But still, let's hear it for McCain/Naughty-Librarian 2008!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Um....
OK, so, to be fair, this might be photoshopped...
But still, let's hear it for McCain/Naughty-Librarian 2008!
But still, let's hear it for McCain/Naughty-Librarian 2008!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Runner-Up ***Correction***
I was unable to contain my glee throughout lunch today. I giggled without ceasing when I heard the news...
I assumed he would pick a moderate or a woman. Never in my life, however, did I see this coming.
First, I'd like to welcome Sarah Palin to the game. Congratulations. We wish you all the best.
Now, let's taker a closer look at just exactly what John McCain has done to himself.
First, let's look at the courtship. Republicans have convinced themselves that there is some mysterious cabal of angry lesbians who are so angry with Obama for beating their girl that they will actually vote Republican to smite him.
This fantasy is just not true. No matter how angry these girls get, no true Clinton supporter will ever vote to allow the Bush/Cheney/McCain dynasty one more term. No true Clinton supporter would ever put the country in that much jeopardy.
Clinton VOTERS, though, that's another thing. Remember during the primaries, the hundreds of thousands of Republicans who switched sides to vote for Hillary as the weakest risk? Well, guess what, those folks are no longer supporting Hillary, and they are back to their old stripes in the service of the GOP.
Those are all of the Hilary folks McCain will ever get. It has not stopped John from pandering, though, fishing for Hillary's castaways who are not really there. And his latest effort? His biggest pre-election decision? The biggest risk he's taken since soaring low over Hanoi?
In a bald-faced and somewhat cheap-appearing ploy to coddle these non-existent Fem-ublicans, He selected a woman. A nice woman, it seems. Kinda pretty. But that's about as far as it goes.
Besides, it's a ploy. It's obvious and offensive. It's a reverse form of sexism.
Her qualifications are this: Bachelor's degree in journalism at University of Idaho. Miss Alaska beauty pageant runner-up, Hockey-mom, Mayor of small Alaskan village, 2nd year Governor of Alaska. She is an oil whore (not gender-specific). She radically opposes abortion rights. She hunted and killed moose as a child. She favors expansive oil drilling as an answer to petroleum dependence.
Oh, and she also likes to steal well-written lines from Hilary Clinton. Apparently, she didn't have enough time to have her own words written for her.
To tell the truth, I don't think I'd even hire her to be my paralegal, let alone the next President, should something happen to John. I mean, would YOU hire her?
To the extent that McCain had any argument at all about Obama's lack of experience (18 years of experience), he has destroyed his own argument by selecting a literal novice.
Further, it seems, Ms Palin even comes with her own built-in scandal. She is, in fact, in the absolute middle of her very own ethics inquiry. Seems she fired the director of the State Police because he wouldn't fire her ex brother-in-law, whom she disliked.
That's what John McCain has given us. this is what he has straddled us with. this is what he straddled himself with... And it all starts to feel reminiscent of those days when we all slowly began to realize that Dan Quayle was absolute vacuous moron. It's like you can almost taste it coming...
But the bigger question is: "What was John thinking?"
How could he have done this to himself? He holds himself out as the candidate with the most experience and best judgment. He has had months of relative calm since he sewed up the Republican nomination. He has had a surplus of time, with which to solve this riddle, to research his options. This is the biggest decision of his political career. He is potentially naming his successor as leader of the free world, and he gives us Maggie O'Connell from Northern Exposure.
(John ought to keep an eye out for falling satellites...)
It is just a frighteningly blatant display of poor judgement. It demonstrates how out-of-touch McCain really is. The media will be polite, I assume, at least through Thursday when she is nominated. But then? Oh then...
She will be, not only the final nail in McCain's coffin, no, she'll be the dirt covering the hole.
The Palin decision, whether she stays or whether she backs away, will win the presidency for Obama. And McCain? He'll be the runner-up.
***CORRECTION***
I was wrong when I said John McCain gave us Maggie O'Connell from Northen Exposure.
No, what I should have said was, he gave us Shelly Vincoeur.
I assumed he would pick a moderate or a woman. Never in my life, however, did I see this coming.
First, I'd like to welcome Sarah Palin to the game. Congratulations. We wish you all the best.
Now, let's taker a closer look at just exactly what John McCain has done to himself.
First, let's look at the courtship. Republicans have convinced themselves that there is some mysterious cabal of angry lesbians who are so angry with Obama for beating their girl that they will actually vote Republican to smite him.
This fantasy is just not true. No matter how angry these girls get, no true Clinton supporter will ever vote to allow the Bush/Cheney/McCain dynasty one more term. No true Clinton supporter would ever put the country in that much jeopardy.
Clinton VOTERS, though, that's another thing. Remember during the primaries, the hundreds of thousands of Republicans who switched sides to vote for Hillary as the weakest risk? Well, guess what, those folks are no longer supporting Hillary, and they are back to their old stripes in the service of the GOP.
Those are all of the Hilary folks McCain will ever get. It has not stopped John from pandering, though, fishing for Hillary's castaways who are not really there. And his latest effort? His biggest pre-election decision? The biggest risk he's taken since soaring low over Hanoi?
In a bald-faced and somewhat cheap-appearing ploy to coddle these non-existent Fem-ublicans, He selected a woman. A nice woman, it seems. Kinda pretty. But that's about as far as it goes.
Besides, it's a ploy. It's obvious and offensive. It's a reverse form of sexism.
Her qualifications are this: Bachelor's degree in journalism at University of Idaho. Miss Alaska beauty pageant runner-up, Hockey-mom, Mayor of small Alaskan village, 2nd year Governor of Alaska. She is an oil whore (not gender-specific). She radically opposes abortion rights. She hunted and killed moose as a child. She favors expansive oil drilling as an answer to petroleum dependence.
Oh, and she also likes to steal well-written lines from Hilary Clinton. Apparently, she didn't have enough time to have her own words written for her.
To tell the truth, I don't think I'd even hire her to be my paralegal, let alone the next President, should something happen to John. I mean, would YOU hire her?
To the extent that McCain had any argument at all about Obama's lack of experience (18 years of experience), he has destroyed his own argument by selecting a literal novice.
Further, it seems, Ms Palin even comes with her own built-in scandal. She is, in fact, in the absolute middle of her very own ethics inquiry. Seems she fired the director of the State Police because he wouldn't fire her ex brother-in-law, whom she disliked.
That's what John McCain has given us. this is what he has straddled us with. this is what he straddled himself with... And it all starts to feel reminiscent of those days when we all slowly began to realize that Dan Quayle was absolute vacuous moron. It's like you can almost taste it coming...
But the bigger question is: "What was John thinking?"
How could he have done this to himself? He holds himself out as the candidate with the most experience and best judgment. He has had months of relative calm since he sewed up the Republican nomination. He has had a surplus of time, with which to solve this riddle, to research his options. This is the biggest decision of his political career. He is potentially naming his successor as leader of the free world, and he gives us Maggie O'Connell from Northern Exposure.
(John ought to keep an eye out for falling satellites...)
It is just a frighteningly blatant display of poor judgement. It demonstrates how out-of-touch McCain really is. The media will be polite, I assume, at least through Thursday when she is nominated. But then? Oh then...
She will be, not only the final nail in McCain's coffin, no, she'll be the dirt covering the hole.
The Palin decision, whether she stays or whether she backs away, will win the presidency for Obama. And McCain? He'll be the runner-up.
***CORRECTION***
I was wrong when I said John McCain gave us Maggie O'Connell from Northen Exposure.
No, what I should have said was, he gave us Shelly Vincoeur.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Headache
There are, perhaps, few things more depressing than a new bottle of aspirin. Each little pill represents one pain or ache in your head or your back or your neck or your arm or your leg that will strike you sometime in the future.
The pills will sit there, happy and white, just waiting. Waiting for your pain. Waiting for your misery. Waiting for the stress. Waiting for the tension.
The pain will come. It always does. You know it will come too, that is why you buy the aspirin to begin with.
Truth be told, I prefer Ibuprofen to aspirin, and I buy the extra-large jug of it at Costco. And it sits there, holding 10,000 symbols of future aches and pain, glaring at me there in the shopping cart. Taunting me.
It's demoralizing, really. I must be some sort of masochist.
The pills will sit there, happy and white, just waiting. Waiting for your pain. Waiting for your misery. Waiting for the stress. Waiting for the tension.The pain will come. It always does. You know it will come too, that is why you buy the aspirin to begin with.
Truth be told, I prefer Ibuprofen to aspirin, and I buy the extra-large jug of it at Costco. And it sits there, holding 10,000 symbols of future aches and pain, glaring at me there in the shopping cart. Taunting me.
It's demoralizing, really. I must be some sort of masochist.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Song in My Head
The girl likes her music. And when we come across one of her favorites, we always have to go back and listen to it again.
"One More Time, Dad!" She hoots from the back seat.
I smile and I humor her. And we listen to Three is a Magic Number for the seventh time in a row.
But sometimes, that's just how music is, whether you are three or 37, and you have to go back and listen and listen and listen, until you exorcise the melodic imp in your head.
And so it has been for me with Radiohead. And yes, In Rainbows has been out since last year, And I've enjoyed it off and on since its release. But holy hell, as of late, it has possessed me. Track 9, Jigsaw Falling Into Place, in particular, but really, the entire album.
(does that word date me?)
And so I was going to play the clip that I can't get out of my head, with the hopes of sharing the misery, but then decided, what the hell, I'll just post the whole damn thing.
So, thanks to Youtube, Google, and the magic of the Internet, here is the video version of my current musical obsession.
In Rainbows
-Radiohead
1. 15 Step
2. Bodysnatchers
3. Nude
4. Weird Fishes
5. All I Need
6. Faust Arp
7. Reckoner
8. House of Cards
9. Jigsaw Falling Into place
10. Videotape
"One More Time, Dad!" She hoots from the back seat.
I smile and I humor her. And we listen to Three is a Magic Number for the seventh time in a row.
But sometimes, that's just how music is, whether you are three or 37, and you have to go back and listen and listen and listen, until you exorcise the melodic imp in your head.
And so it has been for me with Radiohead. And yes, In Rainbows has been out since last year, And I've enjoyed it off and on since its release. But holy hell, as of late, it has possessed me. Track 9, Jigsaw Falling Into Place, in particular, but really, the entire album.
(does that word date me?)
And so I was going to play the clip that I can't get out of my head, with the hopes of sharing the misery, but then decided, what the hell, I'll just post the whole damn thing.
So, thanks to Youtube, Google, and the magic of the Internet, here is the video version of my current musical obsession.
In Rainbows
-Radiohead
1. 15 Step
2. Bodysnatchers
3. Nude
4. Weird Fishes
5. All I Need
6. Faust Arp
7. Reckoner
8. House of Cards
9. Jigsaw Falling Into place
10. Videotape
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Racetrack
The orange plastic two-lane drag strip began at the starting gate, which was clipped to the book shelf above the bed. The track dipped steeply down to the manufactured pillow berm, leveled out to a horizontal straight away, over the foot of the bed to the floor, under the shoe tunnel, out the sliding door to the patio, through the loop-de-loop, to the jump ramp and the finish flag gate, and then the wall.
The vehicles were each chosen from our own personal collections. My racer was a pick up truck. It was the fastest one I had. My friend had a Mustang, or perhaps a Charger. Both, of course, were Hot Wheels.
And while his cars were always faster than mine, both his and mine were always Hot Wheels, never Matchbox. When your entire world revolves around having the fastest pocket-sized race car, you very quickly realize that Matchbox cars are shitty.
To mothers and fathers and older sisters with untrained eyes, they were indistinguishable. And when grandma gave you new cars for Christmas, you'd pray to the baby in the manger that they were the right ones. Of course, you'd smile and say "thank you" even if they were Matchbox, but you'd give that extra-big hug if she bought you Hot Wheels.
They were just better. Better construction. Better design. Based on actual cars. Matchbox was always fakey and crappy and chinsey and wonky. Hot Wheels had hot rods with fat tires and well-oiled axles.
So we would race. My Fastest Hot Wheels against his. His always won.
Eventually, my cars got put away. At some point I played with them for the last time, and put them away for the last time, and I bet I didn't even realize what I was doing at the time. I had an official Hot Wheels case, and each car had it's own berth, and one day I snapped the lid shut on the cars and never opened it again.
I'm relatively confident that they are in a box in my mom's garage. Or at least I hope so. They recently moved and purged a bunch of stuff. And now I'm a little sweaty and twitchy at the thought that they got tossed out with the bathwater...
I'll have to call to confirm, I suppose. Perhaps I even have them here. I don't think so though.
All of this came up, however, just tonight. The missus was relating the latest events from their adventure at the park. Turns out, the Boy, who appears to be more BOY than I ever was, likes little cars and took one from another little boy.
Actually, I was told that the Boy took a "Matchbox" car from another boy, which caused me some concern and a small urge to go find him some superior Hot Wheels. I mean, why would he bother with Matchbox?? But then I inquired and learned that it was "just a small car, and really what's the difference?"
And really, the difference is, if I owned a box full of Matchbox cars, I wouldn't give a shit where they were. Unfortunately, my missing Hot Wheels are causing me to develop a nervous tic.
I think I'm going to go look in the garage and see if they are out there...
The vehicles were each chosen from our own personal collections. My racer was a pick up truck. It was the fastest one I had. My friend had a Mustang, or perhaps a Charger. Both, of course, were Hot Wheels.And while his cars were always faster than mine, both his and mine were always Hot Wheels, never Matchbox. When your entire world revolves around having the fastest pocket-sized race car, you very quickly realize that Matchbox cars are shitty.
To mothers and fathers and older sisters with untrained eyes, they were indistinguishable. And when grandma gave you new cars for Christmas, you'd pray to the baby in the manger that they were the right ones. Of course, you'd smile and say "thank you" even if they were Matchbox, but you'd give that extra-big hug if she bought you Hot Wheels.
They were just better. Better construction. Better design. Based on actual cars. Matchbox was always fakey and crappy and chinsey and wonky. Hot Wheels had hot rods with fat tires and well-oiled axles.
So we would race. My Fastest Hot Wheels against his. His always won.
Eventually, my cars got put away. At some point I played with them for the last time, and put them away for the last time, and I bet I didn't even realize what I was doing at the time. I had an official Hot Wheels case, and each car had it's own berth, and one day I snapped the lid shut on the cars and never opened it again.I'm relatively confident that they are in a box in my mom's garage. Or at least I hope so. They recently moved and purged a bunch of stuff. And now I'm a little sweaty and twitchy at the thought that they got tossed out with the bathwater...
I'll have to call to confirm, I suppose. Perhaps I even have them here. I don't think so though.
All of this came up, however, just tonight. The missus was relating the latest events from their adventure at the park. Turns out, the Boy, who appears to be more BOY than I ever was, likes little cars and took one from another little boy.
Actually, I was told that the Boy took a "Matchbox" car from another boy, which caused me some concern and a small urge to go find him some superior Hot Wheels. I mean, why would he bother with Matchbox?? But then I inquired and learned that it was "just a small car, and really what's the difference?"And really, the difference is, if I owned a box full of Matchbox cars, I wouldn't give a shit where they were. Unfortunately, my missing Hot Wheels are causing me to develop a nervous tic.
I think I'm going to go look in the garage and see if they are out there...
Monday, August 25, 2008
Revenge
I like the idea of revenge.
Punishing the evil doer with extreme prejudice. Exacting calculated violence. Terror. Fear. Pain.
It's a thought-provoking concept, often maligned, preached against. The little morality plays of western literature have flitted near that flame time and again, then excuse themselves with a lesson in ethics or the dangers of exuberant blood-lust.
I like it, though, and I find myself fantasizing about it from time to time. The set up, the execution, the reveal.
It takes me on tours of the darker corners in my mind. I can lose time to it. I come back to it not-infrequently.
Thing is, I'm happy. No one has wronged me seriously enough to merit revenge. At least, as far as I know. I do not hold any vendetta over anyone else. I'm not currently in the need for a revenge scheme or gang.
I guess, I just like to think about it. Watch out though, I have plans...
Punishing the evil doer with extreme prejudice. Exacting calculated violence. Terror. Fear. Pain.
It's a thought-provoking concept, often maligned, preached against. The little morality plays of western literature have flitted near that flame time and again, then excuse themselves with a lesson in ethics or the dangers of exuberant blood-lust.
I like it, though, and I find myself fantasizing about it from time to time. The set up, the execution, the reveal.
It takes me on tours of the darker corners in my mind. I can lose time to it. I come back to it not-infrequently.
Thing is, I'm happy. No one has wronged me seriously enough to merit revenge. At least, as far as I know. I do not hold any vendetta over anyone else. I'm not currently in the need for a revenge scheme or gang.
I guess, I just like to think about it. Watch out though, I have plans...
Sunday, August 24, 2008
A Conversation
"Dave, It's good to see you!"
"Hey, it's good to be here. Hey, what happened to your ear?"
"What about my ear?"
"There's blood in your ear man, What did you do to it?"
"Oh, that. You don't want to know."
"Well, I was just being polite, but now I really want to know."
"[sigh] OK. Well, I scratched it with my lawnmower."
"[pause]I'm not going to ask anymore questions about that."
"Good plan."
"Hey, it's good to be here. Hey, what happened to your ear?"
"What about my ear?"
"There's blood in your ear man, What did you do to it?"
"Oh, that. You don't want to know."
"Well, I was just being polite, but now I really want to know."
"[sigh] OK. Well, I scratched it with my lawnmower."
"[pause]I'm not going to ask anymore questions about that."
"Good plan."
Disappointing the Dog
He has a sad face. His eyes are sloped, his eyebrows are bushy. His snout is long and droopy.
All of this, despite that the fact I rescued his ass from certain death. I feed him twice a day, change his water, brush his hair and shovel his shit.
Yes, I'm talking about Inog
No, no, I'm talking about my dog, the sad-little-shusky. Well, not so little. He probably weighs 60 pounds. Big for a house dog, but mostly well behaved.
He pouts, though, plays up the natural sad face and googly eyes. He mopes. He whines. (Hmm, actually, he sounds more like Leah)
We walk him almost every day, and he has a huge yard to run in.
What's he do, though? He sits on the deck and peers in the window, wiping his wet nose on the glass... (OK, now he's back to sounding like Inog)
When he's out, he wants in. When he's in, he wants out. And when he's out, he wants to go for a walk.
I've already discussed the dog park. And today, I promised to go. "Dog Park." It's one of the few phrases he understands, or actually admits to understanding. And I said it. And he heard it.
I went so far as to call him out to the garage, put on the leash and open the door.
It was then, as the big creaky panel door rolled into the rafters that I did see the giant splashing drops of August rain pouring from the sky.
The dog did not care. He saw my car and darted for the back door. I jerked the leash and pulled him back inside. We were not going to the dog park today afterall.
He looked at me with innocent eagerness, pure desire and tail-wagging anticipation. But then, I did the unthinkable. I closed the garage door, and we never even got in my car!
He looked at me. Sad. Confused. Deflated. His tail stopped wagging. He hung his head.
He turned and walked back in without being told. He laid down in the corner and stayed there until much later this evening.
A real drama queen, to be sure. A whiny bitch, just like his mother. But still, I felt bad. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd never said anything. This time, though, he heard ne say "dog park" as clear as if I'd rang Pavlov's bell.
He'll get over it. We'll go to the dog park another time. Still though, I felt bad.
All of this, despite that the fact I rescued his ass from certain death. I feed him twice a day, change his water, brush his hair and shovel his shit.
Yes, I'm talking about Inog
No, no, I'm talking about my dog, the sad-little-shusky. Well, not so little. He probably weighs 60 pounds. Big for a house dog, but mostly well behaved.
He pouts, though, plays up the natural sad face and googly eyes. He mopes. He whines. (Hmm, actually, he sounds more like Leah)
We walk him almost every day, and he has a huge yard to run in.
What's he do, though? He sits on the deck and peers in the window, wiping his wet nose on the glass... (OK, now he's back to sounding like Inog)
When he's out, he wants in. When he's in, he wants out. And when he's out, he wants to go for a walk.
I've already discussed the dog park. And today, I promised to go. "Dog Park." It's one of the few phrases he understands, or actually admits to understanding. And I said it. And he heard it.
I went so far as to call him out to the garage, put on the leash and open the door.
It was then, as the big creaky panel door rolled into the rafters that I did see the giant splashing drops of August rain pouring from the sky.
The dog did not care. He saw my car and darted for the back door. I jerked the leash and pulled him back inside. We were not going to the dog park today afterall.
He looked at me with innocent eagerness, pure desire and tail-wagging anticipation. But then, I did the unthinkable. I closed the garage door, and we never even got in my car!
He looked at me. Sad. Confused. Deflated. His tail stopped wagging. He hung his head.
He turned and walked back in without being told. He laid down in the corner and stayed there until much later this evening.
A real drama queen, to be sure. A whiny bitch, just like his mother. But still, I felt bad. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd never said anything. This time, though, he heard ne say "dog park" as clear as if I'd rang Pavlov's bell.
He'll get over it. We'll go to the dog park another time. Still though, I felt bad.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
What Else Floats in Water?
I really didn't belong. I wasn't properly dressed. I was wearing a dark blue shirt because I didn't even own a black one.
Dave had a band, and the band was making a rare visit to Portland. Dave didn't know that I knew. I hadn't seen him in years. So we went, and there we were.
Tom and I were in the small smokey club, standing around until the gig was up. Once off stage, Dave walked past and looked at me. He walked past again and glared. Finally, on the third pass, he recognized us and his face lit up into a rare smile.
The show had been good, and introductions were made. Unfortunately, the one member of his band that I didn't meet was the drummer.
Standing around talking, I grew thirsty and wandered over to the bar to get a drink. There, I met an attractive young woman dressed all in black, and who was wearing a large amulet around her neck. She had seen me chatting with Dave, and reached out her hand to introduce herself.
"Hi," she said, "I'm the drummer."
"Oh," I said, reaching out my hand to shake hers, "pleasure to meet you."
She kept shaking my hand and said, "I'm also a witch."
"Alright," I offered, the pieces coming together, "There's something you don't hear everyday."
"I used to be a catholic."
"Not really a lot of difference between the two, I suppose." I said.
"Hmm, I guess not, now that I think about it."
And with that, my first encounter with a real live self-proclaimed witch came to an end. Such is the benefit of being friends with Dave. It seems to just come with the territory.
...12 hours and counting. The Rose City awaits the return of Dave and Mrs. Dave.
Dave had a band, and the band was making a rare visit to Portland. Dave didn't know that I knew. I hadn't seen him in years. So we went, and there we were.
Tom and I were in the small smokey club, standing around until the gig was up. Once off stage, Dave walked past and looked at me. He walked past again and glared. Finally, on the third pass, he recognized us and his face lit up into a rare smile.
The show had been good, and introductions were made. Unfortunately, the one member of his band that I didn't meet was the drummer.
Standing around talking, I grew thirsty and wandered over to the bar to get a drink. There, I met an attractive young woman dressed all in black, and who was wearing a large amulet around her neck. She had seen me chatting with Dave, and reached out her hand to introduce herself.
"Hi," she said, "I'm the drummer."
"Oh," I said, reaching out my hand to shake hers, "pleasure to meet you."
She kept shaking my hand and said, "I'm also a witch."
"Alright," I offered, the pieces coming together, "There's something you don't hear everyday."
"I used to be a catholic."
"Not really a lot of difference between the two, I suppose." I said.
"Hmm, I guess not, now that I think about it."
And with that, my first encounter with a real live self-proclaimed witch came to an end. Such is the benefit of being friends with Dave. It seems to just come with the territory.
...12 hours and counting. The Rose City awaits the return of Dave and Mrs. Dave.
Game On - Apparently
Feline Greetings
I never asked Dave to submit his pieces, but I generally try to post whatever tid bits folks like to send. I never asked anyone to send in Cleavage pictures, but I posted those too.
Word around the campfire is that there is a Hello Kitty clothing movement brewing.
Word around the campfire is that there is a Hello Kitty clothing movement brewing.
I don't actually own any Hello Kitty clothing. If anyone sent me some, I may post my own pic...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dave's Gay Crush
Latest from Dave...
The Gay Alternate
Special Note: All of my submitted entries follow a simple rule – they have to involve Brian in some fashion. It's his blog, it's only fair. Besides, the world really revolves around him anyway. Just ask him.
It was Brian and Mrs. G&T that had taught us about "The List" – the five celebrities that as a married couple, would be understandable (although mayhaps not acceptable) to find out your partner had cheated with. Brian's choices were fairly guessable if you know Brian, by the way. Of course, the List also requires the Gay Alternate, which is required in order to have your list accepted. I was most surprised by Mrs. G&T's choice of the Gay Alternate, but that's her story and I shan't ruin it by usurping it.
Naturally, Jadine and I thought about our own choices, and her choices didn't surprise me in the slightest – Chris Isaak, Chris Cornell… she likes singers, what can I say. Or maybe it's guys named "Chris". My choices took a little longer, because strangely enough I'm not very good at drooling over celebrities. As a matter of fact, it took a full year to get a list together. However… the Gay Alternate didn't. When Brian first suggested this little exercise, my first Gay Alternate came to mind in seconds: David Navarro.
I've always been a fan of Jane's Addiction and he's always struck me as a very pretty man in a rocker sort of way. And I've seen him make out with other dudes at the drop of a hat, and you tend to want experienced hands at this sort of thing. (ahem.)
But one day while driving to work, I called Jadine and we had the following conversation.
"Hi honey? Do you have a second?"
"Yes David, is something wrong?"
"Well I've been thinking very seriously about something and I came to an important decision."
"Okay, what is it?"
"I don't want David Navarro as my gay alternate anymore."
"(pause) You've seriously been thinking about this?"
"Yes."
"While you were driving."
"Yeah, I've given it a lot of thought."
"(Pause). Okay, may I ask why?"
"Because he's just so tawdry these days, you know you won't be exclusive. And he just comes across so sleazy. You'd probably catch something."
"(Pause) Okay David, I can see that. Do you an alternative choice?"
"Yes I do….
Hugh Jackman."
"Why Hugh Jackman? It's not because he's Wolverine, is it?"
"No, that would be silly. it's because he seems like the sort that could commit. And he's funny, and I think he would be a Gay Alternate that you could have a long-term commitment with, if you so choose."
"(pause.) And you've been thinking about this, as you were driving to work."
"And I bet he'd cuddle."
There you go. If I'm hooking with a famous person… I would want to cuddle. And we could go to a musical or something.
The Gay Alternate
Special Note: All of my submitted entries follow a simple rule – they have to involve Brian in some fashion. It's his blog, it's only fair. Besides, the world really revolves around him anyway. Just ask him.
It was Brian and Mrs. G&T that had taught us about "The List" – the five celebrities that as a married couple, would be understandable (although mayhaps not acceptable) to find out your partner had cheated with. Brian's choices were fairly guessable if you know Brian, by the way. Of course, the List also requires the Gay Alternate, which is required in order to have your list accepted. I was most surprised by Mrs. G&T's choice of the Gay Alternate, but that's her story and I shan't ruin it by usurping it.
Naturally, Jadine and I thought about our own choices, and her choices didn't surprise me in the slightest – Chris Isaak, Chris Cornell… she likes singers, what can I say. Or maybe it's guys named "Chris". My choices took a little longer, because strangely enough I'm not very good at drooling over celebrities. As a matter of fact, it took a full year to get a list together. However… the Gay Alternate didn't. When Brian first suggested this little exercise, my first Gay Alternate came to mind in seconds: David Navarro.
I've always been a fan of Jane's Addiction and he's always struck me as a very pretty man in a rocker sort of way. And I've seen him make out with other dudes at the drop of a hat, and you tend to want experienced hands at this sort of thing. (ahem.)
But one day while driving to work, I called Jadine and we had the following conversation.
"Hi honey? Do you have a second?"
"Yes David, is something wrong?"
"Well I've been thinking very seriously about something and I came to an important decision."
"Okay, what is it?"
"I don't want David Navarro as my gay alternate anymore."
"(pause) You've seriously been thinking about this?"
"Yes."
"While you were driving."
"Yeah, I've given it a lot of thought."
"(Pause). Okay, may I ask why?"
"Because he's just so tawdry these days, you know you won't be exclusive. And he just comes across so sleazy. You'd probably catch something."
"(Pause) Okay David, I can see that. Do you an alternative choice?"
"Yes I do….
Hugh Jackman."
"Why Hugh Jackman? It's not because he's Wolverine, is it?"
"No, that would be silly. it's because he seems like the sort that could commit. And he's funny, and I think he would be a Gay Alternate that you could have a long-term commitment with, if you so choose."
"(pause.) And you've been thinking about this, as you were driving to work."
"And I bet he'd cuddle."
There you go. If I'm hooking with a famous person… I would want to cuddle. And we could go to a musical or something.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Dave Is Making My Job Easier
Dave Week continues here at the Lounge. Here is his latest post. Of course, Dave will be traveling for the next couple of days, so I suspect this will be his last for a while. Likely, however, there will be some interesting photos posted here after Saturday night...
And now, more Dave (with only a few photos added by me this time):
The Devil's Advocates
-By Dave
Here's a little religious history for you, courtesy of Brian's heathen atheistic pulpit. When the Catholic Church used to propose religious law, they would first debate the proposed amendment within the Vatican by a council assembled by the Pope. The opposing viewpoint would be defended by a versed religious scholar who was designated "the Devil's Advocate" for the argument. It was not a popular position to hold, because you would invariably need to argue as a proponent of something rather heinous – "No, I think it's a good idea to let men marry household plants", "Yes, babies are worthwhile substitutes for oven kindling" and so forth.
Brian and I know the trials of this – we acted as the Devil's Advocate for Libya back when Uncle Moammar Khaddafi was still deemed an evil person and threat to all good decency in a civilized world. His major crime was creating a line of death, taking a few potshots at the US Navy that had decided to park half a dozen warships juuust outside of the international ocean borders (the diplomatic equivalent of 'I'm not touching you'.) Now he's thankfully one of the good guys. Har har har.
One of the teachers in our high school thought it would be a good idea to stage a mock United Nations council to teach the students about world politics and government and so forth. Brian and I were occasionally involved with Model United Nations, when I would show up and Brian wasn't busy stealing people's combs. So Brian and I were chosen as the representatives of Libya, during a public debate about whether Libya should be kicked out the United Nations. That's the way to get chicks right there – defend a country the whole United States has declared an international satan, deep inside the good old suburbia of Southern California (not quite the most liberal section of town.)
Getting the prerequisite number of students to represent the General Assembly was tricky, and many Spanish classes were pulled into the little experiment to act as the Southern American countries. I didn't get it either, but there they were. Representing the United States was a well-liked upper classmen who was active in student body and considered an extremely nice person by everyone. Brian and I, on the other hand, were rightly pegged early on as dweebs.
An indefensible argument, against a more popular opponent in a jaded environment. We did the only sensible thing one could do – we went on the verbal attack. We asked the adjudicating teacher if we could read prepared statements, which was not expected by either the teachers or the United States representative. We began by denouncing the whole proceedings, denouncing the whole accusation and accused the U.S. representative as a bold-faced liar. In pro wrestling terms, we turned heel and turned heel big.
The U.S. rep was actually shaken – she didn't expect to be on the defensive and spent a large portion of the first half of the proceedings defending the actions of the United States and trying to regain momentum. Meanwhile, Brian and I tag-teamed among our fellow constituents, striking secret deals wherever we could while the other one continued the verbal assault on America and its representative – the representative of Nicaragua verbally spoke out against the U.S. involvement in their elections, the tiny nation of Bhutan became the most vocal advocate of our sovereignty. My personal crown jewel – I had asked one of the more popular guys among the "Woodworking Shop/Graphic Arts crowd" to make a statement. He had no idea what he was debating, and had no real interest in the proceedings. But we convinced it would be cool to stand up and speak. So he did - "I disagree with everything she's saying and agree with them." We actually got some applause for that. Totally unearned and meaningless to the proceedings and yet perfect in its way.
Still, it would be a fantasy to say our conniving and dirty tricks carried the day – we were still high school kids in a corner of the Conservative California Suburbia, defending an unpopular country who was testing the U.S. war machine's patience. Brian and I certainly couldn't defeat the public opinion being whipped by the news, the political machines, etc. No, we lost. But only by eight votes. Eight…out of a hundred students.
We'll get them next time, Brian.
__________________________________
In case you don't know what this Model United Nations thing is that Dave is talking about, I'll let the Decemberists explain it to you...
And now, more Dave (with only a few photos added by me this time):
The Devil's Advocates
-By Dave
Here's a little religious history for you, courtesy of Brian's heathen atheistic pulpit. When the Catholic Church used to propose religious law, they would first debate the proposed amendment within the Vatican by a council assembled by the Pope. The opposing viewpoint would be defended by a versed religious scholar who was designated "the Devil's Advocate" for the argument. It was not a popular position to hold, because you would invariably need to argue as a proponent of something rather heinous – "No, I think it's a good idea to let men marry household plants", "Yes, babies are worthwhile substitutes for oven kindling" and so forth.Brian and I know the trials of this – we acted as the Devil's Advocate for Libya back when Uncle Moammar Khaddafi was still deemed an evil person and threat to all good decency in a civilized world. His major crime was creating a line of death, taking a few potshots at the US Navy that had decided to park half a dozen warships juuust outside of the international ocean borders (the diplomatic equivalent of 'I'm not touching you'.) Now he's thankfully one of the good guys. Har har har.
One of the teachers in our high school thought it would be a good idea to stage a mock United Nations council to teach the students about world politics and government and so forth. Brian and I were occasionally involved with Model United Nations, when I would show up and Brian wasn't busy stealing people's combs. So Brian and I were chosen as the representatives of Libya, during a public debate about whether Libya should be kicked out the United Nations. That's the way to get chicks right there – defend a country the whole United States has declared an international satan, deep inside the good old suburbia of Southern California (not quite the most liberal section of town.)Getting the prerequisite number of students to represent the General Assembly was tricky, and many Spanish classes were pulled into the little experiment to act as the Southern American countries. I didn't get it either, but there they were. Representing the United States was a well-liked upper classmen who was active in student body and considered an extremely nice person by everyone. Brian and I, on the other hand, were rightly pegged early on as dweebs.
An indefensible argument, against a more popular opponent in a jaded environment. We did the only sensible thing one could do – we went on the verbal attack. We asked the adjudicating teacher if we could read prepared statements, which was not expected by either the teachers or the United States representative. We began by denouncing the whole proceedings, denouncing the whole accusation and accused the U.S. representative as a bold-faced liar. In pro wrestling terms, we turned heel and turned heel big.
The U.S. rep was actually shaken – she didn't expect to be on the defensive and spent a large portion of the first half of the proceedings defending the actions of the United States and trying to regain momentum. Meanwhile, Brian and I tag-teamed among our fellow constituents, striking secret deals wherever we could while the other one continued the verbal assault on America and its representative – the representative of Nicaragua verbally spoke out against the U.S. involvement in their elections, the tiny nation of Bhutan became the most vocal advocate of our sovereignty. My personal crown jewel – I had asked one of the more popular guys among the "Woodworking Shop/Graphic Arts crowd" to make a statement. He had no idea what he was debating, and had no real interest in the proceedings. But we convinced it would be cool to stand up and speak. So he did - "I disagree with everything she's saying and agree with them." We actually got some applause for that. Totally unearned and meaningless to the proceedings and yet perfect in its way.Still, it would be a fantasy to say our conniving and dirty tricks carried the day – we were still high school kids in a corner of the Conservative California Suburbia, defending an unpopular country who was testing the U.S. war machine's patience. Brian and I certainly couldn't defeat the public opinion being whipped by the news, the political machines, etc. No, we lost. But only by eight votes. Eight…out of a hundred students.
We'll get them next time, Brian.
__________________________________
In case you don't know what this Model United Nations thing is that Dave is talking about, I'll let the Decemberists explain it to you...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Oregano
I've decided to go with a theme for the week. Officially, I declare this Dave Week. All blogs will be either by Dave, about Dave, or merely tangentially related to Dave. He's submitted one guest post already, and here is another:
(my notes are in italics)
OREGANO
-by Dave
Kids in junior high are stupid. No, don't pretend your junior high school kids aren't stupid. They probably are. I may have never met them, but they're probably stupid. I have good evidence to support this, surprisingly enough. Your kids are stupid because you were stupid at that age, too. Yes you were. Go look at the photos, we'll wait.
::pauses::
See? You look stupid.
(Dave is on the money here. In the 7th grade, I looked like Peter Brady, Dave looked like a cute little cartoon tiger and Dr. Brian looked like the unfortunate little sister on Little House on the Prairie...)
Don't worry about it, though. We're all stupid at that age. It's something about that awkward phase between leaving the childhood of grade school that still includes recess, kickball and nap time; and transcending into the pseudo-adulthood of high school with barely contained sexual repression, cigarettes in the parking lot and learner's permits. Your identity is shot to hell, you don't understand the world you're in and you're stupid! I know this, because I was stupid. Yes sir, most definitely was I stupid. So was Mr. G&T. We all were. It could be argued we still are, but rarely would we perform the questionable acts of a junior high schooler now in the emeritus years of our middle age… like try to smoke oregano.
(which is stupid because EVERYONE knows that Coriander will get you fucked up.)
We had a weird little coterie of associates in junior high school, much more so than now. And the infamous Mark the Shark was infamous for having these weird sleepover birthday parties that in hindsight, seem stranger now than they did at the time. No, no. Nobody touched another person's penis. (speak for yourself) At least as far as I know. But Mark would invite about eight or so junior high school guys over to his mom's apartment, and we would stay awake until all hours of the night watching crap movies, talk about stupid things and try to pull pranks on one another.
(Then, we would do each other's hair and have a big pillow fight in our hello-kitty panties...)
I don't remember who thought it was a good idea. But someone thought it would be funny to convince everyone else that there were drugs at the party. We were junior high school dweebs in the suburbs – we were lucky if we had No-Doz, but someone grabbed a container of finely cut oregano, stuck it into a lunch baggie and tried to convince everyone else it was marijuana.
I don't think any of us had ever SEEN marijuana at that age, but we *thought* we knew what it looked like – green dried plant in a plastic bag.
(Everything I knew, I learned from Sonny Crockett.)
Like I said, stupid. And yes, Brian – you were at this party. This was before the advent of COPS, where all of America was thrust into a crash course on what drugs really look like. At the time however, to an idiot, oregano passed for marijuana. Or so we thought.
So of course, this turned into a question of validity. One person said it was fake, another said it was real, then the roles would switch and the other person claimed it fake while the others said it was real. We did this for about an hour. Finally, someone came to the brilliant conclusion that the only to verify its validity was to smoke it. Cheech and Chong, we weren't.
(We also tried to shoot up some brown sugar and snort some Bisquick.)
Now, if we're stupid enough to think oregano is marijuana, you know we're not smart enough to roll a joint, OR even know what a real joint looks like. However, we did realize that we needed paper, white paper of some sort.
So, quickly, a sheet of 8x11 notebook paper was presented, and we did our best to roll it into something we thought was somewhat joint-like. On reflection, it looked like rolled up notepaper paper, crumbled on each end with oregano sticking out of it. But we were very proud of it.
(I was more scared than proud. I was certain Jesus would not approve of this activity.)
Now who would be the one to test it out? Mark's friend, Dan, proved to be the bravest and I believe he lit the end from the kitchen stove. (Dan!) It did not burn very well, but Dan swore he was getting a buzz from it as burning bits of oregano fell to the kitchen linoleum. (Who's making Calzone??)
No one else dared try. The next day, Mark's mom didn't know about the whole fake joint incident, (I'm sure she was having her own real one) but I think she was wondering when we ordered a pizza, because the kitchen smelled of burnt oregano.
So we were stupid. And you were stupid. And your kids are probably stupid, too. It's not their fault. It's just that time of life. (So, Dave's post goes on a bit here with some melodramatic sophistry. It was kind of a drag, so I cut the last part. Instead, here is a photo of a fabulous ass...)
(my notes are in italics)
OREGANO
-by Dave
Kids in junior high are stupid. No, don't pretend your junior high school kids aren't stupid. They probably are. I may have never met them, but they're probably stupid. I have good evidence to support this, surprisingly enough. Your kids are stupid because you were stupid at that age, too. Yes you were. Go look at the photos, we'll wait.
::pauses::
See? You look stupid.
(Dave is on the money here. In the 7th grade, I looked like Peter Brady, Dave looked like a cute little cartoon tiger and Dr. Brian looked like the unfortunate little sister on Little House on the Prairie...)
Don't worry about it, though. We're all stupid at that age. It's something about that awkward phase between leaving the childhood of grade school that still includes recess, kickball and nap time; and transcending into the pseudo-adulthood of high school with barely contained sexual repression, cigarettes in the parking lot and learner's permits. Your identity is shot to hell, you don't understand the world you're in and you're stupid! I know this, because I was stupid. Yes sir, most definitely was I stupid. So was Mr. G&T. We all were. It could be argued we still are, but rarely would we perform the questionable acts of a junior high schooler now in the emeritus years of our middle age… like try to smoke oregano.
(which is stupid because EVERYONE knows that Coriander will get you fucked up.)
We had a weird little coterie of associates in junior high school, much more so than now. And the infamous Mark the Shark was infamous for having these weird sleepover birthday parties that in hindsight, seem stranger now than they did at the time. No, no. Nobody touched another person's penis. (speak for yourself) At least as far as I know. But Mark would invite about eight or so junior high school guys over to his mom's apartment, and we would stay awake until all hours of the night watching crap movies, talk about stupid things and try to pull pranks on one another.
(Then, we would do each other's hair and have a big pillow fight in our hello-kitty panties...)
I don't remember who thought it was a good idea. But someone thought it would be funny to convince everyone else that there were drugs at the party. We were junior high school dweebs in the suburbs – we were lucky if we had No-Doz, but someone grabbed a container of finely cut oregano, stuck it into a lunch baggie and tried to convince everyone else it was marijuana.
I don't think any of us had ever SEEN marijuana at that age, but we *thought* we knew what it looked like – green dried plant in a plastic bag.
(Everything I knew, I learned from Sonny Crockett.)
Like I said, stupid. And yes, Brian – you were at this party. This was before the advent of COPS, where all of America was thrust into a crash course on what drugs really look like. At the time however, to an idiot, oregano passed for marijuana. Or so we thought.
So of course, this turned into a question of validity. One person said it was fake, another said it was real, then the roles would switch and the other person claimed it fake while the others said it was real. We did this for about an hour. Finally, someone came to the brilliant conclusion that the only to verify its validity was to smoke it. Cheech and Chong, we weren't.
(We also tried to shoot up some brown sugar and snort some Bisquick.)
Now, if we're stupid enough to think oregano is marijuana, you know we're not smart enough to roll a joint, OR even know what a real joint looks like. However, we did realize that we needed paper, white paper of some sort.
So, quickly, a sheet of 8x11 notebook paper was presented, and we did our best to roll it into something we thought was somewhat joint-like. On reflection, it looked like rolled up notepaper paper, crumbled on each end with oregano sticking out of it. But we were very proud of it.
(I was more scared than proud. I was certain Jesus would not approve of this activity.)
Now who would be the one to test it out? Mark's friend, Dan, proved to be the bravest and I believe he lit the end from the kitchen stove. (Dan!) It did not burn very well, but Dan swore he was getting a buzz from it as burning bits of oregano fell to the kitchen linoleum. (Who's making Calzone??)
No one else dared try. The next day, Mark's mom didn't know about the whole fake joint incident, (I'm sure she was having her own real one) but I think she was wondering when we ordered a pizza, because the kitchen smelled of burnt oregano.
So we were stupid. And you were stupid. And your kids are probably stupid, too. It's not their fault. It's just that time of life. (So, Dave's post goes on a bit here with some melodramatic sophistry. It was kind of a drag, so I cut the last part. Instead, here is a photo of a fabulous ass...)
Monday, August 18, 2008
Bitchin Camaro
Back in the day, Dave drove a Camaro.
It was loud. It was old. It was fast.
It was painted primer gray. It had fat tires and no seat belts. I think it was also missing the gas cap, maybe. I seem to recall a rag perpetually stuffed into the gas hole. Maybe not. Maybe I'm thinking of Mark's 'Stang.
Anyway... Dave drove a Camaro. It was his first car, and I have two memories about it.
The first memory occurred at 7:42 a.m., October 1, 1987. I was drying my hair in the back bathroom of our house. My parents were in their bedroom. My kid sister was taking a shower in the main bathroom.
A sudden loud roar was immediately accompanied by a bouncing jolt and violent shaking. The wood-frame house creaked and groaned. It was the Whittier Narrows earthquake, and it felt like the end of the world.
I grabbed a door way. My sister was screaming, and my dad kicked the bathroom door open into her forehead. A few dishes broke. The dog was freaked-the-fuck-out.
Like every kid in a 100-mile radius, I got to school late that morning, and once there, there was no sense of order. Teens tittered about. The staff was spooked. Aftershocks sent ripples of nervous exclamations across the campus.
I eventually made it to first period History. I think Tom and I arrived together, as we usually did. Dr. B was there too. Dave, however, was late. And, fashionably so.
He was the last one to walk in, clad as he was in his leather jacket and dark sunglasses, not unlike Fonzy. Well, actually, I think he had on his fedora as well, so perhaps more like Simon LeBon during his bad-boy phase than the Fonz. Either way, he arrived.
Having made his grand appearance, and with all eyes on him as he stood inside the door way, his face acquired a remorseful pose, and he said: "Folks, I apologize for the ruckus this morning, I'll be more careful the next time I start my car."
Ba-dum-bum
The second memory I have of Dave's Camaro occurred later. Or, maybe it occurred earlier. I don't really know, and it does not really matter.
There were three high schools in our school district. The school on the hill to the South for the rich kids, the school with the view to the North for the ghetto kids like Mrs. Tom, [just kidding Mrs Tom, luv ya, kisses...] and then there was our school, kinda in the middle.
Anytime there was something culturally important or academically challenging, it was held at the rich kids' school, and we were bussed up the hill. Anytime there was a drug-related gang killing, the school to the North was closed for investigation and clean up. Anytime there was a budget cut, my school lost more programs. We all knew our place.
One day, we were told that there was going to be a special dramatic presentation in the professional-grade stage theater at the snobby school up the hill. Unfortunately, the district could not afford to provide our school with bus service, so it would be up to each of us to car pool up the hill.
As it turned out, the special program was an embarrassingly bad one-man rendition of the entire works of William Shakespeare. To say it blew chunks is an insult to chunks.
Nevertheless, it was an opportunity to get out of class. The only problem was, though, that none of us had cars at the time. Well, none of us, but Dave. Generously, he offered me a ride. And Tom. And Dr. B. And a couple of other guys. Six of us in total, I think, all in the Camaro.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. Dave didn't own some fancy limo-sized Camaro. He didn't own the luxurious family-sized extra-cab edition. No. It was a Camaro. Two black-leather front bucket sheets. One tiny cramped seat-like bench in the back. No seat belts, but plenty of VanHalen.
(side note: CHRIST!! I'm sitting on my back deck while I write this, and I just stepped on a giant Oregon slug in my bare feet!! Fuck! Shit!)
Where was I? Oh right...
We crammed into the car like sweaty boy Tetris, hips and arms and feet packed painfully into absurdly-wrong positions.
We arrived without incident and sat to watch the horrible show.
At intermission, we all decided that our collective time would be better spent at Taco Bell. So, we left.
Now, while we were authorized to drive ourselves to and from the venue, technically, once we left early, we were truant. Although, in our estimation, it was a fuzzy and somewhat gray truancy...
Anyway, once packed back in the car, Dave decided, for some reason, to drive back to his house to get something. I dunno, maybe his drivers licence, maybe a Taco Bell coupon, maybe his gun. Whatever. He was driving, so we went with him, far across town to his house, making the least efficient line possible to our lunch destination.
Our return route took us down Workman Avenue, a small two-lane residential boulevard, which, as one of the main grid lines, was usually quite busy. Along the way, we made many stops for traffic lights and cars making left turns, and eventually, Dave grew weary of the wait.
One more car slowed to turn onto a side street. Dave zipped around the slower car on the right.
Almost instantly, the the red and blue lights on the police car immediately behind us lit up like a Christmas tree. The siren whooped. The sadistic asshole with the badge grinned with malicious glee.
He'd caught a muscle car dangerously over-packed with truant teenagers, and he was going to relish the moment. We were all ordered out and lined up on the curb. The car was searched. Dave was lectured. The school was called. Tom was afraid he was going to get strip searched. Dr.B was secretly hoping he would be. I was personally horrified that my crime would go down on my otherwise spotless permanent record.
The cop drug the scenario out for as long as he reasonably could. In the end, Dave was allowed to drive his car back to the school, but the rest of us had to walk the 8 blocks back to school.
We returned, then, after all of the other students who had simply stayed for the rest of the show, without lunch, hot, tired and sweaty. We were late for the next class, and we were lectured for that as well.
And now that I look back, I realize that was not a very interesting story.
Hmmm... perhaps the next time I tell it, Dave will have to fight a bear or something. Maybe Dr. B will get his secret wish. Who knows. I need to go wash this slug slime off my foot.
It was loud. It was old. It was fast.
It was painted primer gray. It had fat tires and no seat belts. I think it was also missing the gas cap, maybe. I seem to recall a rag perpetually stuffed into the gas hole. Maybe not. Maybe I'm thinking of Mark's 'Stang.
Anyway... Dave drove a Camaro. It was his first car, and I have two memories about it.
The first memory occurred at 7:42 a.m., October 1, 1987. I was drying my hair in the back bathroom of our house. My parents were in their bedroom. My kid sister was taking a shower in the main bathroom.
A sudden loud roar was immediately accompanied by a bouncing jolt and violent shaking. The wood-frame house creaked and groaned. It was the Whittier Narrows earthquake, and it felt like the end of the world.
I grabbed a door way. My sister was screaming, and my dad kicked the bathroom door open into her forehead. A few dishes broke. The dog was freaked-the-fuck-out.
Like every kid in a 100-mile radius, I got to school late that morning, and once there, there was no sense of order. Teens tittered about. The staff was spooked. Aftershocks sent ripples of nervous exclamations across the campus.
I eventually made it to first period History. I think Tom and I arrived together, as we usually did. Dr. B was there too. Dave, however, was late. And, fashionably so.
He was the last one to walk in, clad as he was in his leather jacket and dark sunglasses, not unlike Fonzy. Well, actually, I think he had on his fedora as well, so perhaps more like Simon LeBon during his bad-boy phase than the Fonz. Either way, he arrived.
Having made his grand appearance, and with all eyes on him as he stood inside the door way, his face acquired a remorseful pose, and he said: "Folks, I apologize for the ruckus this morning, I'll be more careful the next time I start my car."
Ba-dum-bum
The second memory I have of Dave's Camaro occurred later. Or, maybe it occurred earlier. I don't really know, and it does not really matter.
There were three high schools in our school district. The school on the hill to the South for the rich kids, the school with the view to the North for the ghetto kids like Mrs. Tom, [just kidding Mrs Tom, luv ya, kisses...] and then there was our school, kinda in the middle.
Anytime there was something culturally important or academically challenging, it was held at the rich kids' school, and we were bussed up the hill. Anytime there was a drug-related gang killing, the school to the North was closed for investigation and clean up. Anytime there was a budget cut, my school lost more programs. We all knew our place.
One day, we were told that there was going to be a special dramatic presentation in the professional-grade stage theater at the snobby school up the hill. Unfortunately, the district could not afford to provide our school with bus service, so it would be up to each of us to car pool up the hill.
As it turned out, the special program was an embarrassingly bad one-man rendition of the entire works of William Shakespeare. To say it blew chunks is an insult to chunks.
Nevertheless, it was an opportunity to get out of class. The only problem was, though, that none of us had cars at the time. Well, none of us, but Dave. Generously, he offered me a ride. And Tom. And Dr. B. And a couple of other guys. Six of us in total, I think, all in the Camaro.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. Dave didn't own some fancy limo-sized Camaro. He didn't own the luxurious family-sized extra-cab edition. No. It was a Camaro. Two black-leather front bucket sheets. One tiny cramped seat-like bench in the back. No seat belts, but plenty of VanHalen.
(side note: CHRIST!! I'm sitting on my back deck while I write this, and I just stepped on a giant Oregon slug in my bare feet!! Fuck! Shit!)
Where was I? Oh right...
We crammed into the car like sweaty boy Tetris, hips and arms and feet packed painfully into absurdly-wrong positions.
We arrived without incident and sat to watch the horrible show.
At intermission, we all decided that our collective time would be better spent at Taco Bell. So, we left.
Now, while we were authorized to drive ourselves to and from the venue, technically, once we left early, we were truant. Although, in our estimation, it was a fuzzy and somewhat gray truancy...
Anyway, once packed back in the car, Dave decided, for some reason, to drive back to his house to get something. I dunno, maybe his drivers licence, maybe a Taco Bell coupon, maybe his gun. Whatever. He was driving, so we went with him, far across town to his house, making the least efficient line possible to our lunch destination.
Our return route took us down Workman Avenue, a small two-lane residential boulevard, which, as one of the main grid lines, was usually quite busy. Along the way, we made many stops for traffic lights and cars making left turns, and eventually, Dave grew weary of the wait.
One more car slowed to turn onto a side street. Dave zipped around the slower car on the right.
Almost instantly, the the red and blue lights on the police car immediately behind us lit up like a Christmas tree. The siren whooped. The sadistic asshole with the badge grinned with malicious glee.
He'd caught a muscle car dangerously over-packed with truant teenagers, and he was going to relish the moment. We were all ordered out and lined up on the curb. The car was searched. Dave was lectured. The school was called. Tom was afraid he was going to get strip searched. Dr.B was secretly hoping he would be. I was personally horrified that my crime would go down on my otherwise spotless permanent record.
The cop drug the scenario out for as long as he reasonably could. In the end, Dave was allowed to drive his car back to the school, but the rest of us had to walk the 8 blocks back to school.
We returned, then, after all of the other students who had simply stayed for the rest of the show, without lunch, hot, tired and sweaty. We were late for the next class, and we were lectured for that as well.
And now that I look back, I realize that was not a very interesting story.
Hmmm... perhaps the next time I tell it, Dave will have to fight a bear or something. Maybe Dr. B will get his secret wish. Who knows. I need to go wash this slug slime off my foot.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Strawberry
They were Neapolitan.
They were a 1986 cliche.
They were the three hottest chicks in the class, and they were appropriately dressed for a blistering Californian Summer.
Dave has already established the scene. GSR, the mandatory class that taught you how to drive, how to use deodorant, how to floss, how to put on condoms and how to balance a check book. All useful, of course, for a weekend in Vegas...
I don't actually remember much from the class. There are the comic strips that Dave discussed and of course the biggest game of Dots ever assembled. I think it took a week to draw all of the dots and another week to play the stupid game.
The three girls, though, were a distraction: the sexy blond, the fiery redhead and the unfortunate brunette. They all had ratted poofy metal hair. Ill-fitting peek-a-boo clothing told a saucy tale of what lie beneath.
Truth be told, these three had probably been in my graduating class for years, yet I'd never seen them before. I tended to share curriculum with the same 30-or-so other dorks and dweebs, and didn't have much opportunity to meet anyone else. GSR offered me that opportunity.
The redhead was named Kelly. She's the only one I remember. Medium tall. Thin, but not skinny. Freckles-everywhere (or for at least as far as I could peek down her often-open neckline...) And those freckles flowed over a pair of buoyant perky blouse puppies.
She often had a big smile, and her lip gloss smelled of strawberry.
She was friendly, but disinterested, at least at first. Dave and I would chat them up, running through our repertoire at the back of the class, trying to make them laugh. Kelly often would.
The following semester, I was pleased to find her in my biology class, this time without the other girls. Dave was not in that class, but Dr. B was. He of course was too busy fawning over the little blond girl behind me to notice the redhead to my right.
She was friendlier now, but still, in my estimation, way WAY out of my league. I thought maybe she was being nice for a reason. She wouldn't be the first person to use me for "help" with school work.
However, not long in to the class I discovered that she was quite smart, knew her own shit, and didn't need any help from me. Odd, though. I still couldn't figure out why she was being nice to me. So, I just kept being friendly with her. Sure there was some flirting, but it was low grade, nothing serious.
One day, after school, she gave me a ride home. She wore tall black leather boots, a short denim skirt, and her hair was extra-poofy. She drove an old beat up muscle car with a frighteningly loud engine, something Dr. B would tinker with these days...
The music in her car was loud, guitar heavy, the band name had lots of umlauts. She lit a cigarette and offered me a beer.
I passed on the beer.
I had my cargo pants pegged, and I was wearing my Scritti Politti shirt (see below). I was titillated. I was terrified. I was certainly out of place. The ride was quick and I said thanks. She shot me a big smile.
Over time, I put together that she came for a rough home and moved around a lot. She also didn't know many people at the school, and kept most of them away with her well-rehearsed defensive barriers. For some reason, she let me in. Just a little. It was like our very own little after-school special. And since you're wondering, no, nothing happened. Well, nothing happened at that point...
My sophomore year drew to a close. Dave and I had passed GSR. We had gotten our drivers licenses. I did well in Biology. So did Kelly. Summer was upon us.
I didn't talk to Kelly at all that summer. That mythic summer of 1987...
Nor did I really see much of her that Fall. We'd say "Hi" in the hallway as we passed, but that was mostly it. It, that is, until January, 1988. Tom had been working as a yogurt slinger at Penguins Yogurt, and he hooked Dr. B and I up with jobs there.
(side note: Dave never applied for a lucrative career with us in the yogurt industry. Otherwise, he'd be in more of this story.)
Soon, I was running night shifts at the yogurt shop, and it just so happened that Kelly liked frozen yogurt. Well, truth be told, Dave's ex girlfriend, Stacy, also liked to come in for frozen yogurt, but that's a different story.
ANYWAY, Kelly started coming in. Frequently, but really only on the nights when I worked. She'd hang out leaning against the case with her tight pants. I'd give her free yogurt. It was nice.
And then, one day, the flirting switch got flipped and it was on. GAME ON!
It didn't take long, really. Not long at all. I was working a late shift, and she came in. I could smell the strawberry lip gloss form across the counter. She was dressed to kill and ready to rumble. She said something about her mom being gone. She was having her troll-like girl friend over and her friend was bringing a boy. there was a vague reference to alcohol and an invitation for me to come over after work.
"Um," I thought to my self.
"Holy crap." I started the calculations in my head. "OK my parents know I'm working late, yet if I come home TOO late they will worry, AND its a school night. BUT she's so freakin hot, and she wants me... OK OK OK. Damn, she expects me to drink, but that will make Jesus unhappy, BUT look at that shirt! It's begging to come off.... OK, I can have one beer, or wine cooler. I'll play around and look like I'm drinking... I mean, the alcohol isn't really what will make Jesus unhappy tonight!"
"Cool." I said, and smiled. She smiled too, giddy almost. I wasn't used to making hot girls giddy.
That night, I did what was probably the piss-poorest close I'd ever done for any food shop ever. I'm not even sure I remembered to lock the door as I rushed out. I jumped in my mom's 1979 Ford Fairmont station wagon, and flew down Rowland Street toward Hollenbeck. I tried to avoid skidding as I pulled up in front of her house.
The lights were low and I heard music from inside. More hair metal. Whatever.
Inside, the scene was set. The 17-year-old troll-like friend was curled up on a love seat with dude with a mullet who looked to be about 30. Kelly was stunning. Short white denim skirt. Blue satin blouse, with only a few buttons left to undo.
She handed me a cold wine cooler from the fridge. I drank it quickly. I'm sure there was some polite conversation, but is is only a background buzz in my memory. There was extremely dangerous eye contact, hands on legs, lip biting and nose bumping.
She took me by the hand to the bedroom and closed the door. I was in WAY over my head, and I hadn't even kissed her yet. We sat down on the bed. Her hand was on the back of my neck. She looked me in the eye and her body language make it clear that it was time to put my tongue in her mouth. I leaned in, I could almost taste the strawberry...
BANG!!
"HEY, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??" Came a loud and angry male voice from the living room.
"Oh shit..." She whispered, "my boyfriend is here."
"Your... wait... what??"
"My boyfriend. Look, I'm sorry I didn't mention him, he was supposed to be away at his army reserve training this week. Looks like he came back early."
"Back from... Oh My God."
"KELLY! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??"
"Wait here." She said. "I'll get him outside, then just leave through the back. Leave quickly, though, I don't know if he has his gun..."
The plan had holes, but it was the only plan we had. She went first, and started placating him. Apparently, he was easily confused, and she knew just how to do it. I slipped past the terrified-looking ogre and her beer-sloshed lover in the living room. I found the back door and circled around through the back yard.
I headed toward the street, and almost reached my car, when from behind me, GI Joe discovered my escape: "WAIT, AW, WHO THE FUCK IS THAT GUY?? HEY YOU!!"
I didn't look back. I was in enough trouble as it was and I didn't want to get shot and/or beaten by the giant thug in army fatigues. OK, so I was a pussy. I've accepted that.
Anyway, I saw Kelly the next day and made sure she was OK. She said yes, but she couldn't talk to me anymore. Somehow, that seemed like a good idea.
They were a 1986 cliche.
They were the three hottest chicks in the class, and they were appropriately dressed for a blistering Californian Summer.
Dave has already established the scene. GSR, the mandatory class that taught you how to drive, how to use deodorant, how to floss, how to put on condoms and how to balance a check book. All useful, of course, for a weekend in Vegas...
I don't actually remember much from the class. There are the comic strips that Dave discussed and of course the biggest game of Dots ever assembled. I think it took a week to draw all of the dots and another week to play the stupid game.
The three girls, though, were a distraction: the sexy blond, the fiery redhead and the unfortunate brunette. They all had ratted poofy metal hair. Ill-fitting peek-a-boo clothing told a saucy tale of what lie beneath.
Truth be told, these three had probably been in my graduating class for years, yet I'd never seen them before. I tended to share curriculum with the same 30-or-so other dorks and dweebs, and didn't have much opportunity to meet anyone else. GSR offered me that opportunity.
The redhead was named Kelly. She's the only one I remember. Medium tall. Thin, but not skinny. Freckles-everywhere (or for at least as far as I could peek down her often-open neckline...) And those freckles flowed over a pair of buoyant perky blouse puppies.
She often had a big smile, and her lip gloss smelled of strawberry.
She was friendly, but disinterested, at least at first. Dave and I would chat them up, running through our repertoire at the back of the class, trying to make them laugh. Kelly often would.
The following semester, I was pleased to find her in my biology class, this time without the other girls. Dave was not in that class, but Dr. B was. He of course was too busy fawning over the little blond girl behind me to notice the redhead to my right.
She was friendlier now, but still, in my estimation, way WAY out of my league. I thought maybe she was being nice for a reason. She wouldn't be the first person to use me for "help" with school work.
However, not long in to the class I discovered that she was quite smart, knew her own shit, and didn't need any help from me. Odd, though. I still couldn't figure out why she was being nice to me. So, I just kept being friendly with her. Sure there was some flirting, but it was low grade, nothing serious.
One day, after school, she gave me a ride home. She wore tall black leather boots, a short denim skirt, and her hair was extra-poofy. She drove an old beat up muscle car with a frighteningly loud engine, something Dr. B would tinker with these days...
The music in her car was loud, guitar heavy, the band name had lots of umlauts. She lit a cigarette and offered me a beer.
I passed on the beer.
I had my cargo pants pegged, and I was wearing my Scritti Politti shirt (see below). I was titillated. I was terrified. I was certainly out of place. The ride was quick and I said thanks. She shot me a big smile.
Over time, I put together that she came for a rough home and moved around a lot. She also didn't know many people at the school, and kept most of them away with her well-rehearsed defensive barriers. For some reason, she let me in. Just a little. It was like our very own little after-school special. And since you're wondering, no, nothing happened. Well, nothing happened at that point...
My sophomore year drew to a close. Dave and I had passed GSR. We had gotten our drivers licenses. I did well in Biology. So did Kelly. Summer was upon us.
I didn't talk to Kelly at all that summer. That mythic summer of 1987...
Nor did I really see much of her that Fall. We'd say "Hi" in the hallway as we passed, but that was mostly it. It, that is, until January, 1988. Tom had been working as a yogurt slinger at Penguins Yogurt, and he hooked Dr. B and I up with jobs there.
(side note: Dave never applied for a lucrative career with us in the yogurt industry. Otherwise, he'd be in more of this story.)
Soon, I was running night shifts at the yogurt shop, and it just so happened that Kelly liked frozen yogurt. Well, truth be told, Dave's ex girlfriend, Stacy, also liked to come in for frozen yogurt, but that's a different story.
ANYWAY, Kelly started coming in. Frequently, but really only on the nights when I worked. She'd hang out leaning against the case with her tight pants. I'd give her free yogurt. It was nice.
And then, one day, the flirting switch got flipped and it was on. GAME ON!
It didn't take long, really. Not long at all. I was working a late shift, and she came in. I could smell the strawberry lip gloss form across the counter. She was dressed to kill and ready to rumble. She said something about her mom being gone. She was having her troll-like girl friend over and her friend was bringing a boy. there was a vague reference to alcohol and an invitation for me to come over after work.
"Um," I thought to my self.
"Holy crap." I started the calculations in my head. "OK my parents know I'm working late, yet if I come home TOO late they will worry, AND its a school night. BUT she's so freakin hot, and she wants me... OK OK OK. Damn, she expects me to drink, but that will make Jesus unhappy, BUT look at that shirt! It's begging to come off.... OK, I can have one beer, or wine cooler. I'll play around and look like I'm drinking... I mean, the alcohol isn't really what will make Jesus unhappy tonight!"
"Cool." I said, and smiled. She smiled too, giddy almost. I wasn't used to making hot girls giddy.
That night, I did what was probably the piss-poorest close I'd ever done for any food shop ever. I'm not even sure I remembered to lock the door as I rushed out. I jumped in my mom's 1979 Ford Fairmont station wagon, and flew down Rowland Street toward Hollenbeck. I tried to avoid skidding as I pulled up in front of her house.
The lights were low and I heard music from inside. More hair metal. Whatever.
Inside, the scene was set. The 17-year-old troll-like friend was curled up on a love seat with dude with a mullet who looked to be about 30. Kelly was stunning. Short white denim skirt. Blue satin blouse, with only a few buttons left to undo.
She handed me a cold wine cooler from the fridge. I drank it quickly. I'm sure there was some polite conversation, but is is only a background buzz in my memory. There was extremely dangerous eye contact, hands on legs, lip biting and nose bumping.
She took me by the hand to the bedroom and closed the door. I was in WAY over my head, and I hadn't even kissed her yet. We sat down on the bed. Her hand was on the back of my neck. She looked me in the eye and her body language make it clear that it was time to put my tongue in her mouth. I leaned in, I could almost taste the strawberry...
BANG!!
"HEY, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??" Came a loud and angry male voice from the living room.
"Oh shit..." She whispered, "my boyfriend is here."
"Your... wait... what??"
"My boyfriend. Look, I'm sorry I didn't mention him, he was supposed to be away at his army reserve training this week. Looks like he came back early."
"Back from... Oh My God."
"KELLY! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??"
"Wait here." She said. "I'll get him outside, then just leave through the back. Leave quickly, though, I don't know if he has his gun..."
The plan had holes, but it was the only plan we had. She went first, and started placating him. Apparently, he was easily confused, and she knew just how to do it. I slipped past the terrified-looking ogre and her beer-sloshed lover in the living room. I found the back door and circled around through the back yard.
I headed toward the street, and almost reached my car, when from behind me, GI Joe discovered my escape: "WAIT, AW, WHO THE FUCK IS THAT GUY?? HEY YOU!!"
I didn't look back. I was in enough trouble as it was and I didn't want to get shot and/or beaten by the giant thug in army fatigues. OK, so I was a pussy. I've accepted that.
Anyway, I saw Kelly the next day and made sure she was OK. She said yes, but she couldn't talk to me anymore. Somehow, that seemed like a good idea.
GSR **UPDATED**
(This is a special guest post from Dave. I was going to add editorial commentary, but have decided against that. It is fine as it is. Although, the bit about the redhead does lead to another story, which I may tell tonight.)
(Also, I realized that in presenting the Ginny award for favorite and most-hated commenter, I failed to mention Dave, which is a ridiculous oversight on my part. His infrequent comments add a certain zip and pizazz that only he can bring. This is not to say that he should or would have won. I mean, let's not indulge in fantasy... Still and all, I thought he should be mentioned.)
And now, here is a very special Gin and Tonic Lounge presentation from our very own, Dave:
It's been asked of me, where was I during high school. Seriously, I've been asked this. If you look through the embarrassing high school photo set, you don't really see photos of me amongst the group. Nor do I pop up in a lot of the recollections of working at Penguin's, going to Church Youth Group, etc. etc. I am usually not included in those stories, which begs the question "Do you have any high school stories that include Brian/Tom/Dr. Brian?"
Yep. GSR.
For fans of the television CSI, the term "GSR" stands for gunshot residue – usually an indication a suspect has recently fired a gun due to the expulsion of gunpowder across their hands and chest. Although its presence does not conclusively proves a suspect's guilt, it definitely builds a strong enough case they should be investigated further and perhaps arrested. Hooray for Grissom and the old broad that used to be a stripper.
But for anyone who went to high school in the state of California, "GSR" really stands for General State Requirements – the catchall class program that fulfills a high school's state obligations as part of the curriculum. This included health education (yes, yes that means sex education, too), driver's education and whatever they decided to throw in to keep you busy and fill the basic requirements to get the grant money. No child left behind, indeed.
If you were smart and/or lucky, you opted to take the course during the summer where the accelerated time schedule cut down on the boredom factor (such that it was.) Of course, the summer always guaranteed one of the second-string substitute teachers were teaching the class. Mayhaps that's why so many people in California don't know how to drive worth a damn, or put on a condom correctly. If you had a ninety year old teaching reject giving you instructions, you'd be advocating the sponge yourself.
Now Brian and I were fortunate enough to take the class together, because the buddy system gets you through those long droning hours of reviewing moving violation laws. Tom, I believe, was supposed to take the class, but had to drop out because he was suffering from some illness that only struck teenagers that were taller than six foot eleven. (Tom was a tall kid. Old age shrinking is only making him less of a mutant. ) It was a strange class – in order to elaborate on the harshness of AIDS, our teacher played a video of the 80's emotional tearjerker, "An Early Frost". I remember he also let class out early because he was crying during the program. He was very deep.
But I don't remember much of the actual curriculum. Actually, I only remember two things of note – the first being our communal comic strip officially became a "franchise" during that summer. Yeah, yeah, you've probably heard about all that and I won't rehash (much), but it was during that summer GSR class we did the first sequel to the initial Quest strip – "Quest in Space". The original cartoon was done to whittle away the minutes of boring classroom lectures. Imagine the added free-time during all that. Of course, Brian and I were the worst of the actual cartoonists so many of the pages were pretty rough. (Heh, "rough.") We would occasionally stop by Tom's elongated deathbed and leave the comic with him for a day while he masturbated to the Price is Right. So the strip would be pretty lousy back and forth and then have three or four pages of full, well-designed artwork… and then go back to kindergarten scrawling. I like to think that all that cartooning doomed us to the blogging and internet antics you see now, "Quest in Space" begat the "Quest Through Communist Disneyland" and "Secret Society Quest" which would ultimately begat Dead Honkey, Gin and Tonic Lounge, all that rat-trap. So if you ever wonder what to hold responsible for all this shit on this blog... blaming the California GSR program probably is a good start. Keep your kids in private schooling, I think is the message here.
The other thing I remember were the three rocker girls in the class. Go figure, I was sixteen. Appropriately, they were a blonde, brunette and redhead – all of which wore vaguely rock and/or metal shirts every day to class. Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, you name it.
The brunette was how should we say, visually unpleasant. Well, maybe not that bad, but she wasn't a looker. She probably didn't go home after the kegger alone, but she definitely wasn't asked until AFTER the keg ran dry.
The redhead actually turned out to be really cool, and I think Brian even hung out with her toward the end of Senior year (Although I cast no dispersion into what transpired. I'll let Brian brag about that. He's good at it.)
And then there was the blonde, which I remember most clearly. She was cut in the perennial "rocker chick" dye – bleach blonde, frizzy hair, tanning-lamp tan, massive amounts of make-up and every day, she wore her rock chick best. Black cowboy boots, skin tight black vinyl pants, perfectly ripped Crue t-shirt, even those "Cats-eye" contact lenses which were just beginning to become mainstream. Even Brian, Mr. Scritti-Politti Boy himself, immediately imagined her on a daily basis of acting out his own little "Girls Girls Girls" video in the privacy of his own bedroom (when he wasn't doing Republican charity-work for the Lord of course.)
But looking back, with twenty years worth of perspective on the matter, begs a world of different questions – For instance, who the hell let their teenaged DAUGHTER go to high school dressed like a trampy penis cozy from the Whisky-a-Go-Go??? We were not in Hollywood, people – we were thirty minutes out into the Valley, as suburb as you can get without putting up a white picket fence and joining the local Rotary Club. But she did it, every single day. Second question – why?? Who was she trying to impress, on hindsight? She certainly wasn't interested in any of us, I don't remember her even speaking to anybody outside of the little Metal Chick Circle there. I remember girls like this in high school who seemed so unattainable, dating their twenty-one year old boyfriends and such.
Looking back as an adult, both she and her loser boyfriend seems like scuzzbags. "Dude! SHE'S IN HIGH SCHOOL!!!" But it still left an impression on me, because I was indeed young, horny and stupid. And probably pushed me into the direction of rock music faster than anything else, because of the unobtainable factor of women like that.
So GSR is probably where it all went wrong: stupid banter on the internet, a lifelong bout of tinnitus and loud music and Brian and I probably became better friends during that summer because of the experience. Oh and we both drive like shit.
________________________________________
UPDATE:
If you don't know what Dave means by "Mr. Scritti Politti," here's a reminder:
Keep in mind, I had the haircut and the blue shirt. I called it my "Scritti Politti Shirt."
I think I also had the same dance moves...
(Also, I realized that in presenting the Ginny award for favorite and most-hated commenter, I failed to mention Dave, which is a ridiculous oversight on my part. His infrequent comments add a certain zip and pizazz that only he can bring. This is not to say that he should or would have won. I mean, let's not indulge in fantasy... Still and all, I thought he should be mentioned.)
And now, here is a very special Gin and Tonic Lounge presentation from our very own, Dave:
It's been asked of me, where was I during high school. Seriously, I've been asked this. If you look through the embarrassing high school photo set, you don't really see photos of me amongst the group. Nor do I pop up in a lot of the recollections of working at Penguin's, going to Church Youth Group, etc. etc. I am usually not included in those stories, which begs the question "Do you have any high school stories that include Brian/Tom/Dr. Brian?"
Yep. GSR.
For fans of the television CSI, the term "GSR" stands for gunshot residue – usually an indication a suspect has recently fired a gun due to the expulsion of gunpowder across their hands and chest. Although its presence does not conclusively proves a suspect's guilt, it definitely builds a strong enough case they should be investigated further and perhaps arrested. Hooray for Grissom and the old broad that used to be a stripper.
But for anyone who went to high school in the state of California, "GSR" really stands for General State Requirements – the catchall class program that fulfills a high school's state obligations as part of the curriculum. This included health education (yes, yes that means sex education, too), driver's education and whatever they decided to throw in to keep you busy and fill the basic requirements to get the grant money. No child left behind, indeed.
If you were smart and/or lucky, you opted to take the course during the summer where the accelerated time schedule cut down on the boredom factor (such that it was.) Of course, the summer always guaranteed one of the second-string substitute teachers were teaching the class. Mayhaps that's why so many people in California don't know how to drive worth a damn, or put on a condom correctly. If you had a ninety year old teaching reject giving you instructions, you'd be advocating the sponge yourself.
Now Brian and I were fortunate enough to take the class together, because the buddy system gets you through those long droning hours of reviewing moving violation laws. Tom, I believe, was supposed to take the class, but had to drop out because he was suffering from some illness that only struck teenagers that were taller than six foot eleven. (Tom was a tall kid. Old age shrinking is only making him less of a mutant. ) It was a strange class – in order to elaborate on the harshness of AIDS, our teacher played a video of the 80's emotional tearjerker, "An Early Frost". I remember he also let class out early because he was crying during the program. He was very deep.
But I don't remember much of the actual curriculum. Actually, I only remember two things of note – the first being our communal comic strip officially became a "franchise" during that summer. Yeah, yeah, you've probably heard about all that and I won't rehash (much), but it was during that summer GSR class we did the first sequel to the initial Quest strip – "Quest in Space". The original cartoon was done to whittle away the minutes of boring classroom lectures. Imagine the added free-time during all that. Of course, Brian and I were the worst of the actual cartoonists so many of the pages were pretty rough. (Heh, "rough.") We would occasionally stop by Tom's elongated deathbed and leave the comic with him for a day while he masturbated to the Price is Right. So the strip would be pretty lousy back and forth and then have three or four pages of full, well-designed artwork… and then go back to kindergarten scrawling. I like to think that all that cartooning doomed us to the blogging and internet antics you see now, "Quest in Space" begat the "Quest Through Communist Disneyland" and "Secret Society Quest" which would ultimately begat Dead Honkey, Gin and Tonic Lounge, all that rat-trap. So if you ever wonder what to hold responsible for all this shit on this blog... blaming the California GSR program probably is a good start. Keep your kids in private schooling, I think is the message here.
The other thing I remember were the three rocker girls in the class. Go figure, I was sixteen. Appropriately, they were a blonde, brunette and redhead – all of which wore vaguely rock and/or metal shirts every day to class. Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, you name it.
The brunette was how should we say, visually unpleasant. Well, maybe not that bad, but she wasn't a looker. She probably didn't go home after the kegger alone, but she definitely wasn't asked until AFTER the keg ran dry.
The redhead actually turned out to be really cool, and I think Brian even hung out with her toward the end of Senior year (Although I cast no dispersion into what transpired. I'll let Brian brag about that. He's good at it.)
And then there was the blonde, which I remember most clearly. She was cut in the perennial "rocker chick" dye – bleach blonde, frizzy hair, tanning-lamp tan, massive amounts of make-up and every day, she wore her rock chick best. Black cowboy boots, skin tight black vinyl pants, perfectly ripped Crue t-shirt, even those "Cats-eye" contact lenses which were just beginning to become mainstream. Even Brian, Mr. Scritti-Politti Boy himself, immediately imagined her on a daily basis of acting out his own little "Girls Girls Girls" video in the privacy of his own bedroom (when he wasn't doing Republican charity-work for the Lord of course.)
But looking back, with twenty years worth of perspective on the matter, begs a world of different questions – For instance, who the hell let their teenaged DAUGHTER go to high school dressed like a trampy penis cozy from the Whisky-a-Go-Go??? We were not in Hollywood, people – we were thirty minutes out into the Valley, as suburb as you can get without putting up a white picket fence and joining the local Rotary Club. But she did it, every single day. Second question – why?? Who was she trying to impress, on hindsight? She certainly wasn't interested in any of us, I don't remember her even speaking to anybody outside of the little Metal Chick Circle there. I remember girls like this in high school who seemed so unattainable, dating their twenty-one year old boyfriends and such.
Looking back as an adult, both she and her loser boyfriend seems like scuzzbags. "Dude! SHE'S IN HIGH SCHOOL!!!" But it still left an impression on me, because I was indeed young, horny and stupid. And probably pushed me into the direction of rock music faster than anything else, because of the unobtainable factor of women like that.
So GSR is probably where it all went wrong: stupid banter on the internet, a lifelong bout of tinnitus and loud music and Brian and I probably became better friends during that summer because of the experience. Oh and we both drive like shit.
________________________________________
UPDATE:
If you don't know what Dave means by "Mr. Scritti Politti," here's a reminder:
Keep in mind, I had the haircut and the blue shirt. I called it my "Scritti Politti Shirt."
I think I also had the same dance moves...
Friday, August 15, 2008
The "Worst" Category Allows Me to Feign Humilty
There was a lot of crap this year. Some floated to the top, others sank to the bottom. Here are the best and worst:
Starting with the worst, I think I hit low points with:
My embarrassingly bad rendition of Beowulf.
And...
The most horrible thing I've ever seen. It was really and truly horrible.
But really, the most offensive, insensitive an annoying post of the year has to be:
"Ding Fries are Done"
Congratulations to me for the Worst Post of the year! Wooo! I just can't get that damn song out of m head.
On the other hand, not all posts this year were complete crap. The following, I think, represents some of the best of the year:
Spagos
Playboy Interview
Jihad
Panty Raid
Per Capita
Fabric of our Lives
Forbidden Candle
El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula, which is as good for the comments as it is for the post. Probably better...
Of course, the post that I feel is the BEST post isn't even my own handiwork. It is a video that someone else made. So, I guess I couldn't really count it as a POST. However, you should go back and watch the video again: Be Happy
Which leaves us with the best actual post of the year. It was well-written, original and useful; and all three of those add up to "Best post of the Year!"
And here it is: Father to Son
Well hurray for me! I'm just super. Stick close to me, and maybe I'll let you touch the hem of my garment. ...And with that, we come to the end of the third annual Ginny Awards. Hurray, once again, for me.
Starting with the worst, I think I hit low points with:
My embarrassingly bad rendition of Beowulf.
And...
The most horrible thing I've ever seen. It was really and truly horrible.
But really, the most offensive, insensitive an annoying post of the year has to be:
"Ding Fries are Done"
Congratulations to me for the Worst Post of the year! Wooo! I just can't get that damn song out of m head.
On the other hand, not all posts this year were complete crap. The following, I think, represents some of the best of the year:
Spagos
Playboy Interview
Jihad
Panty Raid
Per Capita
Fabric of our Lives
Forbidden Candle
El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula, which is as good for the comments as it is for the post. Probably better...
Of course, the post that I feel is the BEST post isn't even my own handiwork. It is a video that someone else made. So, I guess I couldn't really count it as a POST. However, you should go back and watch the video again: Be Happy
Which leaves us with the best actual post of the year. It was well-written, original and useful; and all three of those add up to "Best post of the Year!"
And here it is: Father to Son
Well hurray for me! I'm just super. Stick close to me, and maybe I'll let you touch the hem of my garment. ...And with that, we come to the end of the third annual Ginny Awards. Hurray, once again, for me.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Knack
We've had comments about tits. We've had comments about ass. We've had comments regarding religion, and comments from Jesus himself.
There have been comments from Taiwan. Comments from France. Comments from Satan. Comments from the hat, and comments from Britney's panties and Dick Cheney.
Inog has logged in from the very far four corners
Some have been funny. Some have not. Some have been soul-sucking internationally-demorallizingly banal. Some have been about masturbation.
Which brings up an interesting topic. Self-love. We should discuss the act of self-pleasuring auto-erotic in personam genital malfeasance far more often.
Albeit, I digress....
Wait, were was I?
Oh fuckit.
So, this year's magnificent prize for best comment goes, once again, to a sleazy little guy I've known since I first grew pubes. He's a dirty little pervert, and Jesus has revoked his license. He specializes in drilling 16year old girls with poor oral hygiene. Once again, for the third year (second, actually):
Dr. B gets the award for this charming, yet all-encompassing, composition from April, 2008, titled "Compelling." It was the low point of the year. Yet, in the short span of just a few lines, Dr. B. reduced it all to this:
I have to agree with Inog. You are a Democrat now so you can't love everyone, that would be too damn born again for you.
My only complaint about the comments is that they have lost a focal point of making you look bad. What happened to the days when you wrote a post, and then we poked fun at how stupid it was? Its not like your writing is getting any better. Maybe your readers are just getting more stupid. You make something free, and put it out there for everyone, and the idiots who have the loudest voice will rise to the top. Just look at our political system.
Brian, I think we should make the commenters more accountable for what they say. WARNING: If you are writing something just for the attention and it lacks any sort of substance, Kentucky is gonna git ya!!
Funny, but not the funniest. Really, the whole allegorical truth is right there, though. For the chronically narcissistic, any attention is good. Soft-ball adoration is fine, but really, what I want is Worship. I'll settle, however, for good natured ribbing.
There have been comments from Taiwan. Comments from France. Comments from Satan. Comments from the hat, and comments from Britney's panties and Dick Cheney.
Inog has logged in from the very far four corners
Some have been funny. Some have not. Some have been soul-sucking internationally-demorallizingly banal. Some have been about masturbation.
Which brings up an interesting topic. Self-love. We should discuss the act of self-pleasuring auto-erotic in personam genital malfeasance far more often.
Albeit, I digress....
Wait, were was I?
Oh fuckit.
So, this year's magnificent prize for best comment goes, once again, to a sleazy little guy I've known since I first grew pubes. He's a dirty little pervert, and Jesus has revoked his license. He specializes in drilling 16year old girls with poor oral hygiene. Once again, for the third year (second, actually):
Dr. B gets the award for this charming, yet all-encompassing, composition from April, 2008, titled "Compelling." It was the low point of the year. Yet, in the short span of just a few lines, Dr. B. reduced it all to this:
I have to agree with Inog. You are a Democrat now so you can't love everyone, that would be too damn born again for you.
My only complaint about the comments is that they have lost a focal point of making you look bad. What happened to the days when you wrote a post, and then we poked fun at how stupid it was? Its not like your writing is getting any better. Maybe your readers are just getting more stupid. You make something free, and put it out there for everyone, and the idiots who have the loudest voice will rise to the top. Just look at our political system.
Brian, I think we should make the commenters more accountable for what they say. WARNING: If you are writing something just for the attention and it lacks any sort of substance, Kentucky is gonna git ya!!
Funny, but not the funniest. Really, the whole allegorical truth is right there, though. For the chronically narcissistic, any attention is good. Soft-ball adoration is fine, but really, what I want is Worship. I'll settle, however, for good natured ribbing.
You Take the Good, You Take the Bad
Three years. Three long years.
Three years of staying up late nearly every night, trying to spin mostly-mediocre oddities into somewhat readable pulp. That's the Lounge.
It is also a radical forum for free speech. Yet, one that is subject to random and aggressive censorship clampdowns.
It's a bit of titillation on a dreary Monday morning. It is a bit of the political and a bit of the prurient. It is reason versus religion. It is an alcohol soaked stripper haven.
It is an abomination and an Obama-Nation.
And for many, it is a daily addiction.
We've witnessed traffic spikes of over 600 visitors in one day. We've survived job changes and the births of children. Regular readers have come and gone, but many still remain.
And tonight, we mark this momentous third anniversary with the third annual Ginny Awards. The five categories allow us to review and reflect on the year that has passed, and to take note of the highs and the lows.
There is, of course, too much material to cover in just one post, though, so, I will string you all along over three nights. We will start tonight with best and worst Drunken Rambler, and end with Best Post of The Year on Friday.
Let's get to it.
What makes a Best Commenter of the Year? It should be a commenter who reads the Lounge every day. It should be someone who can cut to the heart of the matter. Someone who gets the joke. Someone, whose comments other readers want to read. Someone, whose comments are compelling.
Certainly Dr. B fits this definition. Problem is, most of what he says makes him sound like a homophobic misogynistic redneck. Which, don't get me wrong, is terribly funny. It's just that he draws enough ire that he could equally be the Best or the Most-Hated at the same time. So, sorry Dr. B, not this year. Besides you got Best Comment last time.
Then there is Inog. Inog is a lovable, but fatuous, blowhard. We love his daily travel logs and self-aggrandizement, but Best Commenter of the year? I don't think so.
Of note, there is also Fred, Amanda, Mitch, Lucky Red and Ux. All of whom add their own special spices to the stew, yet due to various scheduling and access issues, are unable to participate as often as I would like.
And Familytrain? Though having commented only a few times, several people have suggested him as the Best Commenter of the year. I think, perhaps, I see potential there for next year.
No, this year, the award goes to someone who reads the Lounge religiously, every day, except ironically, she is not reading it this week. This is someone who I am proud to have as a regular reader and sniper-commenter. Her comments get to the point, and her very participation defies convention.
She gets the award for comments like this, from The Forbidden Candle:
In our over-materialistic society we buy, buy, buy thinking the object will make us happy and then don't allow ourselves to use the object.
How fucked is that!
wow... a little bit heavy for an early morning comment. I'm glad you used the soap too. I even used some of the "special hotel soap" last time I was at your house. I made sure I used the very best of what was in the drawer. Did you notice?
She will be more surprised than anyone to learn that she is the winner. This year's Ginny Award for Best Commenter goes to Oosje. Congratulations, the girl and the boy are very proud.
And finally, the second half of tonight's category is the dubious honor of Most-Hated. This is a fun award for the one commenter who was able to burrow most effectively under our collective skin, and was originally bestowed upon Princess Leah and her uterus for the first annual Ginnies. (There was, of course, no second annual...)
Sure, I considered Dr. B and Inog for this. Lisa, Ev and Marge also tend to yammer on. But really, who am I kidding???
There is only one person worthy of this honor this year, and all of the folks who emailed me were unanimous in their recommendation.
This year's Most Hated commenter earns the award with comments like:
Egad.Okay, I'm sorry if I sound like a spoilsport, but Polka Dots is fucking gross and precisely WHY I kept dissuading the men from posting pics of themselves, esp in thongs :-P
And
LOL-- hi Marge *waves*
And
The problem with this is that I'm not sure I WANT to see the other men (esp all you guys!) in their skivvies... when you post them, can you group them? Women first, then men? That way I can stop scrolling when I get to the last woman shot. Thanks.
And the award goes to the one and only Helly! Congratulations, my dear. And don't worry, I'll be making fun of myself in due course.
Also, in all fairness to the guy in the polka dot panties, (identities are still anonymous) every one other than Helly thought the submitted photos rocked!
Come back tomorrow for Best Comment of the Year!
Three years of staying up late nearly every night, trying to spin mostly-mediocre oddities into somewhat readable pulp. That's the Lounge.
It is also a radical forum for free speech. Yet, one that is subject to random and aggressive censorship clampdowns.
It's a bit of titillation on a dreary Monday morning. It is a bit of the political and a bit of the prurient. It is reason versus religion. It is an alcohol soaked stripper haven.
It is an abomination and an Obama-Nation.
And for many, it is a daily addiction.
We've witnessed traffic spikes of over 600 visitors in one day. We've survived job changes and the births of children. Regular readers have come and gone, but many still remain.
And tonight, we mark this momentous third anniversary with the third annual Ginny Awards. The five categories allow us to review and reflect on the year that has passed, and to take note of the highs and the lows.
There is, of course, too much material to cover in just one post, though, so, I will string you all along over three nights. We will start tonight with best and worst Drunken Rambler, and end with Best Post of The Year on Friday.
Let's get to it.
What makes a Best Commenter of the Year? It should be a commenter who reads the Lounge every day. It should be someone who can cut to the heart of the matter. Someone who gets the joke. Someone, whose comments other readers want to read. Someone, whose comments are compelling.
Certainly Dr. B fits this definition. Problem is, most of what he says makes him sound like a homophobic misogynistic redneck. Which, don't get me wrong, is terribly funny. It's just that he draws enough ire that he could equally be the Best or the Most-Hated at the same time. So, sorry Dr. B, not this year. Besides you got Best Comment last time.
Then there is Inog. Inog is a lovable, but fatuous, blowhard. We love his daily travel logs and self-aggrandizement, but Best Commenter of the year? I don't think so.
Of note, there is also Fred, Amanda, Mitch, Lucky Red and Ux. All of whom add their own special spices to the stew, yet due to various scheduling and access issues, are unable to participate as often as I would like.
And Familytrain? Though having commented only a few times, several people have suggested him as the Best Commenter of the year. I think, perhaps, I see potential there for next year.
No, this year, the award goes to someone who reads the Lounge religiously, every day, except ironically, she is not reading it this week. This is someone who I am proud to have as a regular reader and sniper-commenter. Her comments get to the point, and her very participation defies convention.
She gets the award for comments like this, from The Forbidden Candle:
In our over-materialistic society we buy, buy, buy thinking the object will make us happy and then don't allow ourselves to use the object.
How fucked is that!
wow... a little bit heavy for an early morning comment. I'm glad you used the soap too. I even used some of the "special hotel soap" last time I was at your house. I made sure I used the very best of what was in the drawer. Did you notice?
She will be more surprised than anyone to learn that she is the winner. This year's Ginny Award for Best Commenter goes to Oosje. Congratulations, the girl and the boy are very proud.
And finally, the second half of tonight's category is the dubious honor of Most-Hated. This is a fun award for the one commenter who was able to burrow most effectively under our collective skin, and was originally bestowed upon Princess Leah and her uterus for the first annual Ginnies. (There was, of course, no second annual...)
Sure, I considered Dr. B and Inog for this. Lisa, Ev and Marge also tend to yammer on. But really, who am I kidding???
There is only one person worthy of this honor this year, and all of the folks who emailed me were unanimous in their recommendation.
This year's Most Hated commenter earns the award with comments like:
Egad.Okay, I'm sorry if I sound like a spoilsport, but Polka Dots is fucking gross and precisely WHY I kept dissuading the men from posting pics of themselves, esp in thongs :-P
And
LOL-- hi Marge *waves*
And
The problem with this is that I'm not sure I WANT to see the other men (esp all you guys!) in their skivvies... when you post them, can you group them? Women first, then men? That way I can stop scrolling when I get to the last woman shot. Thanks.
And the award goes to the one and only Helly! Congratulations, my dear. And don't worry, I'll be making fun of myself in due course.
Also, in all fairness to the guy in the polka dot panties, (identities are still anonymous) every one other than Helly thought the submitted photos rocked!
Come back tomorrow for Best Comment of the Year!
Monday, August 11, 2008
Ginny
Hello.
Ginny Weasley here. As the cutest of all the Harry Potter girls, I was asked by Mr. G&T to remind everyone about the 3rd annual...
HOLD IT! HOLD IT! HOLD IT!Ginny, you vacuous slut, EVERYONE knows that Mr. G&T clearly prefers ME over YOU. I'm smarter. I'm prettier. And I have the power to turn you into a giant oozing pimple. So back off; I'll remind the folks about the upcoming Ginny Awards...
That Doesn't even make sense, you booze swilling whore! Your name isn't even "Ginny!"
MY NAME is Ginny. That's why HE asked ME. Besides, while he used to think you were kinda OK, I don't think he appreciates you humping around the Mediterranean with your boy toy, Jay Barrymore.
I mean, what the hell?? He's like 40!
Ginny, you're just a trashy little twit. So, shut up. I'm 18, and you're not.
Me? I'm the new sexy face of Coco Mademoiselle.
You? you got fat since the last movie.
So sit down and let me handle the reminder.
That's right folks, remember, Wednesday, August 13 will be the third annual Gin and Tonic Lounge Ginny Awards. Mr. G&T appreciates your input. Remember, he's looking for Best Post, Worst Post, Best Comment, Favorite Commenter, and Most-Hated Commenter. Although, we all know who that last one is going to be...
[wink]
Monday Morning Greeting From Your New Friends at Bikini Coffee
While on break, it came to my attention that we had a new neighbor just a two blocks away in downtown Portland. A quaint little coffee operation set up shop with friendly staff, warm pastries and good coffee.
Well, OK, the pastries are cold and a little stale, but really, who goes to a coffee shop for pastries anyway??
And well, the coffee isn't necessarily the best brew in the 9-square-block radius. Not that it's BAD, per se; It's just not, you know... Good.
But it is hot, if not a little over-priced. Still though, it's coffee, and it's served with a big white-toothed smile.
Well, OK, and boobs. It's served with big inflated silicone-enhanced bikini-clad boobs.
Really, though, the best part of hitting Bikini Coffee are the friendly first-thing-in-the-morning smiles. Most of you know, I'll tip for a smile, and this is no exception. There is always a happy "Hello!" and warm greeting when I walk through the door, which is more than I can say for the cursed crew of the miserable Coffee Plant downstairs in my building.
Apparently, the coffee bitches at the Coffee Plant recently were all a-fucking-titter after they found a scathing on-line review of their demoralizing drudgery. I was so excited that they had come across my very own declaration of jihad, alas, however, it was not me. But I digress...
So, if you happen to work in downtown Portland, Oregon, or if you're just stopping by, and you need a little pick-me-up during the long gray winter malaise, then I strongly recommend that you stop for a shot of titillating how-dee-do at Bikini Coffee.
(Located at 520 SW 5th Ave)
Sunday, August 10, 2008
And Now, A Word From Christina Ricci
Hello Friends.
As regular drunken ramblers here at this piss-poor excuse for a blog, I'm sure you have grown as weary and suspicious as I am about Mr. Gin & Tonic's creepy obsession with me.
It was cute at first, almost endearing, but now, it has grown to a full-fledged nightmare. Dita and Scarlett don't even come around here anymore. Yet, for some reason, I keep coming back. I would say that the Lounge causes me to vomit just a little in my mouth, but with the bulimia, it's honestly hard to tell.
Anyway, I did have something important to discuss. Mr. Gin & Tonic has asked me to remind you that the Third Annual Ginny Awards are coming up. August 13 marks the third anniversary of the beginning of this craptacular fiesta of degradation and sin, and so, it is time to mark the passing of time with an awards ceremony.
There is no voting, nor is there a committee, and Mr. Gin & Tonic alone makes the final decision. However, he is willing to listen (with slight regard) to your input. So, drop him a line. Or don't. Whatever....
The categories for the year of August 2007 to August 2008 are :
1. Best G&T Lounge Post
2. Worst G&T Lounge Post
3. Best Comment
4. Favorite Drunken Rambler
5. Most Hated Drunken Rambler
The G&T staff is hard at work coming through the crap from the last 12 months. Yes, I have pointed out to Mr. G&T that he did in fact entirely fail to conduct the second annual Ginny Awards. Unfortunately, he merely grunted with indifference, farted, and told me to go chain myself to a radiator.
Mr. G&T really is an ass hole sometimes..
Still and all, I'm hoping he chooses ME as "Favorite Drunken Rambler!"
Woo!
Friday, August 08, 2008
8 8 8
Auspicious day today. China has its hoopla. Russia and Georgia kick off the start of World War III, and then there are the birthdays...
Yes, August 8, is of course the day of two very important birthdays.
That's right, Dustin Hoffman turns 71 today. Geezus, he's an old fucker.
And radio personality Robin Quivers turns 56!
And that's it, I suppose. Nothing else I can think of. Nothing else of note happening today.
Oh, wait! Ya, no, there is something else I guess. Another important event to note. Sure. On this day in 1786 Michel-Gabriel Paccard and Jacques Balmat completed the first recorded ascent of Mont Blanc in the alps.
So, OK, that does it. Thanks for reading. Talk to you later.
Oh, and, happy birthday to both TOM and OOSJE!
Yes, August 8, is of course the day of two very important birthdays.
That's right, Dustin Hoffman turns 71 today. Geezus, he's an old fucker.
And radio personality Robin Quivers turns 56!
And that's it, I suppose. Nothing else I can think of. Nothing else of note happening today.
Oh, wait! Ya, no, there is something else I guess. Another important event to note. Sure. On this day in 1786 Michel-Gabriel Paccard and Jacques Balmat completed the first recorded ascent of Mont Blanc in the alps.
So, OK, that does it. Thanks for reading. Talk to you later.
Oh, and, happy birthday to both TOM and OOSJE!
The Shocking Truth
She had something to say, it seemed. I saw her approaching from far down the sidewalk.
She appeared to have been camping recently, downtown. And while she likely did not have a job, she walked briskly, as if she had somewhere to be.
She was headed right for me, walking quickly and making a peculiar humming/buzzing sound. I slowly shifted to my right to provide her a path to pass. The humming/buzzing grew louder. It was if she were warming up, revving, building to something.
She never made eye contact, but knew I was there. She timed her pace. She chose her words.
Without slowing, she passed to my left. As she did so, the noise reached a crescendo, and she bellowed with a sea captain's voice: "THE MAFIA HAS TAKEN OVER PAYLESS SHOES!!!"
And then, she was gone.
She appeared to have been camping recently, downtown. And while she likely did not have a job, she walked briskly, as if she had somewhere to be.
She was headed right for me, walking quickly and making a peculiar humming/buzzing sound. I slowly shifted to my right to provide her a path to pass. The humming/buzzing grew louder. It was if she were warming up, revving, building to something.
She never made eye contact, but knew I was there. She timed her pace. She chose her words.
Without slowing, she passed to my left. As she did so, the noise reached a crescendo, and she bellowed with a sea captain's voice: "THE MAFIA HAS TAKEN OVER PAYLESS SHOES!!!"
And then, she was gone.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Guest Post #1
Well, we have a taker. This one is from Bill:
I bought myself a Super Hero Kit the other day. Yes, you read that right. The contents of the kit are as follows:
~ A Super identity-hiding mask (Red with black lightning bolts on either side)
~ A ’Special-Person’ sticker to proudly display on my super vehicle. (Though
I suspect that others may view that as short bus kind of special)
~ A celebratory horn for those after-lifesaving parties (Said parties for us
superhero types only)
~ A handsome superhero award (Suitable for framing)
~And a handy instruction booklet on becoming a super hero (Complete with
the super hero secret oath and several brain-boggling quizzes)
All that is left is to pick out a cool, superhero name. A name that at once strikes fear in the hearts of evildoers everywhere, yet inspires confidence and pride in everyday common folk. Something majestic. Something pure. The kind of name that Batman would wish he’d thought of first.
I have no special powers that I am aware of, and no super suit came with the kit.
Quickly donning a Winnie-the-Pooh kitchen towel as a cape, I leapt through the door and out into the chill night. My senses tingled as I sought out crime. To the left a dog barked, while overhead the moon crossed behind a cloud. Rounding a corner I came across certain wrongdoers, leaning beneath the hood of a car, assuredly fiddling with some sort of doo-dad for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc.
“Stop, Fiends!” I cried with my best superhero voice. Without hesitation, I slammed the hood down upon them and leapt back, prepared for battle.
“What’s the matter with you?” My neighbor The Nefarious Steve exclaimed. “Who are you supposed to be in that get-up?”
I adjusted my identity-hiding mask and repositioned my kitchen towel cape. Thinking swiftly I said, “I am Pooh Man”
Their gale force laughter filled the night as I went back to my not-so-secret house and packed my superhero kit away safely. I will live to fight another day, but not in my own neighborhood, not where people know me.
I bought myself a Super Hero Kit the other day. Yes, you read that right. The contents of the kit are as follows:
~ A Super identity-hiding mask (Red with black lightning bolts on either side)
~ A ’Special-Person’ sticker to proudly display on my super vehicle. (Though
I suspect that others may view that as short bus kind of special)
~ A celebratory horn for those after-lifesaving parties (Said parties for us
superhero types only)
~ A handsome superhero award (Suitable for framing)
~And a handy instruction booklet on becoming a super hero (Complete with
the super hero secret oath and several brain-boggling quizzes)
All that is left is to pick out a cool, superhero name. A name that at once strikes fear in the hearts of evildoers everywhere, yet inspires confidence and pride in everyday common folk. Something majestic. Something pure. The kind of name that Batman would wish he’d thought of first.
I have no special powers that I am aware of, and no super suit came with the kit.
Quickly donning a Winnie-the-Pooh kitchen towel as a cape, I leapt through the door and out into the chill night. My senses tingled as I sought out crime. To the left a dog barked, while overhead the moon crossed behind a cloud. Rounding a corner I came across certain wrongdoers, leaning beneath the hood of a car, assuredly fiddling with some sort of doo-dad for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc.
“Stop, Fiends!” I cried with my best superhero voice. Without hesitation, I slammed the hood down upon them and leapt back, prepared for battle.
“What’s the matter with you?” My neighbor The Nefarious Steve exclaimed. “Who are you supposed to be in that get-up?”
I adjusted my identity-hiding mask and repositioned my kitchen towel cape. Thinking swiftly I said, “I am Pooh Man”
Their gale force laughter filled the night as I went back to my not-so-secret house and packed my superhero kit away safely. I will live to fight another day, but not in my own neighborhood, not where people know me.
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