Out of the Sandbox: Tricia Helfer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snowdog

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

Snow day!

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

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

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

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

What to do with Lindsay

Oh good god.

I didn't see it coming.

I had no warning.

I didn't mean to do it.

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

I appear to be undeniably attracted to Lindsay Lohan.

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

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

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

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

I need better standards.

A Message From Darth Vader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, and may the force be with you.

Nudini, the Naked Magician??

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

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

Cruel Drool

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

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

And then the whining begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it never came.

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

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

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

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

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

Who knows.

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

By Now, You Should Know How These Things Go

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

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

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

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

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

...giant penis made of legos...

Blab blah blah...

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

Blah blah blah...

...picture of Christina Ricci...

XY

Father of girls, my ass!

Test

Tdpt

--
===============================================
Brought to you by, Cingular Wireless Messaging
http://www.CingularMe.COM/

Subscription Prescription

Time
Life
People
Hustler

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

Is that fair?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But with what? That is the question.

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

I just don't know.

Any suggestions?

Geek Deeply

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unzip

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

Yes, Thank You

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

And poor Dita, perhaps she needs to be consoled.

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


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

In a Wad

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

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

This and That

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, maybe, I will get some sleep.

Sometimes I Think They Make Movies Just for Me

Make Just One Person Happy

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

Each of you.

All of you.

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

Just one simple thing.

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

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

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

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

Well, here is you chance to participate.

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

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

The Strip

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

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

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

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

But I, again, digress...

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

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

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

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

Well, Tom and I have been there.

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

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

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

But this... This!

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

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

Which brings us to today.

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

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

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

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

I Should Not Take Breaks

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

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

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

Monday Fashion Minute

Peasant Food

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

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

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

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

Funny

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

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

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

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

I think I will try to keep it short.

hmmm... this could get interesting

The Perfect gift

Multimedia message

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

Something About March

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

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

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

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

Ass Promised

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Amanda's Overrated Ass

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

I have her permission to post the photo.

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

Assapalooza

I misjudged my audience.

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

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

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

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

Oh Fuck ya! Ass! Ass!

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

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

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

Roxanne

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

It was 1986. I was working the night shift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 Ornaments

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

So, if anyone was wondering, Amanda found THIS

Size Matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy!

Thank god for vaulted ceilings.

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

The Cavern

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

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

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

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

And we all knew it...

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

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

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

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

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

Seems we were stuck.

Seems the whole ride was stuck.

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

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

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

"Come this way." they instructed.

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

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

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

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

Which is how I felt this afternoon.

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

All of them.

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

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

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

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

7 in Kansas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"uh." Was all I managed."

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

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

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

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

Insanity, as you well know, annoys me.

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

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

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

Which leads me to this morning.

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

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

But WHY??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haka Monday

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

Erudite Friday

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

Christina Ricci

I seem to lose readers as fast as I gain them...

The new readers can be fun though, watching the rapid demoralization of their souls as they dig deeper and deeper into the dreary depths of the Lounge. Ah, nothing like the loss of innocence to start the day off right!

So, one such blog-spelunker observed recently that I seem to hold a limited fixation on Christina, while other, healthier, individuals can have entire LISTS of predatory sexual obsessions.

"Hold your horses!" was my retort. "You obviously have not dug deeply enough to have seen the List. The Laminated List!"

Which raised the realization, "Holy Guano, Batman! I need to update the list!"

So, without further ado, here is the all-new fully-updated brunette-heavy Gin-&-Tonic Laminated list:

1

Nicole Kidman

2

Christina Ricci

3

Alyson Hannigan

4

Dita Von Teese

5

Eva Green

Of course, to validate the list, I must name my obligatory alternates...

Blonde Alternate: Tricia Helfer

Over Age Alternate: Isabella Rossellini

Under Age Alternate: Emma Watson

Same Sex Alternate: Ewan McGregor

Not in Oregon

Finally, freaks doing frealky things in OTHER states...

Man accused of spray-painting 3 goats

Tue Nov 28, 10:26 PM ET

A man broke into a barn on Thanksgiving morning, spray-painted three pet goats and scattered pages of pornographic magazines on the floor, apparently to harass the property owner, police said Tuesday.

"Obviously it's not an occurrence you see every day," Karst said. "I think it was a situation where this harassment got out of hand."

He would not elaborate on past instances of harassment or what the feud involved but said the suspects were known to the property owner.

Karst said he did not know specifically how the goats were harmed, but a veterinarian said the goats became sick after eating the magazine pages. The vet, Stacey Dallas, also said the orange paint was on their genitals and described the act as torture.

Late Shift

Trisha was working the late shift at Target. Clad as she was in tan pants and red short-sleeved blouse, she looked down the deserted aisles, looking for signs on life, or a patron to process through the checkstand maze.

She was crabby. She wasn't supposed to work tonight, but Cheryl couldn't make it in due to snow. So, Trisha had to cover.

So, there she stood, in sensible shoes, regretting the fast food she feasted on for dinner. Bored. Cold. Dreaming of a day when she would work regular hours with regular weekends. Maybe she would be a dental assistant. Maybe she would be a paralegal (whatever that is...) The odor of the over-buttered popcorn wafted from the food court.

She felt ill.

Suddenly she saw him. Perhaps the last customer of the night on this snowy November Monday. He was tall. Over 6 foot for sure. He wore a ratty green sweatshirt under a black leather coat. He had bad hair. His glasses were too big for his face. He smelled vaguely of gin.

In one hand, he carried discs; CDs and DVDs. Among them, INXS, Gorillaz, and the Little Mermaid. In the other hand he held a six pack of one-liter bottles of 7-Up.

For this, he left the house late and braved the snow? This was the late night shopping emergency? Sad really. She smiled politely.

He fumbled with his debit card, seemingly confused by basic technology. He mumbled something both unfunny and incoherent.

Trisha kindly packed the bags, gave the man his receipt, and sent him on his way. To his credit, he shuffled out the door without complication.

Trisha, knowing the end of the shift was near, slumped against her register and sighed.

Post-Hipster-Outdoorsy-Utili-Chic

I finally managed to get my ass into a theater to see Casino Royale. It rocked. It was smart and stylish, suspenseful and well-paced, well-written and well-acted. It was stripped-down and edgy, lean and low-tech. It was what true fans have waited for, for a long long time. Here, I thought Pierce was the best Bond since Connery. Hell, Mr. Craig is really quite possibly better than the original.

If the Broccoli family ever come across this blog, I would just like to say, "Thank you. Finally, you got it right."

How, you may ask, did I ever actually get out to see a movie? (With the missus, no less!!)

What, pray tell, happened to the monkey??

Well my friends, I have one word for you: "Babysitter!"

A trusted twenty-something from the wife's work requested a tot-fix, and we had just the tot for her. By all reports, all went well. The lovely lady arrived, as pre-arranged, with her polite and dapper boyfriend around noon. The monkey napped without incident or alarm for a couple of hours, leaving me with really only one question: "Where in my house did they screw?"

Not that I CARE... I'm just curious.

The mid-day movie-date allowed for a rare luxury, not partaken of since, oh, last May. This of course was the all-adult dining experience. As we drove north, we ran through the litany of all known eating establishments. We don't often have this opportunity, so we decided to make it count. We settled on our favorite Vietnamese Pho house, near where Tom used to live. However, that idea didn't sit quite right.

We randomly called out a few more sorry suggestions, until Mrs. Gin-&-Tonic finally recalled one small cafe up in the northwest part of town that she heard about on the radio. Having wound our way through the narrow streets, we came to the corner of 24th and Thurman, only to discover that the place was gone.

Not to let the loss of a cafe defeat us, we toured some more through the uber-hip over-priced neighborhood, until we came across a little red and white brick building with a simple sign that read Stepping Stone Cafe. It looked deliciously divy. So, we walked in.

Now, I'm not here to tell you that it was the greatest diner in the world, or that it will change your life. However, it was truly tasty, and the wait staff is charming, in a sassy and surly sort of way. Their motto is : "you eat here because we let you."

The Coffee was durable. The proportions were large. The sausage was sizzling, and my wife ordered some sort of thick banana hazelnut French toast thing that would have been appropriate for desert. I will definitely drive back for more, and if you are near Portland, you should too.

Now, while we sat in the cafe for this Sunday's brunch, I began to look around at my fellow patrons. Not surprisingly, it was a typical Sunday Portland crowd with varied ages and economic backgrounds. Most clearly, no one looked like they had just come from church. In fact, many looked like they had just rolled out of bed with delicately disheveled hair and cleverly pre-crumpled ironic clothing. Some wore high-tech outdoorsy weather gear. Some wore khaki. Some wore creative ensembles of all these things.

Most Women had pony tails. Most men were unshaven. A few of the guys still had make up on from the night before, but otherwise mascara was nowhere to be found. This is Portland. Weekend Portland, at least. During the week, downtown is predictable business suits, ties, and dresses, but even then, there is a subversive subcurrent in the professional appearance.

My sister visited from California a couple of years ago, and noticed after a short time, that people in Portland had a, uh, um "different style." Well, fair enough.

so sitting in that cafe this afternoon, I wondered to myself, what exactly is that style? It crosses generations and local geography. Formal dining here means a dinner jacket with your blue jeans. Most wait staff, anywhere in town, is tattooed. There is a hipster sensibility mixed with the necessities of wet winters. There is an outdoor ethos mixed with a blase aloofness. It is concentrated understatement. It is trying too goddamn hard to look like you are not trying at all.

So does it have a name? Deliberate-dress-down-woodsy-chic? Quasi-urban-techno-casual? I don't really know, and perhaps I don't really care. After all, I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard.

But in all seriousness, the food was good. You should go.

Can We Have Root Beer Flowing from the Fountains Too?

Wishful thinking is what it is. I know, I know, it's popular in California. However, THIS is not California...

People like fake trendy facades down there. Hell, the whole place IS a fake trendy facade. So, it should be no surprise that the latest trend in shopping is a "total immersion commercial experience."

See, the big malls and bigger box stores have killed the concept of local downtown mom-and-pop shopping. However, market research proves beyond doubt that the downtown village shopping experience is exactly what shoppers want.

So, now, retail developers have taken to building fake shopping towns, which, when viewed from a historical perspective, is exactly how real town were first formed. So, it's actually a cyclical circle of sorts, so to speak, but I digress.

These new pseudo towns have no mayor, no city counsel, no residents to speak of. They are simply malls. Malls with streets, street art, and artsy thematic facades. And so, we come to the illusive point...

The greater Portland tri-county metro region has, among other things, three big malls. Washington Square caters to the Yuppies on the westside (home of Nike and Intel). Clackamas Town Center caters to the eastside hillbillies. Lloyd Center, toward the northside, caters eclectically to street-thugs, gay men and Tonya Harding. (She used to ice skate there...)

Recently, however, some developer took note of a triangle field located near Interstate-5 at the very gateway of Lake Oswego. ( For you folks who don't know, "Lake No-Negro" is a private lake surrounded by wealthy white folks who shelter along its shore behind tall walls, and who venture out only in caravans of matching SUVs with darkly tinted windows.)

Needless to say, this little capital venture was aimed at the "upper end" shopper. So, it should be no surprise that a little pseudo-village shopping park, Bridgeport Village, should emerge, as if overnight. Streets were re-routed. Entire big-box book stores made the move literally across the street, but then things slowly started to go wrong...

First, there was the flaming fountain sculpture. It is nice, with stone and bronze, fire and water. It was temporarily loaned to the Village by the aging artist. It was, however, PERMANENTLY installed, and no one seemed to have planned to pay anyone for it. Oops.

And then there is the parking. And really, since I've started writing this blog last year, I have resisted a raging rant about the inexplicable absence of parking at this place. So, in the interest of moving on, let me just say this: Parking at Bridgeport Village is poor.

(By "poor," of course, I mean that the designers should be ass-raped in hell for all of eternity.)

And then, as if by surprise, once the first winter hit, it was discovered that there was no roof. Well, the individual shops have roofs, but not the side walks. Now, Oregonians are a hardy bunch when it comes to rain, but really, the upper-end shoppers from Lake-O, so coveted by the village, are just a bunch of pussies.

Bad planning. BAD GODDAMN PLANNING!! That's what I think every time I go. And I have to go. They have things there that I want! But having made my purchase, I feel guilty for having supported BAD FUCKING PLANNING!!

(Jesus, this one's getting long...)

OK, so, tonight, The Village hosted it's first annual lighting of the Christmas Tree. First attempt. Fair enough.

But Damnit, if you are going to invite a gazillion people to come stand OUTSIDE in the cold November air, have more than TWO heaters on site.

AND, if you are going to distribute hot cider to the throng, or even offer hot cider, have the cider ready. Have cider pump-pots that work, and have more than one poor schlepp on hand to help. And if you are not going to have the product available, do not make kind folks and potential shoppers stand in line.

AND, if you're going to have a gazillion children come stand outside to see Santa and the tree, and you are in Oregon, and you FORGOT TO BUILD A ROOF, a little temporary tarp or tent might be nice.

AND, when you've designed overly-narrow lanes, and crammed them with kiosks and a gazillion crying cold wet children, DO NOT try to force a team of angry elk, dressed as reindeer and pulling a sleigh, through the milling masses.

AND, this is the important part, when you have lured a gazillion crying cold bored hungry tired wet children to your Bataan-death-march-like holiday extravaganza, Santa Claus had better goddamn well better be sure that he is not 30 fucking minutes late!

Piss-poor planning in goddamn deed.

And before you ask, no, I do not want or need a tinsel hat...

Cigar

It's dark now. It's been a good day. Every one is asleep, except me of course. I am sitting in the dark by the big window watching dimly lit breakers slide up the sand. I am on my second glass of port. All that is missing is a cigar. Poor planning on my part.

SHUSKY

Growing up, I had a dog named Sargie that was half lab and half shepherd. When I was 5, we moved into a house nextdoor to a dog of the exact same mix. So, what are the odds of that happening again? Well, here at the coast on a stormy thanksgiving, our shepherd husky boy has met and played with not one but two others exactly like himself. It's just odd really.

Holliday Update

Happy thanksgiving from the sunny oregon coast.

Happy Thanksgiving

Man of the Year

GOOD LORD, it's been a long week. I feel bad. Really I do. I've been remiss in my duties.
Thanks to the commenters to the last post for at least presenting something new for the last few days.

Anyway, It's Saturday night, and very few folks read this thing on Sunday. Nevertheless, I have to scratch my bloging itch. So, here are some pictures sent to me at work to satiate the masses.

I added some commentary...

It's the 2006 Man of the Year Awards!!

Our first runner-up is a sensitive man of nature.

Unfortunately for Mr. Extreme Sport, he probably will not be getting a blow job from the girl SLEEPING ON ROCKS any time soon. You know what they say: "Spokes before Pokes..."

The second runner-up is a hero for many reasons. However, my favorite detail in this photo is the fact that he is drinking one of the beverages. I picture in my mind, the man saying something like: "here, let me help you with this," as he takes the bottle from the top rack while shirpa-girl is holding them.

I also like to imagine that the girl is the man's Russian mail-order bride.

The Winner may be the greatest man off all time. It could only be better if he was shirtless and and eating a steak.

Ides of November

I am old, and getting older by the minute. Fortunately, however, the other Brian -Dr. Brian- will forever be older than me.

Happy Birthday to Dr. Brian!

Piggly Wiggly

You can tell what region an American is from, not so much by their accent, but rather by the grocery store they frequent.

Vons or Ralphs? California.
Kroeger? Midwest.
Fred Meyer? Northwest.
Piggly Wiggly? South.

Truth be told though, the Piggly Wiggly chain used to be more dominant, and certainly more ubiquitous. Proof of that fact can be found in the nostalgic photos that line the Hooka aisle at the local world food store, around the corner from my office.

Photographic history tells a tale that takes us back to the 50s, through the personal history of Barber World Foods. The market has been through various incarnations including Barber Foods, Barber Market, and even once, long ago, Piggly Wiggly.

Much has changed over the decades, and the current high-end ethnic trend brings unusual color and flavors to a rather dull intersection. Lunch becomes a safari. A walk down the aisle is a caravan to Morocco. Even the gummi bears are imported from Hungary.

So, there I was this afternoon, picking up a quick powerbar lunch after my extended Russian depositions this morning. Coming the aisles for a beverage treat, I came upon an oasis of juicy delights. scanning the exotic labels, I spied varying treats from diverse continents, until I came across the abomination.

Three great tastes that don't taste great together. Hate in bottle. A little bit of vomit in the mouth.

I discovered a product that nearly justified in my mind Cheney's campaign of middle eastern ethnic cleansing. The product is making me nauseous just thinking about it. Seriously, I'm getting that queasy, going to throw up feeling.

I can barely type this.

It was called "Mint-flavored Yogurt Soda." Oh god, I'm getting sick.

Fine, don't believe me? Here's a picture:

Truth in Advertising.

We made the monthly run to Costco this wet and windy afternoon. We bulked up on Yogurt and soda and toilet paper. On the request of the Missus, I also also grabbed a three-pack of canned pumpkin, presumably to make a pie for the impending holiday.

After returning home, I began the long processes of unloading the car and storing the goods in the pantry/fridge/freezer. As I unloaded the tightly-packed parcels from the reused wholesale boxes, I came across the cans of pumpkin.

The label stated clearly that the can contained 100% pumpkin, which I assumed, of course was a load of horse shit. I'm not sure what I expected was in the can, but sugar, water, and preservatives were a given.

I expect labels to lie to me. It's the nature of advertising. "We're the #1 blah blah blah in town!" "We have the lowest prices!" "I am a compassionate conservative..." You know what I mean.

So, as I unwrapped the cans from their clear plastic sheath, I casually turned one in my hand and glanced at the ingredients. This is what it said:

"Ingredients: Pumpkin"

That's it. Well, I'll be damned.

Grinch

But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

-How the Grinch stole Christmas

I was alone on the dark road. The air was cold and clean. The rising elevation of the twisting mountain road had lifted me from the perma-smog level of the valley below.

It was convenient, living in the small town at the very foot of Mount Baldy. It was too early for snow, and on a chilly mid-week evening in the middle of autumn, there was no traffic.

I came around the corner and slowly trailed off the road into a flat gravel turnout. There was a mounded soil berm around the edge, poorly-designed to prevent wayward drivers from plunging to their fiery death down in the dark canyon below. I stopped before I got that far.

I sat in the cab of my truck watching swirling eddies of dust dance in my high beams. Morose music played meaningfully from my stereo speakers. Probably the Smiths. This was many years ago, but still, 10 to 1, it was Morrissey and Johnny meandering their way through the harmony and melody of gloom.

My stalwart sensibilities were in some sort of youth-induced disarray. Was it a girl? Maybe. Was it the apprehension of my waning faith? Perhaps. Might it have been the tedious monotony and of work and school? It's truly hard to tell.

I'm not even certain now, these many years later, whether it was angst, anger, or anxiety. I was full, however, with whatever emotion ailed me, and I felt that it was prudent to take it out on the mountain roads that wound their way above my home.

So, there I sat, alone, with the lights turned off, listening to sad songs in the dark by the side of the silent road. The source of my ire swelled, and it needed to come out.

I opened the door of my truck. The frigid night air made a sucking sound as it poured into my once-warm cab. The ping ping ping of my open-door alarm and the glare of my overhead lamp were jarring against the inky silence. As I stepped out, I felt the satisfying crunch of my Vans stepping on the gravel below. Quickly, I closed the door to end the assault of light and noise.

A few feet away, I found a boulder perched precariously on the edge of the cliff. I stepped carefully atop the rock and stared at the moon-cast shadows crawling against the apposite canyon wall.

I knew the alpine ravine was deep and the walls were steep. It was also quite wide. From where I stood, it was several hundred yards to the other side. I felt small. I felt engulfed by the unknown darkness.

It took a few moments to find my voice. Eventually, however, whatever it was, whatever the cause of my melancholy, I closed my eyes, lifted my head and and let it out. It was Whitman's barbaric yawp. It was primal. It filled the valley before me, echoing against rocks and trees, flowing toward nothingness in the night.

It was, what you might call, therapeutic.

Today, I drove my practical car to the office to get in a few extra weekend billables. I was dressed comfortably in practical Northwest layers. I had lunched with the monkey and the missus. I stopped for a grande coffee (no room) at Starbucks.

I was listening to some old music on the way that recalled memories of my road-side outburst. I realized that don't feel Yawpy much anymore. In fact, I don't feel much in the way of swelling emotion very often at all anymore. Maybe I'm a Jedi. Maybe it's just old age. Maybe my heart is two sizes too small.

Hard to say. However, it's probably for the best, there aren't many cliffs to scream from around here...

Dinner for Two

Time was short and I was hungry. It was past noon, and the tummy was grumbling. Apparently that grande coffee and Rice Crispy treat wasn't the breakfast-of-champions that I thought it was.

There were things to do, motions to file, letters to write. So, I jumped in the car and made a run for the border. Well, not a border in any literal political sense. I went to Taco Bell.

And there I sat, with discarded Burrito Supreme and soft taco wrappers strewn across the mauve laminate table. I was reading the day's newspaper. This was not so much to catch up on the current events, as it was an attempt to not look like the hapless friendless lunch loser I really am.

I flipped idly through the pages, discarding useless sections like the classifieds and Sports. It was Tuesday, so I glanced through the special Food section. It occasionally has interesting BBQ ideas.

I came across an odd article about an old man who learned how to cook by making soup in his backyard as a child. It didn't make sense when I read it, and it makes less sense now that I am recalling it.

Regardless, the man was asked: "If you could invite anyone in history to dinner, who would it be?"

Pretentiously, and predictably, he said: "Thomas Jefferson. I'd ply him with an Oregon Pinot Noir. While he talked, I'd cook. What a wonderful occasion that would be."

Now, the man lived in Northeast Portland. So, more than likely, while he cooked, Jefferson would be making time with the attractive African-American lady next door. But I digress.

I sat stewing in my refried-bean-induced lethargy, thinking to myself, "well, self, who the hell would you invite to dinner?"

The possibilities swam wildly through my imagination.

Jesus, perhaps: "Excuse me, Mr. Son of Man, could you heal my pancreas? No? Right, I didn't think so..."

Julius Caesar: "Yes sir, we call them 'The French' now, and no, they're not quite as tough as when you fought them..."

Nicolaus Copernicus: "...Right, eight. I mean, there were nine, but someone change the definition."

Leonardo DiVinci: "Tell the truth Leo, that really is you in the picture, right?"

Napoleon: "You're the military genius here, but I'm just saying, you might want to avoid taking little naps during large battles in Belgium..."

All of these guests would make for fine fellowship and delightful dinner discourse. However, if I were ever presented with the option of selecting anyone in history to dine with, I'd probably choose Christina Ricci. I mean, I always serve wine with dinner, and if I got her drunk, she might make out with me.

(Yes, I am married, but Christina is on the Laminated List, so it's OK.)

In the News Today

Here is a tasty, though abridged, morsel from Today's Oregonian, a fine-fine printed news source:

Former jailer accused of preying on inmate

Lawsuit: An ex-prisoner in Lake County alleges former guard, Jason J. Haskins, pressured her into oral sex for a can of chew

Tuesday, November 07, 2006
BRYAN DENSON The Oregonian

A former jail inmate has filed a federal lawsuit that accuses a one-time corrections officer in Lake County of coercing her into oral sex for a can of chewing tobacco.

Haskins was charged with two crimes -- supplying contraband and official misconduct. His trial is set for later this year, said Lake County District Attorney David Schutt.

"(The alleged victim) was able to describe a particular room in the jail that prisoners don't have access to," said Schutt, adding, "She was in possession of a can of Copenhagen."

Attorney, Ron Howen said his client broke no laws and denies soliciting oral sex or giving the woman any chew.

The suit accuses Haskins of selecting her for abuse because she was vulnerable and her capacity to consent to sexual intimacy was limited. Also, the suit alleges, Haskins flirted with the inmate "in order to groom her for later sexual predation," and lured her with chewing tobacco and other favors.

Lake County and its sheriff answered the complaint Oct. 27, saying that if the woman really did perform a sex act on the deputy to obtain benefits, she did it willingly and that -- if the acts really occurred -- they were intended to help her bring a lawsuit against the defendants.

Brian's comments:

Just for clarification, Lake County is about as far as you can travel from civilization and still be in the State of Oregon. It's a place the Amish find a little backward, but quaint. Close relatives are expected to "keep it in the family." Jesus usually gets 20% of the write-in vote, just behind Dale Earnhardt Jr.

What I take from this article is two-fold:

First, tobacco-chewing semi-retarded jail babes are cheap AND easy.

Second, and more importantly, even tobacco-chewing semi-retarded jail babes need a little foreplay (or just some quality chew.)

Vote

I suppose it is election day. So, if you haven't voted already, go vote.

And of course, by "Vote," I mean go and do whatever you are capable of justifying to yourself to punish the pig-headed jack-booted red-neck religion-twisting brown-man-hating bible-thumping cocksucking hypocrites who stole the GOP from me.

Punish Bush

Punish Cheney

Punish warmongering

Punish partisan betrayal

Punish corporate corruption and executive treason

If Daniel Ortega can abide by and participate in constitutional democracy, so can you.

112 Honest Lawyers

Why don't sharks eat layers?

Professional courtesy.

Heh heh...

I laugh with the rest when a good lawyer joke is told. It is important to be able to laugh at one's self. Too often, however, I think folks form the wrong impression of my profession.

While car dealers will lie, cheat and coerce to make a sale, and mechanics will look you in the eye and prescribe an unnecessary yet costly repair, lawyers are actually bound by a very strict code of professional conduct. The practice of law is one of the most highly regulated and strictly disciplined lines of work in the world.

So, there I sat, Friday afternoon. I was at a conference collecting my mandatory continuing-legal-education credits. It was near evening, and it had been a long boring day. There was a forensic accountant speaking to us about tax records. We were probably a half hour from being done, and I was sitting in the back row trying to stay awake.

Then it struck me. There were still a lot of lawyers in the room.

We were there for credit. Every three years we must report our CLE (education) credits to the bar to maintain our licenses. It is an honor-system. You are only supposed to report the credits for the hours that you were actually present, but in reality, no one is stopping you at the door.

But here we were, 4:30 on a Friday, with an accountant blathering away at the podium. No one wanted to be there, and no one was making them stay. No one, that is, except honor. The bar would never know if any of them lied about being in their seat for the full 8 hours, but they stayed. 112. I counted. 112 lawyers sitting in their seats, being honest and doing the right thing.

Odds And Ends

Item 1:

Juries in this county are, for the most part, intelligent. They are, in fact, probably more intelligent and better educated than juries in most of the other counties of this state. Unfortunately, they are also satanically sadistic motherfuckers.

The trial is over. It's not so much that I lost, as it is, the jury was simply pissed off and found a way to punish every single party and attorney involved. They spread the pain like pavement, and there was nothing like having my boss's most-lucrative client sitting in the gallery behind me when the verdict was read.

Item 2:

Get back on the horse...

One of the very best ways to overcome a disappointing trial verdict, is to run right back down to court the day after trial and argue a motion that is sure to win. However, running right back down to court the day after trial, arguing said motion, and in fact losing the sure-thing motion, does NOTHING for one's self-esteem.

Item 3:

Of course the only surefire cure for the litigation blues is a healthy dose of Monkey Therapy.

If you don't happen to have one of your own, you're welcome to borrow mine. (Assuming I know you of course, and further assuming you're not totally creepy...)

Which leads to my fourth and final item...

Item 4:

You can never have too many monkeys.

Well, OK, maybe you can. However, as the old saying goes, two monkeys are better than one...

Yes, the gin-&-tonic monkey (pictured above) is going to be a big sister. Mighty seed has once more issued from my loins. Mrs. G&T is thoroughly knocked-up, and I have it on good authority that I am very likely the father.

We are not so far along that I can tell you what it's going to be. However, we are far enough along that I can tell you it has a head, a heart beat, two arm buds and two leg buds. And that is good enough for now.

I will say this, and I apologize to you folks who have heard it already. Just after making the first announcement a few years ago, when we were expecting the Monkey, I was told by another lawyer friend of mine that I was going to have a girl. "Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because you look like the father of girls," he said.

Funny, but later, it got creepy when he told his partner that I was going to be a father. "It'll be a girl," said the partner,

"Right! Right! But WHY do you say that?" asked my friend.

"Because he looks like the father of girls," said the partner, and the father of a girl I am. Does this mean that I am destined to be the father of two girls? Perhaps, though I don't stake much faith in such superstitious hobgoblinry. Boy. Girl. Whichever. I'm just holding out for healthy, happy, and smarter than dear old dad.