Sasquatch wish you Happy New Year!!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Holiday Prescription
Dr. McDreamy prescribes a Happy Holiday Season to everyone.
And no, I'm not gay. It's just that the loyal female readers deserve a little eye candy now and then...
I mean sure, he has sensitive eyes and big hands. I suppose his tussled hair would be fun to run my fingers through too.
But really, I'm not gay!
(not that there's anything wrong with it)
And no, I'm not gay. It's just that the loyal female readers deserve a little eye candy now and then...
I mean sure, he has sensitive eyes and big hands. I suppose his tussled hair would be fun to run my fingers through too.
But really, I'm not gay!
(not that there's anything wrong with it)
Admiral Cain Requests
The admiral welcomes you back to the fleet, and requests that you have a frakkin great New Year!!
She also requests that you provide her the use of your ship, stores and raw materials to aid the struggle against the Cylons...
(Oh, and if you or your loved ones have any critical engineering skills, she'll need those too...)
She also requests that you provide her the use of your ship, stores and raw materials to aid the struggle against the Cylons...
(Oh, and if you or your loved ones have any critical engineering skills, she'll need those too...)
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
All Systems Are Go
One viewing of Charlie Brown Christmas - Check.
Lights on the house -Check.
Presents purchased - Check.
Turkey brining - Check.
Camera batteries charged - Check.
187 viewings of the Grinch - Check.
Children well-lied-to regarding the coming of St. Nick - Check.
Christmas Eve Chili - Check.
Christmas-light tour with hot chocolate and carols - Check.
Required assembly assembled as required - Check.
1 viewing of "The Sound of Music" - Check.
1 viewing of "It's a wonderful Life." - Warning: incomplete.
Cookies and scotch left out for Santa - Check.
Oh well, George Bailey will have to wait until next year.
All systems are GO.
We are good for Yule Tide.
Commence festive holiday cheer.
Lights on the house -Check.
Presents purchased - Check.
Turkey brining - Check.
Camera batteries charged - Check.
187 viewings of the Grinch - Check.
Children well-lied-to regarding the coming of St. Nick - Check.
Christmas Eve Chili - Check.
Christmas-light tour with hot chocolate and carols - Check.
Required assembly assembled as required - Check.
1 viewing of "The Sound of Music" - Check.
1 viewing of "It's a wonderful Life." - Warning: incomplete.
Cookies and scotch left out for Santa - Check.
Oh well, George Bailey will have to wait until next year.
All systems are GO.
We are good for Yule Tide.
Commence festive holiday cheer.
Monday, December 24, 2007
How the Grinch Got Punked by Those Christmas-Loving Bitches
-By Quentin Terrantino (and Mr. Gin and tonic)
EVERY bitch
Down in Ho-ville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch
Who was Bad-ass, most certainly
Did Not
The Grinch hated Christmas, and the suckers who dug it!
But don't ask him why cuz he'd tell you to "Suck it."
It could be he hadn't got laid in a while.
It COULD be his pending lewd-conduct trial.
But I think that the most likely reason to be
That his prostate was swollen and he just could not pee.
But,
Whatever the reason,
His dick or his crime,
He just hated Christmas, and had too much time.
So he stood looking down at the bitches and ho's,
Who were selling their asses, their breasts and their toes.
Christmas cash, every ho in ho-ville was earning,
Profiting from cheap thrills and the yearning...
"They're laughing and drinking and fucking like bunnies.."
"Slapping their asses and stuffing their cunnies..."
Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously clicking,
"I must find a way to stop all this holiday dicking."
For tomorrow
He knew...
Was the big festive day
For all down in Ho-ville
Whether straight or quite gay.
All the hoes and the bitches, the marks and the Johns
Would feast and get rowdy before getting it on.
And the Crowd and the stench and the great carnal din
And the horribly opulent circus of sin...
And THEN they'd do something he liked least of all
Every ho down in Ho-ville, the fat and the tall
Would lie close together and start with the moaning.
They'd roll and they'd rub and the hoes would start groaning
They'd groan and they'd groan.
They'd moan moan moan moan!
And the more that the Grinch would consider this moaning,
The more the Grinch though,"I must stop this boning."
Then he got an idea!
A wicked idea!
THE GRINCH GOT A MOTHERFUCKING WICKED IDEA!
"Oh, fuck this shit, I'll teach them a lesson."
And the Grinch looked around for his old Smith and Wesson.
"I'll kill them all cold; It's really quite fair."
And when he stormed into Ho-ville, he was loaded for bear...
Ho-ville was quiet, the frolic was done.
And he slunk down the street, and he pulled out his gun.
Until, from a window, a ho said, "Hey, hun..."
He said to himself, "This is stop number one"
He kicked in the door, and he made quite a noise.
He was then quickly assaulted by a barrage of sex toys.
Dildos and handcuffs and beads of all sizes...
But he was hurt most of all by the spanking devices.
Then the Grinch was confronted by, yes, you know who...
A giant transvestite by the name, "Cindy-Lou."
She had been a marine just before turning tricks,
She could bench 350, but loved to suck dicks.
"You ain't no Santy Claus," Cindy-Lou said.
"And I am gonna hit you hard in the head."
Just then the Grinch ducked and pointed his piece.
And he shot, but he missed and killed Cindy-Lou's niece.
Then there was a great tussle right there on the spot
And at once the old Grinch knew that he had been shot.
He was bleeding, he knew, it was simple to see,
Perhaps in the leg or the hip or the knee.
He punched and he kicked, though losing the bout.
The end was quite close, as he was bleeding out.
"I still win in the end." The dying Grinch said.
"No more Christmas for me, because I will be dead."
The Grinch was laid out, all cold in the snow.
Iced-over by morning. (It was 20 below...)
And they say his heart stopped from the shooting and thumping
But he died with a grin, free from holiday humping.
EVERY bitch
Down in Ho-ville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch
Who was Bad-ass, most certainly
Did Not
The Grinch hated Christmas, and the suckers who dug it!
But don't ask him why cuz he'd tell you to "Suck it."
It could be he hadn't got laid in a while.
It COULD be his pending lewd-conduct trial.
But I think that the most likely reason to be
That his prostate was swollen and he just could not pee.
But,
Whatever the reason,
His dick or his crime,
He just hated Christmas, and had too much time.
So he stood looking down at the bitches and ho's,
Who were selling their asses, their breasts and their toes.
Christmas cash, every ho in ho-ville was earning,
Profiting from cheap thrills and the yearning...
"They're laughing and drinking and fucking like bunnies.."
"Slapping their asses and stuffing their cunnies..."
Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously clicking,
"I must find a way to stop all this holiday dicking."
For tomorrow
He knew...
Was the big festive day
For all down in Ho-ville
Whether straight or quite gay.
All the hoes and the bitches, the marks and the Johns
Would feast and get rowdy before getting it on.
And the Crowd and the stench and the great carnal din
And the horribly opulent circus of sin...
And THEN they'd do something he liked least of all
Every ho down in Ho-ville, the fat and the tall
Would lie close together and start with the moaning.
They'd roll and they'd rub and the hoes would start groaning
They'd groan and they'd groan.
They'd moan moan moan moan!
And the more that the Grinch would consider this moaning,
The more the Grinch though,"I must stop this boning."
Then he got an idea!
A wicked idea!
THE GRINCH GOT A MOTHERFUCKING WICKED IDEA!
"Oh, fuck this shit, I'll teach them a lesson."
And the Grinch looked around for his old Smith and Wesson.
"I'll kill them all cold; It's really quite fair."
And when he stormed into Ho-ville, he was loaded for bear...
Ho-ville was quiet, the frolic was done.
And he slunk down the street, and he pulled out his gun.
Until, from a window, a ho said, "Hey, hun..."
He said to himself, "This is stop number one"
He kicked in the door, and he made quite a noise.
He was then quickly assaulted by a barrage of sex toys.
Dildos and handcuffs and beads of all sizes...
But he was hurt most of all by the spanking devices.
Then the Grinch was confronted by, yes, you know who...
A giant transvestite by the name, "Cindy-Lou."
She had been a marine just before turning tricks,
She could bench 350, but loved to suck dicks.
"You ain't no Santy Claus," Cindy-Lou said.
"And I am gonna hit you hard in the head."
Just then the Grinch ducked and pointed his piece.
And he shot, but he missed and killed Cindy-Lou's niece.
Then there was a great tussle right there on the spot
And at once the old Grinch knew that he had been shot.
He was bleeding, he knew, it was simple to see,
Perhaps in the leg or the hip or the knee.
He punched and he kicked, though losing the bout.
The end was quite close, as he was bleeding out.
"I still win in the end." The dying Grinch said.
"No more Christmas for me, because I will be dead."
The Grinch was laid out, all cold in the snow.
Iced-over by morning. (It was 20 below...)
And they say his heart stopped from the shooting and thumping
But he died with a grin, free from holiday humping.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Holiday Break
The holiday/birthday season is in full swing. Therefore, this little ray of daily sunshine is bolting its doors. The Lounge will be closed through Christmas.
Jesus, relax, it's only like four days...
(Mitch, this is the post you've been praying for...)
Monogram
December being what it is, what with birthdays, Christmas, and the like, helpful questions are occasionally asked, often vague, but designed to delve into deeper holiday desires.
And so, when I receive shadowy inquiries from family or friends, I don't think much about it, and simply reply.
Yesterday, however, the missus emailed me with the following question: "If you were going to receive something monogrammed with a single initial, would you choose [G] or [T]?"
(obviously G and T are not my actual initials, but you get the idea...)
Seems like a simple question and I clicked on "reply" to answer. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought. I pondered. I weighed.
How do I identify myself? Do I see myself in light of my first name, and thus my first initial? Do I project the G in public? Do I tell the world, "This is who I am?"
A first name is so individualistic. It is narrow. It is personal, to be sure, but does not provide a broader history. It says, "I am the sum of my own personal experience. I am alone in the world. There is nothing more to me than the smile and handshake I gave you when we met."
On the other hand, there is the last name. Mine, as most know, was adopted, which creates its own unique history. The last name tells the story of the family, the roots, where you came from. It is painted on broad cloth, and connects the dots to names and places in the past.
So, which to choose?
Having thought too long and too hard for what should have been a simple question, I broke it down to this: First initial for something casual. Last initial for something formal or business-related.
So, what would you choose?
And so, when I receive shadowy inquiries from family or friends, I don't think much about it, and simply reply.
Yesterday, however, the missus emailed me with the following question: "If you were going to receive something monogrammed with a single initial, would you choose [G] or [T]?"
(obviously G and T are not my actual initials, but you get the idea...)
Seems like a simple question and I clicked on "reply" to answer. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought. I pondered. I weighed.
How do I identify myself? Do I see myself in light of my first name, and thus my first initial? Do I project the G in public? Do I tell the world, "This is who I am?"
A first name is so individualistic. It is narrow. It is personal, to be sure, but does not provide a broader history. It says, "I am the sum of my own personal experience. I am alone in the world. There is nothing more to me than the smile and handshake I gave you when we met."
On the other hand, there is the last name. Mine, as most know, was adopted, which creates its own unique history. The last name tells the story of the family, the roots, where you came from. It is painted on broad cloth, and connects the dots to names and places in the past.
So, which to choose?
Having thought too long and too hard for what should have been a simple question, I broke it down to this: First initial for something casual. Last initial for something formal or business-related.
So, what would you choose?
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Thanks For Your Concern
Standing at his chair side workstation, his blue work bib bespeckled by bits of decayed dental debris, saliva and blood, our resident dentist viewed with dismay the dearth of witty remarks left by readers here in the Lounge.
As the well-sedated patient reclined and waited with the crooked sucky tube dangling from her cheek, vacuuming her spittle, the good doctor took his shot with glee, noting that he could hear "Crickets" among the silence...
Sure, a fair assessment of the state of the comments. They come and go. I think it goes in cycles. Or, as Mitch has noted, the posts about me not posting for a while tend to get the most attention...
However, Dr. B's question about where my readers went is unfounded. While the comments are scarce, the actually readership is at an all-time high. For the last two weeks, every day, between 100 to 200 individual visitors have been coming by. Many actually stay for at least a few minutes to look around.
And they come from everywhere.
Many of you have the Lounge link saved and visit us directly. Some of you use news readers. Many, however, come to us using various search engines, Google most of all.
And the fun there is to read the search terms that bring people in...
"Ass," of course, is the #1 search term leading people to the Lounge. The pronunciation of "Pepperoncini" is also still quite popular, as is "Christina Ricci," "Dita Von Teese," and "girls with guns."
Still, sometimes, the searches surprise me. First, for the nature of the search itself, and second, how that search finds the Lounge.
For instance, it is no surprise that Googling "slutty strippers" will lead to the lounge, but "Spokane Christian Club" caught me by surprise.
Also, apparently, folks like to search for the manager of the Tualatin Best Buy, apparently to send him their complaints too. Unless, I guess, he is simply narcissistic, in which case, he inadvertently came across my own scathing criticism.
"Nude Cuisina" has come up. Though, I'm not certain why. Nor am I clear how I became a source for pictures of "Breakfast Burritos."
Recently, some hapless romantic searched for: "lapiz azul anniversary ring." Which of course led them to my popular Spanish declaration about the size of my blue pencil. I think he wanted to search for "Lapiz Lazuli," but there isn't anything I can do for him now.
And then there are those who simply visit for the dirty pictures. Small blond girls with hunting rifles. Visigoth costumes. Dustin Hoffman.
But really, it comes down to pictures of ass. And, of those who search relentlessly for ass pictures, none search more diligently than horny Arab boys from Riyadh. Seriously, I think there must be a gin & tonic ass-fetish club there or something. No one visits for ass pics more.
Well...
...Except for Canadians. Those freeze-dried socialists to the north love to look at ass, and they come to the Lounge in droves looking for it.
Truth be told, I do love the attention. So, now it's time, with a warm welcome to our Canadian and Saudi visitors, to pander...
Enjoy the ass, boys!
As the well-sedated patient reclined and waited with the crooked sucky tube dangling from her cheek, vacuuming her spittle, the good doctor took his shot with glee, noting that he could hear "Crickets" among the silence...
Sure, a fair assessment of the state of the comments. They come and go. I think it goes in cycles. Or, as Mitch has noted, the posts about me not posting for a while tend to get the most attention...
However, Dr. B's question about where my readers went is unfounded. While the comments are scarce, the actually readership is at an all-time high. For the last two weeks, every day, between 100 to 200 individual visitors have been coming by. Many actually stay for at least a few minutes to look around.
And they come from everywhere.
Many of you have the Lounge link saved and visit us directly. Some of you use news readers. Many, however, come to us using various search engines, Google most of all.
And the fun there is to read the search terms that bring people in...
"Ass," of course, is the #1 search term leading people to the Lounge. The pronunciation of "Pepperoncini" is also still quite popular, as is "Christina Ricci," "Dita Von Teese," and "girls with guns."
Still, sometimes, the searches surprise me. First, for the nature of the search itself, and second, how that search finds the Lounge.
For instance, it is no surprise that Googling "slutty strippers" will lead to the lounge, but "Spokane Christian Club" caught me by surprise.
Also, apparently, folks like to search for the manager of the Tualatin Best Buy, apparently to send him their complaints too. Unless, I guess, he is simply narcissistic, in which case, he inadvertently came across my own scathing criticism.
"Nude Cuisina" has come up. Though, I'm not certain why. Nor am I clear how I became a source for pictures of "Breakfast Burritos."
Recently, some hapless romantic searched for: "lapiz azul anniversary ring." Which of course led them to my popular Spanish declaration about the size of my blue pencil. I think he wanted to search for "Lapiz Lazuli," but there isn't anything I can do for him now.
And then there are those who simply visit for the dirty pictures. Small blond girls with hunting rifles. Visigoth costumes. Dustin Hoffman.
But really, it comes down to pictures of ass. And, of those who search relentlessly for ass pictures, none search more diligently than horny Arab boys from Riyadh. Seriously, I think there must be a gin & tonic ass-fetish club there or something. No one visits for ass pics more.
Well...
...Except for Canadians. Those freeze-dried socialists to the north love to look at ass, and they come to the Lounge in droves looking for it.
Truth be told, I do love the attention. So, now it's time, with a warm welcome to our Canadian and Saudi visitors, to pander...
Enjoy the ass, boys!
Head Song
"Play the Head Song, Daddy!
Play the Head Song!"
"Um, what?" I said, as I looked up into the rear view mirror. Wide-eyed and grinning, the girl repeated that she wanted to hear the Head Song.
I scanned my mental catalogue of children's tunes for the Head Song. I came up with nothing.
"How's that one go?" I asked.
She then broke into a rather complete version of the now-familiar chorus.
(Did I mention she'll be three in two days?)
The Crane Wife 3 - the Decemberists
And under the boughs unbowed
ll clothed in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed
Each feather it fell from skin
'Til thread bare while she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
A grey sky, a bitter sting
A rain cloud, a crane on wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter sting
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
(Really, she's almost three...)
Play the Head Song!"
"Um, what?" I said, as I looked up into the rear view mirror. Wide-eyed and grinning, the girl repeated that she wanted to hear the Head Song.
I scanned my mental catalogue of children's tunes for the Head Song. I came up with nothing.
"How's that one go?" I asked.
She then broke into a rather complete version of the now-familiar chorus.
(Did I mention she'll be three in two days?)
The Crane Wife 3 - the Decemberists
And under the boughs unbowed
ll clothed in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed
Each feather it fell from skin
'Til thread bare while she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
A grey sky, a bitter sting
A rain cloud, a crane on wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter sting
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
(Really, she's almost three...)
Monday, December 17, 2007
12 Days
As most of you know, I married an older woman. Older by 12 days, and I'll never let her forget it.
Happy Birthday to Mrs. Gin & Tonic!!
Get drunk. Go shopping. Have a good day!
Happy Birthday to Mrs. Gin & Tonic!!
Get drunk. Go shopping. Have a good day!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
18 Years
I recently sat is a small smokey cigar bar, surrounded by dark wood fixtures and literate kitsch; I was sipping slowly and savoring my glass of 18 year old scotch.
Then, I began to ponder.
Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.
Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...
There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.
Then, I began to ponder.
Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.
Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...
There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
2:00
So, each day at 2:00 p.m., two things generally happen. I have already discussed one of them.
The other is that our pal, Fred, usually sends me a link to the best Overheard in the Office post of the day.
Today was no exception. However, I believe that today's post was perhaps the best one ever...
OVERHEARD IN THE OFFICE
The other is that our pal, Fred, usually sends me a link to the best Overheard in the Office post of the day.
Today was no exception. However, I believe that today's post was perhaps the best one ever...
OVERHEARD IN THE OFFICE
Ding! Fries Are Done!
OK, first, happy birthday to Leah.
Second, and more importantly, THANK YOU to Dr. B for the following:
Ding! Fries Are Done!
(Completely safe at work, but do turn up the volume so you can hear it. Don't worry, nothing scary will jump out at you...)
Second, and more importantly, THANK YOU to Dr. B for the following:
Ding! Fries Are Done!
(Completely safe at work, but do turn up the volume so you can hear it. Don't worry, nothing scary will jump out at you...)
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Taking Submissions
Obviously, the tap is closed. The muse is on sabbatical. I got run over by the "dumb" truck.
Sitting here, staring at the screen for the last hour and a half, only coming up with ideas that I already came up with back in 2006, it has become clear that the creative mojo is low.
It happens. I'm not worried.
So, I'm taking submissions. I'm looking for 100 pithy-zippy words. Anyone wanna guest blog?
Really, anything. Tell us a story. Tell us a joke. Post some pictures. Travel log. Shopping list. Whatever! Those of you who know me can email me your submissions... Otherwise, leave a comment, and I'll find a way to reach you.
Anyone?
Bueller??
Sitting here, staring at the screen for the last hour and a half, only coming up with ideas that I already came up with back in 2006, it has become clear that the creative mojo is low.
It happens. I'm not worried.
So, I'm taking submissions. I'm looking for 100 pithy-zippy words. Anyone wanna guest blog?
Really, anything. Tell us a story. Tell us a joke. Post some pictures. Travel log. Shopping list. Whatever! Those of you who know me can email me your submissions... Otherwise, leave a comment, and I'll find a way to reach you.
Anyone?
Bueller??
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Deep Blue Something
OK, folks, the #1 all-time sexiest is:
I mean, no offense to Christina, Dita or Scarlett, but c'mon...
I mean, no offense to Christina, Dita or Scarlett, but c'mon...
Mediation
I will be in mediation much of Tuesday. I have been up late preparing for it. I have no time to blog with any sincerity tonight.
Instead, I will provide you with THIS LONG LIST of reasons why college women should be encouraged to drink...
Oh, and, while the initial link is safe, the sub-links when you get there probably shouldn't be opened at work, especially if your boss likes to spy on you...
Instead, I will provide you with THIS LONG LIST of reasons why college women should be encouraged to drink...
Oh, and, while the initial link is safe, the sub-links when you get there probably shouldn't be opened at work, especially if your boss likes to spy on you...
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Toboggan of the Beast
The tall man stood sentry at the end of the long driveway. He held a long pole, marked in red with sequential numbers spaced evenly every 12 inches.
He was the master of the estate, the patriarch of this small semi-agrarian venture. He greeted me warmly and gave a quick guided tour of the acreage. Somewhere in the shadows of the dense tannenbaum forest, one of his sons was gunning the motor of the chainsaw.
I, however, had my own handsaw in hand. I wasn't about to let some long-haired teenage hooligan harvest my tree for me. Not, at least, in front of my daughter....
"Daddy, why is that skinny greasy-haired hippie cutting down our tree?"
No, not in a million years. I mean, sure, the father was a strapping lumberjack-like man with a sensible haircut. So, I suppose he probably could have adequately operated the saw... but as usual, I digress.
I wandered through the semi-mystical rows of towering Christmas trees. Many, long since rejected, yet never harvested, were now far taller than they should ever have been allowed to grow. Small clearings emerged, where saplings had been started. The missus followed behind with the boy strapped along side. The girl, in her "adventure boots" and "action pants," marched along beside me.
As we hunted high and low, something, I noticed, started to change. The temperature dropped, the air grew still, and a silence fell upon us. All at once, from the sky, began to fall soft white flakes; slowly at first, but it quickly gained momentum.
Initially, it didn't stick, but soon a thin white coating began to cover everything. Perfect, really, if you think about it.
The small snow fall reminded me that this is supposed to be a snowier-than-usual winter in Oregon, which reminded me of the slippery slope leading to my house last year. And, while we had plenty of food, water and heat last year, we were woefully unprepared in one significant way: We had no snow toys.
Sleds, to be specific. Nothing for sliding down the long smooth steep incline out my front door.
Today's snow soon melted, but promised, like Frosty, to be back again some day. So, in the spirit of being fully prepared, the girl and I hit Fred Meyer this afternoon to seek our own personal Rosebud.
Proudly, we sailed through the store with our obnoxiously-long industrial-grade black plastic sled protruding like the bow of a frigate from our shopping cart. The girl was gleeful. I felt like an adequate dad, now having purchased the requisite family sled.
Or, "Toboggan," as the label read. It is apparently handy, according to the same label, for both sledding and carting goods through the forest to go ice fishing. I think, though, that I will stick to sledding.
Then, as we waited for our turn in line at the check out counter, I noticed something peculiar, something that had to be intentional. Printed in bold, in the middle of the aforementioned label, it read: "Model #666."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "It's the toboggan of the beast..."
Now, we just have to wait for the snow.
He was the master of the estate, the patriarch of this small semi-agrarian venture. He greeted me warmly and gave a quick guided tour of the acreage. Somewhere in the shadows of the dense tannenbaum forest, one of his sons was gunning the motor of the chainsaw.
I, however, had my own handsaw in hand. I wasn't about to let some long-haired teenage hooligan harvest my tree for me. Not, at least, in front of my daughter....
"Daddy, why is that skinny greasy-haired hippie cutting down our tree?"
No, not in a million years. I mean, sure, the father was a strapping lumberjack-like man with a sensible haircut. So, I suppose he probably could have adequately operated the saw... but as usual, I digress.
I wandered through the semi-mystical rows of towering Christmas trees. Many, long since rejected, yet never harvested, were now far taller than they should ever have been allowed to grow. Small clearings emerged, where saplings had been started. The missus followed behind with the boy strapped along side. The girl, in her "adventure boots" and "action pants," marched along beside me.
As we hunted high and low, something, I noticed, started to change. The temperature dropped, the air grew still, and a silence fell upon us. All at once, from the sky, began to fall soft white flakes; slowly at first, but it quickly gained momentum.
Initially, it didn't stick, but soon a thin white coating began to cover everything. Perfect, really, if you think about it.
The small snow fall reminded me that this is supposed to be a snowier-than-usual winter in Oregon, which reminded me of the slippery slope leading to my house last year. And, while we had plenty of food, water and heat last year, we were woefully unprepared in one significant way: We had no snow toys.
Sleds, to be specific. Nothing for sliding down the long smooth steep incline out my front door.
Today's snow soon melted, but promised, like Frosty, to be back again some day. So, in the spirit of being fully prepared, the girl and I hit Fred Meyer this afternoon to seek our own personal Rosebud.
Proudly, we sailed through the store with our obnoxiously-long industrial-grade black plastic sled protruding like the bow of a frigate from our shopping cart. The girl was gleeful. I felt like an adequate dad, now having purchased the requisite family sled.
Or, "Toboggan," as the label read. It is apparently handy, according to the same label, for both sledding and carting goods through the forest to go ice fishing. I think, though, that I will stick to sledding.
Then, as we waited for our turn in line at the check out counter, I noticed something peculiar, something that had to be intentional. Printed in bold, in the middle of the aforementioned label, it read: "Model #666."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "It's the toboggan of the beast..."
Now, we just have to wait for the snow.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Sinus Infection
This snotty clog in my nose is taking the wind out of my sails, so to speak. What senses I have left are dulled by the cough syrup. I'm going to bed.
In the mean time, here is a picture of your mom:
In the mean time, here is a picture of your mom:
Solidarity
The Lounge is on strike.
In support of my brothers and sisters on the picket line, I will be on strike for the remainder of the day.
I mean sure, it's not like they work in a coal mine or anything, but still, royalties are royalties...
In support of my brothers and sisters on the picket line, I will be on strike for the remainder of the day.
I mean sure, it's not like they work in a coal mine or anything, but still, royalties are royalties...
Oh, and, Happy Birthday to MITCH!
Monday, December 03, 2007
No Cuts, No Butts, No Coconuts
FLASH!
I saw the light, but it was too late. It was another goddamned Portland photo radar van. I tried to reconstruct what the unfortunate photo would look like.
The first one I received, in Beaverton, not so long ago, caught me in mid-grimmace, hunched over like troll.
Sure enough, two weeks later I reveived the tell-tale envelope from the City of Portland.
And thus, I found myself standing in a snail-paced line at the traffic court for over two hours this morning. Yes, yes, I could have sent in my paperwork last week, but I procrastinated.
No one wanted to be there. It's not fun for anyo ne to... be... It's.. .uh
Oh fuckit. This post isn't going anywhere. It isn't interesting. It isn't funny. So, basically, I witnessed a near-fist fight in line at the courthouse. Fortunately, the sheriff deputies arrived and simmered the scene down. I was left feeling uncomforatble and put upon, but really, I just realised, I have nothing interesting to say about that. So, I'm going to put an end to this post right now.
Oh, but, here's a picture of some girls in panties for you instead...
I saw the light, but it was too late. It was another goddamned Portland photo radar van. I tried to reconstruct what the unfortunate photo would look like.
The first one I received, in Beaverton, not so long ago, caught me in mid-grimmace, hunched over like troll.
Sure enough, two weeks later I reveived the tell-tale envelope from the City of Portland.
And thus, I found myself standing in a snail-paced line at the traffic court for over two hours this morning. Yes, yes, I could have sent in my paperwork last week, but I procrastinated.
No one wanted to be there. It's not fun for anyo ne to... be... It's.. .uh
Oh fuckit. This post isn't going anywhere. It isn't interesting. It isn't funny. So, basically, I witnessed a near-fist fight in line at the courthouse. Fortunately, the sheriff deputies arrived and simmered the scene down. I was left feeling uncomforatble and put upon, but really, I just realised, I have nothing interesting to say about that. So, I'm going to put an end to this post right now.
Oh, but, here's a picture of some girls in panties for you instead...
Personal Scent ***UPDATE***
So, it isn't bad, per se...
It's kinda clean, and not too sweet or flowery. It smells like America. It smells how I would expect Steve McQueen to smell.
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to linger long. After the initial stinging shock of application, it cools as the alcohol base evaporates. A pleasant subtle scent remains for a short time, which by lunch, was mostly gone.
Of course, I am applying it judiciously, not bathing in it. No sense in sharing the scent with the strangers on the elevator.
I'll give it another whirl on Tuesday.
It's kinda clean, and not too sweet or flowery. It smells like America. It smells how I would expect Steve McQueen to smell.
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to linger long. After the initial stinging shock of application, it cools as the alcohol base evaporates. A pleasant subtle scent remains for a short time, which by lunch, was mostly gone.
Of course, I am applying it judiciously, not bathing in it. No sense in sharing the scent with the strangers on the elevator.
I'll give it another whirl on Tuesday.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Aquavelva
So, our pal Dave recently posted on his myspace blog that, for various nostalgic reasons, he would start wearing Old Spice aftershave.
In typical smart ass fashion, I flippantly declared that I was more of an Aquavelva man, mostly because I enjoyed the linguistic properties of the word "Aquavelva." Plus, I thought it was funny...
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Admit it, you like it too. It sounds exotic, yet familiar. It makes your mouth make pleasurable motions. It makes you feel that you are making an erudite vocabulary ordination.
It was a joke, though. I was joking. I suspect Dave was serious about his Old Spice strategy, but I, however, was not. I am not, actually an Aquavelva man.
But then, I started thinking about it. Why exactly was Aquavelva my go to comedic scent selection? Why did it come so easily to my mind?
I think it's because my dad used to wear it.
And so, I found myself this evening pushing a heavily-loaded grocery cart down the toiletries aisle at Albertsons, as I passed the heretofore-overlooked man-stink shelf. Never having been one for perfumes, it had been a long while since last I looked at it.
And there it was. Same squatty bottle. Same translucent alien blue (like a Gin&Tonic under black light.) I surreptitiously unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Memories of youth flooded back. It smelled like my dad. It smelled like 1974. It smelled like clean white T-shirts and a 1969 Ford Mustang.
I put the bottle in the cart.
So, I'm going to take a cue from Dave and give it a whirl. I will cultivate a signature scent. (Apart from the usual scotch and bacon grease odor...) I expect good things, like greater respect, expanded influence, and more-powerful persuasion.
Of course, I am always prepared for the prospect of crushing disappointment.
In typical smart ass fashion, I flippantly declared that I was more of an Aquavelva man, mostly because I enjoyed the linguistic properties of the word "Aquavelva." Plus, I thought it was funny...
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Admit it, you like it too. It sounds exotic, yet familiar. It makes your mouth make pleasurable motions. It makes you feel that you are making an erudite vocabulary ordination.
It was a joke, though. I was joking. I suspect Dave was serious about his Old Spice strategy, but I, however, was not. I am not, actually an Aquavelva man.
But then, I started thinking about it. Why exactly was Aquavelva my go to comedic scent selection? Why did it come so easily to my mind?
I think it's because my dad used to wear it.
And so, I found myself this evening pushing a heavily-loaded grocery cart down the toiletries aisle at Albertsons, as I passed the heretofore-overlooked man-stink shelf. Never having been one for perfumes, it had been a long while since last I looked at it.
And there it was. Same squatty bottle. Same translucent alien blue (like a Gin&Tonic under black light.) I surreptitiously unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Memories of youth flooded back. It smelled like my dad. It smelled like 1974. It smelled like clean white T-shirts and a 1969 Ford Mustang.
I put the bottle in the cart.
So, I'm going to take a cue from Dave and give it a whirl. I will cultivate a signature scent. (Apart from the usual scotch and bacon grease odor...) I expect good things, like greater respect, expanded influence, and more-powerful persuasion.
Of course, I am always prepared for the prospect of crushing disappointment.
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