Thursday, July 03, 2008
Fucking yellow
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
3 Senses
and I can see hear smell touch taste
coz I've got one, two, three, four five
senses working overtime
trying to take this all in
I've got one two three four five
senses working over time
trying to taste the difference
between the lemons and limes
pain and pleasure
and the church bells softly chime...
-XTC
Though blurry, sticky and watery, my eyes are fine. I can still see.
My ears, also, are working, though they are a bit stuffed and prone to plugging.
And for now, I still have sensation in my fingers and toes.
Other than those three senses, however, I'm fucked. A month of severe allergies have left my sinuses angry and in tatters. My nose is seized shut like a Mormon girl's legs. I have no natural capacity to pass air in or out through my nose. My ears are on the edge and my eyes seem to be passing what fluids my nose cannot.
And where the nose goes, the sense of taste will follow. My mechanical blockage in my nose has preempted any hope of having the sense of smell, and with out smell, I have no taste.
Now, out of the five senses, taste is probably the least necessary for survival, but may surprisingly be the most important for pleasure. Sure, the other four senses can be pleased, each in its own way. However, taste exists, perhaps, for no other reason than pleasure.
And to lose it is the height of frustration. You do not realize what you enjoy tasting on a daily basis, until you are no longer able to taste it. Toothpaste. Coffee. Lunch. Mint. Dinner. Gin. Beer. Nothing. I cannot taste a single goddamn thing.
Take a burger, for instance. It's salty and vinegary and sweet and smokey, but no, I can taste none of it. My mind remembers what flavors I'm supposed to be tasting. It anticipates the salt of cheese and the meat. It predicts the bite of the mustard. It remembers the starch in the bun. but no, I am unable to receive or transmit any neural signal to my brain from my tongue. It feels like a burger, but it tastes like nothing.
Hopefully, in the next few days, the blockage will break up, but until then, I'll be eating rice and drinking water, because really, there's no point in wasting any more money on flavor.
coz I've got one, two, three, four five
senses working overtime
trying to take this all in
I've got one two three four five
senses working over time
trying to taste the difference
between the lemons and limes
pain and pleasure
and the church bells softly chime...
-XTC
Though blurry, sticky and watery, my eyes are fine. I can still see.
My ears, also, are working, though they are a bit stuffed and prone to plugging.
And for now, I still have sensation in my fingers and toes.
Other than those three senses, however, I'm fucked. A month of severe allergies have left my sinuses angry and in tatters. My nose is seized shut like a Mormon girl's legs. I have no natural capacity to pass air in or out through my nose. My ears are on the edge and my eyes seem to be passing what fluids my nose cannot.
And where the nose goes, the sense of taste will follow. My mechanical blockage in my nose has preempted any hope of having the sense of smell, and with out smell, I have no taste.
Now, out of the five senses, taste is probably the least necessary for survival, but may surprisingly be the most important for pleasure. Sure, the other four senses can be pleased, each in its own way. However, taste exists, perhaps, for no other reason than pleasure.
And to lose it is the height of frustration. You do not realize what you enjoy tasting on a daily basis, until you are no longer able to taste it. Toothpaste. Coffee. Lunch. Mint. Dinner. Gin. Beer. Nothing. I cannot taste a single goddamn thing.
Take a burger, for instance. It's salty and vinegary and sweet and smokey, but no, I can taste none of it. My mind remembers what flavors I'm supposed to be tasting. It anticipates the salt of cheese and the meat. It predicts the bite of the mustard. It remembers the starch in the bun. but no, I am unable to receive or transmit any neural signal to my brain from my tongue. It feels like a burger, but it tastes like nothing.
Hopefully, in the next few days, the blockage will break up, but until then, I'll be eating rice and drinking water, because really, there's no point in wasting any more money on flavor.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Forbidden Candle
Dead men have no secrets.
Neither do dead women. Particularly dead old people who had milled through a litter of children, grandchildren, nieces, cousins and adopted babies from China.
When a person dies, particularly an old person, an old person with a large family, eventually, all of their old crappy knickknacks and baubles get sold.
And THAT, my friends, is where the fun begins.
Estate sales, I discovered early on, are a morbid exercise in the macabre. As soon as grandma goes, the goon squad arrives and puts price tags on her stuff. They valuate her vanities. They liquidate her lithographs.
Everything must go. Be early to acquire the Afghans. Come late to steal the stereo.
Estate sales are great to find a curiosity or capture a bargain. Best of all, though, they are your one opportunity to wander through your dead neighbor's secret garden of delights. Voyeurs welcome, for once.
And it was at one of these grotesque garage sales that the missus and I found the amazing box. We had no money, or nearly close to none at the time. We did have time, however, and were on the wary lookout for Saturday entertainment. It became a game to sort through old stuff and reconstruct the tale of a life gone by.
And in the middle of the game, one sweet Summer Saturday, as I nosed around the bedroom closet, I spotted a large white cardboard gift box, wide as it was tall, bulging around the middle. The price on the side said $2.00. I thought I could handle that.
The box was heavy and crammed with candles. Long, short, skinny, wide, it was an assortment of fabricated wax forms and wicks. $100.00 worth, a deal I could not refuse.
Having returned home, I rummaged through the loot and spied a familiar yet long-forgotten artifact from my own childhood. It was tall waxy and dusty. It felt heavy with with hardened carbo hydrates. It was a vintage decorative ribbon candle from the 1970s, and it was identical to the one my parents kept on the coffee table when I was a kid.
Problem was, my mom would never burn the damn thing. I mean, it was a candle. it had a wick. But no, it was forbidden. It was special. It was decorative.
Eventually, ugly brown ribbon candles went out of style as interior decorating centerpieces, and the candle was lost in storage. After all those years, I never had the satisfying opportunity to torch the sucker.
Until that day, many years later when I opened the candle box. And there it was. Not the same candle, mind you, but an identical twin. I managed to hold off for a while. days, even. However, the temptation grew too strong and I set match to wick in a release of built up combustible tension. It burned. It melted. I felt good.
It was that indescribable act of violating the forbidden. Casting away the useless and arbitrary rules of the past. Completing a small chapter of personal history.
I let the candle burn for a long time.
And all of this came to mind this weekend, when, in a pre-shower fit of dismay, I discovered that we were completely out of shower soap. This led to digging deep into the supply bucket, where I pulled out a very old craft-paper-wrapped bar of hand-made soap. Fancy soap. Decorative soap.
The smelly bar had sat, literally, for years, unused, next to the bathroom sink. It had moved with us, changing houses and changing bathroom counters. It had become a fixture, forbidden, unusable. It had long since fallen from conscious consideration or even recognition as soap.
Yet, there it was, in my hand, unearthed from it's dark resting place in the closet. By definition, I surmised, if the soap is not being used to decorate anything, then it is not decorative, and so the paper came off, and it joined me in the shower.
Surprisingly, it turned out to be good soap, which was made all the more enjoyable, knowing that it was once a holy relic, forbidden to be used.
Neither do dead women. Particularly dead old people who had milled through a litter of children, grandchildren, nieces, cousins and adopted babies from China.
When a person dies, particularly an old person, an old person with a large family, eventually, all of their old crappy knickknacks and baubles get sold.
And THAT, my friends, is where the fun begins.
Estate sales, I discovered early on, are a morbid exercise in the macabre. As soon as grandma goes, the goon squad arrives and puts price tags on her stuff. They valuate her vanities. They liquidate her lithographs.
Everything must go. Be early to acquire the Afghans. Come late to steal the stereo.
Estate sales are great to find a curiosity or capture a bargain. Best of all, though, they are your one opportunity to wander through your dead neighbor's secret garden of delights. Voyeurs welcome, for once.
And it was at one of these grotesque garage sales that the missus and I found the amazing box. We had no money, or nearly close to none at the time. We did have time, however, and were on the wary lookout for Saturday entertainment. It became a game to sort through old stuff and reconstruct the tale of a life gone by.
And in the middle of the game, one sweet Summer Saturday, as I nosed around the bedroom closet, I spotted a large white cardboard gift box, wide as it was tall, bulging around the middle. The price on the side said $2.00. I thought I could handle that.
The box was heavy and crammed with candles. Long, short, skinny, wide, it was an assortment of fabricated wax forms and wicks. $100.00 worth, a deal I could not refuse.
Having returned home, I rummaged through the loot and spied a familiar yet long-forgotten artifact from my own childhood. It was tall waxy and dusty. It felt heavy with with hardened carbo hydrates. It was a vintage decorative ribbon candle from the 1970s, and it was identical to the one my parents kept on the coffee table when I was a kid.Problem was, my mom would never burn the damn thing. I mean, it was a candle. it had a wick. But no, it was forbidden. It was special. It was decorative.
Eventually, ugly brown ribbon candles went out of style as interior decorating centerpieces, and the candle was lost in storage. After all those years, I never had the satisfying opportunity to torch the sucker.
Until that day, many years later when I opened the candle box. And there it was. Not the same candle, mind you, but an identical twin. I managed to hold off for a while. days, even. However, the temptation grew too strong and I set match to wick in a release of built up combustible tension. It burned. It melted. I felt good.
It was that indescribable act of violating the forbidden. Casting away the useless and arbitrary rules of the past. Completing a small chapter of personal history.
I let the candle burn for a long time.
And all of this came to mind this weekend, when, in a pre-shower fit of dismay, I discovered that we were completely out of shower soap. This led to digging deep into the supply bucket, where I pulled out a very old craft-paper-wrapped bar of hand-made soap. Fancy soap. Decorative soap.
The smelly bar had sat, literally, for years, unused, next to the bathroom sink. It had moved with us, changing houses and changing bathroom counters. It had become a fixture, forbidden, unusable. It had long since fallen from conscious consideration or even recognition as soap.
Yet, there it was, in my hand, unearthed from it's dark resting place in the closet. By definition, I surmised, if the soap is not being used to decorate anything, then it is not decorative, and so the paper came off, and it joined me in the shower.
Surprisingly, it turned out to be good soap, which was made all the more enjoyable, knowing that it was once a holy relic, forbidden to be used.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Dear Holy Baby Bobblehead Jesus
My Prayer:
Dear sweet plastic bobble headed baby Jesus,
please hear this, my prayer of humble supplication.
Thank you for the many bountiful blessings, like butterflies, big milky breasts and race cars with guns.
Please, please Jesus, allow me to finally complete the post that I started two days ago regarding the fancy candle and the bar of soap.
Do, please give me 1,000 hits in one day on this your loyal and faithful blog, even if it means 999 hits on a picture of Dita's itchy brown eye.
Please bring peace and joy to my family.
Please give me my own strip club, something cool, sweet bobbling baby Jesus, like Union Jacks.
Oh, and tiger. A big one.
And a machine gun.
Oh yes, oh Lord, and please kill George Lucas.
oh, and Dick Cheney too...
Please forgive me of my sins, dear Lord, although I have excuses for most of them. And I'm serious about the George Lucas thing.
Amen.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Name the Boobies
Would anyone care to hazard a guess as to whose boobies these are?
Would anyone like to take a stab at guessing who violated the number one celebrity boob rule??
Good lord. What was she thinking?
Would anyone like to take a stab at guessing who violated the number one celebrity boob rule??
Good lord. What was she thinking?
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Trends
Well, that was an interesting exercise.
With the notable exception of Dr B, who completely pussed-out entirely from this little game, most everyone else participated with palpable enthusiasm.
Well, OK, Inog pussed-out too.
Be that as it may, however, I have noticed certain trends in the submissions. First and foremost, people seem to associate me, for some reason, with strippers and naked women.
Second, The naked women also seem to be connected with booze, and/or cigars.
I just can't figure it out. Why would people think such things about me?? Perhaps I'll go light a Gloria Cubana and poor a small glass of Bunnahabhain, and sit on the back deck and think about it.
Anyway, here they are, in no particular order:
With the notable exception of Dr B, who completely pussed-out entirely from this little game, most everyone else participated with palpable enthusiasm.
Well, OK, Inog pussed-out too.
Be that as it may, however, I have noticed certain trends in the submissions. First and foremost, people seem to associate me, for some reason, with strippers and naked women.
Second, The naked women also seem to be connected with booze, and/or cigars.
I just can't figure it out. Why would people think such things about me?? Perhaps I'll go light a Gloria Cubana and poor a small glass of Bunnahabhain, and sit on the back deck and think about it.
Anyway, here they are, in no particular order:
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday Reminder
We now have 5 or 6 submissions. I am aware of several more. One of which was in my top-three hopefuls. And while I am expecting submissions from everyone, Tom and Dave are still high on the priority list. Really, only because they have been drawing versions of me for the past 22 years.
Someone pointed out to me today that they are not very good at drawing and their submission might suck.
Well, that's the fucking point. It can be good, but it does not need to be. Jesus Christ, you don't even need to know what I actually look like. Just let go and let the inner artist find its muse.
Actually, Carl, Mitch, Familytrain and Dr B. are pretty high on the expectation list as well. Let's go guys. Mitch, you have yet to submit anything!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Cartoonish Tomfoolery
Like you, I never really watched "The Family Guy."
No one did, it seems. Yet they kept bringing it back, over and over and over.
Sure they cancel shows like Serenity, Carnivale, and Battlestar Galactica. TV for smart people...
But Family Guy? No, they can't seem to let it die. Interestingly, though, there is an animated character on that show who simply seems a little too familiar. Sure, he's a dog, but his name is Brian. Here, here is Brian's character description from the show's official web site:
There would be so much to do and to talk about with Brian. He likes politics, music, pop culture, fetch... and while he is a bit of an intellectual, he isn't above kicking back with a few martinis and dressing up like the Peanut Butter Jelly Time banana for a few laughs. He's not without his flaws: He blamed his urination control problems on a baby and hits on his best friend's wife, but like the rest of us, Brian's only hu... er, dog.
OK, so he' s a dog, but still, C'mon! He even looks a little like me.
This of course leads me to my point. Break out your pencils and drawing paper, it is HIGH TIME for another submission event. I've been having fun with these things, and I think you have too. In fact, from the enthusiasm displayed in the high school photo event, you seem to like it a lot.
This one will take a little bit of work and creativity, but I think you are up to the challenge. If anything, it's a good opportunity to avoid being productive at work.
So here it is: I want you to submit your best (or worst) hand drawing (sketch, cartoon, etc...) of me. It does not have to be good, or even accurate. In fact, bad AND inaccurate would be even better. I particularly want to see submissions from folks who don't actually know what I look like and/or who have absolutely no artistic talent at all.
You can do it digitally, with your paint program, or the like. You can draw it and scan it. You can draw it and take a digital photo of it. It can be an earnest attempt at capturing my image, or it can be just moronic jackassery. Your choice. You won't hurt my feelings...
As always, the submissions will be anonymous. Please send your submission to mrginandtonic@gmail.com
This is going to take a little time. So, I'll give you until the end of Thursday, and I'll post on Friday. Also, as always, I can update throughout Friday with late entries. So, get them in!
I can't wait.
No one did, it seems. Yet they kept bringing it back, over and over and over.
Sure they cancel shows like Serenity, Carnivale, and Battlestar Galactica. TV for smart people...
But Family Guy? No, they can't seem to let it die. Interestingly, though, there is an animated character on that show who simply seems a little too familiar. Sure, he's a dog, but his name is Brian. Here, here is Brian's character description from the show's official web site:
There would be so much to do and to talk about with Brian. He likes politics, music, pop culture, fetch... and while he is a bit of an intellectual, he isn't above kicking back with a few martinis and dressing up like the Peanut Butter Jelly Time banana for a few laughs. He's not without his flaws: He blamed his urination control problems on a baby and hits on his best friend's wife, but like the rest of us, Brian's only hu... er, dog.
OK, so he' s a dog, but still, C'mon! He even looks a little like me.
This of course leads me to my point. Break out your pencils and drawing paper, it is HIGH TIME for another submission event. I've been having fun with these things, and I think you have too. In fact, from the enthusiasm displayed in the high school photo event, you seem to like it a lot.
This one will take a little bit of work and creativity, but I think you are up to the challenge. If anything, it's a good opportunity to avoid being productive at work.
So here it is: I want you to submit your best (or worst) hand drawing (sketch, cartoon, etc...) of me. It does not have to be good, or even accurate. In fact, bad AND inaccurate would be even better. I particularly want to see submissions from folks who don't actually know what I look like and/or who have absolutely no artistic talent at all.
You can do it digitally, with your paint program, or the like. You can draw it and scan it. You can draw it and take a digital photo of it. It can be an earnest attempt at capturing my image, or it can be just moronic jackassery. Your choice. You won't hurt my feelings...
As always, the submissions will be anonymous. Please send your submission to mrginandtonic@gmail.com
This is going to take a little time. So, I'll give you until the end of Thursday, and I'll post on Friday. Also, as always, I can update throughout Friday with late entries. So, get them in!
I can't wait.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Ile De France
France is a place to which I've never been.
Likely, someday, I'll get there, but only after I've been to Ireland, Scotland, India, Japan, New Zealand, Australia, Italy, Greece, Turkey and Thailand. Maybe China. Possibly even Egypt.
But sure, I'll get there. I'm sure it's a nice place, Paris being one of the major urban centers of the world, and one of the most populated in Europe. France is divided, like counties in the US, into administrative districts.
Paris, therefore, and most of its surrounding metropolitan region, resides in the ancient historical province of the Ile De France, literally: "The Island of France," which is, of course land-locked and not an island at all.
I'm sure Ile De France is a lovely region. Exciting! Rich in cultural and historical lore. If only there were someone who could tell us about their homeland. Perhaps a regular reader who never-if-ever comments, who might live in the Ile De France region, who visits the Lounge on a regular basis, who might be willing to tell us just a little something.
Someone?
Anyone?
Hello?
(Don't worry domestic lurkers, I'm coming for you next. Don't think you can just hide up there in Kirkland, Washington...)
Likely, someday, I'll get there, but only after I've been to Ireland, Scotland, India, Japan, New Zealand, Australia, Italy, Greece, Turkey and Thailand. Maybe China. Possibly even Egypt.
But sure, I'll get there. I'm sure it's a nice place, Paris being one of the major urban centers of the world, and one of the most populated in Europe. France is divided, like counties in the US, into administrative districts.
Paris, therefore, and most of its surrounding metropolitan region, resides in the ancient historical province of the Ile De France, literally: "The Island of France," which is, of course land-locked and not an island at all.
I'm sure Ile De France is a lovely region. Exciting! Rich in cultural and historical lore. If only there were someone who could tell us about their homeland. Perhaps a regular reader who never-if-ever comments, who might live in the Ile De France region, who visits the Lounge on a regular basis, who might be willing to tell us just a little something.
Someone?
Anyone?
Hello?
(Don't worry domestic lurkers, I'm coming for you next. Don't think you can just hide up there in Kirkland, Washington...)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Nearing 1000
One of our most beloved and longest-time readers asked me today how to go back and read the original posts. I explained the archive along the right-side column to him. Then, out of nostalgic curiosity, I went back and began to read the older posts myself. Did you know that I currently have nearly 900 posts? Or that I will likely pass the 1,000 mark by the end of the year??
What we lack in quality, we certainly make up in quantity.
As I dipped back through time, it was interesting to see just how the Lounge, its style and its readership have developed. In case you have never read the very first post, from some quiet drunken pre-masturbatory August evening in 2005, here is the link: http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/08/good-evening.html
Of course, no one commented at first, and when they did, it was someone I didn't know. Some one calling herself Tits McGee commented on my batman fan-fic erotica post. Everything went downhill from there.
I was also reminded of my initial fear of picture posting technology. It seemed complicated and easily-fuck-upable. So I waited until THIS POST before ever posting one. Now, of course, I can't keep from slapping pictures of asses, tits, panties and old men swinging from their wieners every other day.
Jesus, I even had trouble using titles. Titles, for godssake!! It wasn't until my first major Martha Stewart obsession revelation that I even ever gave a post a name.
And of course, we cannot overlook the all-time number one, most-googled, most-read, highest-hit post of them all: http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/pepperoncini.html
And then, really just for your reading enjoyment, here are some blasts from the past.
(hope you didn't intend to be productive today... )
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/peat-moss.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/carcinoma-cattle-call.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/republicans-for-voldemort.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/cut-or-cut-not-there-is-no-trim.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/04/legend-of-daisy.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/stone-cold.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/tinsel-hat.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/brokeback-bar-b-q_05.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/02/never-been-to-india.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/02/as-seen-on-oprah.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/matthew-71.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/i-have-more-dvds-than-god.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/07/current-events.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/11/late-shift.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/11/piggly-wiggly.html
What we lack in quality, we certainly make up in quantity.
As I dipped back through time, it was interesting to see just how the Lounge, its style and its readership have developed. In case you have never read the very first post, from some quiet drunken pre-masturbatory August evening in 2005, here is the link: http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/08/good-evening.html
Of course, no one commented at first, and when they did, it was someone I didn't know. Some one calling herself Tits McGee commented on my batman fan-fic erotica post. Everything went downhill from there.
I was also reminded of my initial fear of picture posting technology. It seemed complicated and easily-fuck-upable. So I waited until THIS POST before ever posting one. Now, of course, I can't keep from slapping pictures of asses, tits, panties and old men swinging from their wieners every other day.
Jesus, I even had trouble using titles. Titles, for godssake!! It wasn't until my first major Martha Stewart obsession revelation that I even ever gave a post a name.
And of course, we cannot overlook the all-time number one, most-googled, most-read, highest-hit post of them all: http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/pepperoncini.html
And then, really just for your reading enjoyment, here are some blasts from the past.
(hope you didn't intend to be productive today... )
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/peat-moss.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/carcinoma-cattle-call.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/republicans-for-voldemort.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/01/cut-or-cut-not-there-is-no-trim.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/04/legend-of-daisy.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/stone-cold.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/tinsel-hat.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/03/brokeback-bar-b-q_05.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/02/never-been-to-india.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/02/as-seen-on-oprah.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/matthew-71.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2005/09/i-have-more-dvds-than-god.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/07/current-events.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/11/late-shift.html
http://fiercefinger.blogspot.com/2006/11/piggly-wiggly.html
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Cheese Rule
Mr. Gin and Tonic:
Whereas, I like cheese; and
Admitting that I do get awfully hungry at times.
Recognizing that my outrageous hunger can lead to an urgent need to get cheese into my mouth; and
Discovering that the kitchen can be dark.
Further noting, for the record, that cheese can go bad;
Now, therefore, I hereby resolve, by unanimous vote, the following:
I) At all times practicable, I shall always, without fail, make a thorough examination of cheese prior to placing said cheese in my mouth.
II) Extra particular attention shall at all times be paid to cheese, which has been stored in a non-original container, or which has been otherwise unsealed and exposed to the elements.
III) At no time shall cheese of any sort be eaten in the dark.
IV) To the extent possible, dependant upon the limitations of available olfactory senses, each and every cheese shall be smelled prior to consumption, without exception.
Enacted, this day of June, 2008.
Whereas, I like cheese; and
Admitting that I do get awfully hungry at times.
Recognizing that my outrageous hunger can lead to an urgent need to get cheese into my mouth; and
Discovering that the kitchen can be dark.
Further noting, for the record, that cheese can go bad;
Now, therefore, I hereby resolve, by unanimous vote, the following:
I) At all times practicable, I shall always, without fail, make a thorough examination of cheese prior to placing said cheese in my mouth.
II) Extra particular attention shall at all times be paid to cheese, which has been stored in a non-original container, or which has been otherwise unsealed and exposed to the elements.
III) At no time shall cheese of any sort be eaten in the dark.
IV) To the extent possible, dependant upon the limitations of available olfactory senses, each and every cheese shall be smelled prior to consumption, without exception.
Enacted, this day of June, 2008.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Blue Bayou
Banjo strumming fills the night as flickering fireflies flit by. The rickety swamp shack is the last vestige of civilization, and the Spanish-style long boats sail silently into the misty blackness.
"Dead men tell no tales," the ghastly grim cairn warns, as the vessels crash one by one down into the sea cave below.
Of course, one can witness this spectacle from the safe and cozy confines of a candlelit bistro called the Blue Bayou. It's where my parents ate on their honeymoon. It is where I always wanted to eat every time I rode the Pirates of the Caribbean as a kid.
I never got to eat there, though I was taunted several times a year until I eventually moved away.
It's been nearly 10 years since my last visit to the Mouse. Odd, considering the frequency of my former visits. I suspect some has changed, but I am certain that I still know my way around.
I have been waiting, I suppose, until my kids can go. And now, that time may be here. The girl is up to her pigtails in princess paraphernalia. She knows their names, she knows their lines, she knows their songs.
She has started making the request.
So, perhaps, the next trip to California will include a trip to the park. She is three, however, and I must contain my expectations. After all, it is her turn now, and the visit will be all about her.
That probably means no nice dinner among the fireflies, no "yo ho ho," and no banjo music. Again, my dining desire will have to wait. It's worth it, to be sure, but perhaps, maybe, possibly someday, if I'm lucky and I hold my tongue just-so, then there might be a chance that I'll get to eat at the Blue Bayou. Hopefully, it won't suck.
"Dead men tell no tales," the ghastly grim cairn warns, as the vessels crash one by one down into the sea cave below.
Of course, one can witness this spectacle from the safe and cozy confines of a candlelit bistro called the Blue Bayou. It's where my parents ate on their honeymoon. It is where I always wanted to eat every time I rode the Pirates of the Caribbean as a kid.
I never got to eat there, though I was taunted several times a year until I eventually moved away.
It's been nearly 10 years since my last visit to the Mouse. Odd, considering the frequency of my former visits. I suspect some has changed, but I am certain that I still know my way around.
I have been waiting, I suppose, until my kids can go. And now, that time may be here. The girl is up to her pigtails in princess paraphernalia. She knows their names, she knows their lines, she knows their songs.
She has started making the request.
So, perhaps, the next trip to California will include a trip to the park. She is three, however, and I must contain my expectations. After all, it is her turn now, and the visit will be all about her.
That probably means no nice dinner among the fireflies, no "yo ho ho," and no banjo music. Again, my dining desire will have to wait. It's worth it, to be sure, but perhaps, maybe, possibly someday, if I'm lucky and I hold my tongue just-so, then there might be a chance that I'll get to eat at the Blue Bayou. Hopefully, it won't suck.
Optimistic Moon
The moon is almost full. Bright. Rippled with gauzy clouds, sailing on an unseen breeze. It finally smells like spring, just in time for Summer.
The air smells like sunshine, at least according to the girl. And she is right. It is midnight, and the air still smells like sunshine.
I can't shake the article that I saw yesterday. Fathers Day. A police officer shot a man by the side of the road yesterday after the man had just killed his own son in a very bad way. I don't feel like repeating the facts.
The police officer, and other do-gooders, weren't able to get close enough in time. I suspect the police man didn't have to shoot the fucker, since the boy was already dead. I think he simply did what he thought should be done.
Apparently, the man thought the boy had demons, or somesuch.
Ah, Religion...
Anyway, I'm having trouble shaking it.
But the moon is bright, and almost full. It should be round by Wednesday. In the house behind me, my kids are tucked away, safe, asleep.
The breeze is cool, and tomorrow, the sun will shine and the sky should be blue. For now, though, I'll be happy with the moon.
The air smells like sunshine, at least according to the girl. And she is right. It is midnight, and the air still smells like sunshine.
I can't shake the article that I saw yesterday. Fathers Day. A police officer shot a man by the side of the road yesterday after the man had just killed his own son in a very bad way. I don't feel like repeating the facts.
The police officer, and other do-gooders, weren't able to get close enough in time. I suspect the police man didn't have to shoot the fucker, since the boy was already dead. I think he simply did what he thought should be done.
Apparently, the man thought the boy had demons, or somesuch.
Ah, Religion...
Anyway, I'm having trouble shaking it.
But the moon is bright, and almost full. It should be round by Wednesday. In the house behind me, my kids are tucked away, safe, asleep.
The breeze is cool, and tomorrow, the sun will shine and the sky should be blue. For now, though, I'll be happy with the moon.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Big Time
Oh yes, my loyal Drunken Ramblers, the Lounge has finally come in to its own. We have gotten our due. We are runnin with the big dogs.
This blog, and your humble bar tender, were actually quoted and cited by the Oregonian.
You can review the awesome splendor by CLICKING HERE. (Even Marge gets a nod...)
I suppose, though, now that I'm a member of the mainstream media, I probably shouldn't post anymore photos of old men swinging from the rafters by their penises...
It's the Big Time!
This blog, and your humble bar tender, were actually quoted and cited by the Oregonian.
You can review the awesome splendor by CLICKING HERE. (Even Marge gets a nod...)
I suppose, though, now that I'm a member of the mainstream media, I probably shouldn't post anymore photos of old men swinging from the rafters by their penises...
It's the Big Time!
Saturday, June 14, 2008
The Fabric Of Our Lives
They say that the people that you meet everyday, each day, over the history of your existence weave together to form the fabric of your life.
Each interaction changes you and informs you, even those singular odd encounters, which lodge, for whatever reason, into the automatic catalogue of memories. And so it was with one girl that I met nearly 16 or 17 years ago, only once, and for for a few short minutes in a bar.
I don't remember her name, but I do recall her long sandy hippie hair, her slightly-pronounced overbite, her paling freckles and odd sensibilities. Her boyfriend was sitting right next to her, but strangely, I cannot recall a single detail about him.
I was dating another girl at the time. A long-time girlfriend. A nice girl. A girl who worked at a bookstore.
Not a GOOD book store, mind you, nothing like Powell's City of Books. No, not even something as mediocre as Barnes and Noble. No, she worked at a rinky-dink suburban pulp retailer. A small commercial link in a large corporate chain.
The staff, however, were fun and we would socialize (eat, drink and smoke) on occasion with them. Then, though, there was THE night. It was a small get together, starting at a small apartment, where the party got started, so-to-speak. Soon thereafter, the party shipped itself hazily across the street (or down the block, whichever...) to our customary saloon.
It was a tidy little joint, with obligatory pool and darts, called the Black Watch Pub. (I'm sure Dr. B will confirm whether it is still there or not.) The food was greasy and the drinks were: beer. I think beer was the only beverage they sold. Truth be told, though, these were my pre-gin days.
Anyway, the beer kept flowing, and I kept drinking, and our group swirled round and around the room, as drunken groups do, until at last I came to rest alone on a padded bench, eye to eye with the quasi-horse-faced girl across the table. (and when I say "horse-faced," I really do mean it in the most attractive way possible...)
She had a hard time sitting up, and swayed suggestively like a kinda-pretty Clydesdale with chronic scoliosis. She smiled like she knew she should be embarrassed by her sloppy intoxication, but was too far gone to care. Her boyfriend, as I recall, was hunched next to her. He was more fucked-up than she was and certainly didn't care who she was smiling at.
Her squinting eyes, and grazing jaw betrayed the existence of thoughts trying to be formed. Perhaps she was having a one-sided conversation with me. Perhaps she thought she knew me. She was new to the store, and I had never met her.
I watched her face and waited. It was getting close. The mouth started to practice and stretch for the impending communication.
"Poop," she said.
I waited, but nothing else came. So, I said, "Excuse me?"
"Poop. I like poop."
Being just slightly more functional than she was, I thought maybe she was making a request, or perhaps, had made an accident.
"No, goddamnit, I like poop. I like to play with it, right, Honey?" she asked her comatose lover.
"You mean anal?"I asked, trying to make some sense of her declaration.
"No! God! That hurts like hell! No, Poop. I like to play with poop. His poop." She clarified slowly with a punctuated gesture toward her man. "You know, roll it into little balls."
I didn't want to know more. I didn't want to know that much. Yet there it was, and there I went, as I stood up from the table and ran away. Granted, today, I would have reached for my camera while delving more deeply into the conversation. However, then, I was ill-equipped for such revelation.
Therefore, these days, all that is left is the deeply-woven memory of that one finite conversation, though it finds its way to the surface of my thoughts on almost a daily basis. Talk of poop, thoughts of poop, or even the purchasing of toilet paper, trigger the memory.
Like this morning, for instance. Believing, mistakenly, that the G&T house was out of bathroom tissue, and needing morning coffee, I wandered down to Albertsons to satiate both needs. With coffee quickly acquired, I approached the paper aisle with that troubling conversation with Seabiscuit in mind.
Soon, I found the paper, and then saw that it was on sale, 2-for-1. I also saw that it "felt like soft woven fabric!"
"Hell yes!" I thought, "My ass is gonna LOVE that!"
And so, I clumsily carried two bundles to the check stand.
Once home, I learned two unfortunate things. First, we were not actually out of toilet paper. Second, I hadn't actually purchased fabric-soft toilet paper anyway. No, rather, I had purchased two bundles of woven-fabric strength paper towel. Which has now created a bit of a surplus. Fabric of our lives, in deed.
Each interaction changes you and informs you, even those singular odd encounters, which lodge, for whatever reason, into the automatic catalogue of memories. And so it was with one girl that I met nearly 16 or 17 years ago, only once, and for for a few short minutes in a bar.
I don't remember her name, but I do recall her long sandy hippie hair, her slightly-pronounced overbite, her paling freckles and odd sensibilities. Her boyfriend was sitting right next to her, but strangely, I cannot recall a single detail about him.
I was dating another girl at the time. A long-time girlfriend. A nice girl. A girl who worked at a bookstore.
Not a GOOD book store, mind you, nothing like Powell's City of Books. No, not even something as mediocre as Barnes and Noble. No, she worked at a rinky-dink suburban pulp retailer. A small commercial link in a large corporate chain.
The staff, however, were fun and we would socialize (eat, drink and smoke) on occasion with them. Then, though, there was THE night. It was a small get together, starting at a small apartment, where the party got started, so-to-speak. Soon thereafter, the party shipped itself hazily across the street (or down the block, whichever...) to our customary saloon.
It was a tidy little joint, with obligatory pool and darts, called the Black Watch Pub. (I'm sure Dr. B will confirm whether it is still there or not.) The food was greasy and the drinks were: beer. I think beer was the only beverage they sold. Truth be told, though, these were my pre-gin days.
Anyway, the beer kept flowing, and I kept drinking, and our group swirled round and around the room, as drunken groups do, until at last I came to rest alone on a padded bench, eye to eye with the quasi-horse-faced girl across the table. (and when I say "horse-faced," I really do mean it in the most attractive way possible...)
She had a hard time sitting up, and swayed suggestively like a kinda-pretty Clydesdale with chronic scoliosis. She smiled like she knew she should be embarrassed by her sloppy intoxication, but was too far gone to care. Her boyfriend, as I recall, was hunched next to her. He was more fucked-up than she was and certainly didn't care who she was smiling at.
Her squinting eyes, and grazing jaw betrayed the existence of thoughts trying to be formed. Perhaps she was having a one-sided conversation with me. Perhaps she thought she knew me. She was new to the store, and I had never met her.
I watched her face and waited. It was getting close. The mouth started to practice and stretch for the impending communication.
"Poop," she said.
I waited, but nothing else came. So, I said, "Excuse me?"
"Poop. I like poop."
Being just slightly more functional than she was, I thought maybe she was making a request, or perhaps, had made an accident.
"No, goddamnit, I like poop. I like to play with it, right, Honey?" she asked her comatose lover.
"You mean anal?"I asked, trying to make some sense of her declaration.
"No! God! That hurts like hell! No, Poop. I like to play with poop. His poop." She clarified slowly with a punctuated gesture toward her man. "You know, roll it into little balls."
I didn't want to know more. I didn't want to know that much. Yet there it was, and there I went, as I stood up from the table and ran away. Granted, today, I would have reached for my camera while delving more deeply into the conversation. However, then, I was ill-equipped for such revelation.
Therefore, these days, all that is left is the deeply-woven memory of that one finite conversation, though it finds its way to the surface of my thoughts on almost a daily basis. Talk of poop, thoughts of poop, or even the purchasing of toilet paper, trigger the memory.
Like this morning, for instance. Believing, mistakenly, that the G&T house was out of bathroom tissue, and needing morning coffee, I wandered down to Albertsons to satiate both needs. With coffee quickly acquired, I approached the paper aisle with that troubling conversation with Seabiscuit in mind.
Soon, I found the paper, and then saw that it was on sale, 2-for-1. I also saw that it "felt like soft woven fabric!"
"Hell yes!" I thought, "My ass is gonna LOVE that!"
And so, I clumsily carried two bundles to the check stand.
Once home, I learned two unfortunate things. First, we were not actually out of toilet paper. Second, I hadn't actually purchased fabric-soft toilet paper anyway. No, rather, I had purchased two bundles of woven-fabric strength paper towel. Which has now created a bit of a surplus. Fabric of our lives, in deed.
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