Sunday, March 30, 2008

Prince Charming

"The chair recognizes the representative from India!" Boomed the voice from the dais at the front of the great hall.

Slowly, I rose, knees quaking, tight in last year's tweed coat, to address the hundreds of participants seated in the General Assembly. Surely, this should have been Jason's job. He was the social studies savant. However, India, by chance, had a seat on the Security County of that year's Model United Nations, so Jason was there, and I held our seat in the General Assembly.

I was not alone. I had a partner, i was teamed up with a senior with less experience, participating for no other reason than to pad his college resume. His name? Oh yes, he was Prince Charming.

Actually, I'm serious. He WAS prince Charming. If you've ever been to any of the Disney parks anywhere in the world, then you know that there is a vast cast of familiar Disney characters who wander the campus, dressed in ornate suits with furry heads and bushy tails. There are very few characters, however, who appear without a mask. One of the most notable being, Prince Charming.

Rick, my partner's actual given name, was a part-time employee of the Mouse in Anaheim, working weekends and summers in royal costume, playing the part of Mr. Charming himself, using his own god-given head to do so. He was, in a reality, Prince Charming.

He was also a dimwitted over-sexed moronic buffoon. We were up to our collective asses in diplomatic alligators, for god's sake, and all he could do is flirt with the tight-shirted diplo-cunts from St. Vincent and the Grenadines, seated across the aisle from us.

Rick had golden wavy hair, rippled in smooth curls, green eyes, straight nose, poofy lips, and a cleft chin. His wealthy parents had purchased him a fine new suit for this event, and his briefcase carried only one object. A hair brush.

The brush had a fine-stained oak handle with what seemed like a thousand metal bristles standing at attention. He would absurdly click the latches on his all-but-empty briefcase every three minutes and run the brush through his ridiculous curls. He would bat his long eyelashes at the doe-eyed girls, and ask me absentmindedly every hour or so what was happening.

I was running a thinly-held coalition of rogue states together toward a gavel-winning gambit, is what the fuck was happening, but prince Rick couldn't pull his curly-coiffed head out of his designer-suit-wearing ass long enough to attend a caucus meeting! I didn't care how cute the whores were. We had a shot at a trophy, goddammit!!

But there was only so much that I could do on my own. The Caucus collapsed. My resolution failed. We lost the Gavel.

I was sunk. I was crushed. I was pissed off.

I needed to lash out, but really, Rick could kick my ass, and we both knew it. I acted, therefore, out of pure instinct. I acted with subtle malice. I struck at my enemy.

Rick had actually gone across the aisle to sit at the St V and the Grenadine's desk, making time with rapid fashion. Without looking down, without so much as a twitch, my thumbs popped open his briefcase, and I wrapped my hand around that godforsaken brush, sliding it silently into my breast pocket.

It was done. I had stolen Prince Charming's hair brush.. And really, for years afterward, that singular act continued to bring a sly grin to my mouth every time I recalled it.

And once Prince Charming took enough time to notice, he was none too pleased himself. But prince Charming must have his princesses, though. It is his sole literary purpose.

And Prince Charming came to mind again, as my three-year-old girl, for the first time in earnest, discovered the Disney Princess movies with their well-defined gender roles, stereotypes and literary archetypes, just this weekend. The poncy prince is there, always, usually in the background, sexually accessible, but non-threatening, frequently musical, and always a poof.

Always there, with mad love and affection for the princess. Any one of the six.

C'mon, you can name them. Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Ariel, Belle, and Jasmine. Wide-eyed, smooth-skinned, vocally talented. Culturally-relative paragons of generational desire. Is Snow White sexy? Sure, but she looks like my great grandmother's wedding picture...

So, sitting today, I wondered as my mind wandered, who exactly is the sexiest Disney princess. which one is the hottest piece of animated ass.

So, Snow White, whistling while she works, the 1930's feminine ideal, she can whip the masculine archetypes into order with motherly grace, sweep the floors, cook a pie and talk to animals. However, she still needs her prince to save the day.

Her coquettish brunette flapper style and pure porcelain skin makes one wonder what going on under the blue dress, but the sticky-sweet sing-song voice, makes you think twice before looking...

Sleeping Beauty. I don't get it. It's sort of a retelling of Snow White, but with a dragon. Sleeping Beauty Is kinda like your hot cousin. She's really HOT, but dude, she's your cousin. And, she bares a striking, and unfortunate, resemblance to Laura Dern.

Then there is Cinderella. She is THE proverbial rags-to-riches heroine. She works hard, she plays hard, she cleans up well. and good god, take a look at those proportions!

Most of you know how I feel about Redheads, and Ariel is certainly a fine piece of tail... (pun intended) True she has good trout-kissing lips and she spends most of the story in a bikini top, but holy hell! She's just too annoying.

Hot, yes, If only she never got her voice back!

Then, of course, there is Belle. Smart, bookish, stacked. Her willingness to stay in the castle with the beast betrays a dirty-mindedness deep beneath the lemon-cascade hoop dress...

Jasmine. Token minority.

So, of these, I suppose, there is a toss up between two. A cage match, as it were. A bare knuckle knock down drag out cat fight between Cinderella and Belle.

I can see how you would choose Cinderella, what with the cleavage, the hair and the pumpkin carriage. My money is on Belle, though.

Something more than this provincial life, in deed...

Friday, March 28, 2008

First Annual G&T Lounge Panty Raid **UPDATED** (AGAIN!!) (AND AGAIN!!)

Well, the wait is over. The Clock has struck 12:00. We have what we have, which is, in some ways, more than I expected, but less than I hoped for...

You did not log in here this chilly Saturday for pithy words though. You came to see the skivvies.

So, congratulations to those who took the effort to take the pictures, or who at least scanned old pictures of themselves. Even the Hat got involved!

I am proud of each of you.

And so, without further ado, here they are:


This morning, after this entry was posted, I received the following submissions with an attached note.

The note read:

Came across this too late. Still, I could not shake my annoyance at the lameness of the guys (Dr. B, especially) for not laying some machaca con huevos out there. So here's a playful "f-you" to you chickenshits, and a good look at my pantied choad.

And here are the photos...


The late submissions keep rolling in!

You really have NO excuse not to play...


I wasn't kidding when I gaid we should wait. The late submissions keep coming! I can keep updating this post as long as it takes. And really, no one should pay any attention to Helly's crappy judgmental small-minded mean-spirited attitude. Everyone should participate!

Here's the latest! Yeee haw!

Thursday, March 27, 2008


In the waning sunlight of a warm December afternoon, as my mother did laundry and her attention was diverted, I crept stealthily through the side door of the garage.

I was crafty, for an 8-year-old, and I had my mind set on the prize. It required a step stool, and a flashlight, but I had done this before. I knew where he kept them.

With some blind groping along the high dusty shelf, I found the box, and clutched it with my fingers. It was my dad's dented and dusty box of utility razors, each wrapped for safety in its own cardboard sheath.

I picked out a new one, a sharp one, one that had not been dulled with use. Then silently, I slid the box back into place, and smuggled the razor into the house tucked away in my back pocket.

Having closed my bedroom door, I quickly shipped the razor from my pocket to the secret space under my desk, ready for the next phase...

At 8-years-old, my mother would leave me alone in the house, but only for a very short time. Enough time, for instance, to run to the store to buy some eggs, or such. It was enough time, though, to complete the task.

It was December, after all, and the fake plastic Christmas tree was up in the living room. And already, it was surrounded by alluring packages. Wrapped parcels, the contents of which I wanted to see. I had to see. I would see, and I wouldn't want to wait.

Sure it would be more fun to wait, but who had that kind of patience??

So, with surgical precision, I would slice the taped seems with my wicked-sharp razor, and carefully unfold the flaps to peer inside. I could sense a crappy carton of clothes just by looking at it, and I wouldn't waste my time on those. No, I went for the toys. The heavy solid boxes, packages that rattled, goodies shaped like well-known Star Wars merchandise.

Then, once tallied, I would fold the seems as they had been, and laid new tape exactly over the old tape, and no adult was the wiser. Fun, yes, for the moment, but it blew Christmas morning all to hell...

And in the end, all my Christmas fun was spoiled...

And that is why, kiddies, I will not be posting the submissions early. As of the writing of this post, we have 6 submissions, not including me. Each good in its own way. Some have sent more than one, leaving me with the choice. I will, however, only post one photo per submission (with one necessary exception).

So far, the women have shown all of the spirit and courage. And the guys?? Well, all of my begging for guys to send photos of their shorts is making me feel gay. Or at least gayer than usual. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

So Friday's the day, the dead line is tonight. Break out that digital camera or even your cell phone, and let's see your shorts!

Remember, this is a completely anonymous friendly exhibition, not a competition. Have fun with it! And please, no porn.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008


"If you are going to sin, sin boldly."
-Martin Luther, -1521

"Ooh, it feels warm," I said, as the bright light of the copy machine scanned past my wiener.

I lay athwartships, across the industrial-sized copy machine at Kinkos. It was really quite late, or really quite early, depending on which side of the morning you were used to. The shop was open 24 hours, and our friends ran the graveyard shift. We stopped first at the 24-hour Tommy Burger around the corner, then proceeded to waste much time amongst the reams of multi-colored copy paper.

KROQ was playing in the background. Swedish Egil was likely hosting the show. Nary a customer had been seen in hours.

So, it seemed, as these things often do, or did, that it would be a good idea, or at least an interesting one, to photocopy my member...

And so I did.

The result came out with exaggerated contrast and striking black-and-white clarity. It resembled a small bratwurst lying upon a bed of bean sprouts. In 8.5 X 11 glory, it was quite disturbing.

So, considering for a moment what we had, we decided the best course of action would be to autograph it as a group and fax it in to the radio station. which is exactly what we did. Sadly, however, Swedish Egil never acknowledged out late-night contribution.

The exhibition experience, though, was liberating. Sending the signed copy out into the universe was invigorating.

That having been said, you perverts who regularly read the Lounge and who frequently comment, have gotten all your panties up in a bunch, figuratively and literally, over the last couple of days. Talk of panties, and briefs, and boxers and bras has reached a fever pitch. Taunts and dares and oaths have been made.

And plan has been hatched. And here it is. We're all gonna show our drawers. The boys and the girls. The old and the young. The big and the small.

So far, the only Lounge reader who has ever had the balls to post a picture of their underwear on the Lounge was Amanda. HERE. And she is committed to doing it again, as well as several of the folks involved in Wednesday's comments...

So, why, you may ask, would anyone in their right mind deliberately share photos of their skivvies with a gaggle of familiar strangers? First, it's fair. There are enough idle lurkers lurking about in the Lounge who visit and read, but never contribute. As Inog points out, folks come here for the comments, not the posts. And, well, the commenters are gearing up for a little good natured exhibition.

Second, it's liberating. The posted photo of your undies will be anonymous. No one (other than me) will ever know who the photo is of, and I'm not telling.... Here is your chance to take a step, and expose a tiny portion of your soul. You're not, after all, exactly baring all...

Third, well, we dare you.

So, how does it work. First you, or someone who you know very well, takes a picture of your underwear. (you can also take a picture of theirs) No porn shots please, no head shots either. This is just a friendly photo exhibition, so put on your friendly undies...

You choose the angle and the composition: front, back, side, 1/3 view, 1/4 view, a small unidentifiable patch of your boxers, the tag hanging out of your thong... Whatever. This is not a contest.

Second, I have created a Lounge Mail address over in the right side column. ( Email the photo to that address. Remember, I will not be sharing anyone's identity, so be bold and have fun. Oh, and, you need to be IN the underwear...

Yes, this is a stupid and juvenile stunt. I accept that. Now go take pictures of your underwear.

Yes, this is real. I already have commitments from 5 or 6 folks.

Yes, cowards who flake out will never hear the end of the taunting.

Yes, fair is fair, I'm posting one of me as well.

I expect the men will not let the women show more courage and daring, right?

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

White Cotton

We were alone... in the house... at night...

We weren't supposed to be, but my parents were gone.

She didn't come over to my place very often, but everything worked out just right, just for that one night.

We were in my room, on my bed, and the lights were on. We were kissing, as usual, and I was working on my one-handed bra-clasp removal technique. My hands were busy. Her hands were busy too. And well, you get the picture...

Then, something happened. Something unexpected. Something that hadn't happened before.

Her pants came off.

And there she was, in spectacularly simple white cotton panties. No frills. No clever iron-on logos. No lace. No sass.

White. Cotton. Perfect.

And I was amazed! Sure, I'd seen the women's underwear ads in the JC Penny catalogue. Hell, that catalogue had been as good as porn to the desperate church-going young male... But I'd never actually seen a girl, within prurient proximity, in her underwear before.

There was something about those simple white cotton undies. And there still is. I mean, don't get me wrong, t-backs, boy-cuts, french-cut, thong... they're all good (very good), but when it comes down to it, simple white cotton panties will win every time.

So, with all this sissy talk about matching and not matching, and panties and undies, and blah blah blah blah.... Really, what it boils down to is: less is more, and cotton is king.

Here are some pantie pictures, enjoy!

If you really want to keep talking about panty shopping and coordinating, I've got plenty more pictures to post...

Monday, March 24, 2008

Bleak Future

I think I may be dead in the future. Either that, or time travel will not be perfected in my lifetime.

I mean, I have invited my future self many times to come have a visit. I've provided express times and places, set meetings, as it were, for future me to travel back to.

Perhaps, time travel will be an inexact science. Perhaps, future me just keeps barely missing the appointments...

Now, the first invite, if I understand correctly, has been destroyed. So, it doesn't really count.

It was a Thursday night, sometime back in 1981 or 82. My mother had choir practice and my sister was asleep on one of the front pews.

It was a big old building, built in 1910, apparently by an architect who did not believe in straight lines. The balcony swooped and curved, spilling in the center like a tsunami over the faithful below. The fluid curve was matched, in tidal-fashion, by the lower-level pews, and I had taken station behind them, far in back in the shadows.

The redheaded girl with cute freckles and big boobs, who usually made out with me in the basement during these interminable choir nights, was not there. So, I was left to my own devices.

I had already broken into the candy locker in the kids' choir rehearsal room. I had already snuck into the upstairs girl's bathroom to poke around. I had folded a fleet of paper airplanes out of the attendance cards. I was bored. I wished the red-haired girl was there.

Fidgeting, I discovered that the royal blue carpet scrap, left over from the 1978 renovation, used to line the pew-back hymnal rack, simply came out when I tugged on it. It then dawned on me that I should leave something there, hidden forever, out of sight.

Quickly, I got to work scribbling a note to myself. I carefully dated and timed the note. I assumed if time travel were possible in the future, then I could go get the note, and know when and were to go visit myself.

Sitting alone in a dark pew, a visit from old-me seemed like a good idea. Unfortunately, I never showed up.

Now, out of curiosity, on a visit back down to California in the mid 90s, I drove through the city of Pomona and visited the old sanctuary. Amazingly, with little looking, I quickly found the old note. Carefully, I put it back in place, covered it back up with the dusty carpet scrap, and replaced the mouldy song books.

Sadly, however, that sanctuary, my note with it, was demolished just a few years later.

My second attempt at directing future time travel may still be in play. A year or two after writing that unsuccessful note at the church, I wrote another. This time, with more specificity and planning. I detailed when and where I would be willing to meet, which was on my driveway, during an hour-long window on a Saturday, just to make it easy on all of us.

I folded the note and wrapped it in tin foil. Then, I put the foil-wrapped letter in a plastic bag, which was further wrapped in Saran Wrap. This was stored in a Quaker Oats canister, and sealed with more plastic, tin foil and duct tape.

I buried the message deep in my back yard. Oddly, that following Saturday, at the appointed time, I again failed to show up from the future. I, of course, have no way to verify that the letter is still there.

Lastly, during a lonely summer night in 1988, as Tom, Brian and Dave were out on the town, raising a ruckus, I was alone, back at the yogurt shop, taking an inventory of gummy bears, Oreo crumbles and bags of plain liquid yogurt.

It was late, and I was bored. I decided, once again, to attempt an invitation. Once again, I wrote a note, naming the date and time. This time, I simply slipped it up over one of the suspended ceiling tiles in the back room. I mean, how often do those things get changed?

Sadly, old-me did not come walking in through the front doors. No body did. So I closed early and went home.

Apparently, that night was indicative of the future of that little operation, and it closed its doors permanently shortly thereafter. The crappy-looking fast-food Chinese restaurant that moved into the spot (which Dr. B will tell us whether is still there) did not seem to change out the old ceiling tiles. Therefore, barring an unforeseen roof leak, the note should still be up there.

Carl Sagan once hypothesized that time travel was impossible because we've never been visited from the future. It's possible, though, that we're just not interesting enough to come visit.

I still hold out hope for a visit, though. I dream of a future, where everyone is able to buy their own set of sexy servant clone girls, and if that's the case, I do hope future me brings his with him...

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Happy Easter!

OK, enough politics.

Happy Easter to you, whether you are a pagan celebrating the rites of spring, or believer celebrating, um... crucifixion, bunnies and brunch...

Now, let's see, what does Mr. G& T have in his egg basket for you?

Ah yes, here you go...


I missed the 1988 presidential election by one month, my 18th birthday falling in December. Had I voted, I would have voted for the first President Bush. You know, the smart one.

As it turned out, for better or for worse, he still won regardless of my support.

I was juvenile. I was flush with testosterone-fueled arrogance. I was a Republican.

Old Republicans vote to protect their stock portfolios from the grasping hands of the socialist hordes.

Young Republicans vote as a form of rebellion. Most being white, and even more being male, they resent the blame and burden placed on them by the aforementioned socialist masses. They resent being straddled with guilt and self-loathing that popular PC feminism and multi-cultural ism imposes on them. They vote with anger and they vote with defiance.

It is a team mentality. It is a game to be won.

That is who I once was. That is who many of you once were too.

It has become ever apparent to me, perhaps as I grow older, or perhaps as I take a more dispassionate world view, that juvenile rebellion and macho gamesmanship are not necessarily the best way to direct national policy.

I have lost my taste for hate. I no longer find that guns and bombs are suitable replacements for diplomacy. American arrogance and violence has turned the entire world against us. The lying blowhards on cable news pound their chests and declare that the terrorists hate us for our freedom. When in fact, they hate us because we take their resources, leaving them in abject poverty and we corrupt their political systems to seal our control.

When people are starving, and they have no way to fight, they will turn inward to their families and their religion. And once that happens, there will be those who are willing to die to fight the beast.

If you want to end the violence in the middle east, then stop visiting violence and poverty upon those places.

If you want to end unwanted immigration into the US, then stop draining wealth from the countries from which the people come.

I am disgusted by hypocrisy. I am disgusted by the narrow mindedness of the Right. Who would Jesus bomb? Who would Jesus deport back to poverty and hunger?

I am tired of the dirty tricks. I am sick to death of that hack-filled sensationalistic sold-out mouth-piece of the Cheney regime, Fox News. Those lying sacks of shit who call themselves journalists spew little more than hate and bigotry wrapped up as "news."

And then, there were the 100,000. In Texas, it was reported, where Hilary "Won" the primary vote, though only gaining a net of 4 delegates, and where Obama will likely take a significant lead after the caucus count, there were approximately 100,000 Republicans who switched their voter registration to Democrat in the mere weeks before the primary.

That, of course, is the same margin by which Hilary won. And here I thought my fellow Republicans were stupid... That sort of mass political maneuvering takes advanced abstract strategies and considerable organization... I have wonder what percentage of Clinton's coffers have been filled by Republican donors.

And really, with all of this a swirl in my head, I discover that Fox, on order from the RNC, have focused their sights and sharpened their cleavers in a 24-hour slash and burn attack on the one presidential candidate who truly frightens them.

Never before in American politics has any candidate taken so much heat for what their pastor has said. And in this case, the pastor's words have been chopped, changed, taken out of context and looped to achieve a hateful media design.

And in a political climate where genuine expression is considered a liability, when One candidate stood up to speak from his heart on the thorniest topic of our time, and courageously say all of the things that have needed to be said, the Republican hate machine went into overdrive, in an never-ending bombardment of slanderous lies and half truths.

The speech flipped the switch for Governor Richardson's super delegate endorsement last week, and it flipped a switch for me.

I reject the hypocritical war-making neo-con big-government blasphemy of the GOP. I renounce my party membership, and I pledge myself to their humiliating defeat.

Even more so, do I oppose the tired bag of dirty tricks employed by the Clintons. We should have left that disgusting trail of international humiliation behind us 8 years ago. We should have severed the open and obvious political cock sucking with China. We should have investigated the trail of nearly 80 murders that surrounded the Clintons. But here we are with Grendel's mother asking for our allegiance

I oppose Hilary Clinton, her lying, and her fear-mongering. How loathsome does a candidate have to be to scare people into voting for her?

On Easter, I am going to change parties, and for the first time in my life, with some admitted reservation, I'm going to become a Democrat. Sure, I could just be an independent, but then, I couldn't vote in the upcoming Oregon Primary, which, also for the first time, will actually have some consequence.

In the Oregon Primary I'm going to vote for Barrack Obama and help him defeat the Clinton's campaign of negativity and fear. I will also vote for him in the general election, and I will likely contribute money to his campaign along the way.

I reject fear and hate and war and slander and ignorance and greed. I've made my decision. I'm voting for Obama.


The new Portland Metro Verzion Yellow Pages is out. The back cover is interesting.

Just saying...

Friday, March 21, 2008

Losing my Religion

It was a budget meeting. I was curious. It was the grown up thing to do, it seemed.

I had aspirations. It was clear I was being groomed. Tom and Brian had already left, and I was being told that is was contrary to God's will that I maintain my friendship with them. Sinful, as it were.

yet, with the lure of leadership, I lingered. I was a pleaser. I wanted to please the elders. I wanted to please my parents. I lingered.

I had questions, but I lingered.

But then... then... I stayed. I stayed that one day and listened to the elders lead their meeting. Everyone was invited, but no one stayed. They had to get to their Sunday brunch, the f0football game. The Sunday nap.

The practices, the policies, the prejudices, they didn't seem to match the scriptures. No good deeds were being done. The money from the faithful was paying a mortgage on a large building. It was also paying a fat salary for a dim-witted pastoral staff. And suddenly, a switch was flipped.

The blood drained from my head. I felt numb and I began to shake. It was crystal clear, yet I did not want to see it.

Physically, I reacted like I had the flu. The flu, on top of a a hangover, with a looming sense of doom and mourning.

Was it the devil setting up shop in my heart? Perhaps.

More likely, it was the visceral reaction to losing my religion. Losing the only Truth I had ever known. It was a dark epiphany. Maturing in one moment to see that every sacrifice, every decision, every grasp for good was little more than purified bullshit.

My world view collapsed. My suspicions were confirmed. I found myself in anguish having lost faith in a benevolent father, grace, redemption and hope, to the stark realization that there was nothing more that the cold lonely material universe. Death is the end. Life is a mere vapor.

The sobbing began shortly thereafter. I was on the freeway. I was alone.

It continued into the afternoon in my room back at home. My parents were visibly concerned, as well they should have been, but there was nothing they could do.

It was done. I had passed through the practical approximation of Douglas Adams's Total Perspective Vortex. I was a monkey, clinging to a rock spinning around the sun. That, I saw, is the sum of human experience.

I am on the cusp, and I'm sure you see where it is going, but I am losing another religion of sorts. This is Good Friday, the symbolic day of Christ's burial. On the third day he arose, as the mythology goes. I will arise this Sunday as well, born again as something new...

Yes, I have lost my religion, once again, yet this time there are no tears. There is only white hot political anger.

I think this weekend's posts are going to be political...


When I stepped out, into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman, and a ride home.

-Ponyboy, The Outsiders

The last thing I remember before falling asleep, was the ugly girl sidling up beside me in her own sleeping bag. Matt Dillon was saying something on the big TV, but I wasn't really paying attention.

I was 13, and primarily concerned about moving my sleeping bag away from the troll without looking overly insensitive, yet motivated by my mortal fear of being discovered by anyone the next morning in anything like close proximity to her.

Surprisingly, I was at church, on the floor of the large utility room usually used by the college kids. It was an ill-conceived co-ed sleepover; well chaperoned, but amateurishly organized. Mobs of pre-teens, who lacked my insomniac fortitude, had already sacked out in the high school hall on the other side of the wall. The night owls remained in the college hall, and were watching the Outsiders on VHS.

I didn't get it. Boys with dirty hair and no apparent parental influence were run-amok. I lost interest and slowly succumbed to the siren call of sleep.

The next morning, I smelled bad, as 13 year old boys often do. I reconnect with my pals, who had been separated through the poorly-executed nocturnal sorting system.

They looked like shit.

I did too. Hair ahoo. Clothing, grease stained and rumpled.

And this is where the addle-brained adult scheme broke down. See, there was a purpose, a method to this madness. The plan was, having fed us junk food and entertained us with Jesus-approved family fair, depriving us of sleep and comfort for 14 hours, they were to load us on buses, not unlike cattle, and drive us out to the newly developed burbs in the city of Chino.

Now, for those of you who did not grow up in or near eastern LA County, Chino is the place where cow shit goes to die. It is rich farm land in the middle of a megalopolis. The dairies are vast, prolific and subsidized by the government. The billions of manure-producing cows are outnumbered only by the billions of Mexican farm hands hired to handle them.

And in the middle of this stinking fly-infested shit stew, someone decided to built massive tracts of upper-end suburban subdivisions.

Suburban subdivisions, of course, mean potential tithing worshipers, so we were bussed in to hand out Baptist-related promotional paraphernalia to the new neighbors.

This plan, of course, was problematic.

The day was hot, and the bus had no air conditioning. The permeating odor of cow-ass was only overcome by the collective stank of a thousand unwashed 6th graders. Said 6th graders, having been subjected to the previously-noted overnight activities and denied any form of civilized bathing facilities, looked for all purpossd like the last rag-tag refugees from some medieval children's crusade.

This, combined with the fact that 60% of the development had not yet been inhabited, led to a colossal let down, and a fair degree of collective complaining.

As for me, when I stepped out, into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the church bus, I had only two things on my mind: I had to pee, and I wanted a ride home.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Bunnies Sunshine Flowers

Do you need salt?" Rob asked, as the waitress delivered what appeared to be two pint glasses of ice tea.

They were enormous, more akin to buckets than shot glasses. And that wasn't ice tea sloshing around inside. Sure I'd heard tales. I'd been privy to rumors. But the dirty little secret was, I'd never tried it.

"Of course not, you pussy!" I confidently replied. Girls were watching, and I wasn't about to show any signs of weakness.

It was early in my drinking career, still in college, and I had just become legal. I was well acquainted with beer, and no stranger to vodka, but tequila... Ah, tequila.

I took the glass in hand, hesitated only for the briefest of moments, and tossed it back in a smooth motion. I contained the reflexive grimace creeping across my face, and and held down the churning objection in my belly.

I had taken my first shot of tequila without assistance of lime or salt. The girls were impressed, and I was well on my way toward inebriation.

Since then, I have had a long and storied relationship with tequila. I have aged with it. Matured. I shot it when I was young, chasing the fiery chupecabra, the toxic tequila high. when I got a little older, I learned to mix margaritas from scratch, cultivating my creativity and sipping it socially.

Now I buy expensive tequila, and sip it straight, exploring the complicated character and savoring the spice.

Like fire, I have learned to fear and respect it. Also like fire, I occasionally get careless and burn myself.

It was the end result of two pint-sized Cointreau-flavored margaritas last night that produced the angry tirade that caused so much concern. In response, I promised happy bunnies, flowers and sunshine, and so, in good Lounge fashion, here they are:

Oh, and, go do a Google Images search for "sunshine bunnies." Check out which of your favorite bloggers shows up on the first results page...

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Matthew 5

Fuck the poor in spirit. For they lose.

Fuck those that mourn. Whiners are weak.

Fuck the meek. I will take their shit from them and they can suck my cock for the privilege.

Fuck those that hunger. Get a fucking job.

Fuck the merciful. For they are easy.

Fuck the pure at heart. For they are stupid.

Fuck the peacemakers. For they do no understand human nature.

Fuck those that are persecuted. Victims cause their own fucking missery.

April 4, 2008. Get Your Geek On!

Legos. Battlestar. Bad Rapping.


But the real point is, the wait is over. It's been nearly a year. Season 4, the final season, starts Friday, April 4.

(OK, that link seems to be broken. Here is a replacement link)

So say we all.

Sunday, March 16, 2008


We were on the shallow-sloped roof of Brian's parents' house. Between us, we had a garden hose, two BB guns, and a dozen AA large eggs.

Brian's parents were at the cabin up in the mountains. Technically, Brian was in charge of his little sister, but we hadn't actually seen her in about 36 hours. We weren't worried

We had good information that trouble was brewing, and his house was going to get "hit" that night. And by "hit," I mean TP.

Our misdeeds had caught up with us. Too much terror visited on too many victims. Too many rolls of Charmin. Too many forked lawns. Too many cars wrapped in Saran Wrap. Karma, at times, can be a bitch.

We, of course, weren't going to take it lying down. We weren't the type to be victims. We had a plan. We had a defense perimeter and multiple lines of sight.

Tom wasn't there. He was dating the future Mrs. Tom at the time, and I am convinced they were out committing a myriad of sin.

Dave wasn't there either. I'm pretty sure he was one of the folks gunning for us, so to speak.

The night was warm, and Puente Avenue was quiet. The lights were off in the house below to lure our attackers into the trap. We had provisions. We were prepared for an all night siege.

Midnight, the optimum hour, came and went. Brian and I took turns keeping watch for marauding bands of tissue-bearing Hottentots. We were sentinels on the watch tower. We remained loyal to our vigil into the wee hours.

Then, suddenly, at about 1:30 in the morning, Brian said: "Fuck it, let's go inside."

"Ya." I replied.

And so we climbed down and wandered into the den to watch TV and fall asleep on the various comfy sofas.

The joke, of course, is that the attack never came. Crafty revenge was dished out as our asses went numb, perched on that dirty roof.

The thrill of anticipation was ours, though, as well as the pride of preparation and vigilance.

And in some respects, that thrill is missing today. No one TPs anyone anymore. There is no more good-natured malfeasance. There is no late-night toilet paper-toting trespassing or any other creative delinquency. We are too old. Too responsible. Too dignified.

In those days, friends of ours were as likely to wake with a field of plastic forks blooming in their yard as they were to find their Honda wrapped in plastic.

Hell, one particular friend went camping for a week without telling us. He returned to find his apartment filled with giant geometric polygons made from thousands of drinking straws and generously applied duct tape...

I miss the hunt. I miss the sneak attack. I miss the alarm of seeing a light flick on in the window of the target house...

Sometime after that night, many months later, in fact, Brian's dad mentioned to Brian that he had been up on the roof to effect some minor repair, and he found a carton of a dozen very-rotten eggs. He wondered whether Brian might have known something about that...

Friday, March 14, 2008


It was late at night. Well, not that late.

It was, actually, just about 10 minutes ago.

I sat down during the few final minutes of March 14, to conjure up my annual oracle. It was time for my traditional warning to my loyal readers to Beware the Ides of March...

Problem is, having done a quick scan of posts past, I've never actually written an Ides of March post. Sure, I mean, I've posted plenty on or about March 15, I've just never addressed the Ides specifically.

On March 15, 2006, I posted this little ditty about the Smiths.

And on March 15, 2007, I posted this math quiz.

Not exactly heavy hitters...

And really, if you look at it, there is nothing intrinsically ominous or doomsy about the date. The Romans simply referred to the middle-day, each month, as the Ides. The only person it was truly unlucky for was Julius Caesar.

And so, I encourage you to enter into March 15, with a spring in your step and a lilt in your heart. Spring is nye upon us, and the sun will soon be out. Once past the Ides, it's all warm breezes, blue sky, baseball and BBQ. At least, that is, until that vaguely fluid first day of Fall...

If you want to beware anything, beware that.


There are no rules in the Lounge.

Well, OK, there is ONE rule in the Lounge - Don't use my children's real names.

And, well, there are a few other personal rules that only I follow and no one else knows about, but other than those...

There are no rules in the Lounge.

As Inog has pointed out, over and again, most folks (myself included) only come to read the comments. To a great extent, my lengthy hand-crafted works of nightly micro-literature are really secondary to the experience.

...Which is great! And so, I try to keep the Lounge, as a whole, a forum for the free-flow of words (if not ideas). And to create that dynamic, folks have to be given the opportunity to comment anonymously.

Now sure, my tracker allows some degree of detection, but the system is vague and unreliable at best, rife with conjecture and guess work. And truthfully, most of the time I couldn't care less.

Some folks hide behind false identities, which are, at times, brilliant.

However, many folks simply hide behind anonymous when they want to be anonymous, I assume, mostly from me.

OK, fine, but the continuity gets lost, just a little, when 8 different folks are hiding behind the same nom de plum.

So, hurray for the folks who at least give us a consistent, yet anonymous, tag to track!

Hurray for Inog and BS/Dr.B!

Let's hear it for Fred and even the Princess...

We miss Abestis, but welcome the recent addition of Lucky Red and Marge.

And I would be remiss if i didn't acknowledge Ux, Oosje or Mrs. G&T.

I think at one time or another, we have all been the Hat, the Oar, the Panties, Hillary, Obama, Dick Cheney, Paris Hilton, Jesus Christ, Christina Ricci, Satan and Daisy. So, they don't count.

But the real heroes are the ones who use their real names!

Tom (and Mrs. Tom)
and the others who I am sure I have overlooked...

So, really, it's OK to use "Anonymous," and sometimes it can be used to great effect (usually at my expense), but if you find yourself commenting frequently, as well you should, I would encourage you to consider using some consistent moniker... So we can at least keep track of your endless wit.

Oh, and, considering that this post was neither funny, interesting or entertaining, here is a LINK to a prior post, which was really quite witty...

Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Less Fortunate

"I don't even know what that means..."

My own words lingered in my mind. A political discourse lasting the length of the elevator ride to the 7th floor. I was parroting rancorous knee-jerk rhetoric; verbalizing ideas in which I only half believed.

Well, maybe better than half-believed. Maybe more like 65% believed... Still trying to convince myself that a primary vote for Ron Paul followed by a McCain vote in November would not be an academic abomination.

I wasn't convincing myself, and my socialist friend wasn't helping.

And so, I fell into the same old habit, picking out the emotional chink in the leftist armor and poking at it.

In this case it was the government's "duty" to provide for the less-fortunate. And to be certain, I don't really know what that phrase means, at least as it is used to justify governmental mommy-ism.

Is a person who chooses not to go to school, not to make sacrifices, not to plan, not to invest or not to work; who ends up, like the Aesop grasshopper of old, poor, cold and hungry; really "less fortunate?" Or, are they just more lazy?

I don't know. I really don't.

But the debate had to last at least to the end of the hall. I had to, at least, hold up my end, all 65% of it...

But the words remained, for the rest of the day, in my head. Bouncing back and forth. Calling into question once again, what my actual true deep political convictions are.

Then, it was afternoon. The sky was mottled and gray, the cold breeze blew from the east. I walked briskly back from Court, having just won a minor motion. I passed pan handlers pandering for pennies. I passed hard working construction workers, up to they knees in muck, earning a hard day's salary. I passed the federal courthouse. The words of Jefferson rolled around, bumping into the words of Hobbes, fueling my own libertarian flame.

And then she appeared.

She emerged from god-knows-where and hovered briefly before me. My strides were long, my pace hurried. Yet she kept up, at least for a short time.

She was strangely attractive. Surprising and out of place, considering she was asking for spare change. Most folks who accost me on a daily basis on the street, asking for money, are either able-bodied street punks with shards of cheap metal piercing their face, or they are old and well-pickled in Bourbon.

No, she was young and attractive, not clean, but not over-ratty either. Who knows, maybe she was legit. Who knows, maybe she was just another lazy street scammer. I do know, if she had been playing the banjo, or at least banging on a plastic bucket with some rhythm, I may have given her my pocket change.

As she had no act, I didn't.

But then I began to wonder...

How much does she really want money? If she will beg on the street, what else will she do? What would she do for $50? What would she do for $100?

Which then, of course, led to the next thought. If I were to set up a website, offering access to nudie photos of the less-fortunate, would it make me money?

Would it make me a lot of money? And would it be Fortune's fault if it did?

And then I arrived back at the office, the disturbing fantasy flickering out. I sat back down at my desk, and went quietly back to work.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Guess Who ISN'T Going to Hell!!

7 out of 7.

I had a perfect record.

I'd nailed all seven with a perfect completion. There was no way around it. Despite Dr. Brian's misguided theological dissertation that once a soul is "saved" it remains saved, I was quite certain that my blatant pagan-like apostasy had clearly and cleanly severed all ties to the Holy spirit and the blood of atonement. I was certainly doomed to Hell, if, that is, it actually existed.

Obviously it doesn't, but still, I had a perfect record.

The Catholics, apart from their standard laundry list of liturgical heresy, like to make shit up. Rather, actually, they simply have no sense of humor, and when one of their red-robed princes says something "canonical-sounding" they simply lap it up and turn it into Dogma.

For instance, neither veneration of Saints, supplication to Mary, transubstantiation , nor terrestrial patriarchal confession actually exist at all in the Bible. However, over the millennia, these small ideas have grown into substantial pillars of papist faith.

And so it was with the Seven Deadly Sins... Oooohhh... those sound REALLY Bad!!

Well, again, scripturally, sin is sin. As Saul of Tarsus wrote in his manifesto to his Roman followers: All have sinned, all have fallen short of the glory of God.

If you adhere to the fairy tale of sin, then no single sin is worse than any other. If you lie to your best friend and tell her that those hideous jeans don't actually make her look fat, when you know goddamn well that they accentuate her heifer-sized ass, then you have lied, which means you've sinned, and unless you follow the arcane path to salvation, you are going to hell to burn for eternity next to Pol Pot, Hitler and Dick Cheney.

The Catholics, however, decided to put extra emphasis on seven particular sins, because they really really didn't want you to have any fun at all.

C'mon, you've all seen the Brad Pitt movie... Name them.


Hell I can break most of those lying on the couch on a lazy Sunday afternoon...

Lust: Have you seen the pictures of Dita??

Gluttony: If I'm still wearing pants by the end of dinner, you haven't made enough dinner.

Greed: I'm a lawyer

Sloth: Much of my busy work day is filled with Internet searches for naked midget gangbangs and new camera equipment on Craigslist.

Wrath: Nothing flips my anger switch like insubordination. Burglary gets me going too. However, most importantly, despite my mild-mannered easy-going demeanor, do not get between me and my children. Trust me on this.

Envy: I really wish I was Ryan Seacrest

Pride: C'mon, have you been reading the Lounge??

But all of this perfect system of sin, this checklist against grace, this blueprint for eternal damnation is no more. As of March 9, 2008, the moldy old Holy See has played the old dogmatic switcheroo. Out with the old carnal infractions, in with the new.

The church has released a new list of 7, replacing the old 7 deadlies with 7 modern "social sins." The deadlies have gone the way of Pluto it seems, vanishing with the vote of a committee...

Now really, in all fairness, I have to hand it to the old man in the funny hat. I appreciate the policy behind the new sins, but really, the only folks who are going to hell under the new list are the oil companies, Microsoft, the Colombians, the Nazis and the Chinese. And I think the Chinese were already well on their way to begin with.

I mean, I can't even begin to put a dent in the new list. Look, here it is:

Environmental pollution
Genetic manipulation
Accumulating excessive wealth
Inflicting poverty
Drug trafficking and consumption
Morally debatable experiments
Violation of fundamental rights of human nature

So, after all these years, after all of the debauchery, debasing and devouring, I get off Scot-free... (assuming, hypothetically that is, that marijuana is a naturally occurring herb, and not a "drug" per se...)

Just sayin...

Anyway, I'm going to heaven, and I'm ready to party. I've got my gun, some hooch, a wallet full of cash and a bus ticket to Mexico! Who's coming with me??

Offical Government Announcement

Hillbilly Versailles

Sunday, March 09, 2008

Keep On Truckin'

"Um, shouldn't you slow down?" Tom asked, inching his way back into the seat, wishing he had bothered to figure out where the seat belt was...

"Probably." I said, as the red Vans High Top on my right foot pressed firmly down on the gas.

I can tell you, from recent travels, that the speed limit on that stretch of road, as it approaches the three-foot high railroad mound, is 35 MPH.

I'm pretty sure I was pushing 70.

About an hour earlier, we had been at church. We were good church boys. We knew all of the songs. We knew all of the bible stories. I also knew all of the good hiding places around the church for making out with girls, but that is another story...

There was another good church boy there that day. We'll call him "Mike." (Mike's wife regularly reads the Lounge, though I think she thinks I don't know. Anyway...) Mike was eager to show us something interesting that he had just purchased.

As he lifted the lid on the box, we peered inside to find two laser tag guns with matching targets. What more could geeky good church boys desire?

The next 12 minutes were filled with buzzes and beeps as we ran around the near-deserted building. Fun enough, but we all started to think BIGGER.

It was then that somebody, I'm not sure who, recalled that we were all driving pickup trucks. Mike was driving his old Datsun (maybe?); I had my dad's Toyota. Quickly the targets were fastened to the back windows. Test shots confirmed that they worked from a pretty distant range, and we were off.

I was the pilot, Tom was my gunner. Mike was his own pilot, and his buddy handled the shooting. Down side streets and across dark parks, we slid on slippery grass and spun in concentric fishtales in a dirt lot. Many many many traffic laws were broken.

And then we found ourselves in the city of San Dimas, westbound on Gladstone Street. It was dark and getting late on that Sunday evening. The adrenaline was still pumping, but waning. Mike was ahead, but he was pulling away. I was pushing hard to catch up.

I saw the railroad mound up ahead, raised tracks crossing the road. It was a wide gentle hump, but at 70 MPH, it was a ramp. We hit the ramp surprisingly smoothly, and for an instant I knew exactly what it was like to be Bo and/or Luke Duke...

I loved that Toyota truck. My dad drove it for nearly 300,000 miles without so much as an oil leak. I had taken my driving test in it, and Dr. Brian and I had taken our first real long-distance drive in it.

My dad purchased it new in 1984, and he owned it for nearly 15 years. During that time, I purchased my own pickup, an Isuzu. Equally reliable, and a bit more comfortable inside, that truck saw many many nights of adventure, including hauling a ton of gravel at midnight through high water during the great flood of 96. Hell, I could start another blog just to tell tales of the Isuzu pickup...

That was a great truck.

Eventually it up and completely died, but not until it had moved my wife and I into our first house. Homeowners need trucks, so we purchased another one. A Toyota. Toyota trucks last forever, or until your sleepy dad drives it into a telephone pole.

This time, however, my wife drove the truck and I drove the civilized sedan. She drove it mostly on the freeway, and treated it like a baby.

But now with two tots, we can no longer be a tot-car and truck family. So, the Toyota truck is up for sale, listed prominently on craigslist. I have not been without a truck for the last 25 years. The parting seems a little sad.

Perhaps I'll tell truck tales until it is sold as a sort of parting catharsis. I'm certain some of it can be prurient.

If anyone is looking for a 2002 Toyota Tacoma, 2WD, 5-speed manual transmission, with cruise control and AC, let me know. I would like to find the truck a good home...

Oh, and as for jumping the train tracks with Tom? We landed perfectly. No harm-no foul. although, my dad was curious the next day why there were clumps of mud and grass falling from the undercarriage onto the driveway.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Sexy Man Theory

Physically speaking, what is a sexy woman?

Is she tall? Small? Skinny? Curvy? Light? Dark?

Does she have large breasts? Shapely? Small and perky?

Round ass? Toned ass? Junk-in-the-trunk?

Blond? Red? Brunette?

There seem to be as many answers to the question as there are people in the world. Standards for female attractiveness vary from culture to culture, age to age, and even person to person. Each man, and even every woman, all have their own subjective measure of feminine beauty. My list differs from yours, and yours differs from everyone else that you know.

SEXY MEN, on the other hand, at least men in the modern western media, tend to follow a relatively simple equation. And here it is: Poofy lips + straight nose + tussled hair = sexy.

Movie stars, TV stars and models... People Magazine's sexiest men of the year.... That hot dude at the party who was gettin all the chicks...

They all follow the basic rule.

Remember, poofy lips, straight nose, tussled hair...

(At this point, I had planned to post a slew of hot dude pictures to prove my point. However, after having gone through page after page of pictures depicting sweaty shirtless men in tight pants and speedos, I'm starting to feel a little queasy and light headed... So, if you want to see hot dude pics, go Google 'em yourself.)

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Endangered Species

A committee of Federal agencies, this week, are intentionally flooding the Grand Canyon in an effort to restore the natural habitat of several endangered species.

Among the endangered fish species is the Humpback Chub.

heh heh heh heh..... heh heh heh...

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Thank You Texas!!

Yeee haw!!

Hell ya!

On behalf of John McCain, George Bush, the military industrial complex, Big Oil, JESUS and the entire Republican Party...

Thank you Texas Democrats!
Thank the Lord Jesus Christ for you!!
And thank you Ohio and Rhode Island Dems Too!!

Truly, it took courage and sacrifice. With every national poll showing that our leader, and war hero, Senator McCain easily defeating Clinton, but likely getting squashed like a bug by Obama, we were getting worried. It was, therefore, a remarkable magnanimous gesture for you to give us Hillary Clinton.

Sure... sure... sure... You could have easily wrapped up the entire painfully-tedious primary process and sealed up the general election to boot with one simple vote, but instead You resurrected the floundering senator from New York.

What a fine gesture of bi-partisanship that was. You love us! You really must really love us!! After all, according to those pesky polls, a vote for Hillary is really just a vote for McCain.

Now I can't speak for them, but I'm certain that Bill and Hillary also appreciate your support.

However, I suspect that Bill particularly appreciates your support. What with his wife away running the affairs of the world, he'll be left to manage his own affairs. And just think of all the grade-A prime pussy in store for him as the first-gentleman...

Oh, and, China also sends its deepest appreciation.

Sure, it was the BUSH family that discovered the endless cash-tit of Asia, but it was the Clintons who perfected the suckling technique. By borrowing billions, if not trillions, from the Chinese, the Bushes and the Clintons have sold us out, wholesale to the Reds. (You do realize that each and every member of your family is in debt to the tune of about $40,000, and most of that is owed to China, right?)

With those types of profits, China was worried that the US might actually make some sort of real change. They were really quite delighted to see that you have rejected change.

Instead of change, instead of hope, instead of victory, instead of respect...

...You gave us a Clinton.

And we, the Republicans, could not be more thrilled. So, C'mon Pennsylvania Democrats, you're next! And Oregon Democrats! Who would have ever thought you'd matter?? And Kentucky!Louisiana! North Carolina! Indiana! South Dakota! Get out the vote! Show us your spirited support for McCain by VOTING FOR HILLARY!!

To donate to to the Hillary Clinton campaign,

click HERE!

And again, I thank you. The religious right thanks you. John McCain thanks you. George Bush (both of them) thank you. The Halliburton Corporation thanks you. Exxon thanks you.

But most of all...