Thomas More

I got stuck on the Jesus channel again tonight. I couldn't help it. The "Prophetess" was testifyin... (Think Star Jones meets Beyonce')

I forget sometimes how it once was. The high-pressure god-sale. The fast-talking appeal to the emotion. The constant return to the topic of money. The manipulation of the text to punctuate the message.

Groaning Amens came from the audience as arms were raised in greedy supplication.

"Dear Jesus, please let me, just this once, win the Powerball. Oh, and, forgive me for sleeping with my Pa's new wife. Oh, and, thank you for NASCAR..."

Sometimes I believe that hillbillies deserve religion.

Then my mind wandered back to thoughts about starting my own religion. However, I realized in an instant that starting from scratch was way too much work. Why reinvent the wheel? I mean, that's what's great about Christianity in general, and protestantism specifically. If you are not rising through the ranks of your respective church, just start a new one, with you at the top.

It would really be too much work, though, to maintain that fraud for too long. One-too-many topless martini hot tub parties, and the gig would be up.

So, I wondered whether I could just settle for patron saint of something.

Which made me wonder whether there were already any patron saints that covered persons like me. You know, the patron saint of scotch-swilling stripper-tipping, semi-creepy blowhard lawyers...

This is where Thomas More comes in. He's the patron saint of lawyers. I suppose he's the best I got. Seems Thomas was a friend of King Henry the VIII, a lawyer, and was the Lord Chancellor of England. When the king wanted to create his own church (Church of England) to permit his own divorce, Thomas opposed the king's plan. He was subsequently imprisoned in the Tower for his opposition to Divorce and Anglicanism, and eventually martyred for the cause.

That's right, the patron saint of lawyers became a saint because he tried to prevent the legalization of divorce. Interesting.

Of course the whole veneration of these magical people is a load of manure. People aren't magic and God doesn't help them do special tricks. If they convinced people that they can do magic, then they are charlatans, and probably least deserving of beatification.

Which takes me to today. Happy Saint David's day. Saint D is the patron saint of Wales. Think Saint Patrick, only fewer midgets and more leeks. (My wife, by the way, makes a lovely leek soup...)

Anyway, Today is the big Welsh holiday, which is celebrated with feats of strength, random beatings and mutton-eating contests.

I admit that I don't know much about Saint David, but this is what I can gather. Saint David was the son of a minor king and/or a nun (or possibly a woman named Non) around 500 AD.

He taught a doctrine of hard work and personal sacrifice. (Wouldn't do well on modern Jesus TV...) He was also famous for his wise saying: "Do the little things."

(Midgets, for instance...)

His best know magic trick was making a white pigeon land on his shoulder. He convinced the Pope that only his powerful magic could control white pigeons, so the Pope turned him into a saint. He eventually died.

Oh, here's a picture of my Wales mug.

OK Lisa, how was that?

Mimes for Jesus

Unfortunately, the embedding code is blocked on this one. However, I can still give you the link. Click here!

UPDATE:OK, I found one I can embed. Here you go:

Reincarnation

Sausage

O ground pork encased in gut
You never need be lean
Fat and meat may taste good, but
Your spices are most keen

Every dish I add you to
Improves by leaps and bounds
Though if I add more than a few
My ass gains 20 pounds

Kielbasa and Salami
Italian and Bratwurst
Bangers and Bologna
They're the meat I reach for first

Little Miss Sunshine

"So, Brian, are you nervous?"

"What an odd question," I thought, but replied, "No, thanks for asking."

I stood at the podium in my slightly ill-fitting suit from the previous year. Across the empty lecture hall, sat the small panel of judges. A couple of the ladies looked down and stifled their giggles, just as the gaggle of girls out in the hallway had done mere moments before.

I ignored the distraction. My hastily assembled documents were arrayed before me. The inquisitive judge marked the time and said, "Well then, let's begin."

I had traveled with my high school speech team to this dry dusty college campus for yet another competition. I had signed up for the extemporaneous competition, but we were required to participate in two categories. So, I also signed up for something called "Radio News Broadcasting." It was another extemporaneous-like competition, and I apparently had something against events that required preparation...

So, there I stood, delivering hot-off-the-wire news for a panel of judges. Just 20 minutes before, I had been handed a sealed envelope containing news-wire clips, two advertisements and one public service announcement. It was up to me to select the relevant stories, edit them and assemble a 6 minute broadcast.

All of the judges were smiling. Broadly. As I left the room, I was met with more giggles and suggestively-raised eyebrows. Minutes later, as I stopped at the men's room, the mystery was finally solved. Obviously, during my entire presentation (and for god-knows-how-long before) my fly was down. And not just down, noooo, it was wide open...

Competition was the topic tonight as I flipped frequently away from the mind-numbingly boring Academy Awards. I wondered as I regularly do, why we give actors awards for acting (memorizing words and making sad faces), yet we do not hold glitzy glamorous extravaganzas for teachers, doctors or firemen??

I mean, why do THEY deserve more privilege?

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I eventually popped in the Netflix-sent DVD of "Little Miss Sunshine," which went a great distance in reminding me why my daughter will never be anywhere near a little-girl beauty pageant. Sure, I might go, but my daughter? Never.

Is it even competition? I mean what's the contest? Is it to see which white trash mother can make their pre-pubescent daughter look like the trashiest whore?? Because, if that's the case, then really, they are all winners? Is this a competition that really needs to be?

Why do we love competition in the first place? Why is it soo ingrained in the human experience? We will compete over anything. Apart from the ubiquitous sports, board games, card games and video games; people vie for dominance in such things as sand castle building, hot dog eating, and Bar-B-Q. Even strippers here in Oregon have an annual strip-off...

There is, of course, NASCAR as well, although, it seems to me that it is less about competition, and more about drinking beer while watching OTHER people drive cars and change tires.

I am no different. While I tell myself that I don't enjoy competition, my life is full of it. My job, for instance, is all about competition, doing battle with opposing counsel, championing my client's cause. For entertainment, I play disc golf, or throw darts. I play poker and and enjoy long drawn-out strategy games. I've even engaged in one of the above-mentioned BBQ
contests (and won).

The topic of competition being the topic of conversation tonight, I have a confession to make. There is one more competition I'd like to enter, and it is outside of my comfort zone.

Each year contestants are gathered from across the country for a high-stakes battle royale. No, I do not mean the ultimate Fighting Championship. Are you kidding?

No, I'm talking about the Pillsbury Bake-Off, and I have a hunger for the prize. Well sure, the top prize is a million bucks, but actually, what I really want is to just participate. I can see myself in the white hat with the white apron, sizzling away in the great hall. Does this make me gay? Sure, maybe, but it's not the first thing...

Deadline is April 22. All I need now is a recipe.

Oh, and, just in case you were wondering about the radio news competition, I won. And that is why, to this day, I never zip my fly before speaking in public...

I Don't Know Where Ya Been Lad, But Aye See You Won First Prize

Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis?
Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong?
It's swell to have a stiffy.
It's divine to own a dick,
From the tiniest little tadger
To the world's biggest prick.
So, three cheers for your Willy or John Thomas.
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake,
Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend,
Your Percy, or your cock.
You can wrap it up in ribbons.
You can slip it in your sock,
But don't take it out in public,
Or they will stick you in the dock,
And you won't come back.
-M.P.

Jesus, so just how many names for it are there?

One-eyed wonder worm
Purple-helmeted warrior of love
Heat Seeking Moisture Missle
The Brains of the Operation (The Brain)
Periscope
Schlong
Third leg
Kickstand
Sausage (Vienna, polish, italian, et al...)
Joy stick
Stick Shift
Alien
Tent pole
Wee Wee
Boner
Gagger
Chubby
Fatty
Beef Bayonette
Pipe Cleaner
Wedding Tackle
Rod
Knob
Tool
Monster
Hammer
Baby maker
The Boss
Grower/Shower
Weasel
Our simian friend
The Squinty Blowpop
Tallywacker
Mizzen Mast
Ding-a-ling
Pud
Boyo
Wiener
Skin Flute
Woody
Member
Manhood

In the Mandarin: 小弟弟 xiǎodìdì ("little brother")
In the Dutch: kapitein penis peniszoon (captain penis mcpenis)
In Denmark: anakonda (anaconda)
If you are Iranian: کیر (kir)
In Scottland: Nessie
And the Yiddish: Putz

Thanks to Fred for the input.

Also, go HERE for a list that is actually funny...

That Aint no Phoenix Feather in that Wand

What Would Tyler Durden Do?

This is the blog that the Lounge could only hope to be. It is evil. It is Genius. Thanks to Dave for turning me on to it.

Today alone, the WWTDD posts included:

Full frontal photos of Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) (Hint: click on the thumbnail)

Video of the Anna Nicole Judge in Florida weeping like a little girl

Frightening photos of bald Britney beating an SUV with an umbrella

and other fun stuff...

Forget the Daily Show, from now on, I'm getting my news from Tyler...

Kwisatz Haderach

Ok, go get your geek hat, and put it on.
I'll wait here until you get back...

Alright, all set? Here we go.

As we've discussed before, approximately 13,700,000,000 years ago, the universe was probably born. Very very soon thereafter, our very own Milky Way Galaxy began to take shape, dragging it spindly arms across the cosmos.

All was well in this spiraling system for many billions of years, until recently, about 4,600,000,000 years ago, a massive cloud of galactic gas and dust collapsed, giving rise to our very own little yellow sun, and its eventual set of 8 planets and other odds and ends, nestled comfortably out in one of the galaxy's outer spiral arms.

And here we've sat, for several billion years, minding our own business, learning how to divide cells and photosynthesize the sun's light. Some of us developed legs and even thumbs. Some of us even shed our tails, climbed down out of the trees, and learned to use tools.

Not bad for monkeys made of star dust.

Now, all good things must come to an end, and well, the Universe is no exception. Generally speaking, in the end, one of two things will likely occur. First, the Universe will continue to expand into basic nothingness. Second, the Universe will stop expanding, then it will reverse course and collapse back in on itself. Ether way, within something like 1 trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion years from now it will all be over. Give or take...

Unfortunately, there won't be any human beings around to witness the end because just 5,000,000,000 years from now, as everyone knows, the Sun will will explode into a red giant, completely obliterating the Earth and the three other inner-planets. Well, Mars will actually escape the swollen corona, but its gonna be a bit toasty nonetheless.

Coincidentally, we humans aren't gonna be around for that one either, because just 3,000,000,000 years from now the Andromeda Galaxy is going to pile drive the Milky Way, right down the center, which will essentially turn most matter in both galaxies into soup.

Don't let that worry you, however, because we're never going to get there. See, there's an asteroid named Apophis (Egyptian god of destruction) which will be passing through our neighborhood in the year 2036. How close, you may ask?

Close.

At best, it will pass by Earth BELOW the orbit of most geosynchronous satellites. That's right, I said BELOW. And that's the best we can hope for. At worst, it will strike the Earth like a mountain-sized bullet somewhere of the Pacific Coast of North America, killing, well, me for sure, and probably all the rest of you too.

How, you may ask, can we as a race ever hope to survive these cataclysms. Can humankind see it through to the end?

Well sure. Of course we can. But first, there have to be a few changes. See, we've been going about this whole evolution thing all wrong. we've allowed it to progress on it's own schedule all hurdy-gurdy-like, a little dominant trait here, a little recessive gene there. That way of thinking is just not going to do it.

If we are going to survive, we must get off this rock, and get out into space, and frankly, we are woefully under equipped for such a move.

It is time, therefore to begin the long hurtful process of selective breeding. Like the mythological Kwisatz Haderach of Dune, we must breed our most desirable genes into one super human. One human being that can withstand the universe. One being who can be all things to all people.

Fortunately, NASA scientists, with the help of JPL and the European Space Agency have developed an image of what they expect this all-purpose super-human will look like, and here he is:

Wiz Bang

OK, so, I fell asleep at 9:30 last night.

So, I had a conversation recently in which we discussed what certain celebrities would taste like. For instance, Shakira, might taste like a mango margarita, and Dick Cheney might taste like a steak that has sat in the meat case for too long before being cooked.

Whereas fun sexy red-latex-wearing Britney might have tasted like cherry vanilla, new crazy spiraling Britney probably tastes like fermenting bong water.

Christina, I'm sure tastes like Port, and Dita must taste like champagne.

Any thoughts?

Everything will be Hotter on March 2, 2007

I suspect that Christina, Sam, and I will be spending the evening together on March 2.

You can come too.

(Yes, this is filler. I feel shitty tonight, but have a real wiz-bang post lined up for tomorrow...)

Americanized

Pat Sullivan was tardy. Again. Not by much, but still, late for Mrs. Rose's Algebra class. He wasn't a bad kid. In fact, he was a fairly good student, and a good athlete.

Unfortunately, when it came to classes that began after lunch, he was over-casual with regard to start time.

It was hot. It was always hot. However, Traweek Junior High had ample air conditioning. So, we sat, steam rising from exposed skin, as the near-retirement age math teacher, with the stern demeanor and dry humor, smacked Pat on the head with her ruler, all in good fun, and in blatant disregard for the anti-corporal-punishment laws of the State of California.

Smack!

"Patrick!" She hissed, (she was the only person who ever called him by his full name...) "Certainly a bright young mathematician such as yourself should know how to tell time!"

"I was testing you to see whether you missed me." He responded.

Smack!

Apparently, she didn't. Mrs. Rose reared back for another swing at his head, (they both thoroughly enjoyed this game) when suddenly the door opened and in-stepped the Honors English teacher, Mrs. Rodgers, with amber-tinted glasses and over-permed hair.

"Don't let me stop you, Barbara, he was late to my class too."

Smack!

"What brings us this honor, Alice?" asked Mrs. Rose, while she wiped Pat's head sweat from her measuring stick.

"I'm looking for Brian."

"Which one? We have so many..."

"Brian R____," Said Mrs. Rodgers, which was odd, since I was not in her class.

Everyone looked at me. "Oh good lord," I thought to myself, "What could I have possibly done now?"

Mrs. Rose pointed her long bony finger at me. Mrs. Rodgers followed the wrinkly appendage and looked right at me. "WHY WHY WHY are you not in my English class?"

"Huh?" I was perplexed.

See, I was in the English class that the school put me in. As certain commenters to this blog will explain, I went to the elementary school on the wrong side of the tracks. Our Junior High was fed by matriculating 6th graders from several elementary schools. Most of the brighter students had been tracked at an early age out of the other feeder schools, into the GATE program at Grovecenter Elementary.

While I had started at Workman Elementary, I had actually tested into the GATE program in the first grade. However, I strongly resisted changing schools because all of my friends went to Workman. This was, of course a fallacy, since no one at Workman liked me, but that's another blog...

Anyway, this simply meant that when I graduated up to Junior High, I was tracked with all of the "non-GATE" kids, except for in Math. Math had a placement test, and that was my first exposure to those GATE bastards from Grovecenter, such as Deuce and Dr. Brian...

All of this explanation is unnecessary for the shocking turn to come later in the post, but I just wanted to make sure I wasn't accused of posting filler...

So, Mrs. Rodgers was inquisitive how I, a likely GATE candidate, wasn't in her super-special Honors English class. I explained that I didn't know, but that I felt I was doing fine in Mr. Sanchez's English class.

She then grabbed me by the arm and physically dragged me to the Principal's office. (Note: While I often embellish these torrid tales, this is an actual fact.) By the time we got there, Mr. Sanchez had been summoned. Vice Principal McClane looked confused.

My ego, substantial as it already was, got the added boost that day as I watched two teachers argue with the administration over who got to have me in their class. Truth be told, Mrs. Rodgers didn't really need me. She was just a maniacal power-hungry control-freak.

Mr. Sanchez, on the other hand... Let's just say, I WAS his class participation. I enjoyed his class, but I may have been the only one. Picture a male Hermione Granger in a grey hoodie, and you get the idea. He was a good teacher, though, and made 8th grade lit class interesting.

I remember that he used the western novel, Shane, to demonstrate plot lines, sub plots, protagonists and antagonists. While Mrs. Rodgers eventually won the argument, it is Mr. Sanchez's simple, yet well-illustrated, lessons that I remember to this day.

Which brings us, with no surprise, to this day. Like I said, it is the Sanchez diagrams, and discussions about plot-lines and plot-elements that I still see in my mind when I read books, or watch movies.

It was those very lessons that wandered around my head on Thursday as I watched The Office, and by that, I mean the Americanized Office on NBC. It is a show that I started to watch at the end of its second season. It is the only half-hour comedy that I have been able to watch in many many years.

As the missus pointed out this morning over breakfast, Thursday's episode was both hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time. With due respect to fans of House, I love The Office for the very same reason I dislike that doctor drama.

On House, no one is likable, particularly the protagonist. On The Office, however, Everyone is likable, even the antagonists. Everyone has a redeeming quality, and on Thursday, that theme was brilliantly displayed. True to Mr. Sanchez's teachings, the plot-line, sub-plot-lines, and plot elements were clear, but in the resolution, the antagonist saves the day.

And while I generally detest the "Americanization" of anything (it usually means "dumbing down..."), in this case it meant adding the exact good-natured elements that I enjoy.

My only regret is that I was tardy in coming to watch the series. Perhaps someone should smack me in the head with a ruler.

Shave and a Hair Cut

The little 4-cylinder engine whirred under the strain of the wide-open accelerator. The soft warm August air, full of fresh-cut grass and ripened blackberries, poured past my face. The top was down, the sun was on the horizon, and my 6'4" Teutonic roommate was driving.

Downtown Salem, what there was of it, sped by. We headed south toward the Main Event. It was a bar with rough edges, friendly staff, naked dancers and cold beer.

They knew us by name. They knew what we drank. I was looking forward to the best $2.00 New York steak in the state.

The light ahead turned red. Lars shifted down and brought the little red Miata to a stop. From a side street, another Miata pulled out and made a left turn around us. The middle-aged driver honked a quick toot-toot. Lars smiled and answered with his own horn.

"Know him?" I asked.

"No," said Lars.

The light turned green and we sped south on toward our prurient destination. The transmission bucked into 2nd, then again into 3rd. We swooped down into, then up out of the Gut. Up ahead, the next traffic light phased from amber to red, and again we coasted to a long slow stop.

"Beep-beep!"

The weathered woman with dark glasses in the black Miata beside us nodded at Lars.

"Beep-beep!" He nodded back.

"What, do you go to the same mechanic?" I asked.

"No," was all he said. He smirked. He was enjoying this.

On we went, toward the southern sector of Salem. The dimly lit sign for the bar was in sight. we were close. Soon I'd be drinking cold beer and tipping strippers to show me their naughty bits.

We slowed to allow opposing traffic to pass before making a left turn into the parking lot. A Doppler affected "beep-beep" was all I heard from a passing blue Miata. Lars casually tooted back, probably too late to be heard.

"What the fuck, man??" I raised my eyebrow and waited for an answer.

"It's a thing, you know? It's like an unwritten rule for Miata owners."

"I see," I said, though I really didn't. We had finally arrived. I had more important things to think about.

In recent years, however, I think I've started to understand. I drive one of those bulbous fish-eyed mini SUVs, and while other owners of my make and model don't give the Miata toot-toot salute, we do definitely recognize each other. Most often a nod or smile, sometimes a wave. It's like an informal team or tribe.

I'm sure others do it too. Perhaps, Passat owners have a high sign. Certainly, Saab drivers smile, and Beetle operators bat their eyelashes. Tonight, however, I observed the strangest car club call-and-response I've ever heard.

Mama was waylaid in Salem after work, and the Monkey and I were left to fend for food. Having loaded a steaming sack of tacos, we made for home. As we sat, stopped, waiting for our green arrow, my eye caught a rather large Fed Ex cargo truck making a sweeping left turn through the intersection.

Suddenly, with those teeth-trembling bone-jarring turbo-harmonics that only a large-truck's horn can make, the semi driver tapped out the familiar refrain of Shave and a Haircut.

"Toot ta ta toot toot..." It kept rolling through its turn.

Two beats later, the call was returned by another giant Fed Ex truck making a right turn in the opposite direction: "Toot-toot!"

Two bits.

Dark End

The dog's nails tap against the wooden stairs outside the glass door. The sole ice cube in my scotch clinks the side of the glass. It is dark, but the blue hue of my monitor illuminates the smoke rings rising from the bowl of my Kaywoodie.

It is the dark end of a long day, as JK likes to say, and the cold-shock embrace of my flannel-cased pillow draws near. Before I go, though, I'd just like to say a few words:

Xebec

Altruistic

Hobgoblin

Superfluous

Infrapatellar

Billabong

Higgildy-Piggildy

Malapropism

Frenetic

Glockenspiel

Manganese

Thank you. Good night.

Not That There is Anything Wrong With It

The eye liner was running. There was heart break in the quivering voice. Well-glossed lips trembled against the phone in Hollywood as Mom, back in Kansas, got the bad news. It was all over. All that work was for nothing. HE would not be the next American Idol.

Does it seem to you that there is a disproportionate number of young gay boys on American Idol this year? I mean, I suppose it makes sense, Clay Aiken blazing the trail, and all...

But really, it's like the high school Glee Club run amok. Only gayer.

Of course, what's worse, the fact that lispy boys cry because Simon was rude to them, or the fact that I'm sitting on my couch watching them?? (You don't need to answer that...)

Jesus, I should just start wearing panties...

Now, I just feel dirty, but not in that fun heathen sort of way. Maybe if I post a hot girlie picture, I'll feel better...

Ya, OK, I feel a little better. I guess a little cleavage goes a long way.

More Competition

Update:

Anna Nicole's former bodyguard, Alexander Dent, has announced that he was banging the broad too. While he was unable to actually do his job (preventing her from dying), he beleives that he would make an excellent billionaire, ooh, I mean "father."

Further:

ZsaZsa has finally spoken, publically announcing that her husband is a lying sack of shit.

WWTDD:

Upon hearing the news about Mr. Dent, the good folks at What Would Tyler Durden Do had this to say:

Wow, this chick sure did love fuckin. At this rate, when they reveal the list of names of potential fathers, it will be on a big giant scroll that hit's the floor and rolls across the room like that list Santa checks on Christmas Eve. Potential fathers will include Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Walter Payton, that kid who came by to sell her some candles, that one guy with the thing, Garfield and the 2005 Miami Dolphins.

I am the Father of Anna Nicole's Baby

Sure, I have competition, But really, whoever gets the kid, gets J. Howard Marshall's billions.

See, the money went to Anna. Then, by a stroke of "luck,"her eldest heir died on the day that her youngest heir was born, with her lawyer/lover/adviser in the room no less!

Damn, what a coincidence!

Fortunately, this whole mess transpired under the reputable corruption-free jurisdiction of the Bahamas. Only now, the immigration minister of the Bahamas has been caught canoodling in bed with Anna as well, just days before she died. Oops!

Then came the claim by the ex boyfriend, and possible sperm donor, Larry Birkhead. Broke, and smelling money in the water, he stepped up to assert his paternal rights. And he may just be the baby's daddy, which also makes him the likely guardian and conservator for little Dannielynn. (yes, that's actually her name...)

It's all for love of course, but then Anna coincidentally died in the same island nation and under similar circumstances as her son. (can you say systematic assassination?)

This, of course, leaves the baby in a position to inherit hundreds of millions of dollars. Suddenly, her estranged grandmother seems to be visiting more often. Oh, and Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband Frédéric Prinz von Anhalt has stepped up to claim the prize.

Strangely, nothing has been heard from Zsa Zsa. Of course, she may have died years ago. No one knows. Although, no one really believes that Anna and Anhalt were ever within 500 miles of each other either.

So, I figure, I might as well throw my hat in the ring. I mean, I never actually met Anna, but in real-life made-for-TV mini-series, details like that don't seem to be important.

Country Roads, Take Me Home

So, you may have noticed that I've been away for a while.

I've spent 20 hours in the car over a period of 5 days, with fog, rain, wind, and snow. Lots of snow.

Well, not "lots" by Idaho standards but "plenty" by Oregon standards.

I also used the time away to do some thinking, spending time with myself, reflecting.

So, as I wandered this weekend, I found myself standing in a sea of white, the sky silent but for the whisper of the wind. I was alone in the silence, and I listened to what the wind had to say.

It's funny what the mountains will do to you. They can speak to you, and change you. I was reminded of the way things used to be, and who I once was. I felt that familiar heaviness in my heart, and I was overwhelmed.

That is why I have decided to rededicate my life and the use of this blog to the Lord Jesus Christ.

OK, I'm joking. Don't worry. I was swilling way too much gin this weekend to have any type of religious epiphany.

More good old-fashioned Lounge-style smut to come later this week!

Scarlett

Scarlett Johansson.

Sexy, no?

Highball

A good Gin & Tonic is not hard to make, and as always, the bigger the better...

Right Honorable

So, to be perfectly honest, until about a week ago, I'd never heard of the Indianapolis Colts. I was shocked therefore, not so much by their entry into the Super Bowl, but rather by the fact that they even existed in the first place.

Granted, I'm not what you would call a "Sports Fan." I mostly hold no interest in watching grown men in tight pants playing with balls. However, I'm not sure how it is that an entire NFL franchise could exist (seemingly for years) without my ever having heard of it.

It's perfectly fine if you want to watch. I just have other things to geek out over...

Unfortunately, as I have blocky shoulders and facial hair, and generally appear to be the proud owner of a wiener, I am frequently met with the question, "So, gonna watch the big game?"

Generally, I can pick up on the collective cultural cues that lead up to the Super Bowl or the World Series, and I can either make a vague verbal ascent, while shifting topics, or I can simply say "No." Which, throws folks right off course. Especially men. Especially men who wear suits to work, who enjoy going to the gym, and who think Heineken is good beer.

Fuckers.

And god save me if it's basketball season. I loath basketball. I hide from it. I purposefully avoid making eye contact with any printed information about it.

Basketball season, it appears, lasts for about 14 months with a 10-month post-season play-off season. It never ends. Ever. It just keeps going and going and going, endlessly, like a basketball game itself. Running back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Etc...

I understand that people pay money to watch this. I am confused by this.

So, did I watch the "Big Game?" Well, yes, for a bit. Then, I got bored and started flipping channels.

Having made my second voyage 'round the horn, as it were, I finally stopped on CSPAN or the BBC, or somesuch. Much to my great delight, they were showing the most resent session of Question for the Prime Minister in the British House of Commons. PM Blair was standing rakish-like against his dais, smirky grin on his face, rolling out one-liners, deflecting tough questions, thinking on his feet.

The dowdy MPs from places like Berkinghamshire and Wolverhamptonsham, stood one by one, recognized by the Right Honorable Speaker. They would fire off well-written finely-pointed questions, such as, "Might we expect to receive a reasonable assurance from Government that the good working people of Burryhumpleburrough will see their pensions in place come the dawning of the next decade?"

And one by one, Smirking Tony would spin out of the way with a quick quip about the MP's poor choice of wool coat, or deflect to the seemingly urgent matter of Scottish independence.

Tony is a master. Tony is an artist.

I never made it back to the game. I guess the Colts won, whoever the hell they are...

We're Gonna Need a Babysitter

On July 21, 2007, at the stroke of midnight, I expect to be sitting on NW Couch Street in downtown portland. We will be sitting on the side walk, btween NW 10th and NW 11th, behind the North wall of Powell's Books.

I will be there with the Missus and the Monkey (as well as any other Loungers who have interest) for the release extravaganza for the final Harry Potter book.

It's a spectacle. I'll be drinking scotch from my flask.

The missus, I expect, is reaching for her cell phone right now to call powell's and pre-order the book. The Monkey will be old enough to join us, but the boy, whatever we end up naming him, will need a baby sitter. Perhaps we can bring a copy of the book back to the sitter in trade...