Dear Holy Baby Bobblehead Jesus

My Prayer:

Dear sweet plastic bobble headed baby Jesus,
please hear this, my prayer of humble supplication.

Thank you for the many bountiful blessings, like butterflies, big milky breasts and race cars with guns.

Please, please Jesus, allow me to finally complete the post that I started two days ago regarding the fancy candle and the bar of soap.

Do, please give me 1,000 hits in one day on this your loyal and faithful blog, even if it means 999 hits on a picture of Dita's itchy brown eye.

Please bring peace and joy to my family.

Please give me my own strip club, something cool, sweet bobbling baby Jesus, like Union Jacks.

Oh, and tiger. A big one.

And a machine gun.

Oh yes, oh Lord, and please kill George Lucas.

oh, and Dick Cheney too...

Please forgive me of my sins, dear Lord, although I have excuses for most of them. And I'm serious about the George Lucas thing.

Amen.

A Little Private Peek Inside My Head

Name the Boobies

Would anyone care to hazard a guess as to whose boobies these are?

Would anyone like to take a stab at guessing who violated the number one celebrity boob rule??

Good lord. What was she thinking?

Late Submission ***updated***

I'm morally outraged.

But I couldn't NOT post it.

***Late Update***

Trends

Well, that was an interesting exercise.

With the notable exception of Dr B, who completely pussed-out entirely from this little game, most everyone else participated with palpable enthusiasm.

Well, OK, Inog pussed-out too.

Be that as it may, however, I have noticed certain trends in the submissions. First and foremost, people seem to associate me, for some reason, with strippers and naked women.

Second, The naked women also seem to be connected with booze, and/or cigars.

I just can't figure it out. Why would people think such things about me?? Perhaps I'll go light a Gloria Cubana and poor a small glass of Bunnahabhain, and sit on the back deck and think about it.

Anyway, here they are, in no particular order:

Thursday Reminder

We now have 5 or 6 submissions. I am aware of several more. One of which was in my top-three hopefuls. And while I am expecting submissions from everyone, Tom and Dave are still high on the priority list. Really, only because they have been drawing versions of me for the past 22 years.

Someone pointed out to me today that they are not very good at drawing and their submission might suck.

Well, that's the fucking point. It can be good, but it does not need to be. Jesus Christ, you don't even need to know what I actually look like. Just let go and let the inner artist find its muse.

Actually, Carl, Mitch, Familytrain and Dr B. are pretty high on the expectation list as well. Let's go guys. Mitch, you have yet to submit anything!

Deceased Caucasion

Cartoonish Tomfoolery

Like you, I never really watched "The Family Guy."

No one did, it seems. Yet they kept bringing it back, over and over and over.

Sure they cancel shows like Serenity, Carnivale, and Battlestar Galactica. TV for smart people...

But Family Guy? No, they can't seem to let it die. Interestingly, though, there is an animated character on that show who simply seems a little too familiar. Sure, he's a dog, but his name is Brian. Here, here is Brian's character description from the show's official web site:

There would be so much to do and to talk about with Brian. He likes politics, music, pop culture, fetch... and while he is a bit of an intellectual, he isn't above kicking back with a few martinis and dressing up like the Peanut Butter Jelly Time banana for a few laughs. He's not without his flaws: He blamed his urination control problems on a baby and hits on his best friend's wife, but like the rest of us, Brian's only hu... er, dog.



OK, so he' s a dog, but still, C'mon! He even looks a little like me.

This of course leads me to my point. Break out your pencils and drawing paper, it is HIGH TIME for another submission event. I've been having fun with these things, and I think you have too. In fact, from the enthusiasm displayed in the high school photo event, you seem to like it a lot.

This one will take a little bit of work and creativity, but I think you are up to the challenge. If anything, it's a good opportunity to avoid being productive at work.

So here it is: I want you to submit your best (or worst) hand drawing (sketch, cartoon, etc...) of me. It does not have to be good, or even accurate. In fact, bad AND inaccurate would be even better. I particularly want to see submissions from folks who don't actually know what I look like and/or who have absolutely no artistic talent at all.

You can do it digitally, with your paint program, or the like. You can draw it and scan it. You can draw it and take a digital photo of it. It can be an earnest attempt at capturing my image, or it can be just moronic jackassery. Your choice. You won't hurt my feelings...

As always, the submissions will be anonymous. Please send your submission to mrginandtonic@gmail.com

This is going to take a little time. So, I'll give you until the end of Thursday, and I'll post on Friday. Also, as always, I can update throughout Friday with late entries. So, get them in!

I can't wait.

Ile De France

France is a place to which I've never been.

Likely, someday, I'll get there, but only after I've been to Ireland, Scotland, India, Japan, New Zealand, Australia, Italy, Greece, Turkey and Thailand. Maybe China. Possibly even Egypt.

But sure, I'll get there. I'm sure it's a nice place, Paris being one of the major urban centers of the world, and one of the most populated in Europe. France is divided, like counties in the US, into administrative districts.

Paris, therefore, and most of its surrounding metropolitan region, resides in the ancient historical province of the Ile De France, literally: "The Island of France," which is, of course land-locked and not an island at all.

I'm sure Ile De France is a lovely region. Exciting! Rich in cultural and historical lore. If only there were someone who could tell us about their homeland. Perhaps a regular reader who never-if-ever comments, who might live in the Ile De France region, who visits the Lounge on a regular basis, who might be willing to tell us just a little something.

Someone?

Anyone?

Hello?

(Don't worry domestic lurkers, I'm coming for you next. Don't think you can just hide up there in Kirkland, Washington...)

Nearing 1000

One of our most beloved and longest-time readers asked me today how to go back and read the original posts. I explained the archive along the right-side column to him. Then, out of nostalgic curiosity, I went back and began to read the older posts myself. Did you know that I currently have nearly 900 posts? Or that I will likely pass the 1,000 mark by the end of the year??

What we lack in quality, we certainly make up in quantity.

As I dipped back through time, it was interesting to see just how the Lounge, its style and its readership have developed. In case you have never read the very first post, from some quiet drunken pre-masturbatory August evening in 2005, here is the link: http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/08/good-evening.html

Of course, no one commented at first, and when they did, it was someone I didn't know. Some one calling herself Tits McGee commented on my batman fan-fic erotica post. Everything went downhill from there.

I was also reminded of my initial fear of picture posting technology. It seemed complicated and easily-fuck-upable. So I waited until THIS POST before ever posting one. Now, of course, I can't keep from slapping pictures of asses, tits, panties and old men swinging from their wieners every other day.

Jesus, I even had trouble using titles. Titles, for godssake!! It wasn't until my first major Martha Stewart obsession revelation that I even ever gave a post a name.

And of course, we cannot overlook the all-time number one, most-googled, most-read, highest-hit post of them all: http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/pepperoncini.html

And then, really just for your reading enjoyment, here are some blasts from the past.

(hope you didn't intend to be productive today... )

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/peat-moss.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/carcinoma-cattle-call.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/republicans-for-voldemort.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/cut-or-cut-not-there-is-no-trim.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/04/legend-of-daisy.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/stone-cold.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/tinsel-hat.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/brokeback-bar-b-q_05.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/02/never-been-to-india.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/02/as-seen-on-oprah.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/matthew-71.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/i-have-more-dvds-than-god.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/07/current-events.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/11/late-shift.html

http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/11/piggly-wiggly.html

Cheese Rule

Mr. Gin and Tonic:

Whereas, I like cheese; and

Admitting that I do get awfully hungry at times.

Recognizing that my outrageous hunger can lead to an urgent need to get cheese into my mouth; and

Discovering that the kitchen can be dark.

Further noting, for the record, that cheese can go bad;

Now, therefore, I hereby resolve, by unanimous vote, the following:

I) At all times practicable, I shall always, without fail, make a thorough examination of cheese prior to placing said cheese in my mouth.

II) Extra particular attention shall at all times be paid to cheese, which has been stored in a non-original container, or which has been otherwise unsealed and exposed to the elements.

III) At no time shall cheese of any sort be eaten in the dark.

IV) To the extent possible, dependant upon the limitations of available olfactory senses, each and every cheese shall be smelled prior to consumption, without exception.

Enacted, this day of June, 2008.

Blue Bayou

Banjo strumming fills the night as flickering fireflies flit by. The rickety swamp shack is the last vestige of civilization, and the Spanish-style long boats sail silently into the misty blackness.

"Dead men tell no tales," the ghastly grim cairn warns, as the vessels crash one by one down into the sea cave below.

Of course, one can witness this spectacle from the safe and cozy confines of a candlelit bistro called the Blue Bayou. It's where my parents ate on their honeymoon. It is where I always wanted to eat every time I rode the Pirates of the Caribbean as a kid.

I never got to eat there, though I was taunted several times a year until I eventually moved away.

It's been nearly 10 years since my last visit to the Mouse. Odd, considering the frequency of my former visits. I suspect some has changed, but I am certain that I still know my way around.

I have been waiting, I suppose, until my kids can go. And now, that time may be here. The girl is up to her pigtails in princess paraphernalia. She knows their names, she knows their lines, she knows their songs.

She has started making the request.

So, perhaps, the next trip to California will include a trip to the park. She is three, however, and I must contain my expectations. After all, it is her turn now, and the visit will be all about her.

That probably means no nice dinner among the fireflies, no "yo ho ho," and no banjo music. Again, my dining desire will have to wait. It's worth it, to be sure, but perhaps, maybe, possibly someday, if I'm lucky and I hold my tongue just-so, then there might be a chance that I'll get to eat at the Blue Bayou. Hopefully, it won't suck.

Optimistic Moon

The moon is almost full. Bright. Rippled with gauzy clouds, sailing on an unseen breeze. It finally smells like spring, just in time for Summer.

The air smells like sunshine, at least according to the girl. And she is right. It is midnight, and the air still smells like sunshine.

I can't shake the article that I saw yesterday. Fathers Day. A police officer shot a man by the side of the road yesterday after the man had just killed his own son in a very bad way. I don't feel like repeating the facts.

The police officer, and other do-gooders, weren't able to get close enough in time. I suspect the police man didn't have to shoot the fucker, since the boy was already dead. I think he simply did what he thought should be done.

Apparently, the man thought the boy had demons, or somesuch.

Ah, Religion...

Anyway, I'm having trouble shaking it.

But the moon is bright, and almost full. It should be round by Wednesday. In the house behind me, my kids are tucked away, safe, asleep.

The breeze is cool, and tomorrow, the sun will shine and the sky should be blue. For now, though, I'll be happy with the moon.

Big Time

Oh yes, my loyal Drunken Ramblers, the Lounge has finally come in to its own. We have gotten our due. We are runnin with the big dogs.

This blog, and your humble bar tender, were actually quoted and cited by the Oregonian.

You can review the awesome splendor by CLICKING HERE. (Even Marge gets a nod...)

I suppose, though, now that I'm a member of the mainstream media, I probably shouldn't post anymore photos of old men swinging from the rafters by their penises...

It's the Big Time!

Happy Fathers Day

Best wishes to all the Dads out there...

The Fabric Of Our Lives

They say that the people that you meet everyday, each day, over the history of your existence weave together to form the fabric of your life.

Each interaction changes you and informs you, even those singular odd encounters, which lodge, for whatever reason, into the automatic catalogue of memories. And so it was with one girl that I met nearly 16 or 17 years ago, only once, and for for a few short minutes in a bar.

I don't remember her name, but I do recall her long sandy hippie hair, her slightly-pronounced overbite, her paling freckles and odd sensibilities. Her boyfriend was sitting right next to her, but strangely, I cannot recall a single detail about him.

I was dating another girl at the time. A long-time girlfriend. A nice girl. A girl who worked at a bookstore.

Not a GOOD book store, mind you, nothing like Powell's City of Books. No, not even something as mediocre as Barnes and Noble. No, she worked at a rinky-dink suburban pulp retailer. A small commercial link in a large corporate chain.

The staff, however, were fun and we would socialize (eat, drink and smoke) on occasion with them. Then, though, there was THE night. It was a small get together, starting at a small apartment, where the party got started, so-to-speak. Soon thereafter, the party shipped itself hazily across the street (or down the block, whichever...) to our customary saloon.

It was a tidy little joint, with obligatory pool and darts, called the Black Watch Pub. (I'm sure Dr. B will confirm whether it is still there or not.) The food was greasy and the drinks were: beer. I think beer was the only beverage they sold. Truth be told, though, these were my pre-gin days.

Anyway, the beer kept flowing, and I kept drinking, and our group swirled round and around the room, as drunken groups do, until at last I came to rest alone on a padded bench, eye to eye with the quasi-horse-faced girl across the table. (and when I say "horse-faced," I really do mean it in the most attractive way possible...)

She had a hard time sitting up, and swayed suggestively like a kinda-pretty Clydesdale with chronic scoliosis. She smiled like she knew she should be embarrassed by her sloppy intoxication, but was too far gone to care. Her boyfriend, as I recall, was hunched next to her. He was more fucked-up than she was and certainly didn't care who she was smiling at.

Her squinting eyes, and grazing jaw betrayed the existence of thoughts trying to be formed. Perhaps she was having a one-sided conversation with me. Perhaps she thought she knew me. She was new to the store, and I had never met her.

I watched her face and waited. It was getting close. The mouth started to practice and stretch for the impending communication.

"Poop," she said.

I waited, but nothing else came. So, I said, "Excuse me?"

"Poop. I like poop."

Being just slightly more functional than she was, I thought maybe she was making a request, or perhaps, had made an accident.

"No, goddamnit, I like poop. I like to play with it, right, Honey?" she asked her comatose lover.

"You mean anal?"I asked, trying to make some sense of her declaration.

"No! God! That hurts like hell! No, Poop. I like to play with poop. His poop." She clarified slowly with a punctuated gesture toward her man. "You know, roll it into little balls."

I didn't want to know more. I didn't want to know that much. Yet there it was, and there I went, as I stood up from the table and ran away. Granted, today, I would have reached for my camera while delving more deeply into the conversation. However, then, I was ill-equipped for such revelation.

Therefore, these days, all that is left is the deeply-woven memory of that one finite conversation, though it finds its way to the surface of my thoughts on almost a daily basis. Talk of poop, thoughts of poop, or even the purchasing of toilet paper, trigger the memory.

Like this morning, for instance. Believing, mistakenly, that the G&T house was out of bathroom tissue, and needing morning coffee, I wandered down to Albertsons to satiate both needs. With coffee quickly acquired, I approached the paper aisle with that troubling conversation with Seabiscuit in mind.

Soon, I found the paper, and then saw that it was on sale, 2-for-1. I also saw that it "felt like soft woven fabric!"

"Hell yes!" I thought, "My ass is gonna LOVE that!"

And so, I clumsily carried two bundles to the check stand.

Once home, I learned two unfortunate things. First, we were not actually out of toilet paper. Second, I hadn't actually purchased fabric-soft toilet paper anyway. No, rather, I had purchased two bundles of woven-fabric strength paper towel. Which has now created a bit of a surplus. Fabric of our lives, in deed.

I, Uh, Well, I'm Not Really Sure

While certainly a talented cartoonist, the artist has, perhaps, some issues to work out...

Actually, the yellow-haired dog-thingy and the green reptile guy both look like pets that I used to have when I was younger.



Although, my yellow-haired dog was a boy.

Chicken Thighs, Caramelize, Carbonize & Army Guys

Much to my culinary surprise, I have discovered (thanks to my pal at work) that I am a fan of chicken thighs. I love me the juicy quarter-portions of skin-on bone-in dark meat!

I am surprised because I always assumed I was a fan of the white meat, like the breasts and the loins. Some assumption, perhaps, acquired in youth and never questioned or challenged. An assumption that often led to disappointment and despair as my mouth closed in around a tough dry slab of pale bird sinew.

Thighs, however, simmering under sizzling skin, wallowing in marrow, slathered ever-so-slightly in spicy southern sauce... Good lord, I'm stuffed and I still want more.

The balance of low but direct heat is important, but the application of sauce is the key. If I'm not using my own sauce, I'm usually reaching for a store-bought bottle with a picture of a fat black man on the front. If your store-bought sauce does not come with a picture of a fat black man on the label, it is not fit for consumption and you should just throw it away.

BBQ sauces, however, are very delicate things. Most have a high sugar content, which when exposed to heat can very easily become a thin chicken exoskeleton of bitter-tasting carbon, and no one wants that.

So, time and attention must be paid to the bird bits and the flame. For me, the thighs go on pink-flesh-down, leaving the rendering skin on top. That allows the melting fat to seep into the meat. I use no sauce at this point, only sesame oil, salt and pepper. After what seems like an eternity, with the meat nearly cooked, the thighs get flipped once, skin-side-down to crispin the skin. The very first dab of sauce is applied to the fleshy parts near the end of this cycle.

The meat is then flipped again, but only for a short time with the heat turned low, as the sauce is now exposed to flame. Time must be given to caramelize the sauce, but great care must be taken to avoid carbonizing it. The skin-up side must also receive its first saucing at this time as well.

I usually follow up with a couple more sauce dabs and 30-second flips until each piece is thick and sticky all over with reddish-brown glory.

And tonight, they turned out perfectly. The clouds parted this afternoon, the breeze was soft, and as the sun set, I sat on the upper deck, bathed in billowing chicken smoke. The beads of skin fat dripped in rhythm, "tizz tizz tizz," onto the hot coals below. The meat was on its first cycle, and there was no sauce to worry about. So, I sat and re-read my 179-page camera manual for the 6th or 7th time.

I do this now and then, skimming over the sections long-since digested. I try to pick out new things each time, like Auto Exposure Lock, White Balance Compensation and User-Defined Style Settings...

The chicken bits sizzled, and my mind wandered away to thoughts of my next photo project. Hearkening back to the 4th grade, and taking inspiration form the dead squirrel photo from last week, I imagine constructing a diorama in box, and staging craftily-lit macro shots of various 12-inch action figures and fashion dolls in unnervingly compromised positions...

But I was reminded by this, of my frustration recently in finding the necessary props. I mean, what the hell, they don't make 12 inch GI Joes anymore??

By then, however, it was getting dark and the meat was mostly done. It was time to crisp the skin. So, I closed my camera manual, grabbed my sauce mop and lifted the lid on the grill.

Building a Better Mousetrap

Matthew and Angelina

Most folks who know me will tell you that I am a little bit gay for Matthew McConaughey. Not that I am actually gay, or that there is anything wrong with being gay. It's just, when I think of a "sexy man," sweaty shirtless Matthew comes to mind.

Maybe it's the naked bongos thing...

And I think I'm not alone. I think most men, when put to the test, will name Matthew as a sexy man. There is just something about his scruffy deviousness that appeals to men. He is what a man's man is.



At the same time, if you ask most women, they'll tell you that they think Matthew is not hot, but rather quite disgusting. Sure some chicks dig his bohemian action. However, most don't. I think, at least according to my unscientific survey, there is a fairly significant anti-Matthew consensus among most women.

Matthew, however, is not alone. When the roles are reversed, and women are put to the test, almost unanimously, nearly every woman will say that Angelina Jolie is the sexiest woman. Some women have the outright thigh-tingling hots for Angelina.

Guys, on the other hand, will acknowledge her attractiveness, but will go no further than that. I don't know a single guy, myself included, who would put her on their top 10 list. I dunno, maybe it's the Billy Bob thing.

She is really, not so much what women strive to be, but rather what women simply want.

Memoir

I started to wonder to myself what George Bush's eventual memoir will look like.

Then I recalled that he was illiterate.

So, I decided to write it myself...



You can click on the memoir for a larger view.

Snow

So I saw this evening that it is supposed to snow here in Oregon, at the higher elevations, tomorrow.

Snow.

On June 11, just 10 days from the Summer Solstice, it is going to snow. The east coast is having a record-breaking heat wave. The Midwest is flooding. California is talking drought and water rationing.

But here? No, it's going to snow. We haven't seen the sun yet this spring, and now it's going to snow.

Snow. Great.

Maybe I Want a Wii After All

I still need to check in with my subconscious, which seems iMac-obsessed, but I think I might actually want a Wii...

Suggestion Redux

Have I told this story before? I mean there have been something like 700 posts on this silly thing, and sometimes I lose track...

Stop me if you've heard this before.

I was late for my flight. Security was pre-9/11 style, but still fairly time consuming. With my one carry-on swinging from my shoulder, I raced and dodged the meandering terminal crowd.

Then, SHE caught up with me, walking in my direction, zigging when I zigged, zagging when I zagged. She was plain, but not unattractive. She wore a plain shimmering jade dress with a head scarf. She looked religious, but not pious. Not eastern, but not really western either.

Her voice was sing-song with an ethereal lilt. If there is another spiritual plane, she had been there. Perhaps she was from there... Who knows?

She carried in her hand a three-ring binder, and as we walked, she proceeded to flip the glossy pages, passing by bright colorful pictures of happy flowers, white children, blue sky, funky Jesus, maybe Ganesha the elephant goddess, an African plane, loaves of bread, and a stack of money. As she closed the book and put away her little wordless story, she asked, unobtrusively and without eye contact, whether I would like to donate a dollar, which I fluidly, and without hesitation, produced and handed to her.

In a moment, she was gone, vanished into the dense traveling crowd. Gone with my dollar. Another moment later, I realized I had been bamboozled. Hypnotized. A victim of simple suggestion. I never learned who she was, who she was with, or what she intended to do with my dollar. Rather, I hurried on to catch my plane.

It is nothing new, however. Like Pavlov's dog, I am an outright sucker for suggestion. I have been known to actually stand up out of my chair, put on my shoes and drive to Carl's Jr, just because of that stupid sauce-all-over-your-face commercial. Goddamn do I love the Western Bacon Cheeseburger...

And so it was tonight. Chatting with a friend this afternoon, I learned that she had eaten hot pizza with cold cheap beer for lunch. The mere sound of such a thing, just hours before dinner, made my mouth water (DING!) .

Dinner tonight, therefore, was not hard to figure out.

A Bit About Strippers, Meat Doughnuts and Birthdays

I suppose I should provide you with at least some details...

Item #1: As you, my drunken ramblers, well know, Portland is world famous for having more strip clubs per capita than, really, maybe any city in the world, with the possible exception of Bangkok, and I am proud to say that I have been to nearly all of them. Of course, they come and go, changing hands, and changing names. So, it is with some apprehension that I try out a new club when it arrives on the scene.

And when I do, as many of you know, I look for certain things. First, seedy or swanky, I want the club to be comfortable. I want it to be a club where I would drink, even if there were no dancers on the stage.

As for the talent, I want it to be compelling. Pretty helps, but a wicked grin is better. A sense of humor and self confidence are far more important than big fake sweaty boobs...

Lastly, there must be that certain sense of being made to feel welcome. There is nothing worse than asking a bitchy bartender for singles...

Well, after Saturday night, I am happy to report that Casa Diablo, the world's first all-vegan strip club, met all of those expectations. Thanks to Mr. Diablo, his devilish dancers and sinful staff for keeping our entire party in drinks and well-entertained. The dancers were hot, the drinks were cold, and all of my friends, including the ladies in our group, were made to feel at home...

Casa Diablo is a singularly stand-out must-visit club, and if you find yourself in Portland, be sure to stop in for a drink or three. Oh, and, also be sure to check out the spacious smoking deck. I see a number of summer cigars there in my future....

Item #2: It is entirely possible that the sweet and savory meat doughnut (Chicken Bastilla) may be the most significant contribution that Morocco has ever made to the world. Well, that and the rosewater hand wash. I think I may order one of my office assistants to start washing my hands in rose water each morning.

Hmmm... then she can fetch me a meat doughnut.

Item #3: Last, but not least, I have it on good authority that today is regular-reader Marge's birthday. Happy birthday to Marge! You'll be happy to know that I actually watched an hour of NASCAR on Sunday, and I even tried to pay attention...

Old Photos

Many of you have mentioned to me, over this last week, how you have shared the common experience of sorting and sifting through your old photos. Mostly, you were looking for the most horrible photo to post, with braces or beret's, bad hair, skinny legs and devious grins.

Many of you got side-tracked, as we always do, by that photo you forgot, the memory that it stirred and the story that came to mind. You remember your prom dress and your date's sweaty hands. You remember your first job and the shitty car it paid for.

Some memories are documented on film or video tape. Now they are stored on digital discs, waiting to be lost to a virus, a magnet or an EMP.

Yet some memories exist only in the minds of those who were there. And these shared memories, like inside jokes, are the domain of those who share them.

One friend may recall drying soggy socks by the fire on the Willamette sandbar, eating sandwiches on the sand.

One friend may recall a harrowing haul to Brooks, with an uninvited passenger who wanted to know whether we rode the rails.

Three friends may recall some enchanted evening on a table top at a Carl's Jr. in Hollywood.

Two friends may recall a very drunken meal at a Mexican restaurant on 82nd street.

And as such, the memories of this weekend belong to those who were there. As I delivered my friend to the airport today, and shook his hand good bye, I realized that there were no pictures taken of the two of us to mark the occasion. The weekend will remain, I suppose, an ever-increasingly foggy memory.

The details will blur and legends will grow. Some moments will fade entirely from view. Overall, however, it was a good weekend. A good weekend in deed.

A Few Words About USL Referees

Admittedly, I'm new to the game.

And perhaps, it just happens to be the particular left-over referees that the league sends out here to the left-coast boondocks.

But it appears to me, quite plainly, that those goat-felching jizz-guzzlers are really nothing more than dull-witted self-loathing vision-impaired tiny-weinered boy-groping cat-fingering glue-sniffing ass monkeys.

But that is simply my own personal opinion.

All I know is, we need to keep the barnyard animals safely locked up when they come to town.

When I Root I Root for the Timbers!

Pool Table

Have you ever been curious about something? Curious for years, never really having the motivation or drive to do anything about it? But then, one day, the opportunity to solve the mystery lands in your lap?

And no, I'm not talking about Inog's fascination with homoerotic bestiality...

No, I'm talking about pool tables. For years, they have been a source of curiosity for me. How they are designed, how they are assembled, how they are tuned and leveled... You know, curiosity.

Well, with the professionally negotiated purchase of a pool table by my pal at work, I finally had the chance.

Watching the well-practiced workmen construct the structure from the ground up was a pleasure. The new, dark alder table is smooth, level and pleasing. The process was deceptively simple, I knew, as I have stretched felt over flat surfaces before.

I lost fewer games than I expected. I figure I'm being hustled. the cash games will certainly start soon.

Stripperpalooza

Congratulations and thanks to all of the high school photo contributors. Sorry for the mass humiliation. It's been an odd couple of weeks here at the Lounge, what with my intentional content sabotage, juvenile photo submission exhibition, and the impending Stripperpalooza!

I think, next week, after Dr. B returns to his wife in the southland, things will get back to normal.

For now, however, All thoughts, plans and energy are focused entirely upon the first annual Stripperpalooza Tour!

Having consulted with a fair number of advisers, I have reached the conclusion that noon to midnight is just simply too much pussy for anyone to handle, even the dastardly deviant Mr. G&T and his elfin dentist buddy. And so, in order to form a more-perfect stripper tour, I have devised the seriously redesigned tour schedule.

And here it is:

6:00 - Join us for our inaugural excursion to Casa Diablo. The World's first all-vegan strip club, where they put the meat on the pole, not on your plate. I have briefly scouted the venue, and I am optimistic. Spacious, clean and comfortable, I'm hoping the Saturday evening line up is sexier than the Wednesday afternoon crew...

7:30 - Dinner at Marrakesh. Sit on pillows and eat with your fingers as sexy belly dancers swirl around your table. A sexy feast fit for a king. We need to make reservations. You know you want to come, but I need to know now.

9:00 - Union Jacks. Tattoos, black hair, fishnets. This is the most "Portland" of Portland strip clubs. Fear the women and their wicked pole skills. Tip generously or they WILL kick your ass.

10:00-ish - Safari Club (Formerly Docs). This was once Tom's and my home away from home. One of the nicest clubs in town, the performers tend to be friendly and the drinks keep coming. Buy a gold fish for a buck and feed one of the piranhas.

11:30 - If we're still sober enough, we'll end the evening at the View Point.

We have a vibrant and growing group. But, folks on the fence need to pull the trigger and commit. There is really no reason not to come.

Inog, Mrs inog and Ryan, it's a short drive. You can sleep on my floor if you need to.

JB, I don't buy your excuse.

Our Seattle Friends: really, you can sleep on my floor next to Inog.

Mitch, you know where Oregon is...

Dave, well, OK, you're in New York, and Familytrain, yes, Pittsburg is a long way away.

Oosje and the BSU's, you know, I've never gone strip clubbing with you before, and the tots would like to see you.

OK. really, It's RSVP time. I'll be making calls in the morning.

School Days ***Second Update***

Well, thanks to the brave souls who participated in this one! Fewer than the panty post, but more than it could have been...

For those regular readers, commenters and lurkers who didn't contribute, I am disappointed in you and you should feel a sickening sense of shame for your failure...

Note: If any of you still want to get a late submission in to me, I can update this thing throughout the day.

Mitch, I'm waiting.

Dave, I warned you... (Dave is in New York and will be excused...)

And yes, as the submissions were light, I went heavy with personal favorites...

Special thanks to Mrs Tom for her contributions!

***First Update***

The photos just keep coming! Havene't gotten yours in yet?? No worries, there's still time. No scanner? No worries, take a digital photo of your favortite print.

Multiple submissions are allowed, as long as you've got something good (bad).

***Just a couple more late additions***