ending lead-up to The Fellowship of the Ring. There was the Mulder and Scully action figures on my wedding cake. There are between Seven and Nine Thousand Magic: the Gathering cards in color-coded binders gathering dust under my house. There is the hand-made speed-felt-topped 10-man poker table under the house as well...

Oh, I have the capacity to geek pretty damn deep.

I suppose do I enjoy it on occasion, although life and age have afforded me fewer opportunities as time slips by. Perhaps I have to look for opportunities these days. I mean, really, it's just a camera.

But on the other hand, it's mine.... All mine... My prrrrecioussssssss......

Unzip

I'll swallow your head, but not in the GOOD way...

Yes, Thank You

Yes, I've heard. I think even my mother mentioned to me that Dita is now single. Poor crazy Mr. Manson, he seems to have lost what few marbles he had left.

And poor Dita, perhaps she needs to be consoled.

Dita if you read this, I'm a good listener... call me.


Thanks to everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE for the separation updates...

In a Wad

Seems that ya'll got your panties in a wad over some anonymous commenter callin his or herself "The Panty." Admittedly, I've tried to sus out the undergarment's secret identity, but their ISP is conveniently obscured.

So, in this case, I'm as in the dark as you. In honor of the clever mystery poster, however, I thought we could all enjoy a few shots of our favorite four ounces of fabric...

This and That

It's been one of those weeks. As you can see from the utter dearth of decent posts recently. Busy I have been, and pre-occupied by many things. Year-end billables filled my mind, as did birthdays, holidays, and general social obligations.

Sleep as well, stole away the muse-filled minutes, washing away all sense of inspiration.
Very few of the last two-dozen nights have been spent at home, let alone in front of the computer, although so much has happened.

I mean no less than two long-lost names have crept back into the conscious collection. Mark, for one, of the "shark" variety, has surfaced without warning within the always surprising world of myspace. Pro-vampire? anti vampire, I really can't figure it out, but howdy to Mark and welcome to the Lounge.

And then, a day later, here comes Mike, of the first-year Willamette roommate variety. Most folks thought we were a "couple" for the longest time. I'm not sure about me, but I know for certain Mike wasn't the least bit gay. I'll always appreciate the 11:00 a.m. Saturday morning shots of Bourbon and the minute-by-minute updates on the latest Washington State cougars game... Go Cougs!

What a sad trick of fate to strap Mike with a non-sports fan like me for a roommate. Still and all, I'm very pleased that he popped up. Welcome, Mike, to the Lounge!

Then there was New Years. I uh, went to a party. And that, really, is all I'm prepared to say about that.

And then, at the risk of sounding completely unlike myself, mentioning not one but two football teams in a single blog: Holy Jesus! Did you see the Fiesta Bowl?? Mrs. G&T's sister and her husband are big fans of BSU, so I watched the game in support of the family's interests. But good god, I mean, DID YOU SEE THE GAME??? Congratulations to all of the various and sundry readers in Boise specifically, and Idaho in general. You all know who you are...

Well, that's what's been on my mind. Not really Blog material, oh, but, maybe the the Camera could have been. The new camera. You can say I have been a bit obsessed. Preoccupied perhaps. Insanely Hopped, more like it. Rolercoaster ups and downs, more research invested in the purchase than I did for my third-year lawschool thesis. It was a hefty purchase to be sure, with consumer-centered pitfalls and the old bait-and-switch grift. Alas, the purchase has finallybeen made, the object ordered from a reliable retailer, it is finally en route.

Now, maybe, I will get some sleep.

Sometimes I Think They Make Movies Just for Me