Pull!

So, I think I'm closing it down.

Well, yes, actually, I am closing it down. I think for good. I'll leave the four-and-a-half years of material up for a while, at least until I can archive it somewhere.

Thank you all, or at least those of you who are still around. I do so enjoy being the center of attention.

For those who still need their fix, do not despair. I am working on something new. It's not ready yet, I need to let the creativity recover from four years of depletion. But it is in the works.

I'll be sure to let you know.

Oh, and, Dita, Christina and Scarlett said to say good bye...

The Simple Secret to a Happy Life

I know for a fact that many of you regular readers, you drunkin ramblers, you have gotten a bit carried away with your Facebook accounts.

To those of you who have not Yet joined the herd, let me say, "Don't." For the love of god, do not get sucked in!! It is manic. It is insidious. It is obsessive. You'd do better to just steer clear.

I, unfortunately, did not heed my own advice, and now have regular near-daily contact and updates with people I've otherwise been able to avoid for nearly 20 years. Some longer. Some less long.

A few, however, truth be told, have been a pleasure to reconnect with.

Which, finally, gets me to my point.

All of this social re-connecting business has caused me to stop and ponder just a bit. Why did these acquaintances fall away? Why did friendships end? Why did I move further and further away from folks I cared about?

Well, mostly, it comes down to one simple thing. I used to be a total fucking dick.

Really. I know what your thinking: "Mr. G and T, how can that be? You're so fucking charming, how could you have ever been a king-sized ass hole?"

Well, it's true. I was. I was an arrogant fascist prick. Insufferable, really. If I could go back in time, I would probably just find myself and punch myself in the head.

Growing up helped, I suppose. So did leaving the church.

But the true sense of enlightenment came when I arrived in Salem. It was the freshest of starts, and I made the most of it.

And the secret? The key that made me the adorable social magnet I am today?

Simple. Don't be a dick.

And really, I think that's what Jesus tried to say all those many years ago...

Don't be a dick.

So far, it seems to be working. Sure, it's not a perfect system, subject as it is to my many human foibles. But over all, in general, the basic practice of not-being-a-dick seems to be the right way to go.

Confidentiality

My career and my Lounge often find themselves at odds.

For instance, there was this thing that happened yesterday that could, in the future, become one of my best all around go-to stories.

It was crazy! It happened in my office. And I cannot tell you about it.

I'd LOVE to tell you about it. It was a story made for the Lounge.

But I have to keep it to myself.

What I can say is, this person came in to talk about this one thing, and in the course of the conversation, she did this totally crazy other thing!

I even asked her three times not to do the crazy thing, and she did it anyway!!

Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it was...

I can't even hint at it!

The Secret

The following book review demonstrates the real life-altering power of the Secret.

Click on the image to see a readable sized copy...



(Thanks Fred)

Go To

I was never in a fraternity, but I've known folks who were.

You can spot them, often, from across the room.

You can spot them without even looking at them.

They are the ones fetching the quick and easy laughs by their rapid recitation of popular movie one-liners. Quick quips from Animal House, Caddy Shack, and really almost anything Bill Murray has ever done.

These are the fraternal go-to zingers, always sure to bring a smile or a nod of approval.

I have my own, but really, nothing that was ever spoken in a movie. My go-to politicians, for instance, depending on the inappropriateness of the conversation, are Bob Dole and Bill Clinton. They are each funny in their own way.

The go-to obscure foreign land is Kuala Lampur.

Go-to hatefulness rotates between soggy bread, three-bean salad and professional basketball.

You get the picture. I keep this parcel of quick picks in my pocket, and pull them out to punctuate a conversation as needed. You, I'm sure, have your own.

Sadly, I have discovered, my go-to career advice for most women, and some men, is "stripper." I mean, it's mostly a joke. It's inflammatory and dirty, but if you have a hot bod and need cash, it seems like a no-brainer.

And I say it a lot. Enough to wonder whether maybe I really mean it. Hopeful wishing? maybe.

Lack of creative alternatives? More likely.

No one has taken me up on the advice, though. Oh well, I'll keep trying.

More Hap

Thanks, Oosje...

Hap

By the time most of you sober up, wake up, and sip enough tepid water to ease out of your hangover, it will be over.

It is the closest thing you will ever find to historic ritual in southern California. Pretty girls in bright dresses. Snorting horses. Motorized floats feathered in fine floral facade.

1,000,000 spectators swarm down upon pleasant Passadena, staking their claim upon the piss-stained sidewalk to watch the parade.

Most arrive on new years eve, and brave the mild tropical night.

It was, as most of my stories seem to start, 1987. The last day of the year.

The following day would bring a new year, which would in turn bring adulthood, romance, and a lucrative career in the frozen yogurt Industry.

And so, we decided to go. Not for the parade though. I had built those floats. Those goddamned floats. I had no desire to stay for the floats.

Dr B and I hatched the plan. The post christmas rush being over and the christmas store being gutted, we plotted and planned.

Jose, the manager of the Vans store next door would come with us. Tom, of course. Familytrain. Some other people.

Jose, I think, acquired the copious crates of booze. I brought blankets. Dr B brought rubbers, I think, that or floss.

We found Colorado boulevard already overrun when we arrived. No matter though, we weren't there for the view.

We made camp in front of a shifty motel and began to drink. As we loosened up, the sun went down, drawing 87 closer to it's end.

Darkness and drunkenness led to wandering and adventure.

For me, though, it led to a cute girl sitting attop a newspaper box. Ratted blonde hair, snug acid washed jeans. It took one wine cooler and a compliment about her blue eyes to get her tongue down my throat.

And so we sat and drank, under the blankets on the curb at the dark and ugly end of the route.

My friends returned from one wander and we wished each other a "happy eighty-fucking-eight!!"

We drank more and kissed more and did other things. The guys wandered around again and I was able to wish them "happy eight!!"

And then it all gets fuzzy. It was cold. The girl fell asleep. A peppy band of Mormons tried to convert me, and I continued to sip on one bottle or another.

Dr B came back. He wasn't in much better shape. But he came back and looked down at me. I sat with a sleeping girl under one arm and a bottle of hooch in the other.

I looked up, unable to make words, but happy. Very very happy. I smiled (or grimmaced) and managed to say: "Hap..."

"Hap!" he grinned back.

Hap in deed.

And so, I wish you and your family Hap. Hap in the new year, and Hap in the years to come.