525,600 Minutes

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?

525,600 Minutes. This is the approximate amount of time that "Rent," that insipid over-indulgent whiny preachy self-absorbed Indulg-O-Rama musical, seemed to last. Sure I caught the theatrical version on DVD this weekend, but holy christ, it went nowhere and it never ended.

After the first interminable act, which covered approximately 7 days, it looked like the little tale was at an end. Oh, but no. We still had an entire YEAR of La Boheme left to endure.

Look, I'm all about Beauty Truth and Love. Hurray for the bohemian ideal. Be and let be. Down with rampant homogeneity. But let's be realistic. Let's get the facts straight.

1. If you simply must quit your $3,000 per week job at a network news service because you absolutely MUST finish your shitty home movie about your dysfunctional friends, I simply will not have sympathy for you when you get evicted for not paying your rent.

2. The guy who grows up and gets a job, is not the bad guy.

3. Yes, HIV is a horrible disease, but it does not infect 7 out of every 8 people. Also, if you really want to fight it, you're going to need a few highly-funded corporate research facilities to do the work. Oh, and that's going to require more people with real jobs. Just sayin...

4. A couple of songs with non-rhyming lyrics is edgy and avant garde. Two entire musical acts without any rhyming lyrics is irritating and leads to a head ache.

5. Not all black female lawyers are lesbians. Also, not all women who break up with cute protagonist boys are lesbians either. Cliche isn't the same as art.

6. Men at strip clubs do not hoot, holler, cat-call, or waive their arms in the air like baboons, no matter how strong the pop media cliche is.

7. If you did not pay last year's rent, have not paid this year's rent, and declare publicly that you will not pay next year's rent, you will get evicted. Period. End of Story. (well, I wish it was the end of the story, but holy hell...)

8. Long hair, leather jacket and a guitar do not make you a rock star. If you haven't been able to write a song in two years, I'm guessing you're probably not even a musician. Really, it's time to get a job.

What worries me most about all of this is that Rent has been one of the biggest Broadway shows of my generation. I mean, WHO buys into this?? Someone (many someones) have watched this show and thought to themselves, "Ya, this really speaks to me. I really get it. I need to see this again." It just makes me sad.

Oh god, that was 2 1/2 hours of my life that I'll never get back.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. Have you ever told a panhandler to "get a job?"
2. Do you believe in Beauty, Truth and Love?
3. Do you hoot like a baboon in strip clubs?

Current Events

Gulp.

Breathe.

Wait! Wave, don't breathe!

Gulp.

OK, quick, breathe.

My head popped up above the white-foamed crest. I saw the next one coming. Or rather, I was heading toward it. Quick glance over my shoulder. The wife was somehow still in the goddamned Kayak. She was safe, though paddleless. I didn't have to worry...

Wave!

Gulp.

What did that tanned and blonde pretty-boy river guide say? Relax... Feet out in front.... Let the current take you... Oh Shit, I forgot to breathe!

Wave!

Gulp.

My hat was gone. My paddle was gone. The air was shocked by force and cold out of my lungs. The kayak and the rafts were still too far behind.

All had been well. We punched through a hole and came out the other side, but a rogue wave scooped me by surprise from the left. There was nothing to hold on to. The kayak was gone. I was taken by the water.

The third stretch of rapids began. I was still in the water. I was just a wee-bit concerned about striking a rock. I was a tad-bit more concerned about mis-timing gasps of air. The blinding slap of waves in my face also caused mounting awareness of the total fucking unpleasantness of a potential eddy or hole in my path. Fucking Kayak. I didn't want to try out the kayak. I should have stayed in the raft.

The icy current worked its way with me, pushing me up and pulling me down. It swept me forward at its own pace. My free will, and the exercise thereof, was worthless. I suppose there's a metaphor for life in there, but I'm not in a metaphore place tonight.

I backstroked toward the calm-looking border current to my left. I saw the nearest raft, crewed by my coworkers, rowing like Vikings, in hot pursuit. I also spied the fourth run of white waves looming all too near.

"There's his hat!" cried a voice from the raft.

"To hell with that cheap-ass ill-fitting hat..." I thought to myself.

"The hat is sinking!!" cried another.

"FUCK THE HAT!" I screamed silently to myself, as I suggested in an audible but bedraggled voice, "If you could manage to get me out before the next rapids, I would appreciate it..."

Which, they did, to my great appreciation. They also retrieved the wayward kayak paddle and my wife, pilot of the paddleless kayak. We were both aboard, and I took up my starboard bow rowing station. I felt numb. I felt empty. And then, a small voice squealed behind me, "The hat floated back to the surface!"

Yep. There it was, an oar's reach away.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. Ever been to Maupin?
2. If you are a 6'4" 23-year-old tanned shirtless river guide, with six-pack abs, white teeth and curly sun-bleached blonde hair, just how much sex do you get?
3. Anyone want a hat?

Dots

I sat back in my chair, and drowned-out the droning of the teacher. It was Fifth grade. I was bored.

I should have transferred to the smart school with Dr. Brian, Dave and the others. Instead, I stayed at the dumb school. I, therefore, found myself frequently bored, like I was on this particular day.

I stared at the ceiling and the rows of aluminum fluorescent light fixtures. I stared at the acoustic tiles, and at the random-appearing dots in those tiles.

I discovered patterns in the dots, and realized that they were not so random. They were exact, machine cut. Each tile was identical to the next. I hypothesized that by calculating the approximate sum of all dots on single tile, I could extrapolate the sum of all dots in the classroom.

I made the calculations. That was a god damn lot of dots.

At recess, I made a quick count of all the classroom-sized rooms in the school. The only odd exception was the caffatorium (cafeteria + Auditorium = Caffatorium).

I made independent calculations at lunch. Ignoring my fishsticks, I calculated the number of dots on each tile. These were larger, for some reason, than the classroom tiles. Next, I calculated for the number of tiles, making adjustments for various hallways, backrooms, and the foyer.

By the end of the day, I had calculated the sum total of all ceiling dots in the school. I took my calculations to the teacher. She told me to stop wasting time and get back to the busy work.

Free thinking was discouraged.

I've attempted to make similar calculations as an adult to determine just exactly how many bare breasts I've seen, either in print, film, online, or in person, over the course of my life.

It's a much softer math set with wildly imprecise extrapolation.

The number, however, is similar in size to the fifth grade dot calculation.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. I apologize if you attended the same dumb elementary school as me. I didn't mean to imply that you're more stupid than you really are.
2. What sort of things do you like to count?
3. My wife would like to get Joss Whedon's input on yesterday's blog topic. Does anyone have his email address?

Dinnertime Conversation

Over turkey, pastrami and avocado sandwiches, we kept half an eye on the reruns of Dark Angel playing on the SciFi channel. As is common at the Gin & Tonic geek-heavy headquaters, the following conversation ensued...

"So, who wins if Sidney Bristow (Alias) has to fight Max (Dark Angel)?"

"Well Max, obviously, she's genetically altered, but that's not the fight you want to see."

"I don't?"

"No."

"Oh, I want to see Max fight Six from BSG."

"No. Well, Max takes that one too, but no."

"Who then?"

"River."

"Max fight River Tam (Firefly)? Yesss.... I see the truth of it."

"It's a close one though, they're both altered. They're both conditioned to kill."

"Yes, but Max escaped at an earlier age. She had less training."

"River has the strength, tactics and strategy. River can also turn off her morality, like a switch."

"River then."

"Yes, River."

[Silence, as we weigh our collective geek-shame. We look at the baby. She has developed the new skill of spearing her Cheerios with tiny ears of baby corn.]

I propose: "Buffy (Vampire Slayer) could take River."

[surprisingly, while my wife bears an unhealthy obsession for all things Buffy, she actually doubts this.]

"Buffy doesn't have the training, and she's burdened with morality."

"It does get in the way, but Buffy is endowed by ancient spirits to throw down with vampires, demons, and minor deities."

"I don't know, River is smarter. She has superior strategic skills."

[stalemate]

"Evil-Willow?"

"No, she was defeated by Oz."

"No, that was vampire-Willow. I mean evil-witch Willow."

"Worse, she was defeated by Xander."

"Right."

[We look back at the Monkey.]

"There's really no hope for our daughter is there?"

"Nope. She's doomed."

Reading for Comprehension:
1. What do you spear your Cherrios with?
2. Hmmm... River vs. Chuck Norris...
3. I still think Buffy could take River

Ahoy There

Seriously what's with all the pirates these days? Everyone is throwing pirate parties and wearing pirate costumes. There are pirate jokes and pirate movies. Everyone is growling and rolling their RRRRssss....
OK, it was clever and a little punk rock, like, two years ago. Now, you can buy pirate clothes at Target. Joke's over, matey. It's time to walk the plank.

Intercontinental Mixology

I have been asked to bartend for a friend's party Saturday night. The theme of the party is a progressive around-the-world tour. 20 people, or so, will start the evening at my friend's house, whose national theme is Germany, then will move on to other culturally-themed houses.

I will be serving German beer, Jaeger shots, and things made with Peach Schnapps.

I did not design the drink list.

As I will be working in "Germany," I plan to dress as an SS officer. Or, perhaps, Gestapo. Ich mus deine Papiere sehen, bevor du etwas trinken kannst. Papiere! Schnell!

I may also be working the Mexico house as well. Corona, tequila, and margaritas. Yo quiero mas cervesa, por favor. Mi lapiz azul es muy grande!

A request for the kilt has been made, but seeing how the third house is Ireland, I figured it could cause a tussle...

Reading for comprehension
1. I can mix drinks and legally marry people. Add a DJ table, and I could be an-all-in-one wedding service.
2. Why, when Germany is supposed to be the beer capital of the world, is it so hard to find German beer?
3. What do you suppose Ireland, Belgium and Oregon have to say about Germany being a beer-capital?

Ballet of the Fire Dancers

Sticky pancakes on paper plates in the park, we simmered in the morning sunshine with J&K and their progeny. This is our annual outing. This is the way that Independence Day gets underway.

Tacky hats and municipal minstrels, the long line feeds itself into the white sea of butcher-paper-covered picnic tables, garnished in turn with a congregation of red, white, and blue blazoned gentry. The aging and dwindling Lyons Club line-marshals and breakfast chefs herd the masses into the cordoned coral. Beverages are all-you-can drink.

Welcome to Suburbia. Welcome to America.

Carbo-loaded and laden with link sausage, the middle of the day called for work. So, I spread Shredded Cedar in the planter beds in front of the house. The labor was light, but I faced it as a festive celebration of my property rights. Burdened as it is by ordinance and regulation, this small patch of dirt is mine, and I am it's steward.

At 4:00, with the Monkey's ubiquitous pigtails in place, the Gin-and-Tonic family sailed swiftly southward toward Salem. Carl's meat, and Ryan's parade were waiting. As I passed the Woodburn outlet mall, I realized that it had been far too long since my last visit.

Things had changed since my last cruise through the capital city. I felt a bit like the prodigal son. All apprehension vanished though, as I pulled up and found all of my old friends right where I had left them.

The parade was first. Children on bikes, babies in strollers, my wife rode on a float. This was an ad hoc neighborhood venture, Ryan's own creation. He was the instigator and the grand marshal. Ryan led the way, patriotic fight songs from the boombox in one hand, bobbing broom baton in the other. He led, we followed. Others joined along the way. Younger neighbors came out of their houses to march with the masses. Older neighbors came out to gaze in wonder.

Am I kidding? No. Was it hokey? Absolutely. Would I do it again? In a heart beat.

This sort of spectacle just doesn't happen anymore. Neighbors don't talk to each other, let alone march around the block waving flags and following a broom-waving maniac. I give Ryan credit for this. He is a sort of Savant. A single minded festive fanatic savant, but a genius to be sure. Ryan leads. The neighbors follow.

Then the food. There was your typical spread of salad selections. Some were good. some weren't. There were no less than five varieties of potato salad. I tried all of them. However, the great unifying theme was meat.

I observed an obnoxious orgy of carnivorous gluttony. Beyond the bevy of burgers and dogs, there was chicken; fried chicken, bar-b-qued chicken, chicken pieces and chicken bits. But the the chick was a mere warm up for the real meat. Carl's Meat. Brisket and ribs. Smoked for something like 72 hours, or some such. The Brisket was awash with it own juice and literally melted on the tongue. I kept picking. Picking. Picking...

The evening dipped to dusk, and the anticipation became palpable. White bags bursting with explosive trinkets and baubles began to emerge from their secreted storage. Bag after bag. Box after box. A growing mound emerged, most of which was not nearly legal to even possess in this state. The sun was not down, but was barely blocked by the peak of the roof across the street.

Dark enough, it was time to the match fire to fuses. Soo many fuses... We worked in teams, toting stockpiles of crackling flashing boom-makers to the street. One visitor from Japan, who had never witnessed the thunder-lust of Americans on this day was disturbed, visibly. Her safety was warranted by her host, but in her mind it was not much of a leap for the fire crew to reenact Hiroshima.

There was a point, just after dark, when the combustible cacophony reached a war-like pitch. A never-ending array of mortar shells made their way from the garage with assembly-line efficiency. Launch tubes were lined down the street and the deep chest-pounding Fump-Boom cycles overlapped and repeated. I was lost in the smoky swirl of discharge and fire, clouded by constant concussive shock waves of light and sound. I was in the center of the fire zone, but also far from it. It was a perfect moment. I was one with the spirit of the holiday.

Then it was over. There were shells left to launch, but something in the air said we were done. All that was left was the fire dance. Swirling sticks of flame and spark, we danced over a spouting fountain. I spun in to the wind, and sparks singed my eyebrow.

And then it was dark.

Reading for comprehension
1. Do you know a good way to get the smell of gun powder out of your hair?
2. Seriously, do you even now your neighbor's names?
3. If more of the world could witness our July 4 celebrations, do you think Iran and South Korea would keep fucking around with us so much?

50 Years Later

No poet has ever expounded upon the virtue of a committee. They are not delicate lovely things. They are not joyous, or pleasures to behold. They are not efficacious. They are not conducive to immediate or certain action.

Surprisingly, the world-altering document discussed in last night's blog was written by just such a body. While Thomas Jefferson did most of the heavy lifting in its drafting, he was joined by John Adams, Ben Franklin, and a couple of other guys...

For his hard work, Jefferson was rewarded with the Presidency, but only after his co-drafter and political rival, John Adams, had it first. Adams had been instrumental in making the argument for its ratification, and was eventually elected as the second President, after Washington.

After the Declaration had been ratified, Adams wrote to his wife, saying: "I believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival... It ought to be celebrated by pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other..."

Then, on July 4, 1826, 50 years to the day, John Adams died. His final words were: "Thomas Jefferson still survives..." What the Dying Adams didn't know was that Thomas Jefferson had also just died two hours earlier, hundreds of miles away.

Spooky!

Reading for Comprehension
1. Guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations: I feel sorry for the Salem Police Department.
2. There have been three presidents who have died on July 4, who was the third, and when?
3. Can you write a poem about the loveliness of a committee?? Perhaps a haiku?

When, in the Course of Human Events...

Knotts Berry Farm (the poor-man's Disneyland) in Southern California has a life-size replica of Independence Hall. Absent Disney-like animatronics, visitors gaze through glass into the empty chamber where Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, and the others hammered out the well-worded middle finger to George III of England.

Patrons picture in their minds the painting by Trumbull; periwigged men in pantaloons, standing silently around the divisive document on July 4, 1776, golden light cascading down from heaven. All of that is mostly bullshit of course.


It was a miserably muggy summer, stiflingly so. The cranky, sticky, sweaty, stinking delegates trudged through the piles of rancid horse shit along the streets of Philadelphia. This was the big day, and they were mostly glad to be done.

Inside, where there was no insulation and poor ventilation, the temperature was unbearable. The white wigs itched. Franklin smelled like hookers and booze.

It came time to sign the long length of parchment. This was the copy going to the King. If the plan didn't work, the King would surely hunt down and hang every man whose name was signed below. They looked at each other. Then, John Hancock, President of the Congress, said, "Oh, Hell with it!" He then took the quill, and scrawled his infamously over-sized signature. Fortunately for him, the plan worked.


Surprisingly, this act did NOT occur on July 4. Rather, the signing of the Declaration of Independence took place on August 2, 1776. That signing is not what Independence Day is about.

The final form of the document was only ratified on July 4. However, that really isn't what independence day is about either.

And before you start burning the Union Jack, it's not about beating the Brits.

You see, the guys who thought this whole thing up, the "founding fathers," were a group of over-privileged, hyper-educated erudite cranks. Think of the scene in Good Will Hunting, when Will out-wits the Harvard jerk-offs in the bar to impress Mini Driver. Jefferson and his lot were those guys in the bar.

They had nothing better to do with their time than load up on Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau. These firebrands of political thought had suggested the outrageous concept that political power was not a divine right. Rather, Freedom was given by God, and governments were propped up by the people to protect those freedoms.

By ratifying the Declaration on that hot July day, the Second Continental Congress said to the world: "We shall engage in the empirical application of the liberal political theorem..."

Or, as Elvis put it, two centuries later: "A little less conversation, a little more action."

OK, look, this is what the document itself says:

"All Men are created equal, [and] they are endowed, by their Creator, with certain unalienable Rights...

That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government..."

That's it. That's the point. We are all born equal, with equal rights. We create government to protect those rights. That is why government must have limitations. When Government turns on us, and acts to take away those rights, the government must go.

It's a scary concept if you think about it, but that is what America is. That's the great experiment. That is what Independence Day is all about.

In celebration of the great experiment, and in exercise of my God-given freedoms, I will join Ryan and Carl on Tuesday to eat charred animal flesh, wear tacky flag-colored clothing, and blow the living hell out of some good Chinese-made, completely-illegal-in-Oregon, fireworks.

God (or the divine power of your choice) Bless America!

Reading for Comprehension
1. Are you still confused? Here's the Simple Version
2. Do you now begin to understand my dissatisfaction with Dick and George?
3. At the risk of inciting sedition, does the Oregon prohibition on projectile fireworks justify the overthrow of the Oregon Legislature?

XXX-Tra Room for Cream

I was just a bit tight on time this morning. I had many mundane tasks to accomplish. Having safely deposited the monkey at her monkey-care facility, I weaved my way back to work.

I was tired though, and I struggled to summon the stamina to weather the waning work week. One day more. The weekend at last, but first, I must fight through Friday. Not only that, but I had to be productive in the mix, billing at least 8 of those 8 hours.

It was doable, but it required coffee.

Starbucks, with its long line of pretentious prats, concocting convoluted menu combinations, and woefully inadequate parking options seemed so very far away. I found myself in a fix, a quandary, even.

Nearer, I approached my place of business and the prospect of one more cup of cheap office coffee that tasted vaguely of dirt and cardboard. I needed a cup of decent joe.

Then, at the very last minute, there it was. Small, white, shaped like a log-cabin Photomat, it was the local coffee hut. I had forgotten all about it.

Essentially, it lay across the street, kitty-corner to my office, but in two years, I had never gotten coffee there. Why? Well, mostly because it is in the parking lot of an enormous adult department store.

Yes, the Castle, the Walmart-like super-store of porn shops, is walking distance from my job. Have I been there? Hell yes, and I've been there with many of you who are reading this right now. The only thing is, it just seems like the wrong place for a coffee hut. I have no problem pulling into the parking lot to buy some cinnamon-flavored nipple clamps and a half-off anal gang-bang DVD, but Coffee?? No way. That has just always seemed dirty...

Desperate times call for desperate measures though, and I pulled in. The warm and bubbly grandmother who worked the window was friendly and enthusiastic. Her coffee was surprisingly good, and the prices were low. She wished me a good day, and I believe she actually meant it.

I even got a free punch card out of the deal. Four more purchases, and I get a free medium coffee. I'm going to shoot for a freebee by the end of next week...

Reading for Comprehension
1. Have you been to the Castle with me?
2. Have you been to the Castle without me?
3. Other than coffee, what's the strangest thing you've ever purchased from a porn shop?

Grunting, Slapping, and Utterances Unto the Lord

The sound of sex is unmistakable. Well, usually...

I have heard roommates having sex. It is usually the egregiously depraved performance sex that you have when you know other freaks are listening. It is elevated moaning, punctuated ass-slapping, mysterious bumps against the wall.

I have heard my own parents having sex. Silent, stealthy, but unable to avoid the tell-tale rhythm of the squeaky bed frame. It was cool though. I knew, at the very least, that they weren't headed for an immediate divorce.

I've heard friends having sex. I've heard it in my house. I've heard it in the next room. I've even walked in on it. Hearing friends have sex is creepier than hearing your parents.

I've heard strangers having sex in a hotel. Hotel sex, it seems, is always a bit more aerobic and vocal than other forms. Certainly, though, it ALWAYS involves thrusting the full body weight of at least two naked and sweaty full-grown adults toward the rickety hotel headboard. To the well-trained ear, hotel sex may always be identified by the the percussive clapping of the headboard against the wall.

Hearing hotel sex never bothers me. It's like sport. I root for the visiting team.

What has disturbed me, though, is neighbor sex.

It was 1990, or thereabouts. I was walking home from work in the middle evening. It was dark, but not too late. The California night sky was warm and smelled of sage.

It was a pleasant walk, so I took the long way home. As I neared my house, I heard a noise that caused me concern. It sounded like a small animal was in a great deal of distress. It howled and screeched. It cried and whined. It whimpered and hissed.

I came closer. It seemed to be coming from the hedge around my neighbor's house. I got closer and the commotion got louder. The passionate cry reached a higher pitch and grew in volume. I was sure to find a cat caught in a traumatic trap. It was perhaps a raccoon pinned under a pile of bricks.

I came to stand just outside my neighbors open window. The agonizing beast was squealing now, and it was obviously coming from inside my neighbor's house. I was perplexed and horrified for just a split second, with my mind racing through a menu of emergency options to deal with the zoological crisis unfolding in my neighbor's house. Just then, all of a sudden, the suffering animal let out a gasp and screamed, "Oh fuck, oh God, yes, oh fuck!"

I felt dirty and a little embarrassed, and I walk away.

Reading for comprehension:
1. You liked this one, didn't you? Dirty perv...
2. So, was the story just a cover for me eavesdropping on my lusty neighbor?
3. What barn-yard animal do you most sound like when you're doin it?

Escar-Gone

Tragedy struck over the weekend. My golden mystery snail has died. I hadn't ever seen the true face of a snail until he (or she) joined the marine menagerie in my office tank. You could say that it was almost cute.

It was a brave and mighty little snail, and quite a voracious eater. Unfortunately, the new tank didn't offer the same volume of algae that the old tank offered. I tried to feed it algae pellets, but it simply never got the hang of it.

He was closed up in his shell for about a week, which isn't peculiar. However, upon staggering into my office this afternoon, I discovered that his meat was out of his shell, and was entangled in one of the fake plastic aquarium plants.

I called time of death: 3:07 pm, June 26, 2006.

Reading for comprehension:
1. Are snails gender-specific?
2. What is wrong with the French for them to believe that snails are food??
3. Have you ever gotten your own meat stuck in a fake plastic plant?

Full Trucker Effect

It is no secret that I am a serious bitch for Sirius satellite service. The massive array of always-available news, sports, music, talk and entertainment, streaming uninterrupted from outer space down to my dashboard is luxurious in its scope, convenience and value.

$12 per month. That's it. For LESS than the cost of sponsoring two children in Guatemala, you too can have commercial-free music and FCC-free Howard Stern in your home, office or automobile.

Howard and his crew have been on total freaking fire since moving to Sirius in January. However, the wickedness has reached a fever pitch in the last few days, nearly causing me to swerve off the road in fits of laughter.

It's not just Howard, though. No, it's also Bubba. Bubba: The Love Sponge. Florida-native body-builder buddy of Hulk Hogan, NASCAR driver, trucker fetishist, shock-happy sadistic Thrillbilly. Bubba was once fined heavier than Howard, and fired from his southeastern regional radio network. In an attempt to fill his two satellite stations, Howard gave Bubba the east coast drive-time show on Howard 101 (leaving mere scraps for the west coast).

Bubba now has a nationwide audience, and his show has exploded. It's genius. Even I, while being the furthest distance from his demographic, am hooked. The bulk of his audience, though, seem to be truckers. Bubba celebrates the niceties of trucker culture, which he refers to as the "Full Trucker Effect." It's even the title of his theme song.

Sirius is ideal for truckers if you think about it. The seamless streaming signal is everywhere. It follows them where they need to be. There is no longer any need to search for stations as they cross from state to state.

It was, therefore, no surprise when I found, while surfing the higher-end spectrum of Sirius stations, that there is an all-trucker station: Sirius 147, Road Dog.

All trucker, all the time: trucker music, trucker news, trucker talk. Nationwide weather and traffic. Truck-centric product sponsors.

This is a perfect marriage. Truckers have always been synonymous with radio. They were pioneers in the development and use of CB. However, they were not the only ones...

I was 8 years old, and on a camping trip with my grandparents and my great grandmother. My Grandfather's rig was the vanguard. He always lead the train, followed my his cadre of camping buddies from the church. His CB was strapped to the dashboard, and he would san the channels for road conditions. Occasionally, he would quietly issue orders into the mic, and the caravan of campers would follow his lead.

I, on the other hand, used the CB to read jokes from my joke books to the masses. I was 8, so you can imagine...

We eventually found ourselves stopped in front of the Ranger station, and my grandparents were outside, futzing with their reservations. My doddering great grandmother snored in the back seat. The radio was on, and the mic lay in my lap.

"Breaker Breaker, blah blah blah..." came the voice of a gravely road pilot through the radio. There were others too. They were having an interstate conversation.

Now, I knew from my joke book experience that pushing the button opened the mic, and jammed the frequency. So, obviously, I pushed and held the button for several seconds. Then I released it, and listened for the immanent response.

"Who the fuck is leaving their mic open??" My great grandmother stirred in the back seat. That seemed to get their attention. So, I pushed it again, longer this time.

I pushed it fast. I pushed it slow. Dots. Dashes. Rhythms. Pulses. All the while the venom and anger was spittering and sputtering through the transmission breaks. Foul evil language, the type of words you only heard on playgrounds. I never expected adults to know such words.

I felt powerful. I felt sneaky. My great grandmother slowly roused herself to semi-wakefulness.

"What in tarnation is this gibbering all about? Oh my! What language! You, you, you shouldn't be hearing this. I can't believe such filth is allowed on the radio!"

I grinned, passively to myself. I was the cause in fact of the commotion. I took private pleasure in the vitriolic responsive transmissions.

The next hour was filled by my grandmother being lectured by her mother about the devilishly inappropriate radio show they left on while they stepped out. (She didn't quite grasp the CB concept.) I simply stared quietly out the window at the passing truckers, wondering whether we would pass the purple faced jackass that let an 8-year old get his goat.

(Sirius is offering a three-day free-trial of it's online service. This service now includes live streaming feeds of Howard 100 and Howard 101)

Reading for Comprehension.
1. That was one long-ass blog post, did you read the whole goddamn thing, or did you just skip to the end?
2. Have you, or anyone that you know, ever had sex in the sleeper cab of a big rig?
3. Bubba uses the phrase "shock the balls," what does this phrase mean to you?

Summertime, and the Livin's Easy

Generally speaking, I hate Summer. I dislike bright sun light, and I can't stand the heat. Mild as the summers are here in the Pacific Northwest, I stand to lose a substantial sum of personal mass in sweat alone over the next few months. Not that I can't bear to lose a few pounds, but I just hate to sweat. Unfortunately, I sweat easier than a ham under a heat lamp.

So, my front door faces North, and for just a few weeks, this time every year, the sun peaks around the corner of the porch in the late evening, and casts brilliant shards of light through the beveled glass. The entryway explodes with color and light for just a few minutes, before the sun settles behind the hill. Tonight, of course, was the brightest, and the light show will slowly fade over the next few days until it returns for next year's solstice.

I sat down to write this post around 10:30 p.m. At that point, there was still a glow of light visible in the night sky. This is it. The longest day of the northern hemisphere's year. While technically the first day of summer, the days only get shorter from here. Remember, only 180 days (give or take) until Christmas.

In another lifetime, before the neckties and business suits, before daycare and mortgages, there was pizza. There were many years of delivering pizza, and there are many stories yet to tell from that time. Tonight, though, there is only one pizza story to tell.

It was June 21, sometime in the early 90s. I was paying for school by delivering pizza at night. The hours were late, but the tips were good. Of course, some nights were better for tips than others. While New Years and the 4th of July were blockbusters, Solstice night was historically crappy. The day dragged on forever, and folks lost touch with their digestive rhythms. They would forget to eat. So, it was always a slow night.

The crew was thin, but we worked hard to get the store closed quickly. Still, it was well past midnight by the time we finished. Four of us walked outside, waiting for the manager to set the alarm. The A.M. breeze was afternoon-warm. We shuffled around a bit, feeling not quite done with the night. Proposals were made, and plans were laid. There appeared to be drinking in our future.

We reconvened in my backyard, down by the creek. Cold beer was handed out and a pipe, or two, was passed around. I sat there that night with three other guys, whose names I can't remember. We were friends in a co-worker sort of way, but with whom I had nothing in common. We drank and we smoked and we talked. We watched the stars, and waxed philosophic, in a limited beer-hazed, small-town yokel sort of way...

Now, being situated on the 45th parallel, as we were, not only was the solstice sunset late, but the sunrise was unexpectedly early. I finished off yet another can of PBR (The King of cheap beer!) when a pink glow began to cut through the trees. I had just settled in with a comfortable nocturnal buzz, when all of a sudden I was confronted by dawn.

We all sat stunned. It was only 4:30. We had anticipated, somehow, having several more hours of darkness to cover our pagan rites. Silently, we each took stock of the situation, glancing forlornly at the cooler full of unopened beer. By unspoken assent, we all agreed that though the sun was shining, it was still the middle of the night. The fully-illuminated early morning sky would not prevent us from finishing our task.

Though the morning rolled on, as none of us had gone to sleep, in our minds it was still night. Eventually, the evening came to a close (around brunch), and I went to bed. Of all of the "longest days," I suppose that was technically the longest. So, happy solstice to you, and here's to an easy Summer... Just watch out for those early sunrises.

Pearls Before Swine

Sweet Home Alabama

In the course of three days this weekend, we heard Sweet Home Alabama four times. The funny thing was we were nowhere near Alabama. It was one of those bizarre coincidences. It started to get creepy, like a dream, or a bad David Lynch movie.

The lawyer-conference thingy went fine. I learned some things. I met some people. I drank a lot of beer.

I played some disc golf. I read a book. I took a lot of naps.

On Friday, or maybe it was Saturday, I got the call. I had just returned from four hours of mind-numbing lecture, and my bowels needed to be exercised (as in casting out demons).

Sparing the details, I sat on the throne when the cell phone rang. It was Tom, so I answered. As I wallowed in my own stench, I got the news that Spawn-of-Tom had born. Healthy baby girl, regrettably not named "Brian." Labor was something like 84 hours. She was an astonishing 14 pounds, 11 ounces; full set of teeth, and a tattoo.

Congratulations to Tom and Mrs. Tom! And welcome Spawn-of-Tom to our universe.

But For the Trees

Disc golf in Bend. Trees. So many trees!

Scotch in the wood

Our trek across the mountain was successful. Dinner with a mob of lawyers was surprisingly pleasant. Saw a woman who i recognized but couldn't recall her name. An hour ago the warm high desert night called us out into the woods. Hearing music through the trees we followed the sound to a small tavern where we now sit listening to a solo version of sweet home alabama.

List Update

It's another official list update!! If for no other reason, it's an opportunity to post more eye candy.

As you may recall, the last official list, as of October 2005, was as follows:

1) Nicole Kidman
2) Christina Ricci
3) Kirsten Dunst
4) Alyson Hannigan
5) Lauren Ambrose

In case you don't know, these are the rules to the game: by staking my claim in advance, if I were to meet any of these attractive ladies in person, the missus would not object to one night of depraved debauchery. Likewise, she has her own list...

Please recall, back in February, Dita Von Teese began to edge her way up to the very cusp of the list. Now, however, I think it is time to officially update the the whole thing.

1) Nicole Kidman

2) Christina Ricci

3) Alyson Hannigan

4) Dita Von Teese


5) Molly Parker

Peanuts, Tomatoes, and English Catholic Royalists

It must have been hard to be a Huguenot. To live each day as a radically-political protestant in a land of cranky Catholics. Ironically, it must have been very much like being a Jacobite, a crown-minded catholic in the land of perturbed protestants.

Their relative experiences must have been really quite similar, yet they would each be unable to find commonality with the other, as they were spiritually-bound mortal enemies.

Have you ever felt this isolation? Have you ever been the tall blonde Caucasian in the Mexican taqueria? (Yes, Carl, yes... We know...) This question is mostly for those of you who have not wandered the the crap-strewn alleys of Manila at night. For Carl, this should mostly remain a rhetorical question...

Perhaps, however, the measure of belonging can be fluid.

I was sitting on a hard plastic bench this afternoon, wolfing down a Whopper for lunch. Yes, normally I avoid fast food, but I was short on time, and needed my food to be, well, uh, FAST. The Whopper, for those of you who do not know, is a burger. It is not particularly good, nor is it particularly bad.

The pressed burger patty has the diameter of a CD, and the thickness of a pencil. The sesame seed bun is steamed, and it is garnished with mayonnaise, lettuce, pickles and tomato.

The tomatoes are never good. Though, as a point of fact, I don't believe tomatoes are ever good in anything. However, today, as I scanned the front page of the Oregonian, I peeled open my Whopper without thinking to remove the offending fruit, when I discovered to my surprise that the two tomato slices were fresh and firm and red and juicy.

I stopped, stunned. Regardless, I removed them from my sandwich, and placed them aside, but continued to ponder them nonetheless. I don't dislike tomatoes. In fact, I rather like them. They make great sauce, and they go well with fresh Mozzerella and basil. The problem is, in something like a sandwich, or even a salad, they just become a big fruity watery distraction. In my mind, they do not belong.

Upon returning to the office, I found myself in need of a late-afternoon snack. Depositing my two-bits (six bits, actually...) into the cardboard cash box, I reached for a Snickers. However, my gaze and my grasp were directly diverted by the site of a Milkyway. The difference?

The Peanuts. Snickers has them. Milkyway doesn't.

I love peanuts. I eat them by the handful. However, like tomatoes, they simply don't belong.

But everyone has their own criteria for what belongs, or not. Some folks are offended by pickles; others by olives. I know one person who is offended by both. There is even one regular reader who picks out (or around) strawberries, of all things...

Most surprising to me in recent months, I must say, is the Monkey's aversion to cheese. Mama and Daddy are freaky cheese bitches, but the baby will have none of it.

This was demonstrated effectively over the weekend, when I presented the tot with a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. This was an experiment on my part, as she is not completely comfortable with whole sandwiches. She went right to it, to be sure, but really only the grilled bread. In fact, she ate all of the bread, top and bottom, right around the orange-cheese mass in the middle, leaving little more than buttery crumbs and a slightly congealed cheese wafer resting on her plate. To her, the cheese, simply did not belong.

To me, on the other hand, it was CHEESE! So, I ate it.

Reading for comprehension
1. What are the odds that we'll get a dazzling tale of international wandering from Carl?
2. How retarded do you have to be to not like strawberries?
3. Yes, I referred to my wife (and myself) as a "freaky cheese bitch." I'm sure she would be the first to admit it...

Wait, What Was I Saying?

I sat, stuffing my mouth with dressing-slathered salad and steaming spoonfuls of soup. It was noon on Sunday, and the Gin-and-Tonic family was brunching at the local soup and salad bar buffet. Admittedly, a step down from breakfast at the Benson, Stuffy's (as we call it) is an ideal dining diversion for a cranky baby.

Returning to the table from my second go at the Jello and fruit bar, I glanced around at this swelling congregation of post-church east-siders. They milled about like cattle, blank-faced, fresh from the pews. They wore ill-fitting, poorly pressed business attire, because that apparently pleaseth the Lord.

I was dressed, shall we say, less formally. Proudly broadcasting the fact that I was most definitely not coming from church. It could only have been more clear if I were smoking a cigarette and mixing vodka in with my orange juice.

I felt bad for these poor people who chose to wake up early on Sunday, and put on uncomfortable clothes to go give money and sing songs in a big sterile building because they chose to believe that an invisible man in the clouds wanted them to. It really made me sad.

But then, in an instant, it dawned on me. There are the peasants. These are the followers. These are the people who will believe anything you tell them. These are the workers who will cook my food and put gas in my car. These are the people who kept Bush in The White House.

It's OK to manipulate these folks, it the reason they exist. All you have to do is put on a good show. Tell them you like to watch Nascar and that you go to church every Sunday. Waive the flag and use the word patriotism now and then.. They are sure to put you into office.

And that, I think, is what Carl touched on in his Machiavelli blog a few weeks back. Carl's point, I think, was that The Prince is not about the ends justifying the means (as most cliff-notes-reading folks will tell you.) No, The Prince is about a way of life.

The path to power is not a series of decisions. No, it is a way of being, living free from the strictures of arbitrary morality. It is about manipulating the stupid and the wise alike. Be all things to all people as circumstances and needs dictate. Forget Sun Tzu. Don't bother with Tony Robbins. Pick up The Prince, and be the man.

Reading for comprehension

1. Jesus Christ, what a complete load of drivel. This one got completely away from me. Can you figure out where?
2. Can you even figure out what this entry was originally going to be about?
3. Would you be surprised to learn that this was originally going to be about the second season of Deadwood? I need to remind myself, no blogging when you haven't slept enough...

Errors and Omissions

Everything.

Every story about every person in every place that has been printed can be read at Google News. Read tomorrow's newspaper stories today.

35 stories about the mayoral election in the city of Tilli, in East Timor.
124 stories about Battlestar Galactica's Emmy prospects.
345 stories about about how Dick Cheney ass raped the Constitution, just today alone.
1,267 stories about the coming of the Jolie-Pitt messiah.

There is no excuse for being ill-informed any longer. It will only be easier to access news when Fox starts to download it into your cerebral cortex while you sleep. The news is there, like a drunken cheerleader in a hot tub, waiting for you to take it.

However, despite this Orwellian-scope of information accessibility and the instant point-and-click data-whore gratification buzzing with anticipation at our finger tips, there remains certain facts, particular details that seem to elude my ever-seeing eye.

For instance, what word is there of the gestating spawn of Tom's loins? Due she is, this month by my reckoning. Yet, nary a word trickles North. Hope, I still hold, that she shall bear my name. "Brian," that is. Not that heathenistic hybrid of gender-bending nomenclature, "Brianna." Brianna isn't a name; it's an abomination. Oh, but I digress...

Not a word. Not one. Not a solitary utterance from Tom or Mrs. Tom. Not an update. Not a clue. I fear, perhaps, that they are reluctant to deliver ill tidings. Burdened, she may be, that bundle of baby goodness, with a lesser name. Ill-advised and ashamed, the parents may be, in foregoing the singular opportunity to name her "Brian." That curse, as it may be, is on their heads.

A birth announcement would be warmly received nonetheless.

Reading for Comprehension

1. In which Emmy categories should Battlestar be nominated?
2. Is your name "Brianna?" If so, do you hate yourself as much as we hate you?
3. Does the phrase "Tom's loins" creep you out as much as it does me?

Edgar, the Field Mouse

As the evening wound down around the old Gin-& Tonic homestead, the missus and I sat in the dark, discussing the day's events. As most of our routine lives lead one day to the next without much variation or excitement, we were inevitably left little to say.

Bored with my own dullness, I offered to tell a tale of my own original devise, and sat for a moment generating the protagonist of the plot. Once materialized in my mind, I began to unfold an unfortunate story, which I shall now share with you.


Edgar, the Field Mouse

by

Mr. Gin and Tonic

There once was a brown field mouse, named Edgar Throckmorton, who lived in a meadow near a babbling brook. It was a lovely meadow with clumps of tall grass and forests of dandelions.

Edgar's home was an old tin can. The lid of the can was still attached, and Edgar propped it up with twigs to fashion a handsome porch, under which to sit. And sit he did, each and every day, in his little mouse chair in the shade of his tin lid porch.

Edgar's field was at the edge of old Farmer Darling's property, and many animals crossed by his door on their way to the clear cold water of the brook. Every morning, after foraging for his breakfast of plentiful nubble-nuts and hoople-berries, Edgar would take his station on his porch and greet each and every animal visitor that wandered down the path.

Donny the deer would wander by, and Edgar would "Eep eep" his greeting. He would "Eep" to Sally the snail, and "Eep eep" to Roger the robin. All of the Meadow creatures knew Edgar and welcomed his daily greetings.

What all of the animal neighbors never realized was that Edgar had suffered, since childhood, from rodent-form Tourettes syndrome, and all of his friendly Eep-eeping was actually just him saying: "F#%k you, motherf&%ker! You c@cksucker! You dirty C#^t-licker! Piece of S#!t Turd-Jockey! Get off my motherf#%king property, you s#!t-eating, j!%z-guzzling, Donkey Feltcher!! Etc..."

No, all that the deer, and the rabbits, and the squirrels, and the robins heard everyday was the happy "eep eep eep" of the friendly little field mouse in the little tin house.

Then, one day, old farmer Darling decide to subdivide and build condos. As he mowed over the meadow with his thresher, the angry little field mouse swore angrily and defiantly at the giant green tractor heading toward his tin can. "Eat My S#!t!!" he eeped as the machine shredded him into a thousand mouse bits.

The End

Reading for Comprehension:

1. When Brian lays around the house at night, playing the third Brother Grimm, does he wear pants?
2. Do all cute animal protagonists in Brian's stories inevitably meet a bloody end?
3. Don't you wish Bambi actually ended this way?

12 Angry Men

Our pal, Deuce, is up for jury duty this week. I, myself, have never been called for jury duty, anywhere, ever.

This is unfortunate as I would very much like to serve, from a purely academic point of view. Due to my profession, however, it is unlikely that I would be kept on a jury, but it does happen from time to time.

Most other folks prefer to get out of serving; civic duty not being what it once was. I am frequently asked what the best way is to get out of jury duty. There are really very few, and there are no slam dunks.

On the other hand, I can list many things that WILL NOT get you dismissed.

1) Showing up in a Star Trek costume
2) Being the Chief Justice of the Oregon Supreme Court
3) Being blind
4) Being deaf
5) Being pregnant
6) Being incontinent
7) Having ADHD
8) Not knowing English
9) Wearing a kilt
10) Being a court employee
11) Being a television celebrity
12) being illiterate

Of course, if you really want to get out, you can do what my grandmother once did. During jury selection for a criminal trial, she professed a genuine belief that the police are ALWAYS right. She was obviously dismissed, which disappointed her. She really wanted a chance to send a bad guy to jail.

Reading for Comprehension:

1) How would you feel if Deuce was on your jury?
2) What sort of costume might you wear to actually get dismissed from a jury?
3) How might real jury duty differ from an episode of Law and Order?

Run for the Border

I think I might have a problem. I think we may have to postpone those piano lessons for something, uh, a little more, um, remedial...

I first immigrated to Oregon back in August, 1994. Having unshipped my cargo, I was eager to explore my new home. In many ways, Salem, the state capitol, was representative of the entire state, and I was shocked to learn two things. First, I was dismayed to discover that the Del Taco fast food empire had not ventured north of the California border. This meant that I had to adjust to life without Del Combo Burritos or Chicken Soft Tacos. While perhaps a boon to my rather fragile physical health, it was a blow to my psyche.

Second, there didn't seem to be any non-Caucasians here.

Ultimately, that second discovery proved to be untrue. However, to be sure, there aren't many. Gas stations are operated by Caucasians. 7-11 stores are run by Caucasians. During a trip to the mall, the only language you will hear is English.

The result of living here is that the monkey will be raised in a somewhat homogeneous culture, and may not have the benefit of multi-cultural diversity that some other larger urban centers have to offer.

fortunately, since 1994, at least one of these two phenomena has been addressed. In the last couple of years, a small handful of Del Taco restaurants have begun to spring up across the region. Unfortunately, here on the southside of Portland, the closest Del Taco is across the Columbia River in Vancouver, Washington.

Yes, I must cross state lines to find me a decent chicken soft taco, which is exactly what the monkey and I did today.

Mama lie sleeping in a Nyquil and Claratin-induced mid-afternoon nap (coma). I was hungry and had time to burn. So, I decided to take the tot for a trek and introduce her to the wonder that is the Del Combo Burrito!

Our senses saturated by Sirius satellite stations, we blazed a trail north on I-5. We dashed through down town, past the twin hypodermic towers of the convention center. We Journeyed past Jantzen Beach.

As we approached the Interstate Bridge that would carry us over the river and across the invisible state line, which ran down the middle, my mind wandered back to Professor Turner and discussions of the Mann Act... We were just going for food, so everything was fine.

We finally arrived, and sat down for a fine feast of tacos, burritos and french fries. As the Monkey mashed salty fries into her mouth, her attention was diverted to something on the other side of the glass door to her left. I looked over, and standing there was a very cute African American girl with a big smile and poofy pigtails. The little girl waived hello. My daughter then pointed back, right at the little girl, and with a loud voice said, "Doggy!"

Now, I know you haven't been exposed to many minorities, but come on baby, "Doggy?" Well, so much for piano lessons, and forget ballet. First class on the list is going to be a bit of sensitivity training....

Reading for comprehension:

1) What is Brian's usual Del Taco Order?
2) Brian avoided using the phrase "hurried through the hood" to describe his north-bound route through NE Portland, why was this?
3) Brian made reference to the Mann Act. Was this inappropriate because it was an inside law joke that will exclude the non-lawyer readers, or was it more inappropriate because his daughter was in the car?

Piano Man

And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking' alone

On her belly, one step at a time, the Monkey maneuvered down the stairs. Mama maintained a watchful eye from mere steps away. The girls were heading downstairs to swap the laundry. Slack-ass Daddy sat on the sofa, sipping a Sam Adams, while surfing through a sea of basic-cable sewage.

One step at a time. The Monkey concentrated on foot placement and her relative distance from Mama. She's a careful girl, if not borderline compulsive.

It was then, in the Monkey's mid-descent, that Daddy decided to stop on one of those non-MTV music-video channels that actually show music videos. Shakira, it must have been. (Daddy was always a sucker for writhing belly flesh.) Lured like a stripper to coke, daddy's flipping faltered and the volume spiked under the pressure of his thumb on the button.

If you have ever witnessed one of those fake-hypnotist stage spectaculares at the state fair, (the one where the snake-oil salesman whistles the Chicken Dance and his sleeping subjects peck the stage like hungry hens) then you will have some idea what the Monkey's reaction to Rhythm looks like. Same response to all music, really. Fast, slow, loud, soft, any tune will transfix my daughter, and summon the secret spirit of clapping and stomping.

As the sultry Columbian belly dancer declared the honesty of her wiggling hips, the stair case-rappelling tot rose from her safety-crouch to dance a little ditty. As she was perched precariously upon the mid-flight step, she promptly propelled herself ass-over-tea-kettle down to the landing below.

As you can imagine, this caused quite a stir. Ultimately, though, she proved to be unharmed, and lessons were learned by everyone.

What left me in a post-crisis pre-blogging ponder was where this musical Pavlovism came from. To be sure, Mama marched in a band many years ago. Her specialty was blowing in and on a variety of horns and flutes. (I'll let you make your own jokes here...) However, she will be the first to tell you that all of her flute tooting was the product of practice rather than any mystical musical muse.

And Daddy? Daddy got a drum set for Christmas, 1977. After 128 renditions of Little Drummer Boy, the drums mysteriously vanished from the house.

There were two attempts at guitar, both ending badly. I can still play the C-chord. (I know, you're impressed.) Look out Esteban!

Of course, there was the Jr. High hand-bell choir at church. White gloves. Brass bells. The only thing I recall from that musical safari was the redhead girl who played the half-octave to my right. She had developed at an early age, and if we could pling through the Hallelujah Chorus quickly enough, there was usually enough time to make out and grope her sweater puppies behind the bus barn before my mom arrived.

And that's about it. Well, I guess, there was the piano. A light-wood pre-owned upright thing that my mother imposed upon me. With the purchase of the accursed instrument, came six months of free lessons. Those lessons, please believe, were all intended for me.

The piano instructor was an old woman who was born before the internal combustion engine. Seemingly in the South, as all of her instructional melodies were horribly offensive. "Blackies Toting Bales" and "Negroes in the Field" etc... I was ten years old, and even I knew something was wrong. Oh, and she also smelled like urine.

Needless to say, my musical education went the same way as my foreign-language education. Don't ask me to strike up a song at your next party. However, that leaves me with a dancing monkey and no clear vision of what to do with her tuneful obsession. Lessons of course, though in what, I cannot say. Lessons with someone who is not a closet clucker with a weak bladder I suppose. That much I can say for sure.

Reading for comprehension:

1. What video did Brian stop to watch, and what does this say about his masculenity?
2. What does Brian think about stage-show hypnotists?
3. Why are all old people urine-stained biggots?

We'll be Right Back

The Lounge will return on June 1, 2006

with all new posts about Christina Ricci,

Cheddar Cheese,

and misfit strippers...

So, stay tuned!

Hiatus

There's nothing to see here folks. Move along...

Res Ipsa Loquitur

Glen A.Larson and the Weinsteins have announced a plan to bring Knight Rider to the big screen.

Nothing else really needs to be said about this.

Jimmy Crack Corn and I Don't Care

I've been busier than an undocumented house keeper looking for a gringo to marry. Hurry up and wait kind of busy. I had a trial scheduled for this week. As a matter of fact, I should be in the middle of it right now. Same case I had back in February, or whatever. It got bumped back then because the Washington County Court ran out of judges, and the same thing has happened again.

So, my time has been tied, like the hands of a $5.00 whore, and I haven't had the opportunity to blog. Sorry. Get over it. I admit that much water has run under the bridge while I've been away. So many titillating topics have come and gone. The world is really too big and the the topics of conversation too vast to cover all in one post. Nonetheless, I shall do my best to give you all the news that's fit to print. (Yes, I borrowed that...)

Right now, at this very moment, I am drinking a gin and tonic in a pint glass, and I had to make it without a lime. Oh, the humanity! The Injustice! Sure there were a bevy of lemons in the fruit bowl, and sure some drink recipes even call for yellow citrus. Alas, I have standards (stop laughing) and will not accept any sorry substitute for the green garnish. Do you see the sacrifices I make for my readers?? The least you could do is send me pornography...

Trial this week. Due to various privileges, confidentialities and strategic concerns, I can't say anything else, other than the fact that the plaintiff is in a world of hurt and his attorney should take the offer that is on the table.

I have also moved the resident office fish from the dreary 6 gallon tank to the spacious 20 gallon open-range, handed down to me by a regular reader whose current identity, I believe, is anonymous, although he has been other things. Thanks man, the tank is up and running.

The three neon tetras and four blackskirts have been joined by creamsickle mollies and red wag platies. It is a regular tropical menagerie. It has also become a major anti-productivity distraction. I do believe that the swirling scales and flashing fins hold a heavy hypnotic effect, and even conspired to put me under this very afternoon. I indeed dipped into REM at my desk. Fortunately, the lock on my door created the David-Blaine-like illusion that I needed solitude to slog through a stack of mind-numbing medical records. Sometimes, I love my job.

The bright illumination in my back yard is coming from the full-appearing moon. It is not actually full, but really quite bright. A post-blog cigar on the lower deck is a likelihood at this juncture. mmm.... Tobacco.... Might just make up for that goddamn missing lime.

Today, I sustained the world's worst-ever paper cut. A couple of my regular myspace correspondents have already heard this and are permitted to skip ahead. The rest of you, hold on for the creepiest, skin crawlingest, nauseating tale ever told...

It was quiet in the office and the support staff had gone home. Abandoned, I was left to my own devices to do my own filing. Needing a nascent excuse to set aside the well worn dictaphone, I picked up the stack of pre-reviewed records and opened the top drawer of the file cabinet. Reaching in to separate a conglomeration of conjoined accordion files, one renegade Manila folder found its way under my fingernail. The downward lateral motion of my hand did all of the work. I'm not sure how deep it was, but the sub-nail crevice looked like raw salmon.

So, while I have admitted in this blog that I have been assimilated to the Borg-like American Idol collective, I do try to keep the dull chatter to a squeaking minimum. That having been said, holy fucking Christ! Did you see what happened Wednesday night? How can that be?? How did Chris get the boot?? OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD!!! (Yes, I am a brain-dead 14 year-old girl... From Nebraska no less. Who among us hasn't masturbated to Hello Kitty, Scott Baio, and the Mighty morphin Power Rangers? I mean really...)

39 courageous American soldiers died today in Dick Cheney's goddamned conquest of Iraq. Fuck him! Fuck that evil lying goddamn treasonous greedy manipulating murdering son of a fucking bitch. Fuck him!!

Oh, and his retarded ass-puppet George too...

In a major shift in public manipulation, Jessica Simpson has dyed her hair red. I have an unnatural hankering for the red hair. This news made me throw up in my mouth, just a little.

Princess Leah's baby is still breathing. Of course, if the parents start investing now, they may save just enough money to pay for the immanent psychological treatment the child will inherently need just from being raised by the princess.

On the same note, here is photographic evidence that my own personal monkey is the cutest baby in all of human history.

Watched the last episode of Six Feet Under on DVD last night. I'm not sure what makes me more gay, the fact that I got used to all of the man-on-man love in the show, or the fact that the final sequence got me all choked up. Crapass! I should just start wearing panties.

If the president of Iran announces that he is ready to negotiate, will anyone hear him before the bombs start falling. I wonder whether the Israeli air force will allow embedded reporters?

I have not heard from Tom in a very long time. I am starting to hate him, but just a little.

As you know, Dr. Brian sent an offer to the parent company of American Idol an offer to fix goat boy's teeth. What you may not know is that our very own Deuce works on, or around, the American Idol website. Deuce, having known Dr. Brian longer than I have, has forward the offer to his friends at the show. We shall see...

Lisa from Wales has given up smoking. This is a word of encouragement to her and a warning to the rest of you, keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times...

Locally, some whore in the finance department of my fair suburban city has managed to embezzle over $1,000,000 from the city in the past three years. Mayor Quimby and Chief Wiggum are at a loss as to how this crime could have occurred.

The new X-men movie is coming out. Uber-geek that I am, I was never a vermin-like comic book geek. So, I couldn't care less about this craptastic motion picture. Some dude with claws beats the hell out of some blue chick. Whatever...

Have you heard about the ancient pyramid found in Bosnia. It smacks of massive hoax. It remains to be seen. However, the biggest mystery is that Dr. Zahi Hawass, Secretary General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities of Egypt is not somehow meddling in this pseudo-scientific extravaganza.

Howard Stern continues his blitzkrieg against censorship. Sirius subscriptions have far surpassed expectations. This very morning, he had Dennis Rodman on as a guest. Unfortunately, while Howard persisted on questioning Rodman about his epic female sexual conquests, Dennis kept bringing the conversation back to having man love, either alone or in a group, with Howard. It started to get weird after a while. Although, really, not that there's anything wrong with it...

Right now, Pearls Before Swine is the funniest daily cartoon in America. Dead Honkey may be third or fourth...

Item Last: Rumor around the ol'law fiesta has it that my secretary may be planning a move to Montana. Anyone with better-than-average typing and grammar skills is encouraged to apply. You must be smart enough to interpret and improve upon my neanderthal-like grunting. This is a full time permanent position. Depending on the color of your hair and the length of your skirt, you may or may not get a recommendation from me.

That is all.

And hey, hey, HEY! Let's be careful out there...

Glastonbury

I was bored and flipping channels. I've gotten good at flipping, being able to recognize and decipher the nature and content of any program within about 2 seconds of viewing, allowing me to skip forward, looking for a televised bauble that will hold my deficient attention.

"...stonbury tor..." I heard, as I zipped past the National Geographic channel.

"Avalon," I thought to myself, as I hit the brakes and surfed back to the program that was sure to mention Arthurian Legend in the next breath. Sure enough, the booming voice of the British narrator clarified in the very next sentence that the little hill next to the little town of Glastonbury may have been the legendary Island of Avalon, and King Arthur was once believed to have been buried there. There were even ties to Joseph of Arimathea and the grail...

While likely a hoax perpetrated by local catholic monks, the hill has actually been used as a 5th century fort, an early Christian church, and a montestary. The hill is surrounded by a former coastal wetland (thus it was an island), which has since been drained, and is now a dry farming flatland call the Somerset Levels.

Fascinating geographic stuff, to be sure, but there's no escaping the hokum when Avalon is at issue. (Cue the mystical sounding Celtic harp music) Enter a balding man in a disheveled coat. His name was Barney, or somesuch, and he was a dowser. You see, There are magical invisible lines called ley lines that criss cross mother earth, and human beings can gain great mystical power at their junctions.

The Glastonbury tourist counsel would like you to know that two of the greatest ley lines, the Michael Line and the Mary Line, intersect at the apex of the Tor. And to prove it, they hired Barney the dowser to demonstrate the unquestionably awesome power of Mother Earth. Stepping gingerly, as if trying not to wake the dead, Barney walked in rings around the abbey at the top of the hill. As the currents of mystical power coursed through his aura (or something) his sensitive dowsing hands trembled, and the angled wires resting between his fingers began to sway as if by their own volition. Truly this was proof of the potent powers intersecting in this magical place.

Either that, or Barney was twisting the wires with his thumbs. Hard to say, really.

It's just this sort of hocus pocus that bothers me about David Blaine. OK, really, all telelvision illusionists. Now, I enjoy the craft-work that goes into a well executed illusion. The misdirection, the manipulation, the set up. Contrary to the belief of a few frighteningly naive peasants, Mr. Blaine is not actually MAGIC. He does not actually have any supernatural gifts or abilities. He just has good slight of hand talent and masterful set ups. Unfortunately, he also manipulates what you see with the use of good old-fashioned camera angles and editing.

Yes, editing. Like Jonathan Edwards and all of the other televised cold-reading cranks, Blaine edits out failed attempts, showing you only the successes, creating the greatest illusion of all. Admittedly, however, the successes are entertaining.

So, being the bitch for media hype that I am, after a week of crises and dilemmas, Blaine was to emerge from his giant human fish bowl tonight after an attempt to hold his breath for nine minutes, and I chose to tune in to watch the spectacle, all 2 hours of it.

Bullshit, of course. No one can hold their breath for nine minutes, but the execution of the illusion was destined to be fascinating. So here's the thing. He escaped from his chains and shackles in time, but he FAILED to stay underwater for 9 minutes. He failed, on live network TV. Now, he would never have attempted the trick without being sure it could be done. And, he would never allow the audience to see anything that he didn't choose for them to see.

So, my only conclusion is that he chose not to succeed. Sure, he succeeded in the escape from the shackles, at a very comfortable 6.5 minutes. Very convenient. Then when all was safe, he allowed the stunt to go wrong.

But why? What was the purpose of deliberately televised failure? Build an audience for a second attempt? Maybe. The missus suggested that since the attempt was bogus to begin with, it could never be recorded as a world record. Good point. Maybe he just wanted to be like his idol, Houdini, only without all of the dying...

Maybe for his next attempt, he should do it in Glastonbury. The extra goddess juice could help him hold his breath longer...

Babalu

Ricky Ricardo was a one-trick pony. He was a second rate band leader in a smokey night club. He couldn't sing as well as he wished he could, and his star-attraction percussion skills were limited to a single bongo.

The monochromatic audience always looked entertained though, and never more entertained than when he pulled out the blockbuster signature hit "Babalu." Pounding maniacaly on his tribal drum, head banging in time, pompadour flapping to the beat; the white bread squares would work into an absolute lather. They were entertained though. No matter how campy the performance, they could dine and see a show and have an evening on the town.

That doesn't exist anymore. There is food. There is plenty of food. And then, there are shows. Usually, that means a movie, or sometimes a rock concert. However, there are simply no sit-down, sport coat and cocktail dress night clubs anymore. Around Portland there are a couple of bars that do weekend jazz or karaoke, but that is far far far from the Copa Cabana.

So, I was shocked to discover Saturday night that the local suburban Mexican/Peruvian restaurant has live music, and I 'm not talking mariachi. We walked in to the ever-morphing dining space, where the booths have been banished and shimmering blue icicle lights dangle dauntlessly from the tropical painted ceiling.

It wasn't Frank or Dino to be sure. In fact, it was just one gray-haired guy with a guitar relying heavily o the John Denver play list, but it was nice nonetheless.

Well, Come to think of it, it's just sad, really. But it goes to show just how far we'll stoop for a little entertainment.

More and Less

"There are things that I hate," I said, as I shoved the last medallion of saucy Hirekatsu into my waiting mouth. The timing of my bite was poor, and the breaded-pork goodness cut off the rest of my exposition.

My regular, yet anonymous, lunch companion looked at me as if I had just declared my preference for breathing air. Suspecting that my thought might not be finished, she waited until I finished swallowing. I took a sip of tea, followed by a sip of miso. Then, I continued.

Actually, I hesitated. My mind was meandering over a myriad of bothersome irks, all wanting to take the form of some semi-solid idea, fully composed and rationally delivered. I made a noise that sounded like "Eghrp," and ate the last bit of spicy crab roll to stall for time as I organized my thoughts.

I will not share the first two irritations as they directly relate to acts performed by folks who read this very blog on a regular basis. For you, reading this now, there is probably nothing to be concerned about. The overwhelming majority of you have done nothing to irritate me. Odds are, it is not you. Unless of course, you are one of the two people I was thinking of. In which case, you really suck!

I will share, however, the one thing that really and truly gets under my skin. It is my one and only pet peeve. It drives me fucking nuts. It's bad when regular folks do it, but when broadcasters, journalists, lawyers, politicians and professors do it, it drives me blind with rage.

My personal pet peeve is the phrase "I COULD care less." Can you see it? Can you tell what's wrong? It's usually exclaimed in moments of high drama when an aggrieved party tries to declare that they do not care about the matter at hand. Unfortunately, the phrase makes no sense.

If you could care less, that means that you possess some level of caring, which could be reduced at some time in the future. However, that's not the message that the drama queen wants to convey. They want to say that they DO NOT care; that they care sooo little, that they could not care less than they do. In other words, they should be saying "I couldn't (could NOT) care less."

Now, god bless Howard Stern, but he is perhaps the world's worst perpitrator of this grammar gaff. It makes me want to bite my arm every time I hear it.

Am I too picky? Am I too strict with the rules? Fine, you are entitled to your opinion. Misuse the language all you want. I couldn't care less!

See, just like that...

Friday Friday Friday

The sky is blue. The wind is warm. Should this pattern hold out until Tomorrow (Friday), the monkey and I will be enjoying beverages at Barleycorn's after work. The tot will enjoy some tots and milk. I will enjoy tots and Gin. If you stop by, you can enjoy anything you'd like.

5:00-ish, Friday, Barleycorn's patio.

Words

Words are not coming to me. Sentences are dangling like so many participles...

With so much diction difficulty, I had better avoid actual blogging tonight. Don't worry, nothing I was going to say was going to be interesting.

For today's entertainment, go check out my buddy Dave's running web cartoon. I send you there only because I feature prominently.

He is on episode 19 at Myspace.

He is on episode 4 at his personal website.

Warning, do not be confused. Brian is me. Dr. Brian is, well, Dr. Brian. Deuce is Dave. And Satan is Satan, although apparently sometimes Satan can be Carl. There is no Tom yet. But that is probably for the best.

Pippi

I have discussed at length my fear and hatred for most of what passed as "children's programming" in the 1970s. Coked-up network executives conspiring with 'shroom-addled production staff churned out abominations such as the afore-mentioned Puff-n-Stuff, et al...

Few, though, were as trauma-inducing as Pippi Longstocking. Concocted by the creative savants of Sweden (or Denmark, whichever...), and poorly dubbed for bland-tasted monosyllabic American youth, this monstrosity ran on endless weekend loops on minor media outlets in most major markets for years on end. Like Bond movies on cable, it was always on.

For those fortunate enough to have been born too late, or to have been raised in some sad peasant hovel beyond the reach of American television, Pippi was the story of a neglected latch-key daughter of an alcoholic sea captain, who lives alone with her pet monkey and horse. Her hair grew, like mine, perpendicular from her head. Her hair, also like mine, adamantly resisted all attempts to lay flat.

Pippi had unnatural physical strength. She also had a couple of sycophantic followers who verbally validated her every whim. Whims which were vast and well funded, by the way, by the never-depleting treasure chest left behind by wayward Captain Dad. Pippi was dirty, disheveled and annoying, just like every other latch-key kid that I grew up with. I hated them, and I hated her.

Yet, I dutifully tuned in week after week, because, well, I had to. It was children's programming. I HAD to watch. These days, my only solace is the fact that the grinning freckled mongoloid that played her is now a dried up shriveled old shrew.

Beer Is Food

Scotch
Gin
Tequila

In the pantheon of adult beverages, these three stand strong; icons of taste, class and serious fucking inebriation. Gin-Drunk is just plain drunk. It is a silly gurgly useless sort of drunk. It is not functional. It is not social. It is just simply closed-head-wound-like intoxication. Going to drink gin to excess? Pull up a chair. You're going to be here for a while.

Scotch? Mmmm... Scotch drunk. A good Scotch bender will make you feel important. It better, you're paying enough for it. It will make you feel like a goddamn wheeler-dealer, a player, a gentleman. It will make you the tallest, best looking, most influential Caucasian man in the room, I don't care what color or gender you are. The strippers will, in fact, like you. Scotch will make you witty, generous and all around gregarious. You will not wake up with a hangover. No, but you will discover several weeks later when the credit card bill arrives that you did indeed buy several rounds for that bar full of strangers.

Tequila. Hmmm... I don't know about you, but tequila does funny things to me, or more precisely, it does something funny to my testosterone levels. Tequila drunk is wicked, fiery, and pervasive. You don't get drunk with tequila, you get possessed. A thorough Tequila top-off makes me want to hunt down and kill a steer with my bare hands. Maybe fuck it first, then kill it. Maybe fuck it again. Then, eat it. Raw. Then, wake up the next morning cursing at god, sit on the sofa and sip tepid water and apple sauce until three in the afternoon, fighting like a hero not to move.

These three are fine, but to be honest, they are unjustifiably over-represented in the Lounge. The unsung work horse, the true corner stone, is beer. Light beer. Dark beer. Irish beer. German beer. Hell, even Thai beer. Micro-brew. Macro-brew. Basement brew. Pilsner, lager, stout, ale, porter (well, OK, not porter...) dopple bach, amber, blonde, Scotch, nut-brown, hefeweizen, berryweizen, framboise, or malt liquor... Make it hoppy. Make it yeasty. Tap it with nitro, or just pop the top. Beer is always good.

Beer contains all of the basic nutrients needed for survival. The ancient Egyptians knew this, as did the Germanic tribes and the early Chinese. Beer is food. Beer is bread in bottle, but nothing is better on a hot day.

Even the wise Ben Franklin, the foundingest of fathers, once said, "Beer is proof that there is a god, and that he loves us." Ben also said, "Goddamn, that lightning hurts like a motherfucker!" But that is beside the point...