Quadrant: One of the four parts into which a plane is divided by the coordinate axes.
We were adventurers, explorers, sailing the asphalt sea in a 1973 Chevy van. Like Columbus, Vespucci, Magellan and Cook, we ventured out into the unknown, seeking new land and places to get good tacos.
We would drive out into greater Los Angeles, without a map. Without a destination. The point was to get lost. Then, find our way back. That was the game, and it was fun. We always found our way back, but first, we always seemed to find our way to LAX.
It is a true, but little known fact; all roads in LA lead to LAX.
The benefit was, through trial and error, we all learned the full functional layout of a very large place, which is necessary, because, down there, no one actually lives in the city where they live. For instance, you may live in one city, like Glendale, and you may work in another city, like Culver City. Maybe your dad lives in West Covina, but your band has a gig in Pomona.
If you live there, like some of you do, you know that you really live in the place as a whole. If you have to go shopping, maybe you go to Santa Monica, or Pasadena, or Newport. If you're going to the beach, you have literally hundreds of miles of choices. In LA, "LA" means anything from Malibu to Palm Springs to Dana Point. It's all the same place, and folks wander, subject to traffic restrictions, across the grid.
Portlanders, on the other hand, look at the world in a much less-adventurous way. The Portland metro area, for folks who don't know, is essentially divided into four quadrants by the Willamette River and Burnside Street: NW, NE, SW and SE. Of course there is an area just called "North Portland" or "NOPO," but there is no such thing as a "fifth quadrant," so most folks, including the city council, just pretend that NOPO doesn't exist.
In Portland, however, very few folks cross the arbitrary lines. Eastsiders do NOT go to the Westside, and Westsiders do NOT go to the Eastside. Downtown is technically on the Westside, but it has been declared neutral. Oddly, there is less discrimination between North and South.
What's worse is, even though most all of Portland is suburban-like, with very few actual urban dwellers, folks who live within the city's suburbs like to think of themselves as urban-savvy, street-tough and oh-so-metropolitan. Ironically, they deride and dismiss those "folks in the burbs," as they themselves sit in the landscaped back yard of their single-family row house...
The divisions are silly, but frustratingly quite real. It is like pulling teeth to get a Westsider to drive anywhere East of the Willamette River or to get an Eastsider to travel West of the Washington Park Zoo.
I'm not kidding. The fear, anxiety, prejudice and obstinance is palpable. Look, folks are entitled to their opinions, but I really just cannot understand it.
As I live at the southern tip, along a major freeway, with social and financial interests in every quadrant of the city, I dwell in the whole place, as I did in Los Angeles. I am as comfortable at Clackamas Town Center as I am at Washington Square. I am surrounded by three equidistant Costcos. I feel fine to dine in the Pearl, or I will wander Hawthorne looking for a meal. I can play darts on the Westside at the Dublin Pub, or I can play on the Eastside at the Horsebrass. My office is on the Westside but my bank and my wife's office are on the East.
Portland is not just any one quadrant. It is the flavor of the city soup when you mix in the artsy yuppies from the NW, the pot smokers from the SE, the earthy soccer moms from Lake Oswego, the Asian frat-boy techies from Beaverton and the gentrifying gay men from NE... Portland should be taken as a whole...
Well, all of Portland, except Gresham. Nobody likes Gresham. That place sucks!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
In The Bag
7 years I have languished. 7 years I have lamented. 7 years I have stood in line watching with dismay, the craptacular display of ineptitude at the checkout stand of my local Albertsons.
7 years I have shopped in that grocery store, and for 7 years I have wondered why the management could not take 10 minutes to teach the dying art of proper bagging techniques to its new employees.
Sure, this is not a new topic for the Lounge. Certainly, I have gone on about this many times before. I have enumerated the ignorance and sins of the bag boys and girls. The slow packing. The single-item bagging. The heavies stacked on top of the squishables. The lack of internal structural integrity...
Anyone who knows me well enough in real life knows how particular I am about my grocery experience. In the cart, frozen rides with frozen, cold with cold, and non-food is quarantined with non-food. Produce stays up by me, so I can keep a wary eye on it. Fruit bruises easily, and nearly nothing makes me sadder.
Once at the checkout stand, I get a little weirder. Often times, when shopping with a friend for the first time, they dig in, wanting to help, and begin to spread the goods willy-nilly upon the conveyor. I rarely say anything, but really, I wish they wouldn't. The missus has learned, and just stands back. She lets me do my thing.
I unload in logical order, considering the relative stacks and bundles and the order in which they will reach the bagger at the end. I provide structural boxes first to allow proper bag-building. Cans are next, and other stackables. Again, frozen stays with frozen, and non-foods with non-foods. Produce, bread and eggs at the end. All the bagger has to do is build each bag according to the measured bundles of groceries I send down to them. I try to make their jobs easier.
Am I obsessive? Oh, hell yes. Am I frequently disappointed by my squandered efforts ignored by the hapless youth as they bruise my peaches?? Yes, heartbreakingly so...
Oh, but tonight. TONIGHT! Something amazing occurred... Something unexpected. Something delightful.
My cart was not full. It was a smallish load of necessities, and there was no wait at all.
The groceries flew in a well-ordered flurry across the scanner, and found their way into rigidly packed, well-build and stackably balanced bags. There were few bags used and, once in the car, the bags stood upright, they way they are supposed to. They did not wallow to the ground like spineless jellyfish, as so often happens. The contents did not dribble out of the bags, rather, they remained stacked, tautly-packed, straight and rigid.
Once home, the bags retained their intended shape. The produce was safe. The frozen foods were still cold. None of my purchase was lost, bruised or broken! It was a miracle.
Of course, I discovered tonight that Albertsons has recently installed a self-checkout check stand and my grocery bagger was none other than ME.
7 years I have shopped in that grocery store, and for 7 years I have wondered why the management could not take 10 minutes to teach the dying art of proper bagging techniques to its new employees.
Sure, this is not a new topic for the Lounge. Certainly, I have gone on about this many times before. I have enumerated the ignorance and sins of the bag boys and girls. The slow packing. The single-item bagging. The heavies stacked on top of the squishables. The lack of internal structural integrity...
Anyone who knows me well enough in real life knows how particular I am about my grocery experience. In the cart, frozen rides with frozen, cold with cold, and non-food is quarantined with non-food. Produce stays up by me, so I can keep a wary eye on it. Fruit bruises easily, and nearly nothing makes me sadder.
Once at the checkout stand, I get a little weirder. Often times, when shopping with a friend for the first time, they dig in, wanting to help, and begin to spread the goods willy-nilly upon the conveyor. I rarely say anything, but really, I wish they wouldn't. The missus has learned, and just stands back. She lets me do my thing.
I unload in logical order, considering the relative stacks and bundles and the order in which they will reach the bagger at the end. I provide structural boxes first to allow proper bag-building. Cans are next, and other stackables. Again, frozen stays with frozen, and non-foods with non-foods. Produce, bread and eggs at the end. All the bagger has to do is build each bag according to the measured bundles of groceries I send down to them. I try to make their jobs easier.
Am I obsessive? Oh, hell yes. Am I frequently disappointed by my squandered efforts ignored by the hapless youth as they bruise my peaches?? Yes, heartbreakingly so...
Oh, but tonight. TONIGHT! Something amazing occurred... Something unexpected. Something delightful.
My cart was not full. It was a smallish load of necessities, and there was no wait at all.
The groceries flew in a well-ordered flurry across the scanner, and found their way into rigidly packed, well-build and stackably balanced bags. There were few bags used and, once in the car, the bags stood upright, they way they are supposed to. They did not wallow to the ground like spineless jellyfish, as so often happens. The contents did not dribble out of the bags, rather, they remained stacked, tautly-packed, straight and rigid.
Once home, the bags retained their intended shape. The produce was safe. The frozen foods were still cold. None of my purchase was lost, bruised or broken! It was a miracle.
Of course, I discovered tonight that Albertsons has recently installed a self-checkout check stand and my grocery bagger was none other than ME.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Rocket Man
The key is to bring kids. Kids who are old enough to run long distances across wide fields and find their way back. Young enough not to care about being cool, but mature enough to know when to duck and cover when there is a launchpad mishap...
It is a complete act, made better with cold beer and attention to detail. It is self expression. It is visceral anticipation. It is the act of launching a small piece of your soul into the endless blue sky.
It is, of course, model rocketry, and I'm getting the urge.
It's been several years since I last launched a souped-up wrapping paper tube into space, but I still have all of the gear. I have nose cones and parachutes. I have balsa sheets and model paint. The X-Acto knives are still sharp, and the launch pad remains sturdy.
Tail fins, nose fins, and high-pressure low-grade dry fuel engines. Sizes B and C for the stubby ones or the skinny ones. D and E for the long girthy monsters...
I have a taste for it.
Sometimes, I hanker for scaled rail road. Sometimes, I am lured to sea by RC sail craft. This summer, though, I think may return to orbit...
The craft table is large, and the beer is cold. Just sayin...
It is a complete act, made better with cold beer and attention to detail. It is self expression. It is visceral anticipation. It is the act of launching a small piece of your soul into the endless blue sky.
It is, of course, model rocketry, and I'm getting the urge.It's been several years since I last launched a souped-up wrapping paper tube into space, but I still have all of the gear. I have nose cones and parachutes. I have balsa sheets and model paint. The X-Acto knives are still sharp, and the launch pad remains sturdy.
Tail fins, nose fins, and high-pressure low-grade dry fuel engines. Sizes B and C for the stubby ones or the skinny ones. D and E for the long girthy monsters...
I have a taste for it.
Sometimes, I hanker for scaled rail road. Sometimes, I am lured to sea by RC sail craft. This summer, though, I think may return to orbit...
The craft table is large, and the beer is cold. Just sayin...
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Lessons Learned
Oh, and...
I completed my high-risk-driver class today. My fourth and final license-endangering traffic infraction will soon sleep with the fishes...
8.5 hours sitting in a crowded hospital conference room, listening to nurses, patients, victims, and police telling tales of woe and horror to scare "dangerous" drivers, like me, straight...
This, in sum, is what I learned:
1) I strongly dislike jack-ass youths with bad hair.
2) No matter how well you drive, there is always some other jack-ass on the road just ready to kill your family and break your legs.
3) It is, apparently, extremely dangerous to drive 10 miles per hour in a parking lot.
4) Under the right circumstances, former cheerleaders who suffer massive traumatic brain damage can still be sorta-hot, in that easy-retard sort of way...
5) If, for some reason, I am involved in a (god forbid) serious trauma accident, Please Dear God, do not let them take me to Legacy Emanuel Hospital. Those nurses are sadistic fucking bastards who cannot wait to gleefully impale your sorry helpless ass with every know sharp-poking instrument known to man...
It was a good course though. I promise to drive slower.
I completed my high-risk-driver class today. My fourth and final license-endangering traffic infraction will soon sleep with the fishes...
8.5 hours sitting in a crowded hospital conference room, listening to nurses, patients, victims, and police telling tales of woe and horror to scare "dangerous" drivers, like me, straight...
This, in sum, is what I learned:
1) I strongly dislike jack-ass youths with bad hair.
2) No matter how well you drive, there is always some other jack-ass on the road just ready to kill your family and break your legs.
3) It is, apparently, extremely dangerous to drive 10 miles per hour in a parking lot.
4) Under the right circumstances, former cheerleaders who suffer massive traumatic brain damage can still be sorta-hot, in that easy-retard sort of way...
5) If, for some reason, I am involved in a (god forbid) serious trauma accident, Please Dear God, do not let them take me to Legacy Emanuel Hospital. Those nurses are sadistic fucking bastards who cannot wait to gleefully impale your sorry helpless ass with every know sharp-poking instrument known to man...
It was a good course though. I promise to drive slower.
Night
It was late and I was done with a post for this very blog, which I was apparently done working on weeks ago...
Who knew!
Anyway, I was brushing my teeth and scratching my balls when I happened to look up. It was well into to the early a.m. 1:00-ish I think, and i looked up through the master-bath sky light to see an amazing sight.
The moon was full (to give you some perspective) and low clouds were streaking across the sky, literally ablaze with the luminescence of lunar rays. They were stark. They glowed.
I put down my toothbrush, ran downstairs, and slapped the 17 mm wide angle on my camera. The following are a small sample of what I caught. Remember, it was 1:00 in the morning...
Who knew!
Anyway, I was brushing my teeth and scratching my balls when I happened to look up. It was well into to the early a.m. 1:00-ish I think, and i looked up through the master-bath sky light to see an amazing sight.
The moon was full (to give you some perspective) and low clouds were streaking across the sky, literally ablaze with the luminescence of lunar rays. They were stark. They glowed.
I put down my toothbrush, ran downstairs, and slapped the 17 mm wide angle on my camera. The following are a small sample of what I caught. Remember, it was 1:00 in the morning...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Bad driver alas
Greetings from bad driver class. I definitely have better accident photos than these people. In case you are wondering,
Thursday, February 21, 2008
We Hold These Truths
Essentially, my job is to get lied to all day long. Clients lie to me. Opposing parties lie to me. Insurance companies lie to me. Chiropractors lie to me. Defense attorneys lie to me. I expect it. It's the way the world works.
You get lied to also. Everyday, you get lied to, and usually, you lick it up like a dog to its own vomit.
Salesmen lie to you. Advertisers lie to you. Marketers lie to you. Your friends lie to you. Your co-workers lie to you. Your favorite politician lies to you. Your favorite magazine lies to you. Your parents have been lying to you for years. Psychologists lie to you. Religious leaders and religious counselors lie to you. Fashion designers lie to you. Organic farmers lie to you. Your children lie to you. The news media lies to you. Anyone who has ever told you that they know the way or the truth or the ultimate meaning to it all, has lied to you.
You lie to you, maybe more than anyone else...
I do believe, under all of the lies, however, that there are truths, and I hold them to be self-evident...
1. I believe in insulin.
2. I believe the Earth is round, though I don't believe that "North" is synonymous with "up."
3. I believe that Human beings are not as evolved or as important as we convince ourselves we are.
4. I believe that the entertainment industry as a whole is overrated.
5. I believe that homemade ice cream on a hot summer day is good.
6. I believe that Hugh Hefner is one of the greatest men of the 20th century.
7. I believe that abject poverty is the root cause of ALL global unrest, including conflict dressed up in religious garb.
8. I believe that kilts are a superior form of men's wear.
9. I believe in the truth of my children's laughter, though I often doubt the veracity of their tears.
10. I believe in my Gin & Tonic recipe, though Fred may have her doubts...
11. I believe that my dreams speak to me. Even those crazy ass ones about drinking in a kitschy cowboy saloon with Carl and Ryan, while waiting to catch our plane to China...
12. I believe that beer made in Oregon is the best in the world.
13. I believe in the smell of meat cooking over flame (either directly or indirectly)
14. I believe that government is mostly bad, can never adequately solve our problems, and should be limited at every juncture.
15. I believe that first-harvest Strawberries always taste the best. (Tom, who fears Strawberries, will disagree)
16. I believe that there is nothing like like a scotch buzz to make a man feel invincible.
17. I believe that zip lock bags should never be washed and re-used. EVER. (Good lord, I get sick just thinking about it...)
18. Tomatoes are good in sauce, but that's about it... Well, OK, the caprese salad is pretty good, but only with good fresh Basil and EVOO...
19. After what he did to Star Wars, George Lucas should never have been given the opportunity to fuck around with another Indiana Jones movie.
20. I believe in my three-dollar tip rule; it's good for the dancers, it's good for the patrons and it's good for me.
You get lied to also. Everyday, you get lied to, and usually, you lick it up like a dog to its own vomit.
Salesmen lie to you. Advertisers lie to you. Marketers lie to you. Your friends lie to you. Your co-workers lie to you. Your favorite politician lies to you. Your favorite magazine lies to you. Your parents have been lying to you for years. Psychologists lie to you. Religious leaders and religious counselors lie to you. Fashion designers lie to you. Organic farmers lie to you. Your children lie to you. The news media lies to you. Anyone who has ever told you that they know the way or the truth or the ultimate meaning to it all, has lied to you.
You lie to you, maybe more than anyone else...
I do believe, under all of the lies, however, that there are truths, and I hold them to be self-evident...
1. I believe in insulin.
2. I believe the Earth is round, though I don't believe that "North" is synonymous with "up."
3. I believe that Human beings are not as evolved or as important as we convince ourselves we are.
4. I believe that the entertainment industry as a whole is overrated.
5. I believe that homemade ice cream on a hot summer day is good.
6. I believe that Hugh Hefner is one of the greatest men of the 20th century.
7. I believe that abject poverty is the root cause of ALL global unrest, including conflict dressed up in religious garb.
8. I believe that kilts are a superior form of men's wear.
9. I believe in the truth of my children's laughter, though I often doubt the veracity of their tears.
10. I believe in my Gin & Tonic recipe, though Fred may have her doubts...
11. I believe that my dreams speak to me. Even those crazy ass ones about drinking in a kitschy cowboy saloon with Carl and Ryan, while waiting to catch our plane to China...
12. I believe that beer made in Oregon is the best in the world.
13. I believe in the smell of meat cooking over flame (either directly or indirectly)
14. I believe that government is mostly bad, can never adequately solve our problems, and should be limited at every juncture.
15. I believe that first-harvest Strawberries always taste the best. (Tom, who fears Strawberries, will disagree)
16. I believe that there is nothing like like a scotch buzz to make a man feel invincible.
17. I believe that zip lock bags should never be washed and re-used. EVER. (Good lord, I get sick just thinking about it...)
18. Tomatoes are good in sauce, but that's about it... Well, OK, the caprese salad is pretty good, but only with good fresh Basil and EVOO...
19. After what he did to Star Wars, George Lucas should never have been given the opportunity to fuck around with another Indiana Jones movie.
20. I believe in my three-dollar tip rule; it's good for the dancers, it's good for the patrons and it's good for me.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Not-So-Laminated
Since the early days if the blog, the semi-anual re-shuffling of the laminated has become a sort of tradition, a public display of my fickle and fluid tastes. The last list was listed in July, you may recall, heralding the departure of long-time front runner, Nicole Kidman.
It is time, at last, for a new list. However, the last list will be hard to improve upon. In case you don't know, the laminated list is a list of five opposite-sex celebrities that I call-out in advance, and if I get the opportunity to hook up with one of them, the laminated list is my implied permit to do so. Two catches: First, the missus gets her own list. Second, I have to name a same-sex alternate to validate the list.
Those are the rules
So, here is the updated list.
It is time, at last, for a new list. However, the last list will be hard to improve upon. In case you don't know, the laminated list is a list of five opposite-sex celebrities that I call-out in advance, and if I get the opportunity to hook up with one of them, the laminated list is my implied permit to do so. Two catches: First, the missus gets her own list. Second, I have to name a same-sex alternate to validate the list.
Those are the rules
So, here is the updated list.
1. Scarlett Johansson
The whole Natalie Portman kiss thing, only improved her standings...
2.
Christina Ricci
Yes, I was in fact the only person in America to enjoy Black Snake Moan.
3.
Dita Von Teese
It's not smut. It's performance art.
4.
Jenna Fischer
Really, it's Pam, her character on the office, but you can't have a one-night laminated list encounter with a TV character.
Check out Mr. Gin-&-Tonic... making copies...
5.
Mary Louise Parker
Look, I adore Maggie Gyllenhaal, but someone had to go. She's recently gained weight, and so, it had to be her. Mary Louise Parker has been flipping my patties since she played the lesbian fry-cook in Fried Green Tomatoes. The sad smile. The doe eyes. The up-tilted nose. She should have been on the list from the start.
Finally, here comes the gay...
Originally, my gay pick was Jeremy Piven. Then, I was drawn by the force, as it were, to Ewan McGregor. And recently, I've been a little gay for Obama. However, the one true undeniable same sex alternate has to be the shirtless wonder, Matthew McConaughey
Bird
A bird just hit my window. It made a loud thump, which frankly startled me a bit. I'm on the 7th floor, and things don't usually bang on my window.
(Hey Fred: It was smallish, dusty brown, short dark-colored beak, with a surprised look on its face. Any idea what it was?)
(Hey Fred: It was smallish, dusty brown, short dark-colored beak, with a surprised look on its face. Any idea what it was?)
Did You Know
Sitting in the dark blue light of the boy's fish-patterned room, pouring the last 4 ounces of liquid food down his gullet, my mind locked on to the ubiquitous night-night music playing over my shoulder.
It was an istrumental version of a familiar song.
a-b-c-d
e-f-g
how I wonder what you are...
Wait a minute. That wasn't right.
And then I remembered, "Oh ya, Twinkle Twinkle Litte Star uses the same melody as the ABC song..."
And, my mind drifted back into lull-status... However, once the music was back in my brain and the lyrics mix began to run like cerebral karaoke, I was surpised to discover additional unexpectd words weaving in.
twinkle twinkle little star
yes sir, yes sir, three bags full...
Wait a minute. Baa Baa Black Sheep too?? I had no idea.
Having reported this discovery to the missus, she nonchalantly shrugged, as if she'd known this all along and said, "Oh ya, and the music was written by Mozart."
I doubted this, and ran off to Wikipedia, only to discover that she was half-right. Thew whole thing actually started with the melody of an old french tune called: "Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman." Mozzart did, in fact, write 12 variations on the tune, but borrowed his inspiration from the French.
The origianl melody is currently used, in English, for the ABC song, Twinkle Twinkle, and Baa-Baa Black Sheep. Furthermore, it is also used in a smattering of other Northern European children's songs
There, now don't you feel a litte smarter?
No?
Fine, here's one of those Lindsay Lohan pictures everyone is talking about...
It was an istrumental version of a familiar song.
a-b-c-d
e-f-g
how I wonder what you are...
Wait a minute. That wasn't right.
And then I remembered, "Oh ya, Twinkle Twinkle Litte Star uses the same melody as the ABC song..."
And, my mind drifted back into lull-status... However, once the music was back in my brain and the lyrics mix began to run like cerebral karaoke, I was surpised to discover additional unexpectd words weaving in.
twinkle twinkle little star
yes sir, yes sir, three bags full...
Wait a minute. Baa Baa Black Sheep too?? I had no idea.
Having reported this discovery to the missus, she nonchalantly shrugged, as if she'd known this all along and said, "Oh ya, and the music was written by Mozart."
I doubted this, and ran off to Wikipedia, only to discover that she was half-right. Thew whole thing actually started with the melody of an old french tune called: "Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman." Mozzart did, in fact, write 12 variations on the tune, but borrowed his inspiration from the French.
The origianl melody is currently used, in English, for the ABC song, Twinkle Twinkle, and Baa-Baa Black Sheep. Furthermore, it is also used in a smattering of other Northern European children's songs
There, now don't you feel a litte smarter?
No?
Fine, here's one of those Lindsay Lohan pictures everyone is talking about...
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Inog Has Big Meat
Or so he likes to tell me. Frequently...
Apparently he smoked something like a 100 pounds of beef Satuday night and invited my family over for a beef and beer BBQ on Sunday. I'm sure it was good. It alsways is. And it would have been nice to have seen Mrs. Inog, the girls and Ryan's family...
Unfortunately, I had other plans.
Most of Sunday, in fact, was spent on my back, crammed into cramped spaces, installing various new kitchen fixtures. Which leads to an appology for the somewhat cryptic conversation many of you had with my wife over the weekend. We were simply taking a survey to determine which sort of sink was the most popular. Thanks to ya'all who played.
So, anyway, the day was spent with tubes and pipes and wires and whatnot. I only nearly took out an eye once. And tomorrow, there are a few addional bits of harware to procure...
Plumbing, for the most part, I decided today, is fun. It's a puzzle. It's a logic test.
I wore loose pants to accentuate the "crack." I plan to send myself an exhorbitant bill.
And the inevitable punch line to the whole thing is, that I was not able to put Inog's meat into my mouth becasue I was too busy handling pipe.
[rim shot]
Apparently he smoked something like a 100 pounds of beef Satuday night and invited my family over for a beef and beer BBQ on Sunday. I'm sure it was good. It alsways is. And it would have been nice to have seen Mrs. Inog, the girls and Ryan's family...
Unfortunately, I had other plans.
Most of Sunday, in fact, was spent on my back, crammed into cramped spaces, installing various new kitchen fixtures. Which leads to an appology for the somewhat cryptic conversation many of you had with my wife over the weekend. We were simply taking a survey to determine which sort of sink was the most popular. Thanks to ya'all who played.
So, anyway, the day was spent with tubes and pipes and wires and whatnot. I only nearly took out an eye once. And tomorrow, there are a few addional bits of harware to procure...
Plumbing, for the most part, I decided today, is fun. It's a puzzle. It's a logic test.
I wore loose pants to accentuate the "crack." I plan to send myself an exhorbitant bill.
And the inevitable punch line to the whole thing is, that I was not able to put Inog's meat into my mouth becasue I was too busy handling pipe.
[rim shot]
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Salesman
I see him standing there in his tan corduroy pants. His wrinkled polo is the same two colors as his employer's logo. He looks to be in his indeterminant 40's. Man, I think, what a shitty life this guy must have...
He is a sales clerk. Yet, all I see is an irritatingly unnecessary obstacle between me and the durable good I've come to inspect.
"Can I help you?" He asks, with that slight over-eagerness that can only come from a commission sale.
"I seriously doubt it." I think to myself. And it's true. Chances are, if I am standing in your store, and I am looking at any particular fixture, appliance or gizmo, I have already educated myself about it. I have price compared. I have read the specs. I have read the online reviews. I have been to the manufacturer's web site, and I know all of the options, add-ons and trim levels. I seriously doubt that the retail sales clerk will be able to tell me anything that I don't already know.
...Well, except where the damn thing is.
I am prepared to plow past the menace, as I would a street punk begging for change. However, the display in unhelpful, and I suspect (and hope) that the sales clerk might happen to at least know where the merchandice is in his own department.
So, I ask.
And he doesn't.
Quickly, he takes to reading the same product tags on the shelves that I was just reading. By "help," it appears that he is basically offering to help me read. Something, by the way, that I do not need help with.
Turns out he can't do that well either. So, I wander away to read the tags on my own.
My buddy at work recently observed that I have a lot of personal rules. I was surprised by this, but he began to list them for me: no soggy bread, no tomatoes on sandwiches, matching leathers, no added-s to places names, jihad against the coffee plant, etc...
It was a pretty long list. However, I guess there is another rule to add. "Do not ask sales personnel for help." This is a universal rule. I have never once met a sales person who trully knew anything about the product they were selling. This is extra doubly true for big-box retail sales clerks. They are minimum-wage clock punchers, not product experts. Their only goal is to get the commission after you lay down your credit card.
I know people who break this rule. You, in fact, may be one of those people. I cringe when I hear folks say, "Well, I asked the sales guy, and..."
Chances are, what the sales guy said was entirely made up on the spot. At the very least, the information was wildly inaccurate, and led you to spend more money than you needed to.
He is a sales clerk. Yet, all I see is an irritatingly unnecessary obstacle between me and the durable good I've come to inspect.
"Can I help you?" He asks, with that slight over-eagerness that can only come from a commission sale.
"I seriously doubt it." I think to myself. And it's true. Chances are, if I am standing in your store, and I am looking at any particular fixture, appliance or gizmo, I have already educated myself about it. I have price compared. I have read the specs. I have read the online reviews. I have been to the manufacturer's web site, and I know all of the options, add-ons and trim levels. I seriously doubt that the retail sales clerk will be able to tell me anything that I don't already know.
...Well, except where the damn thing is.
I am prepared to plow past the menace, as I would a street punk begging for change. However, the display in unhelpful, and I suspect (and hope) that the sales clerk might happen to at least know where the merchandice is in his own department.
So, I ask.
And he doesn't.
Quickly, he takes to reading the same product tags on the shelves that I was just reading. By "help," it appears that he is basically offering to help me read. Something, by the way, that I do not need help with.
Turns out he can't do that well either. So, I wander away to read the tags on my own.
My buddy at work recently observed that I have a lot of personal rules. I was surprised by this, but he began to list them for me: no soggy bread, no tomatoes on sandwiches, matching leathers, no added-s to places names, jihad against the coffee plant, etc...
It was a pretty long list. However, I guess there is another rule to add. "Do not ask sales personnel for help." This is a universal rule. I have never once met a sales person who trully knew anything about the product they were selling. This is extra doubly true for big-box retail sales clerks. They are minimum-wage clock punchers, not product experts. Their only goal is to get the commission after you lay down your credit card.
I know people who break this rule. You, in fact, may be one of those people. I cringe when I hear folks say, "Well, I asked the sales guy, and..."
Chances are, what the sales guy said was entirely made up on the spot. At the very least, the information was wildly inaccurate, and led you to spend more money than you needed to.
URGENT ALLERT!!
***URGENT ALLERT!!***
On-the-scene news sources from Berlin, Germany report that last night on the red carpet for their latest movie release, Scarlett Johansson and Natalie Portman shared a hot kiss in front of cameras.
I'm still looking for photos of the kiss!
We'll provide continuing updated coverage as we learn more about this exciting developement.
On-the-scene news sources from Berlin, Germany report that last night on the red carpet for their latest movie release, Scarlett Johansson and Natalie Portman shared a hot kiss in front of cameras.
I'm still looking for photos of the kiss!
We'll provide continuing updated coverage as we learn more about this exciting developement.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Quest
Most of you know, or at least have heard, that much of my accademic youth was squandered on rough-hewn scribbles and sketches, in box-frame format, upon poor-quality blue-ruled note book paper.
It started innocently enough, I believe, in Mr. Contreras's English class. Maybe it was Mr. Ihsen's history class. I'm not sure.
It started as a juvenile note, passed in class, a continuation of, and elaboration on, an earlier thought. It was Dave, I believe, who I forgot to mention by name in last night's video... It was Dave who passed the first incarnation. The first draft. The embrionic concept...
I imagine it has been the same in other places and other times. Perhaps John Belushi and Harold Ramis sat stoned, half conscious, in a room smelling of stale pizza and bong water, when John suggested that they could make a movie about a fraternity...
Perhaps Bill Murray and Chevy Chase lay about a fetid bachelor pad in Soho, up to their asses in coke and whores, when Bill got a half-cocked epiphany about making a golf flick...
Dave passed the first draft.
It was a poorly drawn pencil-sketched comic book cover. The moronic action-posed characters were recognizable. They were us.
Well, sort of.
In the beginning, there were four. Tom, Dave, me, and Mark. "Mark?" you ask. Yes, Mark. He has visited the Lounge, but not often...
"But what about Dr. Brian??" Shut up! I'm getting there...
We called it "The Quest." It was a serially-drafted collaborative graphic narative (comic book) and it was drawn, with varying degrees of talent, by Tom, Dave and I. This was late in our freshman year. I was doomed.
In the years that followed, many many many volumes were created. For no reason obvious to us, other folks found some interest in the work, and well-worn copies were handed about for subversive consumption. Guest contributors came and went. New friends were made. Eventually, pre-dental Dr. Brian joined the cast. However, the three core authors remained the same.
Collaboration. It was the key. We fed off each other. We riffed on themes and challenged each other's narative prowess with rediculously loose ends. Alone, it would have never happened. It would never have been anything like what it was. The whole became far greater than just the sum of its parts.
(Which isn't to say that Dave's comic, Dead Honkey, isn't spectacular. In fact, he's starting it up again HERE. For you new readers, yes, the "Brian" character is based loosely on me. "Dave" is a characture of Dave...)
And so, we come to Tom's comment from yesterday, and I have to stop and ponder the appeal. Collaborate with a team to perpetuate the Lounge? Fresh material daily to satiate the masses? Fewer nights spent scanning crapass news sourses looking for filler?? It appeals. Greatly.
Also, though, it brings about an unexpected wave of anxiety. The Lounge has been my baby, subject to my sole direction and design. To bring on a team means to give up control. But perhaps it is a sacrifice worth making to let it live on.
The question is, "who?"
I have ideas. I think I know who has the pazzaz; the Lounge ethic; the twist of lime, as it were...
But, I'm currious. Who would you want to read? Who would bring you to the Lounge? Maybe this is nothing more than an ill-fated boondoggle of hurt feelings, bruised egos and resentment...
Then again, those things are nothing new here in the Lounge.
It started innocently enough, I believe, in Mr. Contreras's English class. Maybe it was Mr. Ihsen's history class. I'm not sure.
It started as a juvenile note, passed in class, a continuation of, and elaboration on, an earlier thought. It was Dave, I believe, who I forgot to mention by name in last night's video... It was Dave who passed the first incarnation. The first draft. The embrionic concept...
I imagine it has been the same in other places and other times. Perhaps John Belushi and Harold Ramis sat stoned, half conscious, in a room smelling of stale pizza and bong water, when John suggested that they could make a movie about a fraternity...
Perhaps Bill Murray and Chevy Chase lay about a fetid bachelor pad in Soho, up to their asses in coke and whores, when Bill got a half-cocked epiphany about making a golf flick...
Dave passed the first draft.
It was a poorly drawn pencil-sketched comic book cover. The moronic action-posed characters were recognizable. They were us.
Well, sort of.
In the beginning, there were four. Tom, Dave, me, and Mark. "Mark?" you ask. Yes, Mark. He has visited the Lounge, but not often...
"But what about Dr. Brian??" Shut up! I'm getting there...
We called it "The Quest." It was a serially-drafted collaborative graphic narative (comic book) and it was drawn, with varying degrees of talent, by Tom, Dave and I. This was late in our freshman year. I was doomed.
In the years that followed, many many many volumes were created. For no reason obvious to us, other folks found some interest in the work, and well-worn copies were handed about for subversive consumption. Guest contributors came and went. New friends were made. Eventually, pre-dental Dr. Brian joined the cast. However, the three core authors remained the same.
Collaboration. It was the key. We fed off each other. We riffed on themes and challenged each other's narative prowess with rediculously loose ends. Alone, it would have never happened. It would never have been anything like what it was. The whole became far greater than just the sum of its parts.
(Which isn't to say that Dave's comic, Dead Honkey, isn't spectacular. In fact, he's starting it up again HERE. For you new readers, yes, the "Brian" character is based loosely on me. "Dave" is a characture of Dave...)
And so, we come to Tom's comment from yesterday, and I have to stop and ponder the appeal. Collaborate with a team to perpetuate the Lounge? Fresh material daily to satiate the masses? Fewer nights spent scanning crapass news sourses looking for filler?? It appeals. Greatly.
Also, though, it brings about an unexpected wave of anxiety. The Lounge has been my baby, subject to my sole direction and design. To bring on a team means to give up control. But perhaps it is a sacrifice worth making to let it live on.
The question is, "who?"
I have ideas. I think I know who has the pazzaz; the Lounge ethic; the twist of lime, as it were...
But, I'm currious. Who would you want to read? Who would bring you to the Lounge? Maybe this is nothing more than an ill-fated boondoggle of hurt feelings, bruised egos and resentment...
Then again, those things are nothing new here in the Lounge.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Parenting Tips
As a parent, and a world-class blogger, I feel it is important to share with the world a few useful parenting lessons that I have learned. (usually the hard way...)
And don't worry, no aquarium fish were harmed in the learning of the lessons...
And don't worry, no aquarium fish were harmed in the learning of the lessons...
Happy Thoughts
I don't tell my daughter to say her prayers before going to bed. It would be dishonest and misleading, not to mention hypocritical. I'd rather she buy into the fanciful Tooth Ferry or the Easter Bunny than some vengeful bearded man in the clouds waiting to judge with wrath our every move.
No. there will be none of that nonsense in my house.
Instead, I tell her to have happy thoughts as she settles in under her blanket and closes her eyes. "Have Happy Thoughts" and "I love you" are the last things she hears before sleep.
Sometimes, however, being the inquisitive girl that she is, she will ask: "But what are my happy thoughts, Daddy?"
"Playing with your friends," I will say, "or kisses from Daddy..." the list grows longer as she and I take turns adding new entries.
It's not a bad way to end the day, and on occasion I will lie quietly in the dark making my own list in my head as I drift toward sleep...
"So, what are your Happy Thoughts Mr. G&T?" You may ask.
Well, let me tell you:
-Bright smiles from my children as I walk in the door after work.
-The smell of meat grilling over charcoal.
-Hot Wings and cold beer.
-Bonus checks.
-Naps on the futon.
-Singing songs badly with my daughter in the car.
-Comfortable shoes.
-The Smell of fresh cut grass.
-Fat fresh Mackerel at a Sushi Bar.
-Heaving Cleavage.
-A tall glass of Scotch and a long cigar on the back deck under a full moon on a warm summer night.
mmm... I'm getting sleepy. I don't suppose you have any happy thoughts, do you?
No. there will be none of that nonsense in my house.
Instead, I tell her to have happy thoughts as she settles in under her blanket and closes her eyes. "Have Happy Thoughts" and "I love you" are the last things she hears before sleep.
Sometimes, however, being the inquisitive girl that she is, she will ask: "But what are my happy thoughts, Daddy?"
"Playing with your friends," I will say, "or kisses from Daddy..." the list grows longer as she and I take turns adding new entries.
It's not a bad way to end the day, and on occasion I will lie quietly in the dark making my own list in my head as I drift toward sleep...
"So, what are your Happy Thoughts Mr. G&T?" You may ask.
Well, let me tell you:
-Bright smiles from my children as I walk in the door after work.
-The smell of meat grilling over charcoal.
-Hot Wings and cold beer.
-Bonus checks.
-Naps on the futon.
-Singing songs badly with my daughter in the car.
-Comfortable shoes.
-The Smell of fresh cut grass.
-Fat fresh Mackerel at a Sushi Bar.
-Heaving Cleavage.
-A tall glass of Scotch and a long cigar on the back deck under a full moon on a warm summer night.
mmm... I'm getting sleepy. I don't suppose you have any happy thoughts, do you?
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Jesus, Here I Thought the Republicans Were Morons...
Listen, I apologize here and now for the 2000 election. I apologize for voting for Bush during that first round. I was duped by Cheney's minions into believing Bush was an intelligent bi-lingual moderate.
I fess up. I take responsibility for my errors.
I voted Libertarian in 2004.
And now, here we are in 2008, with a lackluster Republican field made up of a Mormon, a Baptist and a POW. Christ, it sounds like a bad joke.
Huckabee will likely pray on his knees before making the big decision, so if something goes wrong, he can blame God. Romney, likewise, will search for the burning in his bosom before making a big call.
And McCain? Well, he'll be just fine until some one shows him the Queen of Diamonds... (go look it up)
Anyway, I'm not looking forward to another 8 years of this crap. So, really, it's up to the Democrats to get us out of this.
Now their choice of two senators is simple, really if you think about it. They both want to raise taxes to astronomical levels to pay for servcies for people who are too lazy to work. They want the government to run every aspect and detail of our lives. They want to overrule the 2nd Amendment. They want to increase the power scope, and influence of the federal bureaucracy and Labor Unions.
Fine. It's no worse than the corruption and greed we've seen over the past 8 years.
All I want is someone with a brain who can string multi-syllabic utterances together in a cohesive sentence structure. They're all going to squeeze my paycheck like a fatted udder.
So, here it is, with the current Republican administration wallowing in the worst approval ratings since Hoover, this race is the Democrats' to lose, and what do they do?? How do they mark this momentous occasion? What is their grand strategy??
Do they give it to the left-leaning, handsome, well-spoken, centrally-appealing, Senator from Illinois, with his message of hope, winning smile and strange lure for moderate Republicans??
No.
They fumble.
They give it to Bill's wife.
Half of the Democrats hate her. All of the Republicans hate her. Very few of the independents can stomach her.
Yet, the bare majority of voting Democrats, with absolutely no eye toward ELECTABILITY, voted with their hearts rather than their heads. Obama has the mass appeal necessary to defeat the dull cookie cutter right-wing candidate, no matter who it happens to be.
Hillary cannot. She cannot win. Perhaps if she was running against Cheney, but even then, it would be too close to call.
So, thanks a lot Democrats. Thanks for nothing.
Good lord, 8 years of President McCain??
10-to-1, he finds an excuse to bomb Hanoi...
I fess up. I take responsibility for my errors.
I voted Libertarian in 2004.
And now, here we are in 2008, with a lackluster Republican field made up of a Mormon, a Baptist and a POW. Christ, it sounds like a bad joke.
Huckabee will likely pray on his knees before making the big decision, so if something goes wrong, he can blame God. Romney, likewise, will search for the burning in his bosom before making a big call.
And McCain? Well, he'll be just fine until some one shows him the Queen of Diamonds... (go look it up)
Anyway, I'm not looking forward to another 8 years of this crap. So, really, it's up to the Democrats to get us out of this.
Now their choice of two senators is simple, really if you think about it. They both want to raise taxes to astronomical levels to pay for servcies for people who are too lazy to work. They want the government to run every aspect and detail of our lives. They want to overrule the 2nd Amendment. They want to increase the power scope, and influence of the federal bureaucracy and Labor Unions.
Fine. It's no worse than the corruption and greed we've seen over the past 8 years.
All I want is someone with a brain who can string multi-syllabic utterances together in a cohesive sentence structure. They're all going to squeeze my paycheck like a fatted udder.
So, here it is, with the current Republican administration wallowing in the worst approval ratings since Hoover, this race is the Democrats' to lose, and what do they do?? How do they mark this momentous occasion? What is their grand strategy??
Do they give it to the left-leaning, handsome, well-spoken, centrally-appealing, Senator from Illinois, with his message of hope, winning smile and strange lure for moderate Republicans??
No.
They fumble.
They give it to Bill's wife.
Half of the Democrats hate her. All of the Republicans hate her. Very few of the independents can stomach her.
Yet, the bare majority of voting Democrats, with absolutely no eye toward ELECTABILITY, voted with their hearts rather than their heads. Obama has the mass appeal necessary to defeat the dull cookie cutter right-wing candidate, no matter who it happens to be.
Hillary cannot. She cannot win. Perhaps if she was running against Cheney, but even then, it would be too close to call.
So, thanks a lot Democrats. Thanks for nothing.
Good lord, 8 years of President McCain??
10-to-1, he finds an excuse to bomb Hanoi...
Duct Tape
I have a wart. It is on the base knuckle of my right index finger. It has been there before. For years, in fact.
It first emerged when I was about 11 or 12. It was flat and unobtrussive. It caused little discomfort,and often I would ignore its existence.
Then, in my latee teen years, I became a little obsessed with it. I would pick at it. I would clip at it. I would burn it.
All of these things, of course, hurt like a motherfucker. And so, sometime in college, I actually medicated it. Compound W, to be precise, but it did not work. After several attempts, I was left essentially with a black and bloody scab with a fresh wart growing happily underneath.
And then, one day, about three years ago, it shriveled up and disappeared.
"That was that," I thought. Still, it seemed a little odd. it was a part of me, or at least, it had become so, but then it simply receeded and vanished. It would be like having one of your toes pack up and move out. It simply was a bit odd.
although, it was kinda nice.
Well, now, it's back. Having been all-but-forgotten, it has reemerged, back in its old spot, back to its old size. And the skin around it is unhappy, cracked and stinging a wee bit. Not bad, mind you, just enough to be irritating.
Something has to be done. I've been eyeing the the nail clippers and lime juice...
Rumor has it, though, that the glue on the business side of duct tape bears anti-wart medicinal qualitites. Sooo, duct tape it will be. Couldn't hurt, I suppose, to wear a small spot of tape on my knuckle for a few days.
(And now, Dr. B will make a snarky comment about the thing that used to be on my nose...)
It first emerged when I was about 11 or 12. It was flat and unobtrussive. It caused little discomfort,and often I would ignore its existence.
Then, in my latee teen years, I became a little obsessed with it. I would pick at it. I would clip at it. I would burn it.
All of these things, of course, hurt like a motherfucker. And so, sometime in college, I actually medicated it. Compound W, to be precise, but it did not work. After several attempts, I was left essentially with a black and bloody scab with a fresh wart growing happily underneath.
And then, one day, about three years ago, it shriveled up and disappeared.
"That was that," I thought. Still, it seemed a little odd. it was a part of me, or at least, it had become so, but then it simply receeded and vanished. It would be like having one of your toes pack up and move out. It simply was a bit odd.
although, it was kinda nice.
Well, now, it's back. Having been all-but-forgotten, it has reemerged, back in its old spot, back to its old size. And the skin around it is unhappy, cracked and stinging a wee bit. Not bad, mind you, just enough to be irritating.
Something has to be done. I've been eyeing the the nail clippers and lime juice...
Rumor has it, though, that the glue on the business side of duct tape bears anti-wart medicinal qualitites. Sooo, duct tape it will be. Couldn't hurt, I suppose, to wear a small spot of tape on my knuckle for a few days.
(And now, Dr. B will make a snarky comment about the thing that used to be on my nose...)
Sunday, February 03, 2008
XLII
It wasn't actually Christmas, but it felt like it. Tots running amock, dodging and weaving, smaller kids working hard to keep up with bigger kids...
OK, not christmas, but certainly holiday-ish. It was Super Bowl Sunday, of course, and I couldn't really care less. I mean, it's just another sporting event, but it's one that rides such a rediculous wave of hyperbole and hype that is has trully achieved holiday-like stature. Families come together, meals are planned, groceries are purchased in astonishing ammounts.
So the game was on, mostly to provide the appropriately festive background noise for the day. One friend, and frequent reader, brought her children by to play with the Ginlettes, while their dad was away watcing the game with actual SPORTS FANS.
The girls (being roughly similar in age) shrieked for four hours while making a magnificent mess, and the boys, both bracketing the 1-year mark, made grunting noises and chased each other up and down the hall.
Then another Lounge-friendly family, dad sharing my view on the entertainmet value of professional sports, arrived with their brood-of-three, and we had ourselves a splendid tot-fiesta....
I made hot wings and drank beer...
Then, in a lull, I found myself staring transfixed at the flashing blinking colors on the screen. The reminder was everywhere, in case anyone forgot, I suppose, that this was Super Bowl XLII.
"42," for those sports fans who can't read Roman numerals (and really, I have to assume there are a lot of you out there...)
(And no, this isn't going to spin into a discussion about Douglas Adams...)
42. There have been 42 of these fucking monstrosities, and there is no end in sight. It's gone on longer than I've been alive, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
But the question is, how far can it go? Next year will be XLIII. Then it will be XLIV, and so on... Eight years from now it will be "Super Bowl L," and that will just look stupid on the marketing ads.
But seriously, how far will it go? It's not easy to contemplate a world without the Super Bowl, but like any endeavor pursued by man, there is destined to be an end. Rome ended (although their numers live on...). The British Empire shrunk. Istanbul was Constaninople... Everything comes to an end...
But when you uses a sequential numering system in the title of your thing, whatever your thing is, it suggests that you are counting down to the end, or at least counting up the number of times you were able to skate with your shiny pile of bullshit.
How far will it go?? Will there be a Super Bowl C? CC? Could there possibly be an M? Will it outlast the United States itself? I mean, thanks to the eforts of Cheney, we are well on our way to the nostalgic dung heap of history (but I digress...)
It's the same problem faced with other numerically-titled events. UFC 83, for instance, or the 80th Anual Acadamy Awards. Good lord, 80 years of glad-handing movie stars for doing the easiest job in the world??
When does the relevance run out? The problem with the Super Bowl is this strange holiday aura. I spent the afternoon with 5 adults, not one of whom gave one rat's ass about the game whatsoever. Yet, we celebrated, in a sense of speaking, if gnawing on snacks around the tall table counts as celebrating. We celebrated a holiday we did not believe in, and that demonstrates the reason why the game will go on.
The end of Super Bowl Sunday, if an end shall come, will not be in my life time. Not, that is, unless our alien overlords come down and destroy us during half-time...
OK, not christmas, but certainly holiday-ish. It was Super Bowl Sunday, of course, and I couldn't really care less. I mean, it's just another sporting event, but it's one that rides such a rediculous wave of hyperbole and hype that is has trully achieved holiday-like stature. Families come together, meals are planned, groceries are purchased in astonishing ammounts.
So the game was on, mostly to provide the appropriately festive background noise for the day. One friend, and frequent reader, brought her children by to play with the Ginlettes, while their dad was away watcing the game with actual SPORTS FANS.
The girls (being roughly similar in age) shrieked for four hours while making a magnificent mess, and the boys, both bracketing the 1-year mark, made grunting noises and chased each other up and down the hall.
Then another Lounge-friendly family, dad sharing my view on the entertainmet value of professional sports, arrived with their brood-of-three, and we had ourselves a splendid tot-fiesta....
I made hot wings and drank beer...
Then, in a lull, I found myself staring transfixed at the flashing blinking colors on the screen. The reminder was everywhere, in case anyone forgot, I suppose, that this was Super Bowl XLII.
"42," for those sports fans who can't read Roman numerals (and really, I have to assume there are a lot of you out there...)
(And no, this isn't going to spin into a discussion about Douglas Adams...)
42. There have been 42 of these fucking monstrosities, and there is no end in sight. It's gone on longer than I've been alive, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
But the question is, how far can it go? Next year will be XLIII. Then it will be XLIV, and so on... Eight years from now it will be "Super Bowl L," and that will just look stupid on the marketing ads.
But seriously, how far will it go? It's not easy to contemplate a world without the Super Bowl, but like any endeavor pursued by man, there is destined to be an end. Rome ended (although their numers live on...). The British Empire shrunk. Istanbul was Constaninople... Everything comes to an end...
But when you uses a sequential numering system in the title of your thing, whatever your thing is, it suggests that you are counting down to the end, or at least counting up the number of times you were able to skate with your shiny pile of bullshit.
How far will it go?? Will there be a Super Bowl C? CC? Could there possibly be an M? Will it outlast the United States itself? I mean, thanks to the eforts of Cheney, we are well on our way to the nostalgic dung heap of history (but I digress...)
It's the same problem faced with other numerically-titled events. UFC 83, for instance, or the 80th Anual Acadamy Awards. Good lord, 80 years of glad-handing movie stars for doing the easiest job in the world??
When does the relevance run out? The problem with the Super Bowl is this strange holiday aura. I spent the afternoon with 5 adults, not one of whom gave one rat's ass about the game whatsoever. Yet, we celebrated, in a sense of speaking, if gnawing on snacks around the tall table counts as celebrating. We celebrated a holiday we did not believe in, and that demonstrates the reason why the game will go on.
The end of Super Bowl Sunday, if an end shall come, will not be in my life time. Not, that is, unless our alien overlords come down and destroy us during half-time...
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Up Helly Aa
(No Helly, this has nothing to do with you...)
Fire, apparently is the key ingredient. Throw in some vikings, swords, booze and a burning long boat, and you, my friend, have yourself one hell of a festival. A fucking VIKING festival, alive and well in the 21st century.
Does "Up-Helly-Aa" celebrate culture? Sure! Does it create a mid-winter vacation destination in the Shetland islands?? You bet!
Dose it kick ass to to dress in furs, get drunk and burn shit up?? HELL YA!!
And that, it appears, is the point.
Now certainly, the festival is a celebration of an ancient and influential culture. But even if it were nothing more than a collective excuse to get rowdy, that would be OK too. Bon Fire carousing is an inherent part of the human experience, one that is not exercised nearly often enough in these over-sanitzed over-safe times.
But folks like fire. They need it. That is why good clean law-abiding folk in Oregon wander to Washingtion in July to buy rediculously-illegal fireworks to take home. It is why the ancient Druids had Beltane. It is why 40,000 people brave the Nevada desert every Summer for Burningman.
There are too many rules, too many customs, too many manners. There are too many restrictions, obligations and limitations. Sometimes, sometimes, we just need to wear primitive clothes (or maybe no clothes at all) and drink, smoke or eat whatever it takes to free ourselves from our inhibitions and anxieties. Sometimes we need to swing our blood-stained viking war hammer at the moon, or stomp around the bon fire with stag antlers on our heads. Sometimes we need to feel the searing heat and stand too close to the all-consuming combustion. Sometimes, we just need to let it go, let it all go.
(Thanks to Fred for cluing me into the Up-Helly-Aa festival...)
Fire, apparently is the key ingredient. Throw in some vikings, swords, booze and a burning long boat, and you, my friend, have yourself one hell of a festival. A fucking VIKING festival, alive and well in the 21st century.
Does "Up-Helly-Aa" celebrate culture? Sure! Does it create a mid-winter vacation destination in the Shetland islands?? You bet!
Dose it kick ass to to dress in furs, get drunk and burn shit up?? HELL YA!!
And that, it appears, is the point.
Now certainly, the festival is a celebration of an ancient and influential culture. But even if it were nothing more than a collective excuse to get rowdy, that would be OK too. Bon Fire carousing is an inherent part of the human experience, one that is not exercised nearly often enough in these over-sanitzed over-safe times.
But folks like fire. They need it. That is why good clean law-abiding folk in Oregon wander to Washingtion in July to buy rediculously-illegal fireworks to take home. It is why the ancient Druids had Beltane. It is why 40,000 people brave the Nevada desert every Summer for Burningman.
There are too many rules, too many customs, too many manners. There are too many restrictions, obligations and limitations. Sometimes, sometimes, we just need to wear primitive clothes (or maybe no clothes at all) and drink, smoke or eat whatever it takes to free ourselves from our inhibitions and anxieties. Sometimes we need to swing our blood-stained viking war hammer at the moon, or stomp around the bon fire with stag antlers on our heads. Sometimes we need to feel the searing heat and stand too close to the all-consuming combustion. Sometimes, we just need to let it go, let it all go.
(Thanks to Fred for cluing me into the Up-Helly-Aa festival...)
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Die Freundliche Himmel
German travel agency, Ossi Urlaub, has announced that it is booking an all-nude charter flight from the German town of Erfurt to the popular Baltic Sea resort of Usedom.
55 seats are available. Each ticket runs the approximate Euro equivalent of $735 (US). (I suppose this means a long line for the lavatory with 26 couples and one polyamorous threesome queuing down the aisle waiting to join the mile-high club...)
This, of course, piqued my prurient interest. However, while I momentarily considered chartering a similar G&T Lounge all-nude flight to Vegas, the horror of reality has dashed my dreams.
First, I would worry about turbulence. Bouncy aircraft would lead to jiggling. Lots of it, and probably not of the pleasant variety. Which leads to seat belts, which would chafe, I suppose, were one not wearing pants.
Second, there are many of you that I really don't want to see naked.
Which leads to my third point. On most flights, when I fly alone, I usually get seated next to the only other large man on the plane. So, on the all-nude G&T flight, I would very likely get sat next to Tom and/or Inog, and really, um, no offense, but no. No. No No. (Mitch maybe, or Dr. B., but I digress...)
Fourth, there are some of you who would be very popular on an all-nude G&T flight. You know who you are. And really, it should be all about me. I don't want to share the spotlight, so go put some clothes on, goddamnit!
Alas, the dream of an all-nude G&T charter flight was but a flicker of hope, momentary, ethereal, but not meant to last. The Germans though, they really know how to put their dreams into motion. Take Farfegnugen for instance, or Lebensraum. Now there's a German idea that really took off...
55 seats are available. Each ticket runs the approximate Euro equivalent of $735 (US). (I suppose this means a long line for the lavatory with 26 couples and one polyamorous threesome queuing down the aisle waiting to join the mile-high club...)
This, of course, piqued my prurient interest. However, while I momentarily considered chartering a similar G&T Lounge all-nude flight to Vegas, the horror of reality has dashed my dreams.
First, I would worry about turbulence. Bouncy aircraft would lead to jiggling. Lots of it, and probably not of the pleasant variety. Which leads to seat belts, which would chafe, I suppose, were one not wearing pants.
Second, there are many of you that I really don't want to see naked.
Which leads to my third point. On most flights, when I fly alone, I usually get seated next to the only other large man on the plane. So, on the all-nude G&T flight, I would very likely get sat next to Tom and/or Inog, and really, um, no offense, but no. No. No No. (Mitch maybe, or Dr. B., but I digress...)
Fourth, there are some of you who would be very popular on an all-nude G&T flight. You know who you are. And really, it should be all about me. I don't want to share the spotlight, so go put some clothes on, goddamnit!
Alas, the dream of an all-nude G&T charter flight was but a flicker of hope, momentary, ethereal, but not meant to last. The Germans though, they really know how to put their dreams into motion. Take Farfegnugen for instance, or Lebensraum. Now there's a German idea that really took off...
From the "Things You Will Never Know" File
Sniff hard.
Go ahead, take a whiff
Inhale deeply. What do you smell? What odor is streaming into your nasal cavity, triggering your mighty array of olfactory neural receptors.
Go ahead. What do you smell?
You may smell many things, depending on who you are or where you are, the possibilities are endless.
Well, not exactly endless. I mean, there is one thing you will never smell, and NO, I'm not talking about Christina Ricci's beaver. (Although, I'm certain it smells of sunshine and strawberries...)
No, I'm talking about the inside of your own nose. You will never smell it. You will never in life identify an odor as the stink of your own sinuses. Sorry. Won't happen. Can't happen. It's just not gonna happen.
I suppose there are other things you will never do either, like calculate Pi or find true happiness, but really, the nose thing is the biggie.
Go ahead, take a whiff
Inhale deeply. What do you smell? What odor is streaming into your nasal cavity, triggering your mighty array of olfactory neural receptors.
Go ahead. What do you smell?
You may smell many things, depending on who you are or where you are, the possibilities are endless.
Well, not exactly endless. I mean, there is one thing you will never smell, and NO, I'm not talking about Christina Ricci's beaver. (Although, I'm certain it smells of sunshine and strawberries...)
No, I'm talking about the inside of your own nose. You will never smell it. You will never in life identify an odor as the stink of your own sinuses. Sorry. Won't happen. Can't happen. It's just not gonna happen.
I suppose there are other things you will never do either, like calculate Pi or find true happiness, but really, the nose thing is the biggie.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Newton: That Unlucky Bugger
Sir Isaac Newton:
-Legendary genius and father of modern Physics
-Devoted religious philosopher
-Rumored "man's man" (so to speak...)
Whichever, though, he was unlucky to be sure. To draw inspiration for his foundation-rattling discovery of gravitational acceleration from having been bonked by an apple... It's just embarrassing.
(OK, sure, so common historical speculation has rationalized away the apple-noggin incident, for the literary purposes of this post, we shall all agree to assume the apocryphal tale to be true.)
And so he was, lying in the shade of that fruit tree one warm summer afternoon. The soft warm breeze blowing in from the channel, across the rural pasture. The leaves rustle and the branch sways, breaking apart the last brittle fibers of the straining stem.
And at once, the apple does something odd. The Apple, which had been supported above the ground, motionless (but for the breeze), with no visible force acting upon it, begins to accelerate from zero. It transitions from non-motion to motion in a very direct vector toward our young philosopher's head.
Whereas, he may or may not have been daydreaming about the fine tanned hide of his saucy stable boy. Regardless, his attention is immediately drawn to the apple and the sore spot on the top of his head.
Now, he had already been working on a few other ideas, which may also apply. Well, Three ideas to be specific. Three general laws of the universe:
1. A physical body will remain at rest, or continue to move at a constant velocity, unless an external net force acts upon it.
2. The net force on a body is equal to its mass multiplied by its acceleration.
3. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
And so, he surmised, since the apple accelerated, as everything else seemed to, toward the ground, there must be a force at work. That force, of course, being gravity.
And the point?
Well, this all came up rather suddenly today as I read of t an Army spy satellite, about the size of a U-Haul truck, which has run out of juice. Its orbit is decaying and the good folks at the pentagon have no way to steer it.
Soooo.....
It's coming back home. Earth that is. Terra firma. Newton's invisible force is acting upon the slab of space junk, and soon, it will make a nose dive toward the ground. And THAT has lead the Army to issue a notice of concern.
I mean sure, the Earth is a relatively big place. There is plenty of open ground and even more open water. But with 8 billion tail-less tree monkeys in pantsuits wandering around, there is always a possibility.
And just how freakin unlucky would that person have to be?? After all, Newton had only to deal with the aftermath of falling fruit. But someone, somewhere, who is currently alive today may very well be dead in just a few weeks because a veritable spy bus is about to fall from the sky.
Of course, that might lead to a lawsuit.
Hmm.. Maybe we should add "Falling Satellites" to our phone book ad.
-Legendary genius and father of modern Physics
-Devoted religious philosopher
-Rumored "man's man" (so to speak...)
Whichever, though, he was unlucky to be sure. To draw inspiration for his foundation-rattling discovery of gravitational acceleration from having been bonked by an apple... It's just embarrassing.
(OK, sure, so common historical speculation has rationalized away the apple-noggin incident, for the literary purposes of this post, we shall all agree to assume the apocryphal tale to be true.)
And so he was, lying in the shade of that fruit tree one warm summer afternoon. The soft warm breeze blowing in from the channel, across the rural pasture. The leaves rustle and the branch sways, breaking apart the last brittle fibers of the straining stem.
And at once, the apple does something odd. The Apple, which had been supported above the ground, motionless (but for the breeze), with no visible force acting upon it, begins to accelerate from zero. It transitions from non-motion to motion in a very direct vector toward our young philosopher's head.
Whereas, he may or may not have been daydreaming about the fine tanned hide of his saucy stable boy. Regardless, his attention is immediately drawn to the apple and the sore spot on the top of his head.
Now, he had already been working on a few other ideas, which may also apply. Well, Three ideas to be specific. Three general laws of the universe:
1. A physical body will remain at rest, or continue to move at a constant velocity, unless an external net force acts upon it.
2. The net force on a body is equal to its mass multiplied by its acceleration.
3. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
And so, he surmised, since the apple accelerated, as everything else seemed to, toward the ground, there must be a force at work. That force, of course, being gravity.
And the point?
Well, this all came up rather suddenly today as I read of t an Army spy satellite, about the size of a U-Haul truck, which has run out of juice. Its orbit is decaying and the good folks at the pentagon have no way to steer it.
Soooo.....
It's coming back home. Earth that is. Terra firma. Newton's invisible force is acting upon the slab of space junk, and soon, it will make a nose dive toward the ground. And THAT has lead the Army to issue a notice of concern.
I mean sure, the Earth is a relatively big place. There is plenty of open ground and even more open water. But with 8 billion tail-less tree monkeys in pantsuits wandering around, there is always a possibility.
And just how freakin unlucky would that person have to be?? After all, Newton had only to deal with the aftermath of falling fruit. But someone, somewhere, who is currently alive today may very well be dead in just a few weeks because a veritable spy bus is about to fall from the sky.
Of course, that might lead to a lawsuit.
Hmm.. Maybe we should add "Falling Satellites" to our phone book ad.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Egg
"The secret ingredient is mayonnaise," he said.
"Holy Christ! Why??" I cringed in return.
My newly-acquainted roommate dumped the dollop of white sandwich spread into the mix and started to stir with simple rhythm. The lumpy oily mayo dissolved smoothly into the sticky protein suspension of the egg yolks, as the whisk scuffed-scuffed-scuffed the bottom of the bowl.
The pan was hot and slick with sausage grease. The egg batter bubbled and sizzled as the globular proteins quickly broke down. Little nibblets of crispy sausage bits pocked the smooth gelatinous egg skin.
Breakfast was on.
So, mayonnaise or no, the meal was great. The sausage was good. The eggs were just fine.
Funny though, I'd never considered adding mayo to my scramble, but apparently it was his family recipe. My family's recipe was more simple; a little milk with a dash of salt and pepper.
I mean, it's just scrambled eggs. It's about as simple as food gets. However, everyone seems to have their own way about it.
Overdone, underdone, fluffy, sticky, Tabasco, ketchup, basil, cream...
I like mine on the done-side, a little black pepper and a shot of Frank's Redhot. I'll also take some cheese on top if you've got it. Although if you make them for me, I'll eat them your way...
"Holy Christ! Why??" I cringed in return.
My newly-acquainted roommate dumped the dollop of white sandwich spread into the mix and started to stir with simple rhythm. The lumpy oily mayo dissolved smoothly into the sticky protein suspension of the egg yolks, as the whisk scuffed-scuffed-scuffed the bottom of the bowl.
The pan was hot and slick with sausage grease. The egg batter bubbled and sizzled as the globular proteins quickly broke down. Little nibblets of crispy sausage bits pocked the smooth gelatinous egg skin.
Breakfast was on.
So, mayonnaise or no, the meal was great. The sausage was good. The eggs were just fine.Funny though, I'd never considered adding mayo to my scramble, but apparently it was his family recipe. My family's recipe was more simple; a little milk with a dash of salt and pepper.
I mean, it's just scrambled eggs. It's about as simple as food gets. However, everyone seems to have their own way about it.
Overdone, underdone, fluffy, sticky, Tabasco, ketchup, basil, cream...
I like mine on the done-side, a little black pepper and a shot of Frank's Redhot. I'll also take some cheese on top if you've got it. Although if you make them for me, I'll eat them your way...
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Block Break
It is no secret, judging from the past week's posts (or lack thereof) that I have a block. I've got nothing. The well is dry, the tide is out, the mojo is low.
So, time for a break.
Don't worry, nothing is wrong. I'll be back next week.
So, time for a break.
Don't worry, nothing is wrong. I'll be back next week.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Weekend Observations.
1) My friends are old. Very old.
2) Plaintiff's lawyers are short. Very short. Almost Hobbit like.
3) Cheap scotch does not taste any better after a bottle of cheap wine.
4) A three-year-old girl can vomit twice her own body mass.
5) Christmas lights come down faster than they go up.
2) Plaintiff's lawyers are short. Very short. Almost Hobbit like.
3) Cheap scotch does not taste any better after a bottle of cheap wine.
4) A three-year-old girl can vomit twice her own body mass.
5) Christmas lights come down faster than they go up.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Two First Names
Ron Paul
Republican. Libertarian. Medical Doctor. Crank.
I'm supposed to vote for him. All of the candidate surveys that I've taken tell me so. He and I, with our anti-government, social liberalism and fiscal conservatism, apparently see eye-to-eye on most issues, though not all.
Problem is, he has two first names. How can I vote for a man with two first names??
Second problem is, I'm a registered (R) in Oregon. (For now anyway) By the time the Oregon (R) primary rolls around, Dr. Paul will be long gone from the ballot. Let's just say his single-digit returns are not going to pull him through Super Tuesday.
So what's left? Not much. Watered-down socialists on the left. Bible-thumping bigots on the right.
I dunno? Giuliani? Maybe?
McCain? Eh...
Can't figure it out for yourself? Click on the compass for help:
Republican. Libertarian. Medical Doctor. Crank.
I'm supposed to vote for him. All of the candidate surveys that I've taken tell me so. He and I, with our anti-government, social liberalism and fiscal conservatism, apparently see eye-to-eye on most issues, though not all.
Problem is, he has two first names. How can I vote for a man with two first names??
Second problem is, I'm a registered (R) in Oregon. (For now anyway) By the time the Oregon (R) primary rolls around, Dr. Paul will be long gone from the ballot. Let's just say his single-digit returns are not going to pull him through Super Tuesday.
So what's left? Not much. Watered-down socialists on the left. Bible-thumping bigots on the right.
I dunno? Giuliani? Maybe?
McCain? Eh...
Can't figure it out for yourself? Click on the compass for help:
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Think Big
The girl's nightly bedtime ritual consists of potty, PJs, three books, teeth brushing, a song and a cup of fresh water.
The books vary, favorites coming and going. Tonight, however, the first book was Dora's Bedtime Adventure. (Not exactly Dostoevsky...)
At one point in the story, Dora and her pals lay in the lush green tropical grass and make wishes upon the Wishing Star. They wish for nice things like a warm blanket, hot chocolate and hugs.
The girl was following closely along, and, as Dora tends to be an interactive exercise, I asked her, "So, if you got to make a wish upon the Wishing Star, what would you ask for?"
Her response, without hesitating, "A planet."
Hmm... well OK.
The books vary, favorites coming and going. Tonight, however, the first book was Dora's Bedtime Adventure. (Not exactly Dostoevsky...)
At one point in the story, Dora and her pals lay in the lush green tropical grass and make wishes upon the Wishing Star. They wish for nice things like a warm blanket, hot chocolate and hugs.
The girl was following closely along, and, as Dora tends to be an interactive exercise, I asked her, "So, if you got to make a wish upon the Wishing Star, what would you ask for?"
Her response, without hesitating, "A planet."
Hmm... well OK.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Sunshine and Bunnies
In some small measure of repentance for yesterday's affront to morality, I offer this token: today, we talk about sunshine and bunnies.
Sunshine. Warm, golden rays of happiness falling serenely to Earth, feeding the leafy green trees, and giving light to the day.
Well, maybe not "Warm," per se, more like "Hot" really. And it doesn't really fall to Earth, does it? No, it really blasts away at the earth, eroding our delicate protective atmosphere with solar wind, ultra violet rays and Gama radiation!
And while the leafy green trees are happy, the Polar Bears aren't. I mean, really hasn't there been enough global warming? So, all of the ice melts, the seas rise and the lowlands flood, causing massive global devastation and death, hurray for the big old ball of burning fucking gas in the sky!
Not to mention how easily my sensitive Irish skin burns and blisters under the sun's angry onslaught. And my eyes! The sun is blinding with its pulsating fury...
And of course it is scheduled to explode and destroy us all in 5 billion years.
OK. OK. OK... Forget the sun.
Bunnies. Let's talk about bunnies.
Happy cuddly furry bunnies. With the big floppy ears. With the twitchy, uneasy nose, twitching... twitching... Overgrown whiskers also twitching... unsteady... jumpy... skittish... unpredictable...
And the giant razor-sharp teeth... Chomping. Biting. Gnawing, with the crushing power of an iron bolt cutter!
Jesus Christ! Forget it. I'm going back to the poop licking.
Sunshine. Warm, golden rays of happiness falling serenely to Earth, feeding the leafy green trees, and giving light to the day.
Well, maybe not "Warm," per se, more like "Hot" really. And it doesn't really fall to Earth, does it? No, it really blasts away at the earth, eroding our delicate protective atmosphere with solar wind, ultra violet rays and Gama radiation!
And while the leafy green trees are happy, the Polar Bears aren't. I mean, really hasn't there been enough global warming? So, all of the ice melts, the seas rise and the lowlands flood, causing massive global devastation and death, hurray for the big old ball of burning fucking gas in the sky!
Not to mention how easily my sensitive Irish skin burns and blisters under the sun's angry onslaught. And my eyes! The sun is blinding with its pulsating fury...
And of course it is scheduled to explode and destroy us all in 5 billion years.
OK. OK. OK... Forget the sun.
Bunnies. Let's talk about bunnies.
Happy cuddly furry bunnies. With the big floppy ears. With the twitchy, uneasy nose, twitching... twitching... Overgrown whiskers also twitching... unsteady... jumpy... skittish... unpredictable...
And the giant razor-sharp teeth... Chomping. Biting. Gnawing, with the crushing power of an iron bolt cutter!
Jesus Christ! Forget it. I'm going back to the poop licking.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
The Most Horrible Thing I've Seen
At the bottom of this post is a link to the most horrible thing I've seen.
And that, my friends, is saying a lot.
I have a job in which I see horrible things every day. Photos, videos, police reports and medical records containing the most-foul images and descriptions you can imagine. I worked with Carl for a time, who had a special savant-like gift for finding "things" on the Internet, and who also liked to share those things.
I used to play Internet games with Mitch, long before the days of censorship or regulation. We would race to see who could find the worst abominations.
And yet, somehow, the link at the bottom of this post is worse than any of them.
I'm not going to tell you who showed me the Most Horrible Thing. I will say, though, that the person also showed it to their mother. Fortunately, they did not show it to my mother.
BEFORE WE GET TO IT
I would first like to post a couple of videos which ONLY show the reactions of other people who are watching the video. This is NOT the ACTUAL video itself. These are merely the reaction shots.
So, now, surely you must be curious. Perhaps you have an idea what it's all about. Perhaps you have no clue.
But the question is, are you going to watch it?
I mean, I'm going to give you the link. All you have to do is click on it. But what will that act say about you? (what does it say about me??)
Frankly, if you buy into any one of the many quaint-but-antiquated concepts of morality, this video falls squarely into the definition of "immoral."
Even if you are 100% amoral, Satan-like, lacking any shred of conscience, even you will feel dirty after watching this.
If you do click on the link, don't even think about doing it at work. Even if you work alone, from home, in your own house, don't. Don't watch it in front of your kids. Don't watch it in front of anyone about whose opinion you care. Don't watch it while eating, pregnant, or recovering from stomach surgery. Don't watch it if you believe in Jesus or Allah. If you believe in Buddha, it's probably OK. (He's less judgemental.) Oh hell, just Don't watch it.
You have been warned. (Oh, and don't get lulled by the kissing...)
If you feel you must, click here to see: The Most Horrible Thing I've Ever Seen.
(Addendum: I just went back and looked again. Really, this is Too Horrible. Please, resist the temptation, DON'T CLICK THE LINK!!)
OK, whether you watched it or chose to avoid it, here is a special bonus reaction video featuring your favorite Muppet...
And that, my friends, is saying a lot.
I have a job in which I see horrible things every day. Photos, videos, police reports and medical records containing the most-foul images and descriptions you can imagine. I worked with Carl for a time, who had a special savant-like gift for finding "things" on the Internet, and who also liked to share those things.
I used to play Internet games with Mitch, long before the days of censorship or regulation. We would race to see who could find the worst abominations.
And yet, somehow, the link at the bottom of this post is worse than any of them.
I'm not going to tell you who showed me the Most Horrible Thing. I will say, though, that the person also showed it to their mother. Fortunately, they did not show it to my mother.
BEFORE WE GET TO IT
I would first like to post a couple of videos which ONLY show the reactions of other people who are watching the video. This is NOT the ACTUAL video itself. These are merely the reaction shots.
So, now, surely you must be curious. Perhaps you have an idea what it's all about. Perhaps you have no clue.
But the question is, are you going to watch it?
I mean, I'm going to give you the link. All you have to do is click on it. But what will that act say about you? (what does it say about me??)
Frankly, if you buy into any one of the many quaint-but-antiquated concepts of morality, this video falls squarely into the definition of "immoral."
Even if you are 100% amoral, Satan-like, lacking any shred of conscience, even you will feel dirty after watching this.
If you do click on the link, don't even think about doing it at work. Even if you work alone, from home, in your own house, don't. Don't watch it in front of your kids. Don't watch it in front of anyone about whose opinion you care. Don't watch it while eating, pregnant, or recovering from stomach surgery. Don't watch it if you believe in Jesus or Allah. If you believe in Buddha, it's probably OK. (He's less judgemental.) Oh hell, just Don't watch it.
You have been warned. (Oh, and don't get lulled by the kissing...)
If you feel you must, click here to see: The Most Horrible Thing I've Ever Seen.
(Addendum: I just went back and looked again. Really, this is Too Horrible. Please, resist the temptation, DON'T CLICK THE LINK!!)
OK, whether you watched it or chose to avoid it, here is a special bonus reaction video featuring your favorite Muppet...
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Two Seasons
California, I like to say, has two seasons: January and Summer.
And though it is January, I am still hot. It never cools down here. I am in a constant sweat. I mean, how do you people do it?? How do you not go mad with the heat?? I've only been here four days...
Thanks to Dave and Mrs. Dave for almost hosting on New Years Eve. I hope Mrs. Dave feels better!
Thanks to Mitch and Mrs. Mitch for actually hosting. (and for the lovely cigar)
Thanks to Tom and Mrs. Tom for coming to the BBQ. It was fun to have you here, except for the big wet kiss from Tom. Seriously. Yuck.
Thanks to Dr. B for lunch.
OK, now I'm going to go sit on the back porch and cool off.
And though it is January, I am still hot. It never cools down here. I am in a constant sweat. I mean, how do you people do it?? How do you not go mad with the heat?? I've only been here four days...
Thanks to Dave and Mrs. Dave for almost hosting on New Years Eve. I hope Mrs. Dave feels better!
Thanks to Mitch and Mrs. Mitch for actually hosting. (and for the lovely cigar)
Thanks to Tom and Mrs. Tom for coming to the BBQ. It was fun to have you here, except for the big wet kiss from Tom. Seriously. Yuck.
Thanks to Dr. B for lunch.
OK, now I'm going to go sit on the back porch and cool off.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
resolution
Well, now it is new years. A time for reflection. A time for Change.
I am now 37. Substantially well into my adulthood, and I should be prepared to embrace a greater degree of responsibility. Greater maturity. After all, I am father of two. I have a family, a wife and a home. I have a career and, hopefully soon, a piece of a practice.
However, in all reality, I really like to drink. I like to stay up late. I like to look at porn. I like red meat, strong coffee and cheese. I like to drive fast, play poker, and spend money.
I love to play with Legos. I like to build model rockets. I like to blow shit up.
I am fascinated by toy trains, telescopes and boobs.
I am likely to throw chocolate balls out my 7th-story window; I fantasize about driving into oncoming traffic.
Sure, I could change. I could resolve to be something or someone else, but why? I am who I am, and I like who I am. Hopefully, you like who I am too. If not, you could resolve to get over it...
I am now 37. Substantially well into my adulthood, and I should be prepared to embrace a greater degree of responsibility. Greater maturity. After all, I am father of two. I have a family, a wife and a home. I have a career and, hopefully soon, a piece of a practice.
However, in all reality, I really like to drink. I like to stay up late. I like to look at porn. I like red meat, strong coffee and cheese. I like to drive fast, play poker, and spend money.
I love to play with Legos. I like to build model rockets. I like to blow shit up.
I am fascinated by toy trains, telescopes and boobs.
I am likely to throw chocolate balls out my 7th-story window; I fantasize about driving into oncoming traffic.
Sure, I could change. I could resolve to be something or someone else, but why? I am who I am, and I like who I am. Hopefully, you like who I am too. If not, you could resolve to get over it...
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Holiday Prescription
Dr. McDreamy prescribes a Happy Holiday Season to everyone.
And no, I'm not gay. It's just that the loyal female readers deserve a little eye candy now and then...
I mean sure, he has sensitive eyes and big hands. I suppose his tussled hair would be fun to run my fingers through too.
But really, I'm not gay!
(not that there's anything wrong with it)
And no, I'm not gay. It's just that the loyal female readers deserve a little eye candy now and then...
I mean sure, he has sensitive eyes and big hands. I suppose his tussled hair would be fun to run my fingers through too.
But really, I'm not gay!
(not that there's anything wrong with it)
Admiral Cain Requests
The admiral welcomes you back to the fleet, and requests that you have a frakkin great New Year!!
She also requests that you provide her the use of your ship, stores and raw materials to aid the struggle against the Cylons...
(Oh, and if you or your loved ones have any critical engineering skills, she'll need those too...)
She also requests that you provide her the use of your ship, stores and raw materials to aid the struggle against the Cylons...
(Oh, and if you or your loved ones have any critical engineering skills, she'll need those too...)
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
All Systems Are Go
One viewing of Charlie Brown Christmas - Check.
Lights on the house -Check.
Presents purchased - Check.
Turkey brining - Check.
Camera batteries charged - Check.
187 viewings of the Grinch - Check.
Children well-lied-to regarding the coming of St. Nick - Check.
Christmas Eve Chili - Check.
Christmas-light tour with hot chocolate and carols - Check.
Required assembly assembled as required - Check.
1 viewing of "The Sound of Music" - Check.
1 viewing of "It's a wonderful Life." - Warning: incomplete.
Cookies and scotch left out for Santa - Check.
Oh well, George Bailey will have to wait until next year.
All systems are GO.
We are good for Yule Tide.
Commence festive holiday cheer.
Lights on the house -Check.
Presents purchased - Check.
Turkey brining - Check.
Camera batteries charged - Check.
187 viewings of the Grinch - Check.
Children well-lied-to regarding the coming of St. Nick - Check.
Christmas Eve Chili - Check.
Christmas-light tour with hot chocolate and carols - Check.
Required assembly assembled as required - Check.
1 viewing of "The Sound of Music" - Check.
1 viewing of "It's a wonderful Life." - Warning: incomplete.
Cookies and scotch left out for Santa - Check.
Oh well, George Bailey will have to wait until next year.
All systems are GO.
We are good for Yule Tide.
Commence festive holiday cheer.
Monday, December 24, 2007
How the Grinch Got Punked by Those Christmas-Loving Bitches
-By Quentin Terrantino (and Mr. Gin and tonic)
EVERY bitch
Down in Ho-ville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch
Who was Bad-ass, most certainly
Did Not
The Grinch hated Christmas, and the suckers who dug it!
But don't ask him why cuz he'd tell you to "Suck it."
It could be he hadn't got laid in a while.
It COULD be his pending lewd-conduct trial.
But I think that the most likely reason to be
That his prostate was swollen and he just could not pee.
But,
Whatever the reason,
His dick or his crime,
He just hated Christmas, and had too much time.
So he stood looking down at the bitches and ho's,
Who were selling their asses, their breasts and their toes.
Christmas cash, every ho in ho-ville was earning,
Profiting from cheap thrills and the yearning...
"They're laughing and drinking and fucking like bunnies.."
"Slapping their asses and stuffing their cunnies..."
Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously clicking,
"I must find a way to stop all this holiday dicking."
For tomorrow
He knew...
Was the big festive day
For all down in Ho-ville
Whether straight or quite gay.
All the hoes and the bitches, the marks and the Johns
Would feast and get rowdy before getting it on.
And the Crowd and the stench and the great carnal din
And the horribly opulent circus of sin...
And THEN they'd do something he liked least of all
Every ho down in Ho-ville, the fat and the tall
Would lie close together and start with the moaning.
They'd roll and they'd rub and the hoes would start groaning
They'd groan and they'd groan.
They'd moan moan moan moan!
And the more that the Grinch would consider this moaning,
The more the Grinch though,"I must stop this boning."
Then he got an idea!
A wicked idea!
THE GRINCH GOT A MOTHERFUCKING WICKED IDEA!
"Oh, fuck this shit, I'll teach them a lesson."
And the Grinch looked around for his old Smith and Wesson.
"I'll kill them all cold; It's really quite fair."
And when he stormed into Ho-ville, he was loaded for bear...
Ho-ville was quiet, the frolic was done.
And he slunk down the street, and he pulled out his gun.
Until, from a window, a ho said, "Hey, hun..."
He said to himself, "This is stop number one"
He kicked in the door, and he made quite a noise.
He was then quickly assaulted by a barrage of sex toys.
Dildos and handcuffs and beads of all sizes...
But he was hurt most of all by the spanking devices.
Then the Grinch was confronted by, yes, you know who...
A giant transvestite by the name, "Cindy-Lou."
She had been a marine just before turning tricks,
She could bench 350, but loved to suck dicks.
"You ain't no Santy Claus," Cindy-Lou said.
"And I am gonna hit you hard in the head."
Just then the Grinch ducked and pointed his piece.
And he shot, but he missed and killed Cindy-Lou's niece.
Then there was a great tussle right there on the spot
And at once the old Grinch knew that he had been shot.
He was bleeding, he knew, it was simple to see,
Perhaps in the leg or the hip or the knee.
He punched and he kicked, though losing the bout.
The end was quite close, as he was bleeding out.
"I still win in the end." The dying Grinch said.
"No more Christmas for me, because I will be dead."
The Grinch was laid out, all cold in the snow.
Iced-over by morning. (It was 20 below...)
And they say his heart stopped from the shooting and thumping
But he died with a grin, free from holiday humping.
EVERY bitch
Down in Ho-ville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch
Who was Bad-ass, most certainly
Did Not
The Grinch hated Christmas, and the suckers who dug it!
But don't ask him why cuz he'd tell you to "Suck it."
It could be he hadn't got laid in a while.
It COULD be his pending lewd-conduct trial.
But I think that the most likely reason to be
That his prostate was swollen and he just could not pee.
But,
Whatever the reason,
His dick or his crime,
He just hated Christmas, and had too much time.
So he stood looking down at the bitches and ho's,
Who were selling their asses, their breasts and their toes.
Christmas cash, every ho in ho-ville was earning,
Profiting from cheap thrills and the yearning...
"They're laughing and drinking and fucking like bunnies.."
"Slapping their asses and stuffing their cunnies..."
Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously clicking,
"I must find a way to stop all this holiday dicking."
For tomorrow
He knew...
Was the big festive day
For all down in Ho-ville
Whether straight or quite gay.
All the hoes and the bitches, the marks and the Johns
Would feast and get rowdy before getting it on.
And the Crowd and the stench and the great carnal din
And the horribly opulent circus of sin...
And THEN they'd do something he liked least of all
Every ho down in Ho-ville, the fat and the tall
Would lie close together and start with the moaning.
They'd roll and they'd rub and the hoes would start groaning
They'd groan and they'd groan.
They'd moan moan moan moan!
And the more that the Grinch would consider this moaning,
The more the Grinch though,"I must stop this boning."
Then he got an idea!
A wicked idea!
THE GRINCH GOT A MOTHERFUCKING WICKED IDEA!
"Oh, fuck this shit, I'll teach them a lesson."
And the Grinch looked around for his old Smith and Wesson.
"I'll kill them all cold; It's really quite fair."
And when he stormed into Ho-ville, he was loaded for bear...
Ho-ville was quiet, the frolic was done.
And he slunk down the street, and he pulled out his gun.
Until, from a window, a ho said, "Hey, hun..."
He said to himself, "This is stop number one"
He kicked in the door, and he made quite a noise.
He was then quickly assaulted by a barrage of sex toys.
Dildos and handcuffs and beads of all sizes...
But he was hurt most of all by the spanking devices.
Then the Grinch was confronted by, yes, you know who...
A giant transvestite by the name, "Cindy-Lou."
She had been a marine just before turning tricks,
She could bench 350, but loved to suck dicks.
"You ain't no Santy Claus," Cindy-Lou said.
"And I am gonna hit you hard in the head."
Just then the Grinch ducked and pointed his piece.
And he shot, but he missed and killed Cindy-Lou's niece.
Then there was a great tussle right there on the spot
And at once the old Grinch knew that he had been shot.
He was bleeding, he knew, it was simple to see,
Perhaps in the leg or the hip or the knee.
He punched and he kicked, though losing the bout.
The end was quite close, as he was bleeding out.
"I still win in the end." The dying Grinch said.
"No more Christmas for me, because I will be dead."
The Grinch was laid out, all cold in the snow.
Iced-over by morning. (It was 20 below...)
And they say his heart stopped from the shooting and thumping
But he died with a grin, free from holiday humping.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Holiday Break
The holiday/birthday season is in full swing. Therefore, this little ray of daily sunshine is bolting its doors. The Lounge will be closed through Christmas.
Jesus, relax, it's only like four days...
(Mitch, this is the post you've been praying for...)
Monogram
December being what it is, what with birthdays, Christmas, and the like, helpful questions are occasionally asked, often vague, but designed to delve into deeper holiday desires.
And so, when I receive shadowy inquiries from family or friends, I don't think much about it, and simply reply.
Yesterday, however, the missus emailed me with the following question: "If you were going to receive something monogrammed with a single initial, would you choose [G] or [T]?"
(obviously G and T are not my actual initials, but you get the idea...)
Seems like a simple question and I clicked on "reply" to answer. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought. I pondered. I weighed.
How do I identify myself? Do I see myself in light of my first name, and thus my first initial? Do I project the G in public? Do I tell the world, "This is who I am?"
A first name is so individualistic. It is narrow. It is personal, to be sure, but does not provide a broader history. It says, "I am the sum of my own personal experience. I am alone in the world. There is nothing more to me than the smile and handshake I gave you when we met."
On the other hand, there is the last name. Mine, as most know, was adopted, which creates its own unique history. The last name tells the story of the family, the roots, where you came from. It is painted on broad cloth, and connects the dots to names and places in the past.
So, which to choose?
Having thought too long and too hard for what should have been a simple question, I broke it down to this: First initial for something casual. Last initial for something formal or business-related.
So, what would you choose?
And so, when I receive shadowy inquiries from family or friends, I don't think much about it, and simply reply.
Yesterday, however, the missus emailed me with the following question: "If you were going to receive something monogrammed with a single initial, would you choose [G] or [T]?"
(obviously G and T are not my actual initials, but you get the idea...)
Seems like a simple question and I clicked on "reply" to answer. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought. I pondered. I weighed.
How do I identify myself? Do I see myself in light of my first name, and thus my first initial? Do I project the G in public? Do I tell the world, "This is who I am?"
A first name is so individualistic. It is narrow. It is personal, to be sure, but does not provide a broader history. It says, "I am the sum of my own personal experience. I am alone in the world. There is nothing more to me than the smile and handshake I gave you when we met."
On the other hand, there is the last name. Mine, as most know, was adopted, which creates its own unique history. The last name tells the story of the family, the roots, where you came from. It is painted on broad cloth, and connects the dots to names and places in the past.
So, which to choose?
Having thought too long and too hard for what should have been a simple question, I broke it down to this: First initial for something casual. Last initial for something formal or business-related.
So, what would you choose?
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Thanks For Your Concern
Standing at his chair side workstation, his blue work bib bespeckled by bits of decayed dental debris, saliva and blood, our resident dentist viewed with dismay the dearth of witty remarks left by readers here in the Lounge.
As the well-sedated patient reclined and waited with the crooked sucky tube dangling from her cheek, vacuuming her spittle, the good doctor took his shot with glee, noting that he could hear "Crickets" among the silence...
Sure, a fair assessment of the state of the comments. They come and go. I think it goes in cycles. Or, as Mitch has noted, the posts about me not posting for a while tend to get the most attention...
However, Dr. B's question about where my readers went is unfounded. While the comments are scarce, the actually readership is at an all-time high. For the last two weeks, every day, between 100 to 200 individual visitors have been coming by. Many actually stay for at least a few minutes to look around.
And they come from everywhere.
Many of you have the Lounge link saved and visit us directly. Some of you use news readers. Many, however, come to us using various search engines, Google most of all.
And the fun there is to read the search terms that bring people in...
"Ass," of course, is the #1 search term leading people to the Lounge. The pronunciation of "Pepperoncini" is also still quite popular, as is "Christina Ricci," "Dita Von Teese," and "girls with guns."
Still, sometimes, the searches surprise me. First, for the nature of the search itself, and second, how that search finds the Lounge.
For instance, it is no surprise that Googling "slutty strippers" will lead to the lounge, but "Spokane Christian Club" caught me by surprise.
Also, apparently, folks like to search for the manager of the Tualatin Best Buy, apparently to send him their complaints too. Unless, I guess, he is simply narcissistic, in which case, he inadvertently came across my own scathing criticism.
"Nude Cuisina" has come up. Though, I'm not certain why. Nor am I clear how I became a source for pictures of "Breakfast Burritos."
Recently, some hapless romantic searched for: "lapiz azul anniversary ring." Which of course led them to my popular Spanish declaration about the size of my blue pencil. I think he wanted to search for "Lapiz Lazuli," but there isn't anything I can do for him now.
And then there are those who simply visit for the dirty pictures. Small blond girls with hunting rifles. Visigoth costumes. Dustin Hoffman.
But really, it comes down to pictures of ass. And, of those who search relentlessly for ass pictures, none search more diligently than horny Arab boys from Riyadh. Seriously, I think there must be a gin & tonic ass-fetish club there or something. No one visits for ass pics more.
Well...
...Except for Canadians. Those freeze-dried socialists to the north love to look at ass, and they come to the Lounge in droves looking for it.
Truth be told, I do love the attention. So, now it's time, with a warm welcome to our Canadian and Saudi visitors, to pander...
Enjoy the ass, boys!
As the well-sedated patient reclined and waited with the crooked sucky tube dangling from her cheek, vacuuming her spittle, the good doctor took his shot with glee, noting that he could hear "Crickets" among the silence...
Sure, a fair assessment of the state of the comments. They come and go. I think it goes in cycles. Or, as Mitch has noted, the posts about me not posting for a while tend to get the most attention...
However, Dr. B's question about where my readers went is unfounded. While the comments are scarce, the actually readership is at an all-time high. For the last two weeks, every day, between 100 to 200 individual visitors have been coming by. Many actually stay for at least a few minutes to look around.
And they come from everywhere.
Many of you have the Lounge link saved and visit us directly. Some of you use news readers. Many, however, come to us using various search engines, Google most of all.
And the fun there is to read the search terms that bring people in...
"Ass," of course, is the #1 search term leading people to the Lounge. The pronunciation of "Pepperoncini" is also still quite popular, as is "Christina Ricci," "Dita Von Teese," and "girls with guns."
Still, sometimes, the searches surprise me. First, for the nature of the search itself, and second, how that search finds the Lounge.
For instance, it is no surprise that Googling "slutty strippers" will lead to the lounge, but "Spokane Christian Club" caught me by surprise.
Also, apparently, folks like to search for the manager of the Tualatin Best Buy, apparently to send him their complaints too. Unless, I guess, he is simply narcissistic, in which case, he inadvertently came across my own scathing criticism.
"Nude Cuisina" has come up. Though, I'm not certain why. Nor am I clear how I became a source for pictures of "Breakfast Burritos."
Recently, some hapless romantic searched for: "lapiz azul anniversary ring." Which of course led them to my popular Spanish declaration about the size of my blue pencil. I think he wanted to search for "Lapiz Lazuli," but there isn't anything I can do for him now.
And then there are those who simply visit for the dirty pictures. Small blond girls with hunting rifles. Visigoth costumes. Dustin Hoffman.
But really, it comes down to pictures of ass. And, of those who search relentlessly for ass pictures, none search more diligently than horny Arab boys from Riyadh. Seriously, I think there must be a gin & tonic ass-fetish club there or something. No one visits for ass pics more.
Well...
...Except for Canadians. Those freeze-dried socialists to the north love to look at ass, and they come to the Lounge in droves looking for it.
Truth be told, I do love the attention. So, now it's time, with a warm welcome to our Canadian and Saudi visitors, to pander...
Enjoy the ass, boys!
Head Song
"Play the Head Song, Daddy!
Play the Head Song!"
"Um, what?" I said, as I looked up into the rear view mirror. Wide-eyed and grinning, the girl repeated that she wanted to hear the Head Song.
I scanned my mental catalogue of children's tunes for the Head Song. I came up with nothing.
"How's that one go?" I asked.
She then broke into a rather complete version of the now-familiar chorus.
(Did I mention she'll be three in two days?)
The Crane Wife 3 - the Decemberists
And under the boughs unbowed
ll clothed in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed
Each feather it fell from skin
'Til thread bare while she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
A grey sky, a bitter sting
A rain cloud, a crane on wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter sting
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
(Really, she's almost three...)
Play the Head Song!"
"Um, what?" I said, as I looked up into the rear view mirror. Wide-eyed and grinning, the girl repeated that she wanted to hear the Head Song.
I scanned my mental catalogue of children's tunes for the Head Song. I came up with nothing.
"How's that one go?" I asked.
She then broke into a rather complete version of the now-familiar chorus.
(Did I mention she'll be three in two days?)
The Crane Wife 3 - the Decemberists
And under the boughs unbowed
ll clothed in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed
Each feather it fell from skin
'Til thread bare while she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
A grey sky, a bitter sting
A rain cloud, a crane on wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter sting
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low
(Really, she's almost three...)
Monday, December 17, 2007
12 Days
As most of you know, I married an older woman. Older by 12 days, and I'll never let her forget it.
Happy Birthday to Mrs. Gin & Tonic!!
Get drunk. Go shopping. Have a good day!
Happy Birthday to Mrs. Gin & Tonic!!
Get drunk. Go shopping. Have a good day!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
18 Years
I recently sat is a small smokey cigar bar, surrounded by dark wood fixtures and literate kitsch; I was sipping slowly and savoring my glass of 18 year old scotch.
Then, I began to ponder.
Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.
Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...
There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.
Then, I began to ponder.
Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.
Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...
There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
2:00
So, each day at 2:00 p.m., two things generally happen. I have already discussed one of them.
The other is that our pal, Fred, usually sends me a link to the best Overheard in the Office post of the day.
Today was no exception. However, I believe that today's post was perhaps the best one ever...
OVERHEARD IN THE OFFICE
The other is that our pal, Fred, usually sends me a link to the best Overheard in the Office post of the day.
Today was no exception. However, I believe that today's post was perhaps the best one ever...
OVERHEARD IN THE OFFICE
Ding! Fries Are Done!
OK, first, happy birthday to Leah.
Second, and more importantly, THANK YOU to Dr. B for the following:
Ding! Fries Are Done!
(Completely safe at work, but do turn up the volume so you can hear it. Don't worry, nothing scary will jump out at you...)
Second, and more importantly, THANK YOU to Dr. B for the following:
Ding! Fries Are Done!
(Completely safe at work, but do turn up the volume so you can hear it. Don't worry, nothing scary will jump out at you...)
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Taking Submissions
Obviously, the tap is closed. The muse is on sabbatical. I got run over by the "dumb" truck.
Sitting here, staring at the screen for the last hour and a half, only coming up with ideas that I already came up with back in 2006, it has become clear that the creative mojo is low.
It happens. I'm not worried.
So, I'm taking submissions. I'm looking for 100 pithy-zippy words. Anyone wanna guest blog?
Really, anything. Tell us a story. Tell us a joke. Post some pictures. Travel log. Shopping list. Whatever! Those of you who know me can email me your submissions... Otherwise, leave a comment, and I'll find a way to reach you.
Anyone?
Bueller??
Sitting here, staring at the screen for the last hour and a half, only coming up with ideas that I already came up with back in 2006, it has become clear that the creative mojo is low.
It happens. I'm not worried.
So, I'm taking submissions. I'm looking for 100 pithy-zippy words. Anyone wanna guest blog?
Really, anything. Tell us a story. Tell us a joke. Post some pictures. Travel log. Shopping list. Whatever! Those of you who know me can email me your submissions... Otherwise, leave a comment, and I'll find a way to reach you.
Anyone?
Bueller??
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Deep Blue Something
OK, folks, the #1 all-time sexiest is:
I mean, no offense to Christina, Dita or Scarlett, but c'mon...
I mean, no offense to Christina, Dita or Scarlett, but c'mon...
Mediation
I will be in mediation much of Tuesday. I have been up late preparing for it. I have no time to blog with any sincerity tonight.
Instead, I will provide you with THIS LONG LIST of reasons why college women should be encouraged to drink...
Oh, and, while the initial link is safe, the sub-links when you get there probably shouldn't be opened at work, especially if your boss likes to spy on you...
Instead, I will provide you with THIS LONG LIST of reasons why college women should be encouraged to drink...
Oh, and, while the initial link is safe, the sub-links when you get there probably shouldn't be opened at work, especially if your boss likes to spy on you...
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Toboggan of the Beast
The tall man stood sentry at the end of the long driveway. He held a long pole, marked in red with sequential numbers spaced evenly every 12 inches.
He was the master of the estate, the patriarch of this small semi-agrarian venture. He greeted me warmly and gave a quick guided tour of the acreage. Somewhere in the shadows of the dense tannenbaum forest, one of his sons was gunning the motor of the chainsaw.
I, however, had my own handsaw in hand. I wasn't about to let some long-haired teenage hooligan harvest my tree for me. Not, at least, in front of my daughter....
"Daddy, why is that skinny greasy-haired hippie cutting down our tree?"
No, not in a million years. I mean, sure, the father was a strapping lumberjack-like man with a sensible haircut. So, I suppose he probably could have adequately operated the saw... but as usual, I digress.
I wandered through the semi-mystical rows of towering Christmas trees. Many, long since rejected, yet never harvested, were now far taller than they should ever have been allowed to grow. Small clearings emerged, where saplings had been started. The missus followed behind with the boy strapped along side. The girl, in her "adventure boots" and "action pants," marched along beside me.
As we hunted high and low, something, I noticed, started to change. The temperature dropped, the air grew still, and a silence fell upon us. All at once, from the sky, began to fall soft white flakes; slowly at first, but it quickly gained momentum.
Initially, it didn't stick, but soon a thin white coating began to cover everything. Perfect, really, if you think about it.
The small snow fall reminded me that this is supposed to be a snowier-than-usual winter in Oregon, which reminded me of the slippery slope leading to my house last year. And, while we had plenty of food, water and heat last year, we were woefully unprepared in one significant way: We had no snow toys.
Sleds, to be specific. Nothing for sliding down the long smooth steep incline out my front door.
Today's snow soon melted, but promised, like Frosty, to be back again some day. So, in the spirit of being fully prepared, the girl and I hit Fred Meyer this afternoon to seek our own personal Rosebud.
Proudly, we sailed through the store with our obnoxiously-long industrial-grade black plastic sled protruding like the bow of a frigate from our shopping cart. The girl was gleeful. I felt like an adequate dad, now having purchased the requisite family sled.
Or, "Toboggan," as the label read. It is apparently handy, according to the same label, for both sledding and carting goods through the forest to go ice fishing. I think, though, that I will stick to sledding.
Then, as we waited for our turn in line at the check out counter, I noticed something peculiar, something that had to be intentional. Printed in bold, in the middle of the aforementioned label, it read: "Model #666."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "It's the toboggan of the beast..."
Now, we just have to wait for the snow.
He was the master of the estate, the patriarch of this small semi-agrarian venture. He greeted me warmly and gave a quick guided tour of the acreage. Somewhere in the shadows of the dense tannenbaum forest, one of his sons was gunning the motor of the chainsaw.
I, however, had my own handsaw in hand. I wasn't about to let some long-haired teenage hooligan harvest my tree for me. Not, at least, in front of my daughter....
"Daddy, why is that skinny greasy-haired hippie cutting down our tree?"
No, not in a million years. I mean, sure, the father was a strapping lumberjack-like man with a sensible haircut. So, I suppose he probably could have adequately operated the saw... but as usual, I digress.
I wandered through the semi-mystical rows of towering Christmas trees. Many, long since rejected, yet never harvested, were now far taller than they should ever have been allowed to grow. Small clearings emerged, where saplings had been started. The missus followed behind with the boy strapped along side. The girl, in her "adventure boots" and "action pants," marched along beside me.
As we hunted high and low, something, I noticed, started to change. The temperature dropped, the air grew still, and a silence fell upon us. All at once, from the sky, began to fall soft white flakes; slowly at first, but it quickly gained momentum.
Initially, it didn't stick, but soon a thin white coating began to cover everything. Perfect, really, if you think about it.
The small snow fall reminded me that this is supposed to be a snowier-than-usual winter in Oregon, which reminded me of the slippery slope leading to my house last year. And, while we had plenty of food, water and heat last year, we were woefully unprepared in one significant way: We had no snow toys.
Sleds, to be specific. Nothing for sliding down the long smooth steep incline out my front door.
Today's snow soon melted, but promised, like Frosty, to be back again some day. So, in the spirit of being fully prepared, the girl and I hit Fred Meyer this afternoon to seek our own personal Rosebud.
Proudly, we sailed through the store with our obnoxiously-long industrial-grade black plastic sled protruding like the bow of a frigate from our shopping cart. The girl was gleeful. I felt like an adequate dad, now having purchased the requisite family sled.
Or, "Toboggan," as the label read. It is apparently handy, according to the same label, for both sledding and carting goods through the forest to go ice fishing. I think, though, that I will stick to sledding.
Then, as we waited for our turn in line at the check out counter, I noticed something peculiar, something that had to be intentional. Printed in bold, in the middle of the aforementioned label, it read: "Model #666."
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "It's the toboggan of the beast..."
Now, we just have to wait for the snow.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Sinus Infection
This snotty clog in my nose is taking the wind out of my sails, so to speak. What senses I have left are dulled by the cough syrup. I'm going to bed.
In the mean time, here is a picture of your mom:
In the mean time, here is a picture of your mom:
Solidarity
The Lounge is on strike.
In support of my brothers and sisters on the picket line, I will be on strike for the remainder of the day.
I mean sure, it's not like they work in a coal mine or anything, but still, royalties are royalties...
In support of my brothers and sisters on the picket line, I will be on strike for the remainder of the day.
I mean sure, it's not like they work in a coal mine or anything, but still, royalties are royalties...
Oh, and, Happy Birthday to MITCH!
Monday, December 03, 2007
No Cuts, No Butts, No Coconuts
FLASH!
I saw the light, but it was too late. It was another goddamned Portland photo radar van. I tried to reconstruct what the unfortunate photo would look like.
The first one I received, in Beaverton, not so long ago, caught me in mid-grimmace, hunched over like troll.
Sure enough, two weeks later I reveived the tell-tale envelope from the City of Portland.
And thus, I found myself standing in a snail-paced line at the traffic court for over two hours this morning. Yes, yes, I could have sent in my paperwork last week, but I procrastinated.
No one wanted to be there. It's not fun for anyo ne to... be... It's.. .uh
Oh fuckit. This post isn't going anywhere. It isn't interesting. It isn't funny. So, basically, I witnessed a near-fist fight in line at the courthouse. Fortunately, the sheriff deputies arrived and simmered the scene down. I was left feeling uncomforatble and put upon, but really, I just realised, I have nothing interesting to say about that. So, I'm going to put an end to this post right now.
Oh, but, here's a picture of some girls in panties for you instead...
I saw the light, but it was too late. It was another goddamned Portland photo radar van. I tried to reconstruct what the unfortunate photo would look like.
The first one I received, in Beaverton, not so long ago, caught me in mid-grimmace, hunched over like troll.
Sure enough, two weeks later I reveived the tell-tale envelope from the City of Portland.
And thus, I found myself standing in a snail-paced line at the traffic court for over two hours this morning. Yes, yes, I could have sent in my paperwork last week, but I procrastinated.
No one wanted to be there. It's not fun for anyo ne to... be... It's.. .uh
Oh fuckit. This post isn't going anywhere. It isn't interesting. It isn't funny. So, basically, I witnessed a near-fist fight in line at the courthouse. Fortunately, the sheriff deputies arrived and simmered the scene down. I was left feeling uncomforatble and put upon, but really, I just realised, I have nothing interesting to say about that. So, I'm going to put an end to this post right now.
Oh, but, here's a picture of some girls in panties for you instead...
Personal Scent ***UPDATE***
So, it isn't bad, per se...
It's kinda clean, and not too sweet or flowery. It smells like America. It smells how I would expect Steve McQueen to smell.
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to linger long. After the initial stinging shock of application, it cools as the alcohol base evaporates. A pleasant subtle scent remains for a short time, which by lunch, was mostly gone.
Of course, I am applying it judiciously, not bathing in it. No sense in sharing the scent with the strangers on the elevator.
I'll give it another whirl on Tuesday.
It's kinda clean, and not too sweet or flowery. It smells like America. It smells how I would expect Steve McQueen to smell.
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to linger long. After the initial stinging shock of application, it cools as the alcohol base evaporates. A pleasant subtle scent remains for a short time, which by lunch, was mostly gone.
Of course, I am applying it judiciously, not bathing in it. No sense in sharing the scent with the strangers on the elevator.
I'll give it another whirl on Tuesday.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Aquavelva
So, our pal Dave recently posted on his myspace blog that, for various nostalgic reasons, he would start wearing Old Spice aftershave.
In typical smart ass fashion, I flippantly declared that I was more of an Aquavelva man, mostly because I enjoyed the linguistic properties of the word "Aquavelva." Plus, I thought it was funny...
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Admit it, you like it too. It sounds exotic, yet familiar. It makes your mouth make pleasurable motions. It makes you feel that you are making an erudite vocabulary ordination.
It was a joke, though. I was joking. I suspect Dave was serious about his Old Spice strategy, but I, however, was not. I am not, actually an Aquavelva man.
But then, I started thinking about it. Why exactly was Aquavelva my go to comedic scent selection? Why did it come so easily to my mind?
I think it's because my dad used to wear it.
And so, I found myself this evening pushing a heavily-loaded grocery cart down the toiletries aisle at Albertsons, as I passed the heretofore-overlooked man-stink shelf. Never having been one for perfumes, it had been a long while since last I looked at it.
And there it was. Same squatty bottle. Same translucent alien blue (like a Gin&Tonic under black light.) I surreptitiously unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Memories of youth flooded back. It smelled like my dad. It smelled like 1974. It smelled like clean white T-shirts and a 1969 Ford Mustang.
I put the bottle in the cart.
So, I'm going to take a cue from Dave and give it a whirl. I will cultivate a signature scent. (Apart from the usual scotch and bacon grease odor...) I expect good things, like greater respect, expanded influence, and more-powerful persuasion.
Of course, I am always prepared for the prospect of crushing disappointment.
In typical smart ass fashion, I flippantly declared that I was more of an Aquavelva man, mostly because I enjoyed the linguistic properties of the word "Aquavelva." Plus, I thought it was funny...
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Aquavelva
Admit it, you like it too. It sounds exotic, yet familiar. It makes your mouth make pleasurable motions. It makes you feel that you are making an erudite vocabulary ordination.
It was a joke, though. I was joking. I suspect Dave was serious about his Old Spice strategy, but I, however, was not. I am not, actually an Aquavelva man.
But then, I started thinking about it. Why exactly was Aquavelva my go to comedic scent selection? Why did it come so easily to my mind?
I think it's because my dad used to wear it.
And so, I found myself this evening pushing a heavily-loaded grocery cart down the toiletries aisle at Albertsons, as I passed the heretofore-overlooked man-stink shelf. Never having been one for perfumes, it had been a long while since last I looked at it.
And there it was. Same squatty bottle. Same translucent alien blue (like a Gin&Tonic under black light.) I surreptitiously unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Memories of youth flooded back. It smelled like my dad. It smelled like 1974. It smelled like clean white T-shirts and a 1969 Ford Mustang.
I put the bottle in the cart.
So, I'm going to take a cue from Dave and give it a whirl. I will cultivate a signature scent. (Apart from the usual scotch and bacon grease odor...) I expect good things, like greater respect, expanded influence, and more-powerful persuasion.
Of course, I am always prepared for the prospect of crushing disappointment.
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