The Whites of Their Eyes

Like sentries, they stood, barring access with their bare torsos. Lined up, two abreast, the scantily clad spokes model greeter-whores smiled brightly as we approached.

Ostensibly hired to greet the male patrons upon arrival, and hand out glossy folded programs; they were, in actuality, nothing more than obligatory T&A for what promised to be a monumental sausage fest.

Beyond the cleavage-thrusting duo lay the convention center exhibit hall, and the Boy Toy Expo, which sprawled therein. Cars, boats, motorcycles, cigars, booze, guns, poker, BBQ, remote-control helicopters, roasted nuts, massages and hot tubs. Hell, they even had grand pianos. All the wonders the world had to offer, but first I had to get past the whores.

Well, OK, they probably weren't actually whores, per se... But $20 says they'd seen the business end of a stripper rack more than once.

They wore tight black panty-like shorts and tiny red-leather boob panels held together with vermicelli-sized leather thongs. Fake-tanned flesh and surgically-enhanced curves spilled out of every seam and gap.

They were part of the show. However, we were in a brightly-lit public space, there was no stage and no one was tipping. I had, for a moment, an overwhelming urge to think of them as actual human beings.

And thus, I found myself in one of those unique dilemmas that continued to bother me for the rest of the day. As creepy and lecherous as I may be, generally, I do try to be somewhat respectful. So, for instance, when I'm conversing with a woman, be it a friend, a coworker or a stranger, despite my carnivorous urges to "look down," I put great effort into maintaining eye contact.

However, in the case of the expo girls, I was SUPPOSED to look. That's why they were there! That's why they were dressed as they were, and stationed where they were. The very first titillating set of playthings I was supposed to ogle were those two girls. That's what they were paid for. That was part of the implied contract that I entered when I purchased my ticket.

Yet, as we drew nearer, and the girls flashed their artificially whitened smiles, I found myself at a loss. I wanted to look down and gape at their goodies. They also probably wanted me to, or at least expected me to. The people paying their fee for the day certainly wanted me to.

But I didn't. I started to, but with an awkward jerking snapping motion, I twisted my head back up to an almost-natural position. My eyes faltered once again, but subconsciously slipped back up to almost-eye level with the girl on the right.

Eventually, we reached the door, and the girl on the right offered me the glossy program.

"Er, eh, thanks..." I said, with a dorky dismissiveness. I half-smiled as I took the handout, head cocked to the left, face tilted unnaturally upward, eyes fixed on a point just to the left of the girl's nose, about a half inch below her eye.

I avoided the genetically-imperative gawking.

"smooth..." I thought to myself.

Ho Mok Ta Lay

Sausage and mushroom pizza?
New York steak, medium rare?
Oysters on the half shell?
Homemade vanilla bean ice cream, with caramel and whipped cream?

What would you choose, should you find yourself ordering out for the last time.

Say, for instance, you were in Texas, and were found driving an Econoline van filled full with dead high school cheerleaders. Then, as your day of reckoning came, as eternity drew near, and you were offered a final meal, what would you choose? Would you gluttonously gorge on every choco-bunnie and swizzle stick you could lay your sin-stenched fingers upon?

Would you meditate on a meal menu to remind you of your favorite flavors?

Would you carefully craft your meal for posterity, making a statement, vague and arcane as it may be, for future generations to ponder? (e.g. Ted Bundy ordered fried chicken, fried shrimp, french fries, and fresh strawberries. Then, he refused the meal when it came. How very peculiar...)

Would you use your order simply to screw with the guards one last time?

During many a long dark drive home, under the dreary drizzle of the Oregon winter, I asked myself this question. For a long while, I thought the answer was simply the peppery tart gelatinous General Tso's Chicken, as made only at August Moon in Portland. Maybe a side of the hot and sour soup, if I felt up to it.

Then, however, over time, I made the move to Massaman Curry with beef. It's like mom's homemade beef stew, that is if mom came from Surat Thani or Phitsanulok...

But now, however, I have made a new choice. No one felt like cooking tonight, and the monkey wanted to get out of the house. So, we packed up and rolled to the nearby Thai place.

Bored, I was, with my usual selections. So, I branched out and scanned the seafood selections on the right edge of the menu. A little something called Ho Mok Ta Lay caught my eye. Calamari, clams, scallops, mushrooms, onions, curry and sweet basil. Sweet Jesus! It was beauty in a bowl. It was almost proof that there was a god, and he was Thai...

So that's it, I can now go gracefully to the gallows, knowing confidently, that before I go, I get to eat some of that.

Oh, and, I'll order from Bangkok, just to screw with the guards.

Gay Has its Advantages

It pays to be gay, it seems...



Although that led to this...



Which somehow led to this...



all of which, eventually led to this...

Tackle Box

For the fishing fanatic, there is nothing so pleasing as a well organized, and pleasantly parsed, tackle box. Various weights of varying sorts are sorted into neat groupings of similar sizes. Treble hooks, tangled and catching, mass together like a barbed mesh in their own separate bin.

Big bobbers bounce off one another and the specialty tools sleep silently in their own precise pouches.

The well-ordered tackle box is an exercise in harmony. It is simple serenity. It is the last defense against the blood-letting chaos of free-floating hooks and blades.

The genius lie in the compartments, and the fisherman's strict adherence to them. If he keeps the things in the places they belong, then he can focus on bobs when he wants bobs, and he doesn't have to fret over the danger of a stray hooked-lure crossing paths with his thumb.

So too, run the wheels of the mind.

There is a compartment for work, and a compartment for home.
There is a compartment for hunger, and another for sleep.
There is a compartment, padded though it may be, for ailing elders and mournful mothers.
There is a compartment for monkeys and a compartment for mockingbirds.
There can even be a compartment for meaningful meetings that occur in the evenings.

Occasionally, when I'm lucky, the compartments stay sorted and the dividers remain clear; the bits are kept safe from the pieces. It's when the assortment of stuff is sorted by lot, then, then my mind knows no fear.

SFO

Working on two hours of sleep, I'm wending my way to Los Angeles. Of course, my flight out of san francisco was cancelled. So, now I wait for my new flight to LAX.
I need coffee.

April

APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Thanks to Fred for the literary reminder.

Forget the Ides of March. Beware the entire month of April.

Really, we all should just collectively go back to bed and sleep in until May...

Oh well.

April 20. Happy birthday to Adolph Hitler and my ex-girlfriend, April, where ever she is.

Happy 4-20 to my green-minded friends.

Happy birthday to Lisa (from Wales) (she loves it when I say that) eh, Saturday, I think.

Oh, and, Happy Earthday on Sunday to my tree-hugging friends.

I think that covers it.

I think this weekend calls for a long dark nap in the walk-in closet isolation chamber.

Oh, and here are a few other interesting things that have occured in April:

The American Revolution (Started with Paul Revere's Ride: April 18-19 April 1775)
The American Civil War (Started April, 1861, ended April 1865, thus "Across Five Aprils")
The Bosnian War began in the first days of April, 1992
The Rwandan Genocide began in April, 1994
The Armenian Genocide began in April 24, 1914

Other events that have occurred in the month of April include:

President Abraham Lincoln's assassination (April 14, 1865)
The 1906 San Francisco Earthquake (April 18, 1906)
The sinking of the RMS Titanic (April 14-15 April 1912)
The Armenian Genocide (April 24, 1915)
Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination (April 4, 1968)
Chernobyl nuclear accident (April 26, 1986)
The 1992 Los Angeles Riots after the Rodney King verdict (April 29, 1992)
The bloody end to the Branch Davidian siege in Waco, Texas (April 19, 1993)
Kurt Cobain commits suicide (April 5, 1994)
The Oklahoma City Bombing (April 19, 1995)
The Columbine High School massacre in Littleton, Colorado (April 20, 1999)

Hammurabi

The remarkable Code of Hammurabi (1760 BC) is considered the first written public law. It is genius in its simplicity, yet it is exhaustively complete. 282 paragraphs cover the whole of civil and criminal law. Contracts, Sales, Probate, Taxes, Torts, Property, Evidence and Administration. It's all there.

Of course,bits of it are barbaric, at least by today's standards. However, perhaps, what we need today is a bit more barbarism...

Here are a few of my favorite bits:

8

If any one steal cattle or sheep, or an ass, or a pig or a goat, if it belong to a god or to the court, the thief shall pay thirtyfold; if they belonged to a freed man of the king he shall pay tenfold; if the thief has nothing with which to pay he shall be put to death.

21
If any one break a hole into a house (break in to steal), he shall be put to death before that hole and be buried.

196

If a man put out the eye of another man, his eye shall be put out.

[ An eye for an eye ]

197
If he break another man's bone, his bone shall be broken.

200
If a man knock out the teeth of his equal, his teeth shall be knocked out.

[ A tooth for a tooth ]

So, then, under the code, what should be done, what is just, when someone breaks my things and steals my stuff? Because really, that is my button. That is what gets my goat. That is the one penal peeve that particularly gets on my very last nerve.

I have a high degree of tolerance for insult and offense. I can turn my cheek with the best of them.

But, when it come to my stuff, the stuff that I work for, the stuff that I care for, the stuff that becomes an extension of me, what should be done to the violator?

There is nothing noble about a thief. A thief is a coward. A lazy piece of shit coward. And when a worthless cock-sucking piece-of-pig-shit son-of-a-whore shatters windows in my car and takes my things, leaving my wife and my daughter stranded; what action would not be justified?

Oh sure, the goddamn good-for-nothing jizz-guzzling chicken-fucker will never be caught.

But if he is... If he is...

I can at least fantasize about horse tranquilizers, duct tape and baseball bats, can't I?

My last fucking nerve. I'm telling you.

Toys I Never Had

Sasquatch, for starters...

Oh sure, I had Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man...

What, with his looking-glass eye, press-button actuated arm, and accessory orange rubber steel beam.

Oh and don't forget my favorite government bureaucrat action figure, Oscar Goldman, with his polyester suit and tricky exploding briefcase.

But I never had Sasquatch. Oh the years of creative learning and friendly diversity-play that I missed out on. Sure, Sasquatch was a socially retarded Neolithic puppet of war-mongering aliens... But he was Steve Austin's friend! They could have rescued countless Barbies together. I mean, it's not like Oscar came with climbing gear.

At the very least, Sasquatch could have cock-blocked GI Joe, while Steve made time with the ladies...

Iceberg

OH HELL YA!!

It's a head of Lettuce!!

In other news:

Richard Gere was in India over the weekend to help raise awareness for AIDS. At one large press conference, he embraced and kissed India's foremost leading actress, Shilpa Shetty. Unbeknownst to Mr. Gere, public displays of affection are tantamount to hardcore bestiality in India. The Kiss then sparked protests and riots. Mr. Gere himself was even burned in effigy.

And really, you know that you are an international icon, when mad mobs burn poor-quality paper mache likenesses of you in anger...

Monday Morning Thrillbillies

No better way to start a Monday morning than with a little video made by hillbillies, for hillbillies, about other hillbillies watching another group of hillbillies crashing their hillbilly-mobiles...



No wonder the French hate us...

It's About Time...

Some of you know.
Some of you don't.
For those who don't, we finally picked a name:

Hint: It ain't "Gregory," and it ain't "Peck" either...

Thank You, Mitch

Thanks to Mitch for sending me THIS LINK

WARNING! Do not click on the link if you are easily offended by hot photos of newly-single Dita, writhing seductively in a shallow bubble bath, simmering with barely-contained sultry passion, with all of her naughty bits on display for all the world to see. Then again, if you are so easily offended, what the hell are you doing in the Lounge to begin with?? I mean, this isn't exactly the Good Mormon Family Story Hour. This is the Lounge. We promote hard drink and irresponsible behavior here. You should expect to come across links here, which will whisk you away to the darker smuttier corners of the web.

FURTHERMORE! You shouldn't click on the link at work. Really. No. Or at least if you do, click on the link using someone else's computer while they are not looking.

OH, UNLESS! You work at Inog and the Faerie Queen's Law Shack. In that case, make sure you call Inog over to your desk to view it with you...

OH AND! It's probably OK if you work at Dr. Brian's tooth shop or Leah's law firm.

IT IS ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN! That employees of large corporations, including certain banks, should probably wait until they get home.

FOREIGNERS! And other individuals living outside of the United States, should contact their local legal professional or priest before viewing the linked material.

IF YOUR NAME IS DAVE!! Hell, you probably took the pictures. Still and all, you should ask your wife first.

CATHOLICS!! You heretics are already going to hell for the veneration of Mary, the supplication of saints, and your idolatrous transubstantiation. So, feel free to sneak a peek...

Girl from Ipanema (Revisited)

(Thanks - or blame- to Valdez for this one)

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes - ah



When she walks, shes like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle
That when she passes, each one she passes goes - ahh



Oh, but I watch her so sadly
How can I tell her I love her
Yes I would give my heart gladly



But each day, when she walks to the sea
She looks straight ahead, not at me



Tall, (and) tan, (and) young, (and) lovely
The girl from ipanema goes walking



And when she passes, I smile - but she doesnt see...
Doesnt see...
She just doesnt see...
She never sees me...

Last Sunday

So, Sunday was Easter. As expected, I didn't go to church. It's been 16 years since the last time I bothered.

Instead, I went to a brewery; a much more valuable use of my time.

It was McMenamins, in fact. Edgefield, to be specific. Now, If you're not from the Pacific Northwest, or if you've never even visited, then you won't understand. And frankly, I don't have the time or inclination to explain it to you in this post.

Suffice to say, they make good beer, good wine and good food. They have several funky locations, and Edgefield is one of their best. It is the former county poor-farm turned into a fine-wine bed and breakfast, with a golf course, herb garden, beer-friendly movie theater, and an old red garden shack turned into a scotch and cigar bar.

Fortunately, having missed the Easter egg hunt at the local park, Mrs G&T found the Edgefield festivities on line. We packed up and headed out, about 30 minutes toward the maw of Columbia Gorge.

Dozens of kids, divided by age, raced into the cordoned patches of grass, swinging pastel baskets and scrounged for chocolate candy eggs like lepers diving for alms... It took the monkey a few seconds of reckoning, but she quickly caught on.

While many of the snotty brats became distracted by the lure of their own loot, the monkey harvested on, teasing small brightly-colored foil-wrapped nuggets from the lawn. She was persistent. She was tenacious.

In the end, she did well. Though, with frequent swinging, the contents of her basket found their way to the ground. Strategically, I placed myself as the rear-guard, and scooped up the escapees that trailed behind her.

A leisurely brunch followed, and a walk around the grounds. The sky stayed blue and the rain didn't fall. well, at least until we got in the car to leave.

All-in-all, a good day.

Hot Basil

I've said it before, there is no good Chinese food in Oregon. However, there is a tantalizing bevy of Thai food, and a not-insubstantial assortment of Vietnamese.

On Friday, it was, that the missus gave up on the dinner decision process. I had Thai in mind myself, and called in an order to the dingy dive two exits down the freeway. i placed the order, grabbed my keys and headed for Albertson's.

The nice lady on the phone had given me 15 minutes, and there were a few necessities that I needed to acquire along the way: Beer, for instance, and Milk.

Once in line at the grocery store, I discovered that I was standing in line behind an enigma. Or, perhaps, it was a riddle. Regardless, it was a woman, and she was facing away form me. That placed me facing toward her back, and I began to make certain subconscious calculations.

I pegged her for 45, the way her neck and arm flesh was just coming loose. I figured she was a mom, probably of three, by the wear and tear revealed under her unfortunately tight-fitting flower-print blouse and sagging leans. She was with a young man who looked artificially aged by chemicals, experience or both. He was skinny, but not in any athletic way. Perhaps he was a 25 year old who looked 38. Maybe he was a youthful 35, with whom life had finally caught up.

It was hard to recon his relationship to the woman. He was too old to be her son, and too young to be her love partner. Too old, that is, until she turned around. She had the smooth and perky face of a 20 year old.

I was confused.

I stared. I admit it. I knew it was rude, but I was perplexed. apparently the Man-boy saw me staring, and felt like he needed to take action. He then slid his hand deliberately, and in plain view to me alone, across her shoulders, down her back and down to her flabby ass, where he made a flourishy swirling motion with his hand, like a magician, and firmly squeezed.

Got it. Message taken.

The left. I paid. I went out to my car.

The restaurant was not far. Four minutes, max, down the highway. My dinner was waiting for me, tucked away in the drab little corner of the bleak little strip mall. Tucked nicely between the Dollar Store and the Farm Store, Thai Express looks like it used to be a donut shop.

Once inside, though, I was whisked away to Bangkok by the smells of curry, lemon grass and garlic. What really hit me, though, was the basil. Fresh, happy basil, floating lightly along with the steam and vapors from the open kitchen.

I was hungry.

The food was waiting and I needed only to pay. The nice lady from the phone met me at the counter and handed me the check. As we swapped paper and plastic, I noticed a familiar glint from her left hand. As this was a mom and pop outfit, I wasn't surprised that she was the wedded mom to the pop in the kitchen. What did surprise me was the source of the glint.

Sure it was a ring, but this fresh-from-the boat Thai immigrant was wearing a genuine Irish Claddagh on the left ring finger, with the heart pointed appropriately toward her body. She wore the ring with purpose. It was not a haphazard fashion choice.

But... but... She was Thai, and I appeared to be the only person in the building that even remotely resembled being Irish.

Somehow it made me happy. I didn't ask her about it, but maybe next time I will.

Anyway, I grabbed my goods, and went back to my car. Then, as I sat there, fiddling with knobs and dials, I looked up through the windshield and saw, with some surprise, the same couple that had been at Albertsons 15 minutes earlier, walking out of the dollar store together.

It was too much to ponder, but I knew, it had to make its way to the Lounge.

Hot Pink Tiger Stripe Camoflage

Despite delays, vows, curses and swearing.

After a day of dire decisions.

Beyond the molasses-traffic and trebled commute.

The Sun was in the west, shining, but dive-bombing still toward the Coastal Range across the rolling wine-soaked valley. Fuzzy fields of hops streamed by as we slipped south toward Salem.

Mrs. G&T was already there, 7 months pregnant, and only sniffing Inog's office-scotch. Fred and Fred's friend were with me, as was the Monkey. The babysitter having had irreparable inability to divine North from South, she actually ended up in the State of Washington before sussing her error.

In a pinch, the dynamic-duo spawn-of-Inog agreed to Monkey-sit for a spell, and so, we went as one along the smooth-paved lanes of Interstate-5. Being the bad parent that you all suspect, I fed, with back-seated Fred's assistance, cereal bars to the Monkey for dinner on the road, washed down with a tankard of "purple juice."

Though the Oregon Department of Transportation resides in the bureaucratic heart of Salem, and though ODOT has had the single-handed responsibility to design and maintain each and every highway in the state, there is actually no easy or direct route from the freeway to the city center. Thus, we meandered, all-jiggly-wiggly and wonkey-cornered, until at once we found ourselves with rock-star-like parking. We were in Salem. We were at Lefty's.

I swapped out the Monky with Mama, sank swiftly into the Naugahyde booth, poured beer and looked around.

Typical Salem crowd: a few cowboys, a few students, and hordes of government cubicle grunts.

Now, when it comes to Inog and entertainment shin-diggery, I know what to expect. The never-ending pitchers of good ale and fine flying platters of spicy pie, thus, came as no surprise. Still and all, the simple dining pleasures, combined with the warm glow of the beautiful people who hover toward him was comfortable indeed.

Ryan and Mrs. Ryan arrived in fine form. The Queen of the Faeries flitted by with her beefcake beau in tow. Mrs. Inog made her way in as well, and sent our host scurrying to her side like a lost puppy. All met Fred. Connections were made.

Mrs G&T made her way back, the lights dimmed, and the band materialized on stage as if by dark Siberian voodoo.

Gruff Russian crooning wove wonderfully through the post-surf rockabilly. The bass-player played a red instrument roughly the size of a large clearly-visible traffic sign.

The new Keyboard player was a girl, of the sultry sexy variety. She wore leopard print, of the plastic variety. She made the keytar sexy, and the things she did with her accordion made the most-holy baby-Jesus weep. Well, OK, it gave him a boner first, then it made him weep.

The new guitar player was also a girl. She had pigtails. She looked like my ex-girlfriend, Tonya, from 1988.

The beer was strong and thick. It seeped into my veins, and pooled in my cognitive center. The rhythm was fluid and carried me away. The lyrics were witty and keen, propelling me with reckless enthusiasm. I joined the conga line. I bobbed. I hooted.

The big show, as usual, however, was Ryan. He is the show. He is a machine.

"One More song!" was chanted after the second set, and one more song we got, Ten Times! I felt compelled to buy things. So, a new "Better Than Sex"shirt and new Red Elvises CD made their way back to Portland with me.

The long dark ride home with Fred and Fred's friend was mostly quiet, punctuated occasionally with knowing grunts of "Whoo!" "Huh." and "Ugh." All was well, and all had a spectacularly memorable time. Thanks from the folks up here to Inog, the Faerie Queen, and the rest of the folks down there. The tiraras are beautiful.

I look forward to July. Oh, and, thanks for the watch.

Sausage Gravy

"You have been accepted," said the letter, just like the one I had received days before. Seven applications had gone out, and two acceptance letters had come in.

The good news was, I was going to law school. The better news was, It wasn't going to be in California.

Puget Sound was the location of the first offer. Salem was the second. Since I had read that the Puget Sound institution was going through a fluctuation in their accreditation, Salem was going to be my choice.

Sure, I'd driven through Salem. Twice, actually, but never really off the freeway. So, it was with a sense of wonder and awe that I arrived, late in the summer of 1994.

Some three years later, and $100,000 poorer, they gave me a piece of shiny paper and sent me on my way. Although, to be honest, I didn't go far at first.

I did my time, as they say, and made my home with the future Mrs. G&T in the quaint little capitol city. Now, to be fair, Salem takes its share of ribbing, some deserved, and some not. Yes, it was the deserved setting of One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.

However, it must not be overlooked that Salem also has a fine disproportionate assortment of breakfast joints. Nothing is quite so pleasing as waking on Sunday in Salem and selecting from dozens of tasty breakfast selections.

While I lived there, one of my favorite was a white-washed egg house called Cafe Today. Half self-serve, half Northwest chic, the Cafe was always bustling, the the smell of homemade sausage gravy filled the air.

The chunky gravy was gray, spicy, sticky and meaty. It went on meat, it went on biscuits. Hell, it went on everything. The servings were large, but my plate was scraped clean. Damn,I loved that gravy!

Nothing lasts forever, and my time in Salem was no exception. In the years that followed, Cafe Today ran its course and eventually closed its doors.

Other ventures came and went in the spacious white space. Its current incarnation is called Lefty's, and they serve pizza. On Tuesdays, they serve poker. And tonight (Thursday) they will be serving up something hot and red.

We're going down to Salem for Inog's Red Elvises party, Mr. G&T, Mrs. G&T, Fred, and Fred's special buddy from Boston or Charleston or where-ever-the-hell-he's-from...

We're going down. Down to Salem. Down to Lefty's. We are going to partake, and it should be good. I'm not sure what to expect, and really, I don't think I want to know.

Wish us luck!

XXI

Section 1
The eighteenth article of amendment to the Constitution of the United States is hereby repealed.

Section 2
The transportation or importation into any State, Territory, or possession of the United States for delivery or use therein of intoxicating liquors, in violation of the laws thereof, is hereby prohibited.

In a hair-raising display of hair-brained tea-totaling utopianism gone awry, the unholy union of proto-feminists and prairie-fed protestant fundamentalists conspired with congress, and ratified the 18th Amendment to the United States Constitution in 1919. This was, effectively, the only criminal statute to ever rise to such a rank, and as such, was unique in its subjugation of the individual at the point of the collective governmental screw.

Booze was banned, or more specifically, it was prohibited...

This was, of course, timed well with the end of WWI. "Welcome home from the Great War boys! have a soda pop."

Violence ensued as blood and booze spilled into the streets. Crime and corruption escalated until 1929, when 3 of the 4 horsemen were released en masse by a pissed-off god upon Babylon.

The Depression was, well, depressing, and good old Mr. Roosevelt realized that, goddammit, the people just needed a drink!

Sooo... along came, in rapid fashion, the Twenty First Amendment, that said, essentially: "Nevermind!" And in so lifting Prohibition, as you can read above, the federal government said to the states: "Go figure it out your selves.."

That is why in Louisiana you can have full-contact strippers in full-liquor bars, but in California, while you can buy hard booze at Albertsons, you have to drink Pepsi at the titty club.

Oh, and Oregon? Right. We have the OLCC. The deeply-hated government commission that owns and licenses ALL of the liquor stores in the state. You can't buy booze unless you buy it from the government, and those stores close early.

EARLY!

And that is why, my friends, I sit here, near midnight, with an empty bottle of scotch, and there is not a goddamned thing I can do about it.

96

What's that smell, that magical smell, as the cardboard is cut with the thumbnail?

It's like wax, perhaps, but maybe it's the dye.

Maybe it's the tightly wrapped wrappers with color-coded words like "Brick," "Periwinkle," and "Pine."

Maybe it's the eternal prospect of production guaranteed by the built-in sharpener.

It is a big box of crayons, fat with 96 shades of ROYGBIV.

It is the promise of creations yet created.

It endless possibility.

Life may not be a Gump-like box of chocolates. It may not be what you make it, or even what you attempt to make it. And in the end, Oprah's "Secret," may be nothing more than wishful thinking.

However, sometimes... sometimes... Life can be a big box of Crayons, just waiting for you to pick the right color.

Possibility is in the air.

Can you smell it?