Shave and a Hair Cut

The little 4-cylinder engine whirred under the strain of the wide-open accelerator. The soft warm August air, full of fresh-cut grass and ripened blackberries, poured past my face. The top was down, the sun was on the horizon, and my 6'4" Teutonic roommate was driving.

Downtown Salem, what there was of it, sped by. We headed south toward the Main Event. It was a bar with rough edges, friendly staff, naked dancers and cold beer.

They knew us by name. They knew what we drank. I was looking forward to the best $2.00 New York steak in the state.

The light ahead turned red. Lars shifted down and brought the little red Miata to a stop. From a side street, another Miata pulled out and made a left turn around us. The middle-aged driver honked a quick toot-toot. Lars smiled and answered with his own horn.

"Know him?" I asked.

"No," said Lars.

The light turned green and we sped south on toward our prurient destination. The transmission bucked into 2nd, then again into 3rd. We swooped down into, then up out of the Gut. Up ahead, the next traffic light phased from amber to red, and again we coasted to a long slow stop.

"Beep-beep!"

The weathered woman with dark glasses in the black Miata beside us nodded at Lars.

"Beep-beep!" He nodded back.

"What, do you go to the same mechanic?" I asked.

"No," was all he said. He smirked. He was enjoying this.

On we went, toward the southern sector of Salem. The dimly lit sign for the bar was in sight. we were close. Soon I'd be drinking cold beer and tipping strippers to show me their naughty bits.

We slowed to allow opposing traffic to pass before making a left turn into the parking lot. A Doppler affected "beep-beep" was all I heard from a passing blue Miata. Lars casually tooted back, probably too late to be heard.

"What the fuck, man??" I raised my eyebrow and waited for an answer.

"It's a thing, you know? It's like an unwritten rule for Miata owners."

"I see," I said, though I really didn't. We had finally arrived. I had more important things to think about.

In recent years, however, I think I've started to understand. I drive one of those bulbous fish-eyed mini SUVs, and while other owners of my make and model don't give the Miata toot-toot salute, we do definitely recognize each other. Most often a nod or smile, sometimes a wave. It's like an informal team or tribe.

I'm sure others do it too. Perhaps, Passat owners have a high sign. Certainly, Saab drivers smile, and Beetle operators bat their eyelashes. Tonight, however, I observed the strangest car club call-and-response I've ever heard.

Mama was waylaid in Salem after work, and the Monkey and I were left to fend for food. Having loaded a steaming sack of tacos, we made for home. As we sat, stopped, waiting for our green arrow, my eye caught a rather large Fed Ex cargo truck making a sweeping left turn through the intersection.

Suddenly, with those teeth-trembling bone-jarring turbo-harmonics that only a large-truck's horn can make, the semi driver tapped out the familiar refrain of Shave and a Haircut.

"Toot ta ta toot toot..." It kept rolling through its turn.

Two beats later, the call was returned by another giant Fed Ex truck making a right turn in the opposite direction: "Toot-toot!"

Two bits.

Dark End

The dog's nails tap against the wooden stairs outside the glass door. The sole ice cube in my scotch clinks the side of the glass. It is dark, but the blue hue of my monitor illuminates the smoke rings rising from the bowl of my Kaywoodie.

It is the dark end of a long day, as JK likes to say, and the cold-shock embrace of my flannel-cased pillow draws near. Before I go, though, I'd just like to say a few words:

Xebec

Altruistic

Hobgoblin

Superfluous

Infrapatellar

Billabong

Higgildy-Piggildy

Malapropism

Frenetic

Glockenspiel

Manganese

Thank you. Good night.

Not That There is Anything Wrong With It

The eye liner was running. There was heart break in the quivering voice. Well-glossed lips trembled against the phone in Hollywood as Mom, back in Kansas, got the bad news. It was all over. All that work was for nothing. HE would not be the next American Idol.

Does it seem to you that there is a disproportionate number of young gay boys on American Idol this year? I mean, I suppose it makes sense, Clay Aiken blazing the trail, and all...

But really, it's like the high school Glee Club run amok. Only gayer.

Of course, what's worse, the fact that lispy boys cry because Simon was rude to them, or the fact that I'm sitting on my couch watching them?? (You don't need to answer that...)

Jesus, I should just start wearing panties...

Now, I just feel dirty, but not in that fun heathen sort of way. Maybe if I post a hot girlie picture, I'll feel better...

Ya, OK, I feel a little better. I guess a little cleavage goes a long way.

More Competition

Update:

Anna Nicole's former bodyguard, Alexander Dent, has announced that he was banging the broad too. While he was unable to actually do his job (preventing her from dying), he beleives that he would make an excellent billionaire, ooh, I mean "father."

Further:

ZsaZsa has finally spoken, publically announcing that her husband is a lying sack of shit.

WWTDD:

Upon hearing the news about Mr. Dent, the good folks at What Would Tyler Durden Do had this to say:

Wow, this chick sure did love fuckin. At this rate, when they reveal the list of names of potential fathers, it will be on a big giant scroll that hit's the floor and rolls across the room like that list Santa checks on Christmas Eve. Potential fathers will include Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Walter Payton, that kid who came by to sell her some candles, that one guy with the thing, Garfield and the 2005 Miami Dolphins.

I am the Father of Anna Nicole's Baby

Sure, I have competition, But really, whoever gets the kid, gets J. Howard Marshall's billions.

See, the money went to Anna. Then, by a stroke of "luck,"her eldest heir died on the day that her youngest heir was born, with her lawyer/lover/adviser in the room no less!

Damn, what a coincidence!

Fortunately, this whole mess transpired under the reputable corruption-free jurisdiction of the Bahamas. Only now, the immigration minister of the Bahamas has been caught canoodling in bed with Anna as well, just days before she died. Oops!

Then came the claim by the ex boyfriend, and possible sperm donor, Larry Birkhead. Broke, and smelling money in the water, he stepped up to assert his paternal rights. And he may just be the baby's daddy, which also makes him the likely guardian and conservator for little Dannielynn. (yes, that's actually her name...)

It's all for love of course, but then Anna coincidentally died in the same island nation and under similar circumstances as her son. (can you say systematic assassination?)

This, of course, leaves the baby in a position to inherit hundreds of millions of dollars. Suddenly, her estranged grandmother seems to be visiting more often. Oh, and Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband Frédéric Prinz von Anhalt has stepped up to claim the prize.

Strangely, nothing has been heard from Zsa Zsa. Of course, she may have died years ago. No one knows. Although, no one really believes that Anna and Anhalt were ever within 500 miles of each other either.

So, I figure, I might as well throw my hat in the ring. I mean, I never actually met Anna, but in real-life made-for-TV mini-series, details like that don't seem to be important.

Country Roads, Take Me Home

So, you may have noticed that I've been away for a while.

I've spent 20 hours in the car over a period of 5 days, with fog, rain, wind, and snow. Lots of snow.

Well, not "lots" by Idaho standards but "plenty" by Oregon standards.

I also used the time away to do some thinking, spending time with myself, reflecting.

So, as I wandered this weekend, I found myself standing in a sea of white, the sky silent but for the whisper of the wind. I was alone in the silence, and I listened to what the wind had to say.

It's funny what the mountains will do to you. They can speak to you, and change you. I was reminded of the way things used to be, and who I once was. I felt that familiar heaviness in my heart, and I was overwhelmed.

That is why I have decided to rededicate my life and the use of this blog to the Lord Jesus Christ.

OK, I'm joking. Don't worry. I was swilling way too much gin this weekend to have any type of religious epiphany.

More good old-fashioned Lounge-style smut to come later this week!

Scarlett

Scarlett Johansson.

Sexy, no?

Highball

A good Gin & Tonic is not hard to make, and as always, the bigger the better...

Right Honorable

So, to be perfectly honest, until about a week ago, I'd never heard of the Indianapolis Colts. I was shocked therefore, not so much by their entry into the Super Bowl, but rather by the fact that they even existed in the first place.

Granted, I'm not what you would call a "Sports Fan." I mostly hold no interest in watching grown men in tight pants playing with balls. However, I'm not sure how it is that an entire NFL franchise could exist (seemingly for years) without my ever having heard of it.

It's perfectly fine if you want to watch. I just have other things to geek out over...

Unfortunately, as I have blocky shoulders and facial hair, and generally appear to be the proud owner of a wiener, I am frequently met with the question, "So, gonna watch the big game?"

Generally, I can pick up on the collective cultural cues that lead up to the Super Bowl or the World Series, and I can either make a vague verbal ascent, while shifting topics, or I can simply say "No." Which, throws folks right off course. Especially men. Especially men who wear suits to work, who enjoy going to the gym, and who think Heineken is good beer.

Fuckers.

And god save me if it's basketball season. I loath basketball. I hide from it. I purposefully avoid making eye contact with any printed information about it.

Basketball season, it appears, lasts for about 14 months with a 10-month post-season play-off season. It never ends. Ever. It just keeps going and going and going, endlessly, like a basketball game itself. Running back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Etc...

I understand that people pay money to watch this. I am confused by this.

So, did I watch the "Big Game?" Well, yes, for a bit. Then, I got bored and started flipping channels.

Having made my second voyage 'round the horn, as it were, I finally stopped on CSPAN or the BBC, or somesuch. Much to my great delight, they were showing the most resent session of Question for the Prime Minister in the British House of Commons. PM Blair was standing rakish-like against his dais, smirky grin on his face, rolling out one-liners, deflecting tough questions, thinking on his feet.

The dowdy MPs from places like Berkinghamshire and Wolverhamptonsham, stood one by one, recognized by the Right Honorable Speaker. They would fire off well-written finely-pointed questions, such as, "Might we expect to receive a reasonable assurance from Government that the good working people of Burryhumpleburrough will see their pensions in place come the dawning of the next decade?"

And one by one, Smirking Tony would spin out of the way with a quick quip about the MP's poor choice of wool coat, or deflect to the seemingly urgent matter of Scottish independence.

Tony is a master. Tony is an artist.

I never made it back to the game. I guess the Colts won, whoever the hell they are...

We're Gonna Need a Babysitter

On July 21, 2007, at the stroke of midnight, I expect to be sitting on NW Couch Street in downtown portland. We will be sitting on the side walk, btween NW 10th and NW 11th, behind the North wall of Powell's Books.

I will be there with the Missus and the Monkey (as well as any other Loungers who have interest) for the release extravaganza for the final Harry Potter book.

It's a spectacle. I'll be drinking scotch from my flask.

The missus, I expect, is reaching for her cell phone right now to call powell's and pre-order the book. The Monkey will be old enough to join us, but the boy, whatever we end up naming him, will need a baby sitter. Perhaps we can bring a copy of the book back to the sitter in trade...

Half Donut

Maybe I'm just a nice guy. Maybe I like to make my co-workers smile. Or perhaps, I just bribe people to be my friends.

So, I brought a box of donuts to work today. Nothing fancy. Certainly not anything like Krispy Kreme. Just a box of basic donuts.

Through the course of the day, friendly folks came and went helping themselves to the powdery rings of cake. Then, over time, as I returned to the kitchen for regular coffee refills, I discovered that the donuts were being halved.

Cut in half. Half taken. Half left behind like sinners after the rapture. The sugar-coated box became a bin of unwanted donut halves.

Now, the first question is, why cut the donut in half? Trying to preserve your girlish figure by only consuming 18 grams of fat rather than 36? Does it matter THAT much?

Are you too full for that second bite of Donut? Was the first bite to filling?

Is it really just a matter of guilt? You want that donut, but some voice in your head tells you that it's wrong or bad, so you steal away with only half, assuaging your guilty conscience with your semi-self-denial? Really? I mean, it's just a donut.

Then, the second question is, if you want to take only half a donut, and the sad snacker before you wanted only the same. And, their bisected breakfast treat remains in the box, why not take it? Why cut another donut.

And especially, if several folks have done the same thing, why not take any one of the half-dozen donut halves littering the bottom of the box??

And of course, no one wants to take the last one. They just keep cutting and splitting, chopping and pinching, until all that is left is the inevitable single uneaten bite, which will certainly be found in the box by the time I get there tomorrow.

I'm going to eat it, damn it. The last bite is mine.

Good Lord, I'm tired

I'm wiped out. I'm going to bed.

I've been setting up Martha's new campaign headquarters.

Now I'm beat, and I'm going to hit the sack.

Remeber to check out Martha For President. If you have a myspace account (and most of you do) be sure to add the campaign as a friend!

Oh, also, Since I had nothing interesting to say, here are a few pictures of girls kissing:

08

Clinton
Obama
Giuliani
McCain

The two-year orgy of political obscenity has begun. Soundbites are being honed. Podium color patterns are being group-tested.

Hillary is fine-tuning her "not-a-complete-bitch" act.
Obama is perfecting his white-man voice.
Giuliani is trying to convince folks that he is really actually a Republican.
McCain is just trying not to refer to the Press as the "Cong."

Sure, there are others, but they are all ugly, and don't stand a chance. Well, ugly that is, except for Edwards and Romney. Unfortunately, Edwards has proven himself to be a second-fiddle loser, and Mitt looks and sounds like a car salesman.

So, that leaves us with the big four.

Which, once again, leaves me underwhelmed. After living for the last four years in this idiocracy (Wallmartopia?), I think I'd like a smart person to run the country. Someone who wasn't a cheerleader at Yale. Someone who will not embarrass us overseas.

I want a president with charisma and savvy. Someone with Leadership, not bound by antiquated notions or morality. Someone with business sense, yet able to play to the simple man's spirituality. Someone not beholden to any particular political party.

In short, I think I'm looking for a presidential candidate like Anton LaVey. Tragically, Wikipedia tells me that Mr. LaVey died about 10 years ago.

So, that just means I need to look a little harder.

Let's see, Charisma, business savvy, fluid morality...

Oh yes, I have just the person. Friends, fellow Loungers, I present to you the first official Gin and Tonic Lounge political endorsement:

Basement Window

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Random Quotes for Monday

"Military tactics are like unto water; for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards... Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing. Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions. He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be called a heaven-born captain." - Sun Tzu

"Armed forces abroad are of little value unless there is prudent counsel at home." -Cicero

"But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath
a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and
arms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join
together at the latter day and cry all 'We died at
such a place;' some swearing, some crying for a
surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind
them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their
children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die
well that die in a battle; for how can they
charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their
argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it
will be a black matter for the king that led them to
it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of
subjection." -Shakespeare

"I am the decider" - George W. Bush

Penny for Your Thoughts

Oh, One More Thing

PETA is an absurdley-radical, unreasonable, misguided quasi-terrorist organization, and its president, Ingrid Newkirk, is a shrill harpy-like media whore.

PETA's reckless pursuit to "liberate" domesticated animals is foolish, wasteful, and outright dangerous.

You should never-ever consider supporting PETA in any way, ever! If you feel you must give time or money to support animals in need, the Oregon Humane Society is a fantastic animal-saving organization that needs all of our help.

That having been said, please enjoy the following video from PETA:

Hero

So, they saved the cheerleader. Presumably, now, they will save the world. Unless, that is, Peter blows his own ass up.

Heroes is a fine fine television program. It has the mysterious intrigue of Lost and the persistent pacing of 24. It's on NBC, Monday nights at 9:00 (except perhaps in the Central time zone.) (Jesus, what is the Central Time zone anyway? Does anyone even live there? And if so, why can't they stay up an hour later like the rest of the goddamn country??)

Watching Heroes makes me wonder at times, usually late at night, after a drink or three, if I got to choose one super power, any super power, what would it be?

Flight?

Webs from my fingers?

Fireballs from my ass?

No... None of that. No telepathy. No levitation. No super strength or even invulnerability.

No, if I got to choose one super power, it would be x-ray vision. Obviously.

C'mon, you saw that one coming a mile away...

36

Woo hoo!! Happy Birthday to Ev!

100

At 6:05 pm, Pacific Standard Time, The Lounge passed, for the first time, 100 individual visitors in one day. This is, of course, a mile stone only for my narcisistic ego. However, I would like to take the oppotunity to thank each of you for your continued support.

I would also lilke to thank Pepperoncinis, Tricia Helfer, and Google for their part in this small achivement.

Thank you Tricia Helfer:

Thank you Pepperoncini:

Mr Snuffleupagus

It was a hot February afternoon in 1985. Eh, maybe it was 1986.

I'm really quite certain it wasn't 1987. So, let's stick with 85 or 86.

Oh hell, for the sake of getting-on-with-it, let's just say it was 1985. It was definitely in the afternoon, and it was definitely hot outside.

I arrived home from school, and splashed my books down onto my water bed. I turned back to the kitchen for a quick snack, then settled onto the couch in the living room, the only cool room in the house.

The giant Black & Decker wall-mounted air conditioner churned away, pumping pure icy air in my direction. I turned on the TV, and flipped the dial up into the high UHF channels.

Broadcast, baby, pre-cable. UHF Channel 22, KWHY, now a Spanish-language station, back then it was a humble little local independent broadcaster trying to stay afloat. Seeking to cash in on the video music movement, the little station that could borrowed Jim Trenton, "Poorman" of KROQ fame, to host an after-school music video cavalcade. Video 22 was its name, and if it wasn't exactly "edgy," it was at least a little rough around the edges...

I sat steaming on the sofa, the cold air condensing the water vapor rising form my body, I tried to focus on the unfamiliar video playing on the screen before me. I hadn't seen it before, and I wasn't even sure who it was.

The man was tall and lanky. He had bushy blonde hair, and a British accent. A motley assortment of nurses and other various unfortunate folk seemed to be following him on some macabre parade. Admittedly, I missed the first few notes of the song, but what I heard appeared to be somewhat irritating.

There was a bass-heavy disco rhythm, and the lyrics seemed to be repetitive refrains limited to a call-and-response of:

Say Captain
Say wot
Say Captain
Say wot
Say Captain
Say wot you want...

I failed to catch the artist's name. However, I assumed the enigmatic singer held the self-imposed rank of "Captain." The song, while simple and banal, had gotten stuck in my head, much like an infection. At the very least, I wanted to figure out who the offending artist was.

The following day, around the lunch table in the cafeteria, I shared my puzzling musical experience and, based on my singular recall of the lyrics asked whether any of my comrades recognized the little ditty.

Tom, Brian, Mark and Dave all looked at me blankly. None had heard or seen such a thing, and Tom, at the very least, accused me of making the whole thing up. Tom's theory caught on quickly, and the others joined in on Tom's accusations.

It didn't help that I couldn't let it go. Nor did it help that the mystery video never aired again in the days, weeks, and months that followed.

Years passed, and while the ridicule receded, it never quite ended. Until one day, in 1989, out of the blue, Dave came up to me with a very somber face, and in a hushed conspiratorial tone, he admitted that he had come across the wayward recording, and provided the name and identity of the mystery man with bushy blonde hair.

His name was Captain sensible, and the song, "Wot" was his solo project while he was taking a break from playing with The Damned.

Well, I'll be damned.

I was not around when Mr. Snuffleupagus was outted on Sesame Street. This, I suppose was the next best thing. And as a special added bonus, here is the Captain's magnum opus, Wot:

Migraine

Misuse (or over use) of the word "Migraine" gives me a headache.

Notice that I did not say: "It gives me a migraine."

That is because "Migraine" is not synonymous with the word "Headache." In fact, the term "Migraine" is not even synonymous with the phrase: "Really really bad fucking headache."

That's right, contrary to what you've been brainwashed to believe by over-the-counter pain relief advertisements, "Migraine" is NOT another word for "headache!!" It is a medical syndrome, and it has OTHER symptoms.

Please get it through your simple tension-headache-ridden skulls. If you have a really really bad fucking headache, it is possible (and in fact 85% likely) that all you have is the really really bad fucking headache, and you do not have Migraine Syndrome at all.

The real Migraine Syndrome is a neurological disorder. True, one of its common symptoms is headache. However, its other (overlooked) symptoms also include: altered mood, irritability, depression, euphoria, fatigue, excessive sleepiness, craving for certain food, stiff muscles, Sensitivity to touch, constipation or diarrhea, increased urination, flashes of white or multicolored lights or forma­tions of dazzling zigzag lines. Some patients complain of blurred, shimmering or cloudy vision, as though they were look­ing through thick or smoked glass.

Some complain of tunnel vision. Others, a feeling of pins-and-needles in the hand and arm as well the nose, mouth, face, lips and tongue. Other symptoms can include auditory or olfactory hallucinations, vertigo, and hypersensitivity to touch.

So, if you find yourself with a really really bad fucking headache, but you haven't woken from sleep covered in your own piss, with a sensitivity to the plastic-Jesus nightlight in the corner of your room, please DON'T tell me that you have a migraine.

Instead, just tell me you have a headache, OR, if you are prone to hyperbole, you may tell me that you are suffering from the worst goddamned debilitating headache you've ever experienced in your whole pain-filled life. That's OK too. Either way, I'll go get you some Ibuprofen and a glass of water.

Because I'm good that way.

Hall and Oates

Pri-i-i-vate eyes
[clap clap]
been watchin you
They see your ever-y moo-oove

Darryl Hall and John Oates

Darryl Hall and John Oates



Darryl Hall and John Oates

Hall and Oates
Oh ya...

I know nothing of their music.
In fact, I don't really have anything to say about them.

I just like to say their names.
Darryl Hall and John Oates.
Hall hall hall.
Oates oates oates...
Hall-n-Oates.
Hall AND Oates.
HALL and oates.
hall and OATES.

DARRYL HALL AND JOHN OATES!!

I LOVE SAYING IT MAN!!

Just Add Water

With a talkative two-year-old tugging at my leg, I attempted to throw together a quick dinner for the family. A simple Jambalaya simmered in the pot, glistening with sausage and bespeckled with shredded peppers.

The monkey mugged for a cracker. The sad-faced dog hovered patiently in the corner waiting for the first wayward scraps to strike the floor. My mind raced for a second course. A main course, in my mind, always requires a side dish. If for no other reason, something to sop with...

biscuits.

No, no Bisquick left in the cupboard. um... um... ummmm...

Cornbread.

Yes! A can of Marie Callender Cornbread Mix peeked out from behind the rows and rows of Mandarin Orange cans. "Add Water!" It read in bright bold letters on the front. Simple instructions for a simple meal.

Pan well-greased, I folded-in the pale yellow batter, and slid it into the pre-heated oven. A half hour later, the golden corn pillow came out, steaming and smooth, bearing fine contrast to the chunky spice-colored Creole rice pot.

Wine? No, beer. Full Sail Amber, bitter with heavy Oregon hops to smooth out the cayenne. Golden Irish butter melted into the yellowy grainy cornbread. I raised the sweet square to my mouth. And that is where I detected the first sign of trouble.

It smelled... Like...uh... what? what? Oh yah, FISH!!

Unfortunately, it was too late. The taste buds detected the foulness before the nose could. Now, you and I both know that FISH is not an ingredient to cornbread. Nevertheless, it smelled and tasted like sea food. I went back to the mixing bowl and sniffed. Yes, definitely fish.

And, I don't mean a nice delicious bass. No, I mean FISH, like the deck of a fishing boat at rest under the July sun. It made my mouth taste like fear. I welcomed the thought of vomit, which would at least taste a little better.

Hunger compelled me to cleanse my gullet with more beer. Then, after opening a third, I finally sat down and finished the Jambalaya, which, all things considered, turned out pretty well.

Thursday Update

Lindsay is in rehab.

Howard Stern and his staff were discussing, this morning, the Lindsay dilema (Hot vs. Insufferable)

Roads in and around Portland are mostly clear. Although, I had to park at the bottom of my street last night due to ice. There is still plenty of snow on the ground.

Our nextdoor neighbors have secretly moved out. I didn't notice they were gone until the Dad showed up on my doorstep two nights ago asking to borrow a flashlight. Apparently, they moved late at night, and no one knew the difference.

Anyway, their house has a similar floor plan as mine. It has a lovely yellow paint job, sits next to a fabulous little park, and it is likely to go on the market in the very near future.

Anyone want to be my neighbor?

Camera: I have already purchased a third lens. I've purchased a second book, and I'm considering taking a class.

Is your, uh, is your wife interested in....photography, ay? Photographs, ay?

Photography?

Snap-snap, grin-grin, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more?

You mean holiday snaps, eh?

They could be, they could be taken on holiday. Candid, you know, CANDID photography...

No, no, I'm afraid we don't have a camera.

Oh. (leeringly) Still, mooooooh, ay? Mwoohohohohoo, ay? Hohohohohoho, ay?

Look... are you insinuating something?

Oh, ho, no, no, no ...yes.

Out of the Sandbox: Tricia Helfer

It may be rumor, or it may be fact. I have no idea. Story goes, when you register your website or blog with Google, you stay on the back burner, or "in the sandbox," until such time as Google determines that you are not a fly-by-night operation.

Well, based on the trusty old sitemeter, it seems that I am finally off of Google's double-secret probation. I've been getting a flood of referrals from Google in the last month or so...

Funny thing is (some of you already know this) the referral link from Google links back to the visitor's original Google search terms. This means I can see what terms were search that led to the Lounge.

And yes, that is a little creepy, but it is still fun nonetheless.

Surprisingly, the second most popular search term that leads to the Lounge has been "Assapalooza." Seems that folks, mostly on the east coast, really want to find Assapalooza. And for that, they come to me.

More surprising, however, is the number one search term that leads folks here to me. That term, of course, is "pronunciation of Pepperoncini," one of my finer early posts...

So, the punch line is, earlier today, I got a call from Tom, who kindly informed me that Tricia Helfer, Number Six on Battlestar Galactica, was on Howard Stern. (Tom and I both subscribe to Sirius satellite Radio.) Later, however, while reviewing my stats, I discovered a spike in Google referrals for folks searching for naked pictures of Tricia Helfer.

Coincidence? Perhaps. Just in case, though, I'd like to extend a warm welcome to all of the Howard fans who have happened by. You can click HERE for the naked pics of Tricia!

Snowdog

Woke up to six inches of fresh powder on the back-yard ski slope. Our steep street, while perfectly good for sledding, is not ideal for driving. According to the local news, the freeway between my home and office isn't any better.

Snow day!

Fire in the fireplace. Monkey in fleece. I take the dog and the camera for a hike around the back yard. Technically, the boy is half husky, but he has traditionally been a little timid with regard to snow.

Well not this year. By some miracle, the Snowdog switch has been flipped!

The girls are now napping, and I am sipping scotch. Fluffy white flakes continue to fall from the sky.

Oh, and the mighty mountain predator is curled up in a ball behind my desk...

What to do with Lindsay

Oh good god.

I didn't see it coming.

I had no warning.

I didn't mean to do it.

I was utterly taken by surprise, distracted as I was by Britney's sagging vag, and Paris's vapid gaze; by the endless swirl of nightclub gluttony and flashes for the paparazzi flash bulbs; by the endless parade of thong straps and see-through gauzy get-ups. It honestly never dawned on me before this afternoon, and I was shocked, literally, by my realization:

I appear to be undeniably attracted to Lindsay Lohan.

The green (sometimes blue) eyes lighting the Irish freckles, contrasting with the reddish brown hair, all mix toxically with her creamy ample bosoms.

On the one hand, I know all too well that she is nothing more than a untalented spoiled trampy media whore.

But then, I spy the see-through publicity portraits and the slighty-drunk slutty bedroom eyes...

Look, when I say "attracted" I don't mean in that "Hey, I think you have an interesting personality-let's get lunch" sort of way. Hell no! I mean it in the "Hey baby, Let's lick each-other's tonsils" sort of way... She's kinda hot, but entirely insufferable. Seriously, I don't know what to do!

I need better standards.

A Message From Darth Vader

Good Morning. I am Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith.

As some of you are aware, the planet of Alderan was recently destroyed. The decision to obliterate it was a difficult decision to make. Every shred of intelligence gathered from our Bothan spies (and other sources) led to the single conclusion that the rebel base was there.

As it turned out, the rebel base was not on Alderan at all, and the planet didn't really have to be destroyed. The decision, while made in consultation with the Emperor and Grand Moff Tarken, was ultimately mine.

All mistakes made in this matter, therefore, were also mine. I take full responsibility for them. To that end, I have used the Force to crush the necks of my top advisers.

For the last several days, I have meditated upon this problem while sealed in my hyperbolic isolation chamber. I thought long and hard about how best to proceed. Our best course of action now seems clear.

Today is a day that will long be remembered. I am please to announce the kick-off of Operation Alderan Freedom. The plan is to send 12 legions of storm troopers along with the imperial fleet to attack a small moon at the edge of the galaxy, which seems to be inhabited by annoying little monkey children.

I know that some of you are critical of this plan, but honestly, I find your lack of faith disturbing. So, I would like to invite you to join me, and together we can rule the universe!

Thank you, and may the force be with you.

Nudini, the Naked Magician??

Ever find yourself sitting in front of the computer, too tired to go to bed? Maybe you've been blogging. Maybe you've been researching lenses for your new camera. Maybe you spent hours driving Roman legions across North Africa, playing the latest "Total War" release. Who knows...

What I do know, is that I shouldn't surf in this condition. If I do, I end up with something like this:

Cruel Drool

Case files arrive in orderly stack, set at right angles, along the left side of my desk. Transmittal sheets, demand letters, police reports, claim activity indexes, and the never-ending assembly line of medical records, chiropractor narratives, and massage logs.

One case blurs into the next. Rear-ender. T-bone. Side-swipe. Air bags. Seat belts. Neck pain. Head ache. Lumbar disc bulge. MRI. Wage loss.

And then the whining begins.

But, it's all so much white noise, formless buzzing, without meaning. It is all so sterile and distant. It's words on paper and lies under oath. The abstract idea of a crash holds no emotional meaning for me any longer.

But then, the weather changes, and on a day like today, at slightly higher elevations, like that around my office, the temperature dips below freezing. The bright blue January sky lets the warmth contained by clouds to evaporate, and the northwest rain-soaked streets become ice skating rinks.

I sat eating a yellowy goo at the Mediterranean buffet, just up the hill from my office. The goo was good, and tasted unidentifiably familiar. I sat beside the big bay window facing the street. Slowly, one-by-one, I began to notice the cars heading up the hill having more and more problems. The ice sheet was thickening, doing nothing for uphill traction.

One unfortunate lady ("dumb bitch" according to my lunch companion) refused to put down her cell phone while she careened one-handed backward down the hill in her minivan. Eventually, a tire caught a patch of dry pavement and she stopped, straddling the line, blocking both lanes of traffic, still talking on the phone.

While she waited, the impatient man in the Volvo behind her made an end run. Now, Volvos are great cars, with great safety control features. However, ice is ice, and rubber is rubber.

He slid out of control inches from the minivan. The boy sitting behind me gaped with amazement. His dad gave an, "oh Oh OH!" My lunch buddy grinned with grizzly excitement. Even I, jaded as I am to the very notion of an automobile collision, set my jaw against the gory exhilaration. I wanted so badly, with passionate desire, to see the metal twist, and to hear the screech and ripple of a tearing fender. I wanted to hear the crack and smash of breaking glass.

But it never came.

Moments later, another car slid by, down the slope, on a trajectory toward another van stopped at the bottom of the ill. And again, disaster was averted by mere inches. The disappointment of the patrons and wait staff, now gathered around our window seat was palpable. The spectators, all of us, wanted action. We wanted to see the crash. We wanted to witness the destruction. I, for one, felt a lust-like urgency for it to happen.

ultimately, I was let down. Probably for the best. No one, it seems, was hurt. It wasn't until later, upon reflection, while I drove the monkey home from monkey care, that I contemplated the feelings that I had experienced. Was it blood lust? Perhaps. Though I wished no specific ill on the participants.

Why is it that millions of NASCAR fans pay big money to watch hours of racing with the mere hope of a five second thrill? Why does freeway traffic stall for miles behind rubbernecking gawkers at an accident scene? Why do we revel in the ill-fate of others?

Maybe it's just me. I'm really OK with that.

I suspect, though, that it's all of us. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's a subconsciously sadistic surge. Maybe it's an inherent celebration of our Darwinian superiority over the less-fit in our gene pool.

Who knows.

I do know that my companion and I both drove out of the parking lot, leaving much room in front of and behind our cars. I, for one, got back to my office in one piece.

By Now, You Should Know How These Things Go

So, I was watching a bootleg video of Dita, when... Blah blah blah...

I was really low on Scotch!... Blah blah blah...

...and that's when I went to Albertsons. Blah blah blah... Really, it was a nice creamy havarti... Blah blah blah...

..there were just too many pictures of Amanda's ass... blah blah... only one arm... Blah blah blah...

...but it was actually in Britney's vagina, etc... blah blah blah...

...giant penis made of legos...

Blab blah blah...

...when he found himself in the middle of a circle Jerk in Hell with Hitler, Satan and Dick Cheney...

Blah blah blah...

...picture of Christina Ricci...

XY

Father of girls, my ass!

Test

Tdpt

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Subscription Prescription

Time
Life
People
Hustler

Can you learn anything about a person by the magazines they subscribe to? Some lawyers think so. Many prospective jurors have been booted because of poor periodical purchases, or due at least to the spectre of bad taste, based on nothing more than the the titles of the mags, rags and journals delivered to their homes.

Is that fair?

I don't know. Do you read Guns & Ammo or The Utne Reader? Esquire, GQ or Details? Do you read Playboy for the articles and Newsweek for the pictures? Do you subscribe to Martha because you like her cupcakes, or because you think she is a sultry corporate temptress?

Are you a Cosmo girl? Or is Road and Track more your speed?

Entertainment Weekly? Variety? Premier? Are you in the biz, or do you just like movies? Maybe you just like movie stars. In which case, perhaps you prefer Us, Star, or People.

And what to do with Playgirl? Sexually independent heterosexual feminist, or horny gay man?

For years, I subscribed concurrently to Maxim and National Geographic. Taken as a whole, it would not be unfair to make certain assumptions about my personality based on those two bits of information.

I have let them run their course, however. I have let the subscriptions run. I ignored the bright red warnings in the mail, and simply waited for them to stop arriving. I have been thinking, however, of replacing them.

But with what? That is the question.

Something with scantily clad women to be sure, but also something with topical newsiness. Something political with a Libertarian twist. Something with men's gadgets, gear and silk ties. Something with popular abstracts of scientific exploration. Something about digital techno toys. Something geeky. Something prurient. Something with photos of photons, quarks, quasars or galactic collisions.

I just don't know.

Any suggestions?

Geek Deeply

Jan 8, 2007
8:29 PM
Arrived at FedEx location
PORTLAND, OR

Those are the words I have been waiting for. Those are the words for which I have been searching and scanning, minute by damn-near minute. I have already downloaded and read the 180-page owners manual. I have left the link to the FedEx tracking site up on my computer since last week, refreshing frequently to find word, any word, on the updated status of the trek across the country.

"Do you know where your camera is?" You may ask.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Last Tuesday, I was pleased to read that it had left Texas, and was on its way to Oregon. However, later in the day it struck me, my poor lonely little camera was in a box on a truck in the middle of goddamn nowhere. What if there was an accident, or a hijacking, or a fire? What if the driver got lost? You know how I am about my stuff.

Being on a truck in the middle of the highway, in the middle of the night, in the middle of Texas is about as far out of my control as an object can get...

So it was, a few days ago, as I dined over sushi with a friend. I told her about my crazed obsession with the camera purchase. She observed that while she knew I was a geek, she was amazed by my capacity for geeking deeply. I assured her this was not the first time....

There was my addiction to The One Ring Dot Net during the never-ending lead-up to The Fellowship of the Ring. There was the Mulder and Scully action figures on my wedding cake. There are between Seven and Nine Thousand Magic: the Gathering cards in color-coded binders gathering dust under my house. There is the hand-made speed-felt-topped 10-man poker table under the house as well...

Oh, I have the capacity to geek pretty damn deep.

I suppose do I enjoy it on occasion, although life and age have afforded me fewer opportunities as time slips by. Perhaps I have to look for opportunities these days. I mean, really, it's just a camera.

But on the other hand, it's mine.... All mine... My prrrrecioussssssss......

Unzip

I'll swallow your head, but not in the GOOD way...

Yes, Thank You

Yes, I've heard. I think even my mother mentioned to me that Dita is now single. Poor crazy Mr. Manson, he seems to have lost what few marbles he had left.

And poor Dita, perhaps she needs to be consoled.

Dita if you read this, I'm a good listener... call me.


Thanks to everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE for the separation updates...

In a Wad

Seems that ya'll got your panties in a wad over some anonymous commenter callin his or herself "The Panty." Admittedly, I've tried to sus out the undergarment's secret identity, but their ISP is conveniently obscured.

So, in this case, I'm as in the dark as you. In honor of the clever mystery poster, however, I thought we could all enjoy a few shots of our favorite four ounces of fabric...

This and That

It's been one of those weeks. As you can see from the utter dearth of decent posts recently. Busy I have been, and pre-occupied by many things. Year-end billables filled my mind, as did birthdays, holidays, and general social obligations.

Sleep as well, stole away the muse-filled minutes, washing away all sense of inspiration.
Very few of the last two-dozen nights have been spent at home, let alone in front of the computer, although so much has happened.

I mean no less than two long-lost names have crept back into the conscious collection. Mark, for one, of the "shark" variety, has surfaced without warning within the always surprising world of myspace. Pro-vampire? anti vampire, I really can't figure it out, but howdy to Mark and welcome to the Lounge.

And then, a day later, here comes Mike, of the first-year Willamette roommate variety. Most folks thought we were a "couple" for the longest time. I'm not sure about me, but I know for certain Mike wasn't the least bit gay. I'll always appreciate the 11:00 a.m. Saturday morning shots of Bourbon and the minute-by-minute updates on the latest Washington State cougars game... Go Cougs!

What a sad trick of fate to strap Mike with a non-sports fan like me for a roommate. Still and all, I'm very pleased that he popped up. Welcome, Mike, to the Lounge!

Then there was New Years. I uh, went to a party. And that, really, is all I'm prepared to say about that.

And then, at the risk of sounding completely unlike myself, mentioning not one but two football teams in a single blog: Holy Jesus! Did you see the Fiesta Bowl?? Mrs. G&T's sister and her husband are big fans of BSU, so I watched the game in support of the family's interests. But good god, I mean, DID YOU SEE THE GAME??? Congratulations to all of the various and sundry readers in Boise specifically, and Idaho in general. You all know who you are...

Well, that's what's been on my mind. Not really Blog material, oh, but, maybe the the Camera could have been. The new camera. You can say I have been a bit obsessed. Preoccupied perhaps. Insanely Hopped, more like it. Rolercoaster ups and downs, more research invested in the purchase than I did for my third-year lawschool thesis. It was a hefty purchase to be sure, with consumer-centered pitfalls and the old bait-and-switch grift. Alas, the purchase has finallybeen made, the object ordered from a reliable retailer, it is finally en route.

Now, maybe, I will get some sleep.

Sometimes I Think They Make Movies Just for Me

Make Just One Person Happy

Friday is my birthday, and I want something from you.

Each of you.

All of you.

Whether you work down the hall from me, or across Portland; whether you live in Seattle, Salem or Los Angeles; regardless of whether you are in Minnesota, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Idaho or even the UK, I would like you to do me a favor.

Just one simple thing.

Sometime on Friday, at any time of the day, I would like you to go out of your way to do one good thing.

Sure, you probably do good things all the time, but I mean one extra, unexpected, consciously executed good thing. It does not have to be big. In fact, it can be rather small.

Call your mom. Have lunch with your kid. Make a donation. Help an old lady across the street. Adopt an orphan. I don't care.

Maybe you are a regular reader, or maybe you just popped in from Google on a search for "Pepperocinis" or "Assapalooza." Maybe you comment every day. Maybe you have silently lurked for months, never knowing quite what to say.

Well, here is you chance to participate.

If you feel like it, once you have done your good deed, I would invite you to ANONYMOUSLY share with the rest of us what you did.

Yes, yes, I'm turning into a big hippie pussy. Bite me. Go do a good thing.

The Strip

Rumor round town has it that Daisy has been spotted recently dancing at Dino's.

Well, it's suspected that it's Daisy. I mean, just how many one-armed strippers can there be in Portland?

Now, generally, this makes me sad. As any long-time reader will know, Daisy is a bit of a mythical goddess around these parts, the pre-beatified post-thalidomide patron saint of the lounge, as it were.

It is my dream, one day, to wander the halls of the courthouse with a slutty-Santa-suited Daisy in tow, handing tinsel hats out to all of the whining plaintiffs...

But I, again, digress...

"So, what's the problem?" you may ask. "At least she's working isn't she?"

Well, yes, but she's working at DINO'S!!
Here, this what the Portland Mercury had to say recently about the place:

"I've got two things on tap, Bud and water, so which is it going to be," growled Theresa, the barkeep who looks like "mamma" from "Throw Mamma from the Train." Dino's Inn is the nadir of dive bars. Not only does the bartender look frightening with her beard and mustache, but the two-a-night dancers on the foosball table-sized stage might also scare the bejesus out of you. A recent night included a one-eyed, mid-40's woman who stripped down to nothing but her eye patch, and an overweight beast with baloney nipples. Pool is 25¢, but the cue stick will inevitably hit a wall or a video poker patron while you try to play. RV

Sadly, it's all true. I know. I've been there.

Well, Tom and I have been there.

I admit that I've been to some rather sketchy, sticky and/or stinky establishments in at least five states, but nothing, NOTHING, compares to the unholy display of wretched despair found inside of Dino's.

Late, on one of our epic nights of debauchery, Tom and I wandered willingly through the chipped red door, which was swollen with rot. The jabba-like Theresa, mentioned above, was likely the same hairy lady we found behind the bar.

Now the rule was, to claim to have visited, we had to sit, tip and drink one beer; which we managed to do despite adverse conditions on more than one occasion.

But this... This!

Before our gaze was met, and we were turned to stone by the bar-wench Medusa, we averted out collective sight and spun toward the ramshackle stage behind us, where, for all I could tell, a fat 75-year-old man was taking his clothes off.

Our spin continued until we had turned 180 degrees. In one fluid synchronous spiral, Tom and I retreated with haste, and have yet never returned...

Which brings us to today.

It was lunchtime, and I had to get across town to drop my video camera off for some repair. Thee most direct route carried me over the Hawthorne bridge, toward the fashionable edge of Southeast Portland. As I passed familiar landmarks, I noted that Dino's was coming up ahead, and thoughts of Daisy flashed before me. I was sad that she had been rejected by the fancier clubs, and forced to work in the horrid dive like that..

But as I drew closer, I noticed something intriguing. The building had new paint. The old jutting sign was gone. There was a temporary banner hanging from the wall!

Dino's is gone! Gone to hell. Gone for good. The new club is called theHawthornee Strip, and I can only hope that the old staff has been replaced. So, now the quandary begins.

You know what I'm thinking... So, who's in?

I Should Not Take Breaks

I'm working a lot this week, trying to top off my billable hours before the end of the year. Sometimes, when you work hard, it's important to take breaks.

Unfortunately, when I do, I sometimes come across videos of men, dressed as girls, who chain themselves to livingroom furniture...

Also, unfortunately, said crossdresser doesn't allow his videos to be embedded. Here's the link though...

Monday Fashion Minute

Peasant Food

Nothing exorcises the spectre of hunger like the rough crustiness of peasant food. It's the same everywhere. Sure, the ingredients change from continent to continent. In the Americas, south of the equator, a poor farmer's table may serve hand-flattened tortillas with rice and beans. In Japan, you might find fresh caught sushi with mamasan's homemade rice balls. On the sun-scorched shores of the Mediterranean, hungry families feast of flat bread, lamb meat and baba ganoush...

It is the chunk-cut nature of the flavorful finger food that defines the fare. It is the home-grown boldness generations-old recipes. Inspired choices dictated by scarcity, served on grandma's wooden platters. It is farm-freshness, or fish still cold from the sea.

And so I sat, Sunday at noon, the girls of the house napping soundly down the hall. I was left to my own devices for lunch, and not eager to be ambitious.

A crisp green Granny Smith was first in hand, followed by the blocky remainder of a smoked Gouda wheel. Half a day-old baguette was fetched from the fridge, and I finally opened the briny jar of pickled herring. Lunch was eaten from the cutting board with no more utensil than a paring knife. Rain fell hard against the windows. The fire was warm, but the dark winter beer was cold.

Funny

"I don't know. Just say something funny." She said, as we discussed plans for the office Christmas party.

The associates and staff get gifts each year, tokens really, for the four partners. Over an afternoon of roast beef and stiff drinks, proper small talk will devolve into inappropriately inebriated fits of hoots and giggles.

Somewhere along the way, the presentation of the presents must be made, and someone, Lorax-like, must speak for the plebes...

And this year, that someone so happens to be me. By the time most of you read this, it will already be over. With luck, they will laugh. With more luck, I will still have a job come next Tuesday.

I think I will try to keep it short.

hmmm... this could get interesting

The Perfect gift

Multimedia message

Christmas is coming the goose is getting fat. Put another something in the something something ...

Something About March

It's that time of year again. It's the beginningg of the gin-&-tonic family's December-long birthday bonanza!

Starting with today, we wish Mrs G&T a hardy happy birthday. I won't say how old she is, but I will confirm that she is older than me by twelve days.

In middle, is the monkey. In three days, she will be 2. However, we celebrated this afternoon. Thanks to the loyal Loungers who braved the sea tots. The monkey thanks you for the the books.

Then, twelve days from now, I'll be 36.

Ass Promised

Once again, this afternoon, I had to explain to someone that not everyone who comments on the Lounge knows each other. You're not all one big blog clique of inbred kissin cousins. Sure, some of you have seen others of you naked. Take Tom and Dr. Brian for instance...

And to be sure, some of y'all have gotten to become familiar in these here comment sections. Ryan has added Dave as a myspace friend. Lisa writes to Allie. And now, even Familytrain pokes his head in from time to time.

We've all heard about Leah's reproductive system. We've all read about Carl's trips to China. But most especially, we've all become familiar with Amanda's Ass.

We've written about it. We've thought about it. We've joked about it. But now, we all have the opportunity to look at it. Without further ado, here is the long awaited photo, (with her permission) of Amanda's ass.



eh... So, it's not exactly madthumbs.

And no, that isn't road rash. If you look closely enough, you'll see that the bruising is vaguely in the shape of a hand. Ahoy matey! Adventure on the high seas indeed...

Thanks to Amanda for sharing the goods for the sake of the Lounge!

Amanda's Overrated Ass

I have in my possession one photo of Amanda's ass.

I have her permission to post the photo.

I'm just wondering what it's worth to you.

Assapalooza

I misjudged my audience.

Here I thought cerebral folks would value an introspective investigation of my memory's minutiae. Silly me.

I knew all along what the regular and repetitive readers of the lounge want. Why they want nothing less than ASS. And lots of it!!

So, here you go! Here is some fine smooth ass for you!!

Ya, that's what I'm talking about!! Let's look at more ass!!

Oh Fuck ya! Ass! Ass!

And for the ladies, (and Dr. Brian) here's some hot man ass!

Oh goddamn, look at all that ass! Forget all those words and shit! Who cares about a well written turn of phrase?? Let's look at more ass!

Oh my god, so much ass, I may never write anything ever again!

Roxanne

Have you ever swept an entire grocery store? Down every aisle? Around every vegetable stand? Charging oncoming customer carts with your dust mop, like a matador, one handed, swerving parabolic arcs with panache?

It was 1986. I was working the night shift.

I would map out my dry mop maneuvers. I would start with the general merchandise on the south end, and work in zig-zag-fashion down each aisle until I reached the sticky-floored produce and meat aisles along the north wall.

As the cotton-millipede-like mop-head glided over polished tile, its many fabric tendrils would stretch out, snatching bits of dust and dirt, pushing it along like a bow wave. The trick was to see how far I could push the accumulated debris, before it flanked the wide gliding scrubber, and spilled like a dusty contrail behind me.

I could usually make it to the dairy section, the halfway point, before needing to scoop.

It was late Spring, and some dreary deity decided to drown Los Angeles with a deluge. The rain had been falling hard, and my usually-dry and frequently-smooth surfaced floor was tacky and tracked with moist, but drying, mud. "Dry Mop" was a misnomer. I worked my way along my usual path, avoiding black foot prints (I'd get those with the wet mop in a few minutes) aiming with vengeance for the light-brown, dry and flaky footprints, which fled with fear before my oncoming broom of doom.

I rounded the dreaded cookie aisle. I passed the row those hateful butterscotch Keebler abominations, and pushed on toward the rear of the store. Just then, without warning, without even a buzz or pop, the lights went out.

Completely out. Pitch black. I don't know whether you've ever been in a grocery store during a blackout at night in a thunder storm, but it's dark. Dark like Dick Cheney's heart.

Dark.

I froze. I was completely without reference. My once taken-for-granted bearings were gone. The absence of any horizontal reference made me dizzy, and I sat down.

In aisles to my right and to my left, I heard the voices of similarly stranded clerks, apparently with more advanced training than I had, giving the same instructions to assumed customers. "Stay put. Don't move. If the lilghts don't come back on, we'll come and find you with flashlights."

That sounded comforting. I wondered where the flashlights would come from, or who would come find the stranded clerks. Then, I remembered, somewhere up in front, probably in the office, was our night manager, Roxanne.

Perhaps I wanted to make sure she was there. Perhaps I wanted further emergency instruction. Perhaps I was just getting freaked out by the darkness, but in the best calm-voice I could muster, I called out her name.

Then, out of the darkness, somewhere in the vicinity of the bakery, a nervous sounding female voice called out: "Roxanne?"

Then in a best-impression of a British pop singer, I think from behind the dairy case, Some one sang out, "You don't have to put on the red light!"

Nervous laughter erupted in the darkness, from the canned-fruit aisle, from produce and from all over the store. Now egged on, or perhaps in just an attempt to lighten the mood, a chorus of (likely-high) dairy clerks attempted a few more lines. Soon, however, the lights and the familiar whirring and humming of refrigeration snapped back on. The singing stopped, and Roxanne's familiar voice was heard over the loud speaker, thanking shoppers for their cooperation and the dairy choir for their performance.

The light seemed bright. The shelves seemed almost white. However, the mud was still on the floor, and I still had my mop...

I thought about that blackout this morning, as I sat in a dark office staring at a blank computer screen. Power went out around 9:00, which can cause, as you may imagine, complications for a law firm.

The bubble wand and filter in my aquarium were silent. The printers and copiers slept silently. The phones were dead. Small quiet conversations down long dark hallways carried with clarity. It was oddly soothing.

Natural light is plentiful in my atrium-like office, and active attorneys found ways to work. I huddled near my sliding glass door, and read a large notebook of medical records with a very low-tech highlighter pen. As I sat there, I noticed that the new janitor had recently swept the dirt and mud from my private patio, and I began to hum old Police tunes quietly to myself.

2 Ornaments

As the wife was hanging ornaments on our goddamn giant tree, she noted that only two out of our assortment of tree baubles were mine, or me-related.

So, if anyone was wondering, Amanda found THIS

Size Matters

Some folks prefer them lean and trimmed. Others prefer full and bushy. Most folks like the smell.

Strangely, women seem to prefer short ones, while men like them big. And everyone likes the balls that go with them.

I speak of Christmas trees, of course, and I got mine today. The G&T family headed out on a short quest down the local rural highway to a quaint family tree operation. The good tree folks sat huddled around a blazing fire with free cider in the crockpot and murky directions for navigating around the acres of evergreens that circled their home.

The missus, the Monkey, and I wandered through the evenly-spaced woods, comparison shopping along the way. The Monkey, now nearly two, trudged on like a trooper, sustained along the path by her giant supply of now-warm cider.

City boy that I am, I had my gloves and my saw, ready to harvest our selection from the soil, which brought back memories of holiday lumberjack expedition in Idaho a few years ago...

Seems that my wife's tree hunting history was different that mine. Growing up with a sister and father who were asthmatic, our tree always came out of a box... Her family, however, would snowshoe for miles up into the BLM back county of the Saw Tooth National Forest, chop down a suitable tree, and tote it back to the car via dog sled, or somesuch...

All of which came as a surprise to me during my first Christmas in Idaho. There were snow shoes for starters, easy enough to master, but a disaster if one slipped off. Then there was the moderate hike, which nearly killed the lower-elevation cousins (myself included). After taking turns, cutting in rounds, to hack through a minor three-inch diameter trunk, The only person left who was acclimated enough to breathe was my mother-in-law. So, she carried the tree out of the forest while the burly, but gasping, men followed...

So, today's trek was nothing like that. With the exception that I got to murder the tree myself. Down in the mud. In the rain. And carry it back up the hill to the waiting truck.

Thing is, the tree looked to be good sized, but not too tall, while we were surrounded by other trees. Now, however, inside the house? It's crazy tall. Crazy.

Crazy!

Thank god for vaulted ceilings.

There is something about a big tree though. It gives one hope. Hope for bigger presents, that is.

The Cavern

"You know there are 7 secret levels below us don't you? It's where they keep the secret security offices, and store the popcorn."

Yes, I'd heard that before. Everyone who grows up down there hears about the secret underground levels all the time. It's popular conversation while standing in line for Space Mountain or the Jungle Boat.

She had long brown hair, green eyes, and shiny glossy lips that smelled of strawberry. So, I listened intently and acted surprised. I was 14. She probably was too, and we were standing in line for the Matterhorn.

We waited with others from our group, a motley hodgepodge of sweaty teens, dowsed in varying doses of hairspray, cologne and hormones, roaming the Magic Kingdom for a day. The Matterhorn was an in-line toboggan ride. Strictly boy-girl-boy-girl, nestled between each other's legs. That is what awaited us at the end of that impossibly slow-moving line.

And we all knew it...

Finally, a fair-haired boy in lederhosen led us to our alpine bobsled of love. Strawberry wasted no time planting herself between my knees. An unfortunate doofus with a large forehead and tacky jacket shared the compartment behind ours with his obnoxious girlfriend. We overheard their whispered negotiations. He was apparently allowed to put his hands inside her shirt, but only after the ride started. Oh, but, he wasn't allowed to undo her bra.

The the track brakes released with a pneumatic woosh, and we were underway. The toboggan slipped slowly into the first cave with that smooth precision only Disney engineers can create. Once in the dark, I immediately detected the distinct sound of tongue kissing behind me. Strawberry wiggled subtly against my thighs, while my hand migrated slowly from the hand rail to her outer perimeter.

CLACK CLAcK CLACK CLACK CLACK... The romantic reverie was broken by the jarring jerking chain lift elevating our cars up out of the darkness, up above the park, up toward the fake snow-packed summit. We were released again and glided smoothly, only to be caught quickly by the second stretch of chain lift.

Motorized mountain goats blinked at us, and distant screams of exhilaration were heard echoing through the mountain. Once we reached the top, the cart was set free , and we began our high-speed hurtle through icy caverns back toward ground level.

Dashing alternately through darkness and light, we hugged the outside rails, then dipped back into an tinkling ice cave. Blue-white crystals flashed past us, while bursts of tinkly tinkly music completed the effect. We rounded the curve in the cavern and came to a rather sudden and completely unexpected stop.

Seems we were stuck.

Seems the whole ride was stuck.

Something somewhere broke, and all of the sleds were stopped. A friendly yet authoritative voice told us so. It also told us to stay in the toboggan and someone would get us.

Get us? Well, yes, but not for about 45 minutes, and not all of the strawberry-scented sexiness in the world was enough to get the never-ending tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle out of my head.

Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, the ice wall to my right opened, and two foxy blonde girls with green lederhosen and tan legs stepped out to greet us.

"Come this way." they instructed.

Bewildered, and reeling from the artificial ice-noise, we climbed out of the sled and followed the tight-bloused girls into the well-concealed freight elevator.

Down, down we descended into the bowels of the Matterhorn. Down through the secret levels. The work shop. The toboggan lot. The break room. The lockerroom. Down to the bottom. Down, below the mountain. Down to the underground hallways.

That was as much of the grand tour that they wanted to provide, and we were whisked briskly back into the daylight. However, I had seen enough.

I had seen behind the Mouse's veil. I was shown things most people will never see. I saw what I never thought I would see.

Which is how I felt this afternoon.

Following the media frenzy, I delved not-so-deeply into the undercurrents of the blogosphere to seek out the un-edited photos. Without much effort, I found them.

All of them.

In the background, I saw the familiar smarmy smirk of Paris Hilton. She sat in a car, seemingly stewing in sweat and semen, swilling one more for the road. Paris was waiting for her new best friend to swing away from the paparazzi, and get back into the car. There was more binge-drinking to be done, and she wanted to go.

In the foreground, was Paris's new best friend, Britney. She was dressed for a night on the town, wearing a tight-fitting black cocktail dress. She was awkwardly posing for the publicity pictures, feiging a candid moment, she overcalculated her sneak peek, and hiked the hem of her skirt way way way up her hips.

And there, in the focal point, what I never thought I'd see, what I never even really desired to see, was the clean-shaven somewhat-saggy panty-less winking vagina of Britney Spears.

The mysteries of one more dark cavern revealed. Oh, and, that tinkly ice-cave music music you hear is probably her latest release.

7 in Kansas

I know many Brians, Dr. Brian being only one of them. All from varying backgrounds, most were born between 1968 and 1972.

I have previously shared my theories concerning our mothers and the movie, Brian's Song. So I won't go into that again here.

Suffice to say, I once knew a guy named Brian, which, in light of my opening paragraph, shouldn't be a surprise to any one.

This Brian was a year or two older than me, and came from a fairly affluent family. By "affluent," I mean his family lived in a gated hillside community in Southern California where wealthy white folks lived to get away from brown-skinned folks. That, however, was not Brian's fault, nor is it the point of this post.

Brian was a very nice guy. Book-smart, spiritual and musically-talented, he often went out of his way to help those in need, usually preaching the gospel to them along the way.

Well, as these stories often go, one day, Brian lost his fucking mind. Bonkers. Nuts. Goony as a loon.

I was at home. He dropped by. He had lost weight quickly as he apparently was living on a peanut and water diet. Everything he owned was in his car. He had a wild maniacal look in his eye.

He bounced around my house, never quite sitting in one place for more than a minute. He spoke rapidly, repeating phrases, laying out his plan for surviving the apocalypse.

"I'm going to drive to Panama and bury a bicycle in the jungle." He said.

"uh." Was all I managed."

"Then, during the tribulation, before the rapture, if we run out of gasoline, I can walk to Panama and dig up my Bike."

I thought for moment, then, "That's an awfully long walk."

He was ready for that though, "Oh, not to worry, I will walk from town to town, preaching the gospel in Spanish, and stay with believers along the way. Hey, do you have any spaghetti??"

He then went into a frighteningly obtuse exposition about pasta and pan lids. I zoned out.

Insanity, as you well know, annoys me.

While he went on, I reviewed his plan in my head. Something bothered me about it, and I'm not talking about the obviously insane part. Something about it flipped a switch, and I was slow to identify what it was.

Later, after he was gone, in the still quiet of the night, I finally figured out what it was. What if he COULDN'T find his bike?? What if he walked all the way back to Panama through persecution and plague, only to realize that the jungle is a big place and his bike was lost?? What if someone stole it?

These are the things that I fret about when I am far from my belongings. I am a firm believer in "A place for everything, and everything in its place," and the tropical jungle is no place to bury a bike, regardless of how crazy you are or who you think your god is.

Which leads me to this morning.

I drove this morning, earlier than was prudent, out to the quaint rural hamlet of Mc Minnville for a deposition. Names and facts are not important. All you need to know is that the deponent did a bad thing and it is going to cost him a lot of money.

As we slogged our way through the questions and answers, it became apparent that the small smelly old man was land rich but cash poor. He had also accumulated many separate investment, checking and savings accounts, IRAs, 401ks, and various funds for stashing cash. They were spread out all over the state. Thing is, they were all near empty, containing but mere pocket change for the sake of keeping them open.

But WHY??

Why not have one account, and funnel the remaining meager funds into it?

Then there was the forgotten account. It was a retirement account that he had forgotten about. It potentially had thousands of dollars in it. However, the fund manager had since stopped sending statements, and he had forgotten all about it.

That raised several lawyerly eyebrows all around the room. However, it just confirmed my fear about spreading my things out beyond my scope of control.

But then came the topper. Seems there was some land too. 7 parcels to be exact, located in a small town in Kansas. 7 parcels purchased in the 70s, when he was a young man living in the area. The land was cheap, and he needed a place to park his mobile home until surrounding land prices improved.

As time went on, he moved away, and has continued to pay $13 per year in property taxes. No rent. No improvements. He has not even gone back to look at it since 1978. One field divided into 7 lots, sitting empty. Perhaps tempting trespassers? Squatters? Adverse possessors?

If I held land, unseen for 28 years, unimproved, and unguarded; I would never be able to sleep. I would worry about it all day and all night. Worrying about the upkeep, and worrying about liability. I cannot abide a loose end. It would drive me CRAZY.

...Which would be convenient. If I owned land in Kansas, and lost my mind in the trade, I would at least have a place to bury my bicycle.

Haka Monday

I think I may start to do my own little Haka before depositions...

Erudite Friday

Here's a little Shakespeare to get you through the weekend: