Apparently, Everything In Columbia Is For Sale

Coffee...
Children...
Cocaine...

The souls of dancing girls...

Absent a bargain-basement Bogota clearance sale, attended by one shrewd marketing Mephistopheles, how can Shakira be explained? One third-world Latina with a velvety voice should not, could not, have conquered so much of the known musical world without direct diabolical demonic intervention.

Yes, the rhythmic swaying and swooshing of her smooth tanned hips hypnotizes with hedonistic allure. Yes, I want to touch her. That is beside the point.

OK, so she is ridiculously sexy. Yes, she creates more swampy steam than the entire Amazonian rain forest. That does not mean that she deserves an intercontinental portion of pop supplication.

She can't really sing THAT well, and when she does sing, it is awkward and stinted, or at least it is when she sings in English, which I guess is her second language, but hey, I'm not trying to hawk my wares south of the Rio Grande either.

So, what is the story? Quit Claim Deed of the soul to the dark lord of the underworld? Sure. But like Kiely Minogue, I have to wonder, who's she blowing? Certainly no one gets this much forced top-40 propaganda without a little (or a lot of) fellatio on the side.

I suppose she has talent. The dancing is delectable. The voice, if it's hers, is sultry. However, I suspect the real talent lies in her god-given ability to suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.

Viva La Bimbo!! Ole!

Good Tidings of Great Joy

Leah has finally completed the gestation process.

Perhaps now she will shut up.

Mother and daughter are doing fine. Well, Leah is still Leah, but otherwise, they're fine...

Tom Delay and Ashton Kutcher Watch Paris Hilton Sex Tape and American Idol in Iraq!!

Ok, so, readership is down.

Sites like Technorati and Blogarama say to sprinkle your titles with popular search terms. Well, hell, I've done that, haven't I?

And what about content?

Jesus, I'm writing poems about media-savvy archaeologists. I mean, what more could you want?

Pictures of large-breasted women, you say?

You bet!


What else?

Ewan McGregor in a towel? Why not!!

Hurray for the lowest Common denominator!! Why didn't I think of this before??

Here's some Dita! She's always good for a ratings spike!

Who needs thoughtful commentary, or offbeat rhymes?

I can just post the latest photos of Clay Aiken!

And don't forget the porn! Here's a link to some grade-A smut: PORN

Alright, let me go check that site meter now...

The Ubiquitous Geezer of Giza

World tour
Media whore
Please the Press in Belgium!

Is CNN running a story about touching-up the Sphinx? Oh, He'll be there.

The History Channel sending searchers to bob for Napoleon's navy at the mouth of the Nile? You can bet He'll make an appearance.

Late-night American radio host analyzing ancient Egyptian astronaut conspiracies? You can count on Him calling in.

Tut on tour? He will be the tour guide.

In the realm of global media whores, no one touches Him; not Bono, not Jesse, not Donald, not even Osama. Should you need to slide a shovel into the hot Egyptian sand, you had better damn-well be prepared to put Him on television talking about it.

He is Dr. Zahi Hawass, Secretary General of Egypt's Supreme Council of Antiquities. You have seen Him before. He is everywhere. As far as I know, He IS the council, and the cost of doing business with Him is airtime.

It's gotten to the point where I can anticipate the announcement of His name without looking or even paying attention to the story. Be it television, radio, or print; if the tale touches the hem of Egypt's garments, Hawass will be named, quoted and featured throughout, just as sure as Pat Robertson will ask for cash.

Sitting atop the archaeological treasure trove of North Africa, Dr. Hawass tightens his stranglehold on the ebb and flow of Egyptological commerce. Every dig, every site, every investigation, every entry into every pyramid, every tour of every tomb, every dive into the depths, everything requiring a pith helmet, is all micro-managed by him.

The push to "restore" ruins is his. The extortion of European academia for the return of lost loot, booty and mummies is his his pet project. The never-ending quest for the maximum-range world-wide megaphone, through which to hear his own voice at the greatest possible volume is his alone.

He is the keeper of pharaohs and lord of the plateau. He is coming to a museum near you, and will likely leave for home with armfuls of your ancient art.

So, stash your scarabs, and Osirus
Don't let Him see your old papyrus
Shield your bust of Nefertiti
And your model of Thebes City

But don't deny Him when he calls
For without His say, no pick ax falls
Give Him the mummies that you own
And don't forget Rosetta Stone

He is the king of Pharaoh's land
He finds his fame to be quite grand
You'll never see beneath the Sphinx
Unless Doc Zahi nods and winks...

Blueberry Waffles

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For There are Brighter Sides to Life and I Should Know Because I've Seen Them

Fifth try.

The evening's events don't seem to make for appropriate blog fodder, nor do Scotch-hazed nostalgic yarns of childhood spelunking. The Scotch is good.

Sure, there was dinner. Damn fine dinner, with good company, and abundant wine. And now, now there is scotch. Not great scotch. Just mediocre. Single malt, to be sure, but nothing special, and there is the darkness cut by the blue hue of the monitor, flickering in my face.

The popular rumor these days is that the errant members of The Smiths turned down five Million in hard US currency to reunite. Maybe it's true, who knows? In honor of this tragic tabloid headline, though, the Good folks at First Wave, Sirius 22, have programmed and are broadcasting an all-Smiths/Morrissey weekend. It almost makes me feel guilty, it's so good...

So here I sit, glazed over by Glenlivet, mulling over morose lyrics, and trying to plunk out words with my bratwurst fingers. A cigar is very probably in my immediate future.

Checking In

I love Bill Gates.
I love Microsoft.
I love how after years of fidgeting, all of that Microsoft stuff finally works together.

I browse with Internet Explorer. When I'm fiddling with the Lounge, I'm checking my work through the looking glass of IE.

Recently, a friend and regular reader said, "Hey Brian, I use Firefox, and your blog looks like a completely garbled pile of shit. You should use Firefox too!"

That was an odd endorsement for Firefox, but my curiosity was stirred. So, I tried it, and guess what! My blog looked like a completely garbled pile of shit. But, not only did MY blog look wonkey, almost every familiar page that I looked at was out of whack. It was like Firefox users were deliberately giving themselves Dyslexia.

Personally, I like Internet Explorer because, well, it works.

However, dear readers, your relative happiness is marginally ranked on my list of personal priorities. So, if many of you are using alternate browsers, and you're having difficulty viewing these scrolling columns of wit, irreverence and inspiration, then I need to know. I'm not sure what I can do to improve your miserable lot, but I'm sure there must be something.

So, please share what browser your using. Also, let me know if you're having technical difficulties. Mostly, I just want to laugh at your pathetic incompetence, but still, I should know.

Statistics

Research is fun. Here are some interesting numbers:

92% of all bikinis are "thong cut."

4 out of 5 bikinis never touch the water.

Bikinis are illegal in 27 countries.

Residents of Southern California use 45% more hand lotion than other Americans.

Nationally, 37% of all hand-lotion consumption is for sexual, or sexually-related purposes.

Women are 29% less likely to get pregnant following the consumption of at least 24 ounces of beer within three hours of intercourse. Conception is 34% less likely following a bottle of wine, and a whopping 45% less likely following two shots of tequila.

One pound of hamburger, on average, contains approximately 3 grams of bull semen.

The average Scottish penis is .75 centimeters longer than the average English penis, and 1.2 cm longer than the average French phallus.

42% of Americans believe that President Bush is smarter than they are.

3 out of every 5 American women regularly wear thong underwear.

Here is an odd one. Married women in the US and Canada report having sex with their spouse 3 times per week. In the same survey, the men reported having sex with their spouse once per week.

74% of adults in the state of Oregon report taking a shower at least once per day.
In California, only 69% report a daily shower.
Pennsylvania was the lowest with 57% daily showers.
Unbelievably, Arkansas leads the hygiene brigade with 81% daily showers.

Brunette women, on average, are 2.3% smarter than redheads, and 3.7% smarter than Blondes.

However, Blondes are 100% more likely to have fun! (OK, I made that one up...)

Pedophiles are 17% more likely to be cat owners than dog owners (not sure how that is calculated...)

Families who attend church at least once per week are:

82% more likely to contract head lice
75% less likely to send a child to college
63% more likely to lose their home to a tornado
55% more likely to sell Amway
41% more likely to have at least two obese family members
22% more likely to to eat at Arby's

In Oregon, the Top Five exotic-dancer pseudonyms are:
5-Ashley
4-Brandi
3-Crystal
2-Natalia
1-Sierra

and finally...

In a survey of over 11,000 heterosexual men, of the four standard American bra sizes, they prefer:

A: 4%
B: 1.5%
C: 3%
D: 89%

(That leaves 2.5% undecided. I suspect these guys were confused about why "DD" wasn't on the list...)

Mobile Blogging: Code Orange

This is the house across the street from my office.

Yes they just painted it orange.

Now I have to look at it until I quit or it burns down, which ever comes first

Alpha Beta

Standing in the alpha beta parking lot
Watching the sun set
I'll never forget

Breathing in the fumes from so many idling cars
Right beneath the sign w/ the dusty yellow stars
Watching the sun go down

If you are, say, younger than 20, or have never lived in California, then you probably have no idea what Alpha Bet is. Well, it WAS a super market chain, One of the largest in the state. It was one of the oldest too, so named for the founders' idea to organize their entire stock alphabetically.

I have held many positions of employment with an assortment of varrying ventures, but the first was at Alpha Beta. I was a box boy, clerk's assistant or courtesy clerk. I bagged groceries, swept floors, bailed boxes and collected carts. During the summer of 1986 I worked quite literally in the Alpha Beta parking lot.

It was a good job, and many stories arose from it. For instance, after closing one night, while putting the produce to sleep, some one switched the quiet ambient Muzak to the loud local radio giant, KROQ. As I covered cabbage with burlap, and carted carrots to the cooler, I listened to the familiar voice of Poorman, the P.M. personality, invite listeners to call in for love advice. He was experimenting with a little idea he'd eventually call Love Line. As it turned out, the first caller was a girl who was sleeping with her brother. It was easy to see that Poorman's little radio idea had potential...

The most important story, though, has to do with bags. Grocery bags. Plastic grocery bags. By now, the question, "paper or plastic?" has become a part of our daily shopping experience. We expect it. We each have developed our own preferences. However, this was not always so. For decades (perhaps centuries), paper bags were the sole means of grocery transportation. Plastic has not always been an option.

So, when did plastic bag technology appear in the American grocery landscape?

1986.

How do I know? I was there. I sat through the indoctrination seminar and training meetings. I was taught how to operate the bag bundles and packing rack. I witnessed demonstrations on the relative tensile strength of plastic sacks. I was paid for all of this, so I paid attention.

Absent sharp poking points, a single plastic bag is far stronger and more durable than it's paper counter parts, and when moisture enters the equation, as it always does, there is no contest between paper and plastic. Of course, precise packing skills are required for maximum bag utility.

Unfortunately, today's baggers have NO packing skills, the little fucks. I blame the bosses. No one is teaching these crack-head hippies how to bag. It is quickly becoming a lost art. Finding a bagger or even a full clerk who grasps the concept of bag building is becoming more problematic by the day, and to find one is cause for joyous consumer adjulation.

Really, there are a few basic rules: Use large rectangle objects to build side-walls, fill the middle with soft stuff; Six-packs do not go on top of bread, peaches or eggs; chemicals go with chemicals; frozen goes with frozen.

Perhaps, however, the worst current catastrophe in bagging is the single-object bag phenomenon. I've only really seen this become a problem in recent years. It drives me absolutely ape-shit. When I make a quick run to the store to pick up seven items, there is no fucking reason to come away with seven bags. The bags are not made of tissue. You can put a watermelon in a plastic grocery bag and swing it over your head. I've seen it!

There is no goddamn good reason to put a single bottle of Fresca in its own bag. The milk will fit in there too. Put the chips on top of the beer in a bag together. You can probably fit the box of Hohos in there with them.

Goddamn punk-ass lazy bastards. I should just start bagging my own groceries.

Oh, P.S. here's one of the strangest and most useless websites I've ever seen: Groceteria

Pilgrim

Most of you are familiar with the sweet and wholesome contributions posted on this blog by my pal Carl. Well, it seems that Carl is going to California.

Thank God!

Unfortunately, it's only for a visit. Carl is well-traveled, and has been to the Southland before. He will apparently be in Los Angeles next weekend and is looking for entertainment advice from the locals. Surely, only the hippest hipsters and gothiest goths from the City of Angels populate this little outpost of tikki-delight. So, anything that any of you have to contribute, is warmly welcomed.

The Cowboy

It's not often that I get to take a nap, but this afternoon the opportunity presented itself. Slipping quickly into REM, bypassing all of those other pesky stages of sleep, I found myself at sea in a storm of dreams.

Nap-time seems to always brew the best and most vivid pageants, replays of my subconscious mind's whims and worries. It's patchy now, but I was at school, ten-years late for a class, with a paper due and a test to take. I was naked, of course, and unable to find my once-familiar locker, but the school became a lake, and I was floating on an innertube, rigged in seaman-like fashion with a sail and a rudder. The lake, it seems was only a ride within the run-down Tijuana Disneyland-like theme park. An enjoyable ride, apparently, since I kept getting back in line.

All was not fun though, as the Cylons began their invasion, and I had to escape the park. Fortunately, I was able to open a door, and find myself safely in my grandmother's house. Funny how doors work in dreams... Anyway, as I explored my grandmother's surprisingly vast home, I found myself lying in a brightly lit white room with dark-blue shag carpet The room had no furniture, but there was a smaller connected ante-room, also white with blue carpet. In the ante-room sat my grandmother, mother, and sister around the only piece of furniture in the place, a rickety brown wood dining room table. They seemed to be playing cards. The room felt hot. And then, I woke up.

Pretty convoluted stuff, and that's only the parts that I remember. Left me feeling more tired than I did before the nap, and there was simply too much to make any sense of. Perhaps I'm insane. I fear I'm in need of therapy. I'm really fucked up, right?

Well, tonight after dinner, I finally got around to seeing David Lynch's Mulholland Drive for the first time. (Thanks Netflix!) And perhaps, I'm not nearly as crazy as I fear. I mean, holy christ, David Lynch is a goddamn lunatic.

I can not rightly say that I have NO CLUE what the movie was about, because I do, in fact, have a clue, but that's ALL I have. It's just sort of a vague suggestion of some meaning behind what it might be sort of getting at. But like my delirious dreams, I cannot actually grasp any substance. OK, so, Betty is Diane, and Rita is "The Girl," and the blue box contains the truth, and the ugly man behind Denny's is what? The devil? The evil in the hearts of men (or women)? And good god, who the hell is the Cowboy? He was part of the fantasy, but shows up in reality? Or was any of it reality? And was all of the hot lesbian sex just a metaphor for masturbation?

Really, I should watch it again, but I can't. So maybe one of my smart friends can help me out with this one. Anyone? Anyone?

oh, for the love of god

Client Control
Client Control
Client Control

I had a client once, show up to trial wearing a moo moo with curlers in her hair. No lie.
I lost that one.

So, who are the legal eagles allowing Phil Spector to show up to trial looking like this??

Oh hell, I couldn't care less if this guy killed his girlfriend and ate her liver on stage during a Bon Jovi concert. The hairdo, however, must be punished.

Job Description

I once wished that I could have a desk job.

I now have a desk job and all I want is to be photographer, Spencer Tunick:

Or, at least, I want his job. I mean, I like naked people...

And I'm handy with a camera...

So, why couldn't I make a career out of this?

Did you know that all of the models are volunteers? Some try out and get rejected.

The only thing these people get are signed copies of the photo, and some really odd new friends

The Artist, Of course, pockets the cash.
Seriously, this should be my job...

Guest Blog by Mrs. G & T: A Public Service Announcement

Hello faithful readers, this is Mrs. Gin and Tonic with a helpful retail tip for your family. Aquafresh Extreme Clean Original Experience Plus Whitening tastes like cherry cough drops. Do not be fooled by the price of the Costco sized version unless you think that's how toothpaste should taste. You've been warned.

Pink

A friend and frequent reader of the Lounge was told this afternoon that she was old. Perhaps a rude thing for two pre-drinking age college freshmen to say. However, my "old" friend happens to be 25.

I asked what the two toddlers would say about me. My friend, who already thinks that I'm old, said, "ancient," and then laughed at my pain.

Old? How old am I? Well I happen to be old enough to recall when MTV played music videos, which they of course no longer seem to do. There is no end to the irony-induced ire that I experience over this.

"Well, it's now called Lifestyle Programming," Tom will surely say. Well, fine, why doesn't it call itself LPTV then? The M stands for Music. If you hold yourself out as MUSIC television, then you should play music. Look, I couldn't care less about today's pop music, but I have to wonder where the hell the videos went!!

Well, last Thursday, I found out. While staying home caring for a vomiting monkey with a side-case of the shits, I surfed past the basic-cable conclave of music channels. Lo and behold, at 10:35 a.m., I discovered just exactly where the video went. They play them during the day when their entire market audience is either at work or at school. Brilliant!

So, I stopped to savor a few minutes of edgy editing and unnaturally bouncy hip-hop go-go girls... bouncing... bouncing...

Then, as Karma would dictate, a new video from Pink, the post-punk sub-pop diva came on. The song was called Stupid Girls, and appeared to be a catchy, yet angry, anthem railing against the very same bouncy hip-hop go-go girl stereotypes that I had just been oggling seconds before. The rapid reversal of musical message caused a bit of whiplash, but I found the video compelling.

In an inspired employment of juxtaposition, the song celebrates the cerebral empowerment of women, while interspersing a copious amount of Pink's own pasty flesh to crucify the exploitation of female sexuality. It titilates, then makes you feel like shit for being titilated. Damn.

Pink may be the new feminist hero. Anyone would be better than Hillary...

Now, on the other hand, though, there is something to be said about the completely vacuous self-absorbed preening and prancing of the beautiful-but-nearly-retarded. These are the well-financed and well-tanned semen-receptacles of the world: the Paris Hiltons and the Jessica Simpsons.

I respect the strong woman, the smart woman. I hope the monkey grows up to be an ass-kicking world-conqueror, but sometimes, sometimes, I just want to look at the smooth-and-shiny big-tittied dimwitted bimbo.

I blame my penis, old as it may be...

Stone Cold

According to my wife, today could have been the first day of Spring. My personal theory is that Spring begins in a couple of days, on the Vernal Equinox, sort of like how Winter begins on the Winter Solstice, Summer on the summer Solstice, and Fall on the Autumnal Equinox. For her, though, seasons are far more intuitive. You walk outside sometime in October, see leaves falling, sense a chill and declare: "Fall has arrived!"

After a long cold and wet winter this year, Sunday bore all of the signs that Mrs. Gin-&-Tonic needed to declare the arrival of Spring. I saw it more as an unseasonably-warm penultimate day of Winter, but that's just semantics. The sky was blue, the breeze was cool, and my grass needed badly to be mowed.

After a few tweaks and a cursory tune-up, the lawn tractor roared to life. Crissing, crossing, zigging and zagging, my rumbling red mechanized grass-eater devoured the plentiful winter growth.

Down the slope I drove, to do battle with the bog-like mid-March marsh, that is my lower terrace. The cleted-traction tractor-tires slipping in the mud, tearing up more grass than it mows, I always look forward to playing in this part of the yard. However, as I completed my first circuit, I slammed on the brake and slid with low-speed momentum.

There, lying before me in the over-growth lay a dead body. It was on its back, its head bent at an unnatural angle. It's limbs were splayed out, and its tongue protruded from between its ghastly teeth. It's tail was intact, but its fur showed signs of a struggle.

At first, I wondered whether it was just playing possum, since it was, in fact, an opossum. A solid thwack with the shovel proved otherwise. It was dead, and it was in my yard.

I calculated and eliminated several possibilities. Unfortunately, my final conclusion left me somewhat surprised and disturbed. My dog killed the opossum.

Now, really, rodent control is one of the reasons to have a dog, and I was pleased to see that he is living up to our agreement. However, up to now, he has been a complete and total pussy. I've talked about this in prior posts. He is frightened by squeaky toys. He is occasionally chased BY his own tail. So, the thought of him hunting and killing didn't quite fit.

Seasons change, however, and winter becomes Spring. Babies learn to walk, and puppies become dogs. So, my personal furry foot warmer has become a stone cold killer. All I can think of is Vince Vaughn in Swingers: "Aw, look, our baby's all growed up..."

Back to Nature

Marine Corp sergeant Stephen Dabbindark squatted defensively at the bow of the landing craft, looking back at the faces of his platoon. Already, the familiar island aromas were wafting in on the breeze. The ubiquitous odor of diesel fuel mixed with motor oil and vomit was cut by the tropical smell of monkey shit and rotting fruit. It was only a matter of minutes now...

The engine died, the steel door dropped, and bullets began killing his men before they could even get their feet wet. This was Iwo Jima, imperial Japanese island fortress, and home to two airstrips, each capable of launching assaults on Tokyo. There were 21,000 Japanese soldiers on Iwo waiting to die. Dabbindark just had to survive the next 50 yards before he could get to work...

Since the American Revolution, over 40 million men and women, like Sgt. Dabbindark, have served in the US military during times of war. In fact, there are currently more than 25 million veterans still living today.

Each and every one of us owe these veterans a debt of thanks. Even the federal government, in its wisdom, has done it's share to thank these courageous heroes. In honor of the sacrifices made by these many gallant warriors, The United States Government has seen fit to give them the greatest honor it can bestow. That's right, you guessed it, the vets get a six-mile stretch of freeway in the state of Oregon. They call it "The Veterans Memorial Highway."

You don't often hear people say, "My, now, that's a beautiful freeway." And to be sure, it isn't quite as moving as the somber slabs of the Vietnam War Memorial. However, out-of-town guests (mostly freeway connoisseurs from LA) frequently exclaim the virtues of this woodsy route.

My daily commute rushes me past the forested median and rippling rivers that line this memorial thoroughfare, and I do not take nearly enough time to apprehend how pastorally pleasant it truly is.

So, recently, when I had the opportunity to reduce my speed to 5 miles per hour over an extended distance, due to the poor driving habits of some overturned minivan-driving soccer mom, I began to take note of the finely forested groves along the median. Shady and cool, it looked as if ODOT keeps the grass and shrubbery mostly manicured, much like a park, and I began to wonder whether the original memorial concept called for families to hold Veteran's Day
or Memorial Day outings right there in the middle of the memorial highway...

I mean there's plenty of room for parking, playing, and even camping, if one were so inclined. If not for the incessant noise of passing traffic, it would be a swell site for a camp out. Tall trees and green grass, and you can't beat the access. I think this is something I might want to try.

So, if you ever find yourself on I-205, and off in the median, under a tall stand of poplars, you spot a camp site set up around a crackling camp fire, pull over and say "Hi." Chances are, it will probably be me, and as always, I'll be pouring drinks...

A Friend in Need

Folks here in the Lounge are nothing, if not helpful. In times of crisis, my loyal loungers can be counted on to aid the less-fortunate.

Well, this is not one of those time. Certainly, there is no crisis. There is no emergency. There is only a half-baked self-imposed obligation to find for my friend, a new middle name.

It's not that she doesn't like her old one. No, she simply doesn't have one. I'm not sure what the whole story is, but it seems she was born in some heathen land where girls are not given names, and then she was raised by a wild herd of alpaca, or somesuch...

Anyway, she goes by the name Helly. I'm not sure whether that's a real name, or perhaps a part of a real name. Hard to say. She's vaguely Asian, and looks to be only about 14 years old. Although, she claims to be much older...

Now, she has publicly posted that her last name is Kwee, but seriously, how can that be an actual name? Nevertheless, it is up to us, Helly's fellow loungers, to find this girl a middle moniker. I have already suggested "Boom Boom," but that was met with resistance.

So, people, any thoughts??

The Shaman

It was dark as I drove the point home
and on cold leather seats
well, it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my
face after all

There is a theory that there is a Smiths song for every occasion. This, of course, assumes that every occasion is fraught with impending doom and awash with infinite despair. Stephen sings songs about finding love, losing love, doubting the existence of love, love of sodomy, the bleak absence of love, abandonment by those you love, bicycles, gloves, shoplifting, sleep, smoking and meat.

Not everyone was a fan of the Smiths. That's OK. I insist upon maintaining respect for those in the Lounge who dissent from the prevailing opinions. However, if you were youthful and alive in the last two decades of the 20th century, and you couldn't find at least one morose Morrissey/Marr tune to relate to, then you are probably a soul-less zombie, and must be destroyed... Optimally, with fire.

Recently, a friend of mine observed that, like the Smiths, I actually seem to have a story for every occasion. Did you accidentally find a man in a wheelchair performing fellatio? Lose your religion? Discover a long-lost sibling? Sure, I've got a story for you.

However, the more I think about this phenomenon, the more I recall that Northern Exposure episode where Ed believes that he has a calling to become a shaman. The old cynical soon-to-retire shaman, disgusted by the white-man's obsession with Hollywood drivel, explains to Ed that the wisdom of the tribe is contained in its stories.

So, maybe that's it. Perhaps I am not only your bartender, confessor, ring-master and friend. Perhaps I am also your shaman. Got a problem? I probably have a story for you.