Energy Equals Mass Times the Speed of Light Squared

I failed only two classes in my educational history. The second failure was First Aid, my last quarter of college. It's OK to laugh, just don't break a bone and expect me to help you.

The first failure, however, was more significant. I failed AP Calculus, my senior year of high school. You may say to yourself, "Aw, Calculus is hard, no wonder you failed." That, however, was not it. See, just to get to calculus by the 12th grade means that A) you don't fail classes, and B) math is probably not insurmountably hard for you.

The problem was that by my senior year, I had become a disaffected disillusioned slack-ass fuck-about. No, it wasn't drugs. I just had better things to do with my time than math homework, and I held the class too long to drop it.

Up to that point, I had excelled in math. I loved it. Geometry! Trigonometry! Physics! But then, came the big fat red F, and my math career was over.

In college, standardized placement tests allowed me to waive any math pre-requisites for Statistics. So my only hurdle was going to be my general ed science credits. Amazingly, at Cal Poly, a school known for its math and science, they offered non-mathematical Physics for soft-headed poli-sci majors, like me!

That was how I found my way into a Physics class room with 50 sexy Asian women, and me. I was, no lie, the only man and the only Caucasian, other than the professor, in the room. It was a blast! We talked logically and intuitively about physics concepts without calculations. We crashed things. We blew shit up. We traded Hello Kitty stickers...

This class appealed to me, though, because it allowed me to think heavy ideas without the burden of formulaic notation. It is that idea, that you have to describe something to death to grasp it, that has frustrated me about so many things my whole life.

Music: Harmony, melody, and rhythm - these are parts of song!

Literature: Let's see, the pigs are an analogy for the socialist conundrum, while the farm horse was a metaphorical Christ figure sent out to the pasture, symbolizing man's struggle, ect...

Philosophy: Well, the German transcendentalists stand in stark contrast to the inductive process of the Greek Sophists, blah, blah blah...

Look, I deconstruct movies, and books, and music, and speeches, and art, and food recipes in my head all day long: You clap with the drums, and sing with the lyrics; Anakin was a dual Christ/Satan figure, and the Force more resembles Buddhist philosophy than Christian; the State of the Union was a series of non-committal fundamentalist code words without any clear policy statement or supporting data...

However, I don't have to hinder the process by labeling the pieces that I pick apart. That just causes distraction from the natural exercise, while I try to remember American literary motifs from Mr. Wilson's 11th grade lit class...

"Goddamn it Brian, What the FUCK are you getting at?" You may ask.

Well, let me tell you. I ♥ Huckabees. I watched it tonight for the first of many times, and it left me with that same indescribable tingly intellectual numbness that I had after watching Lost in Translation. The movie was a cross between Zero Effect, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, Being John Malcovich, and Rushmore. It was either about the nothingness of everything, or it was about the everytingness of nothing. It's about the process of intellectual breakdown (not to be confused with psychotic or emotional breakdown.) It's about figuring out that you world view is not so much wrong, as it is just not right, and doing it without lables.

The movie itself is imperfect, but it struck an existential chord. I won't try to label the elements of my analysis, because that would suck the joy out of it. Each of the characters is a living representation of his or her own philosophical pigeon hole. Yet, as the movie points out, they, like we, are all connected.

Or, as the movie also points out, perhaps nothing is connected, our existence is transitory at best, there is no meaning to it all, and we will all be forgotten by the cold dead universe when Earth falls into the Sun. In which case, this blog has no purpose, and you can just go fuck yourself (But go rent this movie first...)

Have it Your Way

What in the name of the Whopper is Burger King thinking? Who the fuck is the marketing genius that came up with this train wreck? Have you seen it? The big creepy plastic-headed dead-eyed semi-psychotic fast-food icon, hiding in people's closets, sleeping in their beds, following folks to work...

I mean, what's the strategy there? "OK Mr. Consumer, our food haunts your every waking hour, like a high-cholesterol zombie. You cannot escape! Surrender now to to the dark overlord of charbroiled beef patties!"

Not like I go to Burger King very often as it is, but now I have to boycott the place just on principle. I refuse to reward ill-advised advertising.

Artifacts

When I was 17, my family moved from the ghetto-like hovel of West Covina to a little college town called Claremont, the Eastern-most city in Los Angeles County. We moved into a slightly larger home in a substantially nicer neighborhood. The biggest upgrade in the move, however, was going from 1.5 bathrooms to 2.5 bathrooms.

Having the extra bathroom felt opulent, like swimming in pudding. My sister and I still shared a bathroom, but my parents had their own all to themselves.

Unfortunately, after we moved our existing furniture in to the new place, we realized that our stuff looked stretched. We didn't have enough old stuff to fill up the new space, and in my new bathroom, we didn't really have any stuff at all. So, my mother, being domestic as she is, promptly went out to acquire new stuff to fill in the space.

Returning home from school one day, soon after the move, I trudged upstairs to take a shower. (Really, I was probably going up for some nice after-school masturbation, but that's off-topic.) As I opened the door, I detected the sweet floral scent of potpourri, and noticed new fluffy towels arranged in sets, hanging from the various towel racks. Mom had been shopping.

It wasn't bad, really. It was certainly less-bleak, but then... Then... I saw it.

IT!

Pink and green and blue and mauve, big round googly eyes and pouty cartoon lips. It was the fish. It was a frighteningly garish porcelain fish. It was one of the tackiest things I've ever seen. I do believe that my sister actually screamed when she saw it. We though it was a joke. My mother's feelings were hurt.

So, in one of those odd intra-family gestures, we insisted on keeping it, and thanked her for creating such a pleasant floral-country-under-the-sea atmosphere in which for us to bathe...

It looked something like the picture to the right, only it had more blue and mauve in vertical stripes.

Eventually, I moved away to college. To my surprise, while unpacking my meager belongings, i discovered that the fish had found its way into the suitcase. After some explaining (less than you might think) it became a fixture in my dorm-room bathroom, a sort of good-luck totem.

Then I moved back home. The fish came with me. My sister was irked that not only did it come back, but it went back to its place of honor in our bathroom.

College came and went, Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head, and I left California for Oregon to attend law school. As expected, the fish was found hiding in one of my boxes of things. My new roommate actually thought it was cool. He was odd that way. Roommates changed and the fish came along, presiding from bathroom to bathroom, always giving me that all-knowing googly look.

Then came Mrs. G&T. Of course we didn't get married right away. Shacking up and living in sin for years and years, she graciously acquiesced, and the fish moved along with us. It sat over the cast-iron claw-foot tub in the basement apartment in Salem. It was perched over the sink in Lake Oswego. I took the elevated place of honor on a corner shelf built apparently just for it, in the first house that we purchased. But that was to be its final resting place...

Having delayed the master bathroom upgrade for too long, Karma let us know in no-uncertain terms that it was time to get moving. A leaky pipe in the shower led to hole in the shower wall, which led to the discovery of the carpenter ants. Patches of mold blossomed on the ceiling. Then the fish, taking a nose dive from its shelf, busted the toilet tank into shards. The fish, by the way, was completely unharmed.

In the process of gutting and replacing everything, we discovered that a recess was being created in the wall behind the new medicine cabinet. (You see where this is going...) Offering the fish as a sacrifice to the bathroom gods, we placed it, along with a well-sealed letter of vague explanation, in the crevice, and sealed it behind the sturdy new mirrored fixture to sit for eternity, or at least until the next remodel.

The fish has now become someone else's problem. Perhaps, it shall be discovered one day, perhaps not. The irony is, in the new house, the fish would have gone well with the pink and gray hues of our new guest bathroom...

Double X

Big news from the Southland. In his never-ending quest to be just like me, Tom apparently shoots Xs.

Ella (popular name...) is due in June!

10 fingers, 10 toes, and hopefully, not half-Chinese...

(Not that there's anything wrong with being Chinese, it's just that Tom isn't...)

Ahoy Meaty

If you take a 1.33-pound block of frozen 7%-fat ground beef, sitting in its original styrofoam tray, and hermetically sealed in clear plastic wrapping; and you set it in the sink, with the drain plugged; and you run warm water over the top, letting the water rise up over the sides; you will discover that the total volume of the meat and its container is greater than that of the equal mass of water being displaced. Thus, your meat package will have positive buoyancy, and will start to float..

What you will then have is nothing less than a meat boat. Anchors away!

Patron Saint

My dry cleaner does a lot of business, mostly mine. I take a lot of laundry to him, and he does a pretty good job. If there is a mistake, he takes care of it right away. If I forget my coupon, he still gives me a discount.

The best thing about him, though, is the fact that he took the time to learn my name. Hell, he could charge twice as much, and I would still take my clothes to him. Why? BECAUSE HE LEARNED MY NAME. That is the hallmark of good service, and good service is very important to me.

That's also why I like Don Colorado's, a small Mexican restaurant near my office. The food is good, but the service is better. Plus, they treat me like they know me. They don't actually know my name, but hey recognize me, and they treat me well.

So, I was at Don Colorado's for lunch recently, and I noticed something strange. Most Mexican restaurants, or at least the ones around here, have an icon of St. Martin of Tours hanging over their door. In case you don't know, St. Martin is the patron saint of innkeepers, horses, and protection from poverty. He is always depicted in Roman soldier attire, riding a horse, and handing his cloak to a beggar.

His history has been thoroughly whitewahsed, but basically he was an early Roman Bishop in Gaul. Regardless, his lucky picture hangs in most Mexican restaurants. (Look for him...)

Don't, however, look for him if you have lunch with me at Don Colorado's. He isn't there. It's not that they don't have their own special saint hanging there. They do. He's just not some saint that you'll find on the Roman Catholic Church's index of Saints. No, hanging over the door at my favorite Mexican lunch spot is none other than Poncho Villa.

I knew there was a reason that I liked that place!

Porn

(Hey, the following links are obviously X-rated! Like that's gonna stop you...)

That's right, the time has come. Let's talk about porn. Come on, don't be bashful. Let's just get it out in the open.

Porn is as porn does. The Supreme Court might not know what porn is, but we all know what we like. Perhaps you're not very sexually aware, or maybe you're in denial. In that case, porn may come in the form of food, or perhaps a Pottery barn Catalogue.

Perhaps you are a sex freak, but your twist is more subtle. Perhaps your fantasy life is full and you only need moderate kindling to light the flame.

Maybe you're just an abomination to God. It's OK, really, you are in very good company.

OK, for me, I really enjoy the volume and ease of simple internet porn. There has been much speculation about what sort of devilish titillation lurks about my personal porn list. Well, the time has come, in Willy Wonka-ish fashion, I shall share the bare-bone highlights of my list:

Let's start with the Peeping Moe

This is an old site, with it's roots dating back before the bubble. Do you remember JenniCam, Jennifer Ringly, the semi-pudgy real girl who pioneered real-time web cam technology? One lone college girl, living her entire life in front of a web cam. Everything. EVERYTHING. I remember running off to the computer lab every hour while studying for the bar exam to catch up on Jennifer's life. (No wonder I took the bar exam twice...)

Well, Peeping Moe capitalized on the movement that Jennifer launched. Moe now links hundreds of real-time live cams (most for a fee) for the voyeur in all of us. Do you like to watch? Well, this is the site for you.

But speaking of voyeurs, one of my all time favorites is Voyeur Web.

This is a major international site that collects amateur photo submissions from around the world. It has a hard-core pay site, and an extensive soft-core free site. Photos are sent by the models, or sometimes their husbands. Boyfriends send their girlfriends, and sometimes themselves. This is strictly amateur hour, and you can always find REAL women (and some men). Some are Hot, and some are earnest. If you don't like what you see, hit the back button. You're not going to find a whole lot of airbrushing here.

While this site often serves my prurient needs, I do frequently find it kind of sweet. Often you'll find submissions sent in by some schmuck in Nebraska, showing off pictures of his favorite lady. She might be a little heavy, and certainly not Playboy material, but he's proud of her and he loves her and he wants everyone to see how good he has it. Sure he's spreading naked pictures of his wife around the internet, but I think it's a compliment to the women, in some sick perverted way...

I guess there always has to be rip-offs though. Did you enjoy Voyeur Web? Well, there's still more of the same at the little rip-off site called Free Project Voyeur.

And then there's Ronbo.

Ronbo is a genius. He's a "photographer" and a "film maker" who basically pays hot women to have sex with him while he films it. Ronbo, as you can see, if a shriveled-up ugly old man with a cheesy mustache, and a 10-inch penis. (God bless him.) Ronbo used to have tons of free preview material on his site, but he's tightened-up the buffet in recent years. Still, if you click around long enough, it's quite a show.

Enjoy high-class literate smut? Be sure to check out NERVE.

It used to be a completely-free on-line sexuality magazine. Profit motives have gotten in the way in recent years, but there is still enough free flesh there to have a good time. Read it for the pictures, or read it for the articles. Who cares? You're surfing in the privacy of your own home anyway.

Be sure to check out Tiava.

This is a massive link list recently shared with me by a friend. He's a good friend. Tiava is a good site.

And finally, we come to my very favorite internet porn site: Mad Thumbs.

Maybe you have detected a pattern in my list. I don't like pop-ups. I don't like re-direction. I want a clean-running filthy porn experience. I want it to be free. I want good variety. I absolutely do not want ad-ware or viruses. Mad Thumbs is the place.

It's a thumbnail gallery. You see what you're going to get before you get there. If you find your way into their archive pages, the editor has provided a color code for anti-virus security. If the frame isn't green, don't click on the pic. It's that simple. Thanks Mad Thumbs for protecting me during my porn-surfing safari.

Well, that's it kids. That's my porn list. Do you have favorites that I haven't listed? Well, by all means, share them with your friends here in the Lounge. It takes a village, sometimes, to find the best filth.

Starburst

Starburst candies should not be crunchy.

I believe someone in my office is trying to kill me.

God, Beans, and Naan

This may come as a revelation but I, well, I'm not very funny. That's right, contrary to popular belief, my sense of humor is really quite shallow and not just a little bit lame. I, therefore, have to rely on gimmicks mostly to make people laugh.

And the quickest gimmick of all? Shock. Better if it's awkward shock, but really any old shock will do.

Just this afternoon, for example, a terrific opportunity arose to throw out a bombshell, and it worked. I achieved exquisite shock in fine detail. Now, the coworker to whom I made my revelation, actually reads this blog (Hi Chip!). Therefore, since she's already heard this part, she can just skip ahead a couple of paragraphs...

So, the dirty little secret was that I used to be quite ridiculously religious. Fundamentalist. Church three times per week. Taught Sunday school. Church camp counselor. Bible college. Strict biblical interpretation. No sex. No alcohol. God, what a jackass I was...

This achieved the appropriate level of raised eyebrows and gaped mouths. I felt a sense of accomplishment in my story telling.

This of course caused me to stop and ponder the varied experiences and adventures that came with attending a large active religious congregation in Southern California, many of which, strangely involved Disneyland in one form or another.

It was on one such Disney-related excursion, on a hot smoggy summer night, that we as a godly group stopped at Del Taco for dinner. Del Taco, for those of you who don't know, is like Taco Bell only it sucks far less.

We were all hungry, having spent the entire day in active worship-like activities with near aerobic fervor. Someone in the red van spied a Del Taco in the distance on Katela Ave., and gestured emphatically, yet in a modest Christian manner, to someone in the gray van behind. Both vans careened into the parking lot and 20 stinking teenagers piled out.

I suppose the meek may inherit the Earth, but until that time, the meek shall remain hungry. We all crowded the counter at the same time jockeying for position to place orders first. It was then that the announcement came: "I'm sorry, we're out of beans."

What?

Out of beans?? "What the HECK??" How is it possible that a major Disney-sphere restaurant from the second largest Mexican food chain in Southern California could run out of FRICKEN BEANS??

No explanation was provided. We all ended up ordering beef/chicken/cheese-oriented items. In retrospect, the lack of beans more-than-likely led to a less-polluted ride home in the vans.

And so, with that little nugget of nostalgia on my mind, I headed off at noon to have a rare mid-day lunch with Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic. She was working in Portland today so we both drove halfway across town to meet at our favorite little Indian buffet on Hawthorne. The place always smells great and has the right balance of color and seedy Spartan surroundings. I loaded my plate with basmati rice, chicken tikka masala, some green spinach based glop, and something else with lentils. OH! and the rice pudding.... mmm... Never forget the rice pudding.

Lastly, I passed the Naan basket. It was empty. Well, it had one piece left, which I took, but that was woefully inadequate. I stood there dumbfounded, holding my plate, peering around for help. The place is small and there is only one waiter, Sahib. (Well, I'm only guessing that's his name, since I don't know any other demeaning Indian names.) I looked at Sahib meaningfully, he glanced at me. I gestured to the EMPTY naan basket. He said nothing.

I looked again at the basket, and then back to Sahib, this time with a pregnant eyebrow. Still nothing. I finally asked, with my best impression of English superiority (I'm mostly Irish BTW): "By the by, good man, might there be more naan on its way from the kitchen?"

"No."

Fucker. I was beginning to think that Pakistan has a point...

No naan. How is that possible in an Indian restaurant?? It's a goddamn conspiracy is what it is. I felt full of righteous indignation. I mean this isn't Lagaan, it's not like we've had a seven-year drought. It's Portland-friggin-Oregon. There's no shortage on flat bread.

I felt that some action was called for. Therefore, in Gandhi-like protest, I stuck my finger in the rice pudding while Sahib had his back turned to me. I suppose the lesson there is, never turn your back on your enemy. Shocking, I know.

A Long Time Ago, In a Galaxy Far Far Away

George Lucas could learn something from These Special Effects

Thanks to Abestis

Royale With Cheese

Holy mother of god, THIS is unbelievable.

It's GENIUS I tell you!

Oh hell, you just need to see THE WHOLE THING yourself...

I blame Tom for this...

Chuck Norris Update

Thanks to Ann for this:

A) Recently, an episode of Walker Texas Ranger was aired in France; the French surrendered to Chuck Norris just to be on the safe side.



B) Chuck Norris died ten years ago, but the Grim Reaper can't get up the courage to tell him.

In My Free Time

Well, we've gone and done it. We've gone and set up another blog.

I've written here many times about the new Battlestar Galactica. After Deadwood, it trully is the best show on televsion. There are already many fan boy sites, but we hope to bring something new to the blogsphere geekapoluza. (For instance, no fan fiction...)

So, it is my pleasure to introduce the newest member of this happy little community:

The Most Beautiful Person on Earth

I really don't find Angelina that attractive. I know 99% of the rest of you do, but I don't. I don't think she's unattractive. She just doesn't float my boat. I'll be the first to admit, though, I can be kinda dumb on occasion.

I guess Brad Pitt's attractive too. Women and gay men tell tell me so. Sure, I guess he's kinda pretty.

So, now they have gone and mated, copulated, achieved reproductive impregnation. Too bad for those other kids that she bought on the third-world market. The first born prince/princess of the pop world is on his/her way. There's nothing like growing up in the shadow of your yet-to-be-naturally-born sibling...

So, when this Messiah of the movie industry is born under the Hollywood sign, and the three wise studio executives come to offer their gifts of gold, Botox, and a development deal, what will they see? What will this cinematic Kwizatz Haderach look like?

Well, as usual, science has the answer for us. With the assistance of a massively powerful super-computer, used normally by the NSA to read everyone's email, leading scientists from the USC film school and researches from AFI have produced the following DNA-based Topofacioprogenograph of the new Jolie-Pitt baby:

God bless modern science!

Swedish Egil

While waiting for a witness to arrive for a deposition this afternoon, I had an odd conversation with the plaintiff's attorney sitting accross the table from me. What developed was something of a game attributing various cities and counties in California to certain parts of the human body. After a while, however, a problem developed We started to run out of dirty foul-smelling crevices. I mean,there are only a small number of armpits and ass cracks to go around.

That's the problem with California, the whole state is an ass crack.

And let me tell you, growing up there was no picnic. Floods, fires, earthquakes, riots, AIDS, gangs, drugs, traffic, freeway shootings, skin cancer, air pollution, water pollution, hypodermic needles on the beach, water shortages, power shortages, high taxes, high gas prices; the list goes on and on... Now, I don't believe in God, but if I did, it would seem obvious that he hates the shit out of that place.

The one saving grace of that pestilence-ridden Sodom and Gomorrah was a little alternative radio station called KROQ. In the early 80s, it sounded more like an amateur pirate broadcast, but over time it grew to become a world-class idol maker. In a world full of hip hop an heavy metal, KROQ offered an alternative, which has now become a genre in its own right.

Those early pioneers of alternative radio in Los Angeles have, for the most part, grown old and faded away. Richard Blade, Poor Man, Swedish Egil, Freddie Snakeskin, Jed the Fish, Tami Heide, Spacin Scott Mason, and many many others. (OK, Jed is still there, but he's old, very old...)

So, many years have passed since I fled the Southland, and imagine my pleasure and surprise when I discovered Sirius channel 22, First Wave. It's a satellite radio channel devoted to the alternative music of the 80s and 90s, but better still it's hosted by several of the old KROQ jocks. Holy crap! I was cruising by and whammo, I hear a limey accent say: "This is Richard Blade..." Good god, it's the Dickie Blade Show, back from the dead!

So here I sit, listening to the The Cult, Haircut 100, and the Smiths, on a late-night radio show hosted by Swedish Egil. It's like I'm 16 again. Well, 16 and a few more pounds, oh, and a mortgage, and some scotch. Right, and a baby, but 16 nonetheless! (And yes Tom, we all know that you were the first person on Earth to have Sirius. I realize that you were the very first person to have ever discoverd First Wave...)

Damn you, just let me live my retro-juvenile fantasy.

If You Have to Shoot, Shoot - Don't Talk

I've said it before. Mrs Gin-and-Tonic hates gin. Isn't it ironic?

Well, way back when, at the very beginning of our tawdry relationship, before the baby-making, before the mortgage, before the law degrees, before the long nights on the futon laying awake listening to the loud squeaky giggling copulation in the landlord’s bedroom upstairs, there was a pizza party. Not just any pizza party, mind you. As the self-appointed morale officer of the law school, I felt it my duty to break the monotony of finals season, by serving pizza and martinis in the mock-court room, and playing Casablanca on the over-head monitors.

Somehow, pepperoni and mushroom tastes better in a jury box.

Now, I was nothing more than a horny student and semi-suitor at that point, but the future Mrs. G&T was already smitten. As she arrived for the shindig at the appointed time, I handed her an atrociously concocted dry gin martini (not really shaken or stirred, mostly just swirled...), which she accepted with aplomb.

“You can really tell a lot about a guy by the martini he makes,” she said as she batted her eye lashes. She dutifully gagged the first couple of sips down, and quickly trashed the rest while I was looking away. It was OK though. It wasn’t really important anyway, and things obviously worked out.

What was important, however, were her words. They were wrong. Well, not entirely wrong, just not entirely right. See, I’ve learned since, that there are better ways to learn volumes about a person with just a few words and no alcohol at all.

It is part of my job, when a case actually goes to trial, to select a jury. With the very short amount of time that we are allowed, it is critical to gain as much insight into a person’s soul with as few words as possible, and the quickest way to do that, I have learned, is to ask them to identify their favorite movie.

Romantic, practical, aggressive, empathetic, athletic, academic, artistic, mind-less, shallow, geeky, savvy, arrogant, fucker: I can read you from the movies you like. You cannot hide from my all-knowing Gene Siskel-like gaze.

As for me, my number-one favorite, all-time best-liked movie is: The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly. I’m not saying it’s the greatest movie ever made, just my favorite. I can watch it in its entirety on DVD, in widescreen with surround sound, and then channel-surf past it a little later in the evening, and have to stop and watch a little.

So what does the movie say about me?

It is a movie made by a quasi-lunatic cinematic maverick. A rebel. An individual. It reinterpreted an entire genre and an entire historical era. The protagonists were mutually reprehensible jackasses. The antagonist was professionally sadistic. The characters are motivated solely by greed.

All of the characters, from the title roles down to the legless informant, were universally covered in a thin sheen of oil, sweat and dust. Nothing was clean, not even Tuco’s priest-brother, Father Ramirez.

Loyalties are fluid in the film. The protagonists lie and cheat and leave each other for dead more than once. Trust is non-existent. The only character who doesn’t lie is Angel Eyes, but at the beginning of the movie he goes to a man’s house, eats the man’s supper, then shoots the man and the man’s son. (Big Kahuna Burger, anyone?)

Only at the very end is there the merest hint of a shadow of redemption, but only from a great distance away. Blondie spares Tuco’s life and grants him his share of the gold. Tuco thanks Blondie by calling him a sonofabitch. Roll credits.

Goddamn, I do love that movie!

So can you tell anything about me from this movie? I’ll tell you what, go watch it. Then, come back and tell me all about myself. I do know this, no lawyer that ever asks me that question will let me on a jury.

Peat Moss

There's a drink that I crave at the end of each day
There's a dram that I want after work
It nestles the nerves in its its own wicked way
But too much makes me act like a jerk

It's brown, and it's smoth, and it tastes of peat moss
A decanter is what I keep mine in
It's perfect to serve to your dad or your boss
Whether a blend or good Bunnahabhain (BOO-na-Hobbin)

Be your troubles so large that you can't sleep at night
Of one thing you may always be sure
Whether your burden is heavy or rather quite light
There's nothing that Scotch cannot cure

Carcinoma Cattle Call

Nudists, naturists, sun worshipers... God bless them all!

These hairless monkeys have taken the next step in human evolution, casting off the shackles of shame.


The naturist community is a utopia of sorts, stressing a lifestyle of physical fitness and social cooperation. Everything they do, they do as a group.


I'm not exactly clear what the fascination is with water though;

Or net-oriented sports. With all of the racquet swinging, it just seems hazardous...

And always, they bask in the dignity of sportsmanship and the pride that comes from a game well-played. Well played without pants, but well played nonetheless...

Watch the spike!

They are also apparently obsessed with lawn care. Who knew?? (There was a joke in there about keeping the bush trimmed, but I'm just to tired to put it together... Feel free to make up your own jokes.)

Strippers and Booze and Blood, Oh My!

All lawyers would rather be one of two things: author or teacher. I think my wife has dreams of teaching. I, myself, would rather get published.

Unfortunately, between billable hours, babies, blogging, and general domestic obligations, I have no time to write a book. As it is, I struggle to pump out three dazzling paragraphs per night here, let alone my two feeder-blogs at myspace.com and grab.com. I have no idea how I will keep up with the two-person Battlestar blog proposed by one anonymous reader, and the three-person blog in the works with Tom and Dave.

Write a book? Right...

Well, somehow, my pal, Dave, has managed to write songs with his band, maintain two blogs and a personal website, Manage an overseas team of computer geeks, (OH!) and write a goddamn book.

Well, he's finished the book, and is publishing it under a creative commons license on myspace. So far, we've read about strippers, booze, and a suspicious blood stain; and we're only on chapter two! (as of this posting) You should check it out. You'll need a Myspace account to access it, but hell, everyone has one of those...




Click on the Wingman logo to read the book!

Serenity

My Serenity DVD arrived from Amazon today.


Has yours?