Gin and Tonic Lounge

Ham Gravy

2011-07-07T00:17:00.000-07:00

In the dark frigid recesses of my freezer is a jar; a mason jar, sealed, it's content obscured my the thin film of frost on it's sides. In it, is a frozen fatty globulous globe of gluten grease and salt.

Pork, as you know, has been plentiful 'round the G&T compound. Ham has been in copious supply. Ham. Cured ham. Fresh ham. Slices of breakfast ham, ready for fried eggs, orange juice and coffee.

And Ham, when subjected to heat, renders its fats to juice, which, when thickened with rue, transubstantiates into the holiest of holies of hillbilly cuisine. Ham Gravy.

Now, yes, beef gravy is dark, thick and full of wonder. Chicken gravy, well, tastes like chicken. salty, creamy chicken, but chick nonetheless.

Ham gravy, however, is altogether another thing. In it is the smoke from the cure, the fatty filth of the pig, and a mysterious well of salt, seemingly springing from Elysium itself...

Ham gravy, while a Epicurean marvel, should not be squandered upon potatoes. No. It should be applied to one thing, and one thing alone. Biscuits.

Biscuits were born for ham gravy. If it, however, spills off of your fluffy muffin and lands upon the scrambled egg beside it, no worry, that combo satisfies as well.

And so, each time I spy in to the freezer for the gin, or the ice or the bacon, and i see the jar of gravy in stasis, I pause and consider, "is it too late for biscuits...?"

Honolulu HAMmer

1 1/2 oz Vodka
1/2 oz. Amaretto
1 splash Grenadine
1 Splash Pineapple Juice

Shake over ice, serve straight up.

Episode Two

2011-06-10T00:03:00.001-07:00

The Vegan Black Metal chef is back for the next recipe...

Symbols

2011-06-07T01:02:00.000-07:00

Have you ever pledged allegiance to a flag? Like, you know, a rectangle of colorful fabric... ?

I have, and I never really thought much about it. But if and when you do actually think about it, and the words you use to make the pledge, it's really quite perplexing.

I mean, it's a piece of cloth on a stick.

Now, sure, the Pledge contains all manner of modifying conjunctions (i.e "and the Republic for which it stands") that do give it some modicum of meaning, but still, a flag?? Sure folks will tell you that people have died for the flag, but no, no one has ever willing given up their lives for a piece of cloth. The Republic? Absolutely. Their homes and families? Yes. Freedom? You bet.

But not the flag.

People love them some symbols though, and no one more than Americans.

I mean we REALLY dig our symbols. And they are everywhere.

Symbols are simple to process, easy to understand. They take the place of more than just words, however, inspiring instant emotion response for those in the know. They are used to communicate, motivate and manipulate. Business, politics, athletics and religion; the near sum of modern American life, draw deeply, all, from the symbolic well.

Symbolic thinking, though, carries beyond the borders of commerce and transaction; beyond the mass marketing marks of trade. Symbolism has rooted itself into the very fabric of our world views. It feeds our bumper-sticker philosophy and helps us pick our socio-political teams.

On one side we have:

And on the other side, we have:

Of course, sometimes we co-opt each others symbols in the process:

You get the point...

The problem is that we have come to place too much emphasis on the symbolic. To be sure, symbolism has its place. It's just that, when the symbolic takes the place of the substantive, we fall prey to our baser instincts and spin our collective wheels in the mud of vanity.

Symbolic stories make for better ratings. They are spicier, guaranteed to shock and awe at least SOMEONE! And that is what the media feeds us, and it is what we lap up like mindless zoo animals.

I mean, right now, there are budgetary negotiations, international wars, trade imbalances, constitutional infringements, and debt. The debt, in fact, is so dire that the credit rating for the entire US government is in risk of being down graded.

But that's hard to think about. It involves words and critical thought. So, what do we care about? What is the end-time sign of the apocalypse du jour?

It's this:

Who cares? I mean really. People I'll never meet had sex with people I'll never know. How is that news? How does it change anything at all?

OK, this one may have misappropriated presidential campaign funds. I get that one.

But really???

Sex?

Drugs?

Rock 'n Roll??

It just doesn't matter...

The Patriot
1/3 oz Blue Curacao
1/3 oz White Creme de Cacao
1/3 oz Grenadine
Layer in a shot glass and serve

Shave and a Haircut

2011-05-26T23:39:00.000-07:00

There are places in the world where women will walk for hours in bare feet over rough terrain to carry a couple of gallons of clean water back to their families.

In this country, some women have the time and money to pay other people to wax their cooters for them.

The Bikini
2 oz Vodka
1 oz White Rum
1/2 oz Sweetened Condensed Milk
1 oz Lemon Juice
1 tsp Sugar
Shake with ice, strain, serve with a twist of lemon...

Wolves, Nipples and Whores

2011-05-25T00:07:00.000-07:00

"This is the best television program, ever!" I declared.

Again.

"Oh really?" She stated, rather than asked, my wife with bemused half-interest.

"OK, no." I admitted. Knowing that my big statement had little in the way of objective reasoning or foundation to support it.

Good, for certain, and among the best, certainly well worth watching. More so than your unrealistic reality drivel that so many fawn for. It doesn't really matter that the fat girl can dance. Who cares that the gay boy can sing. And I couldn't squeeze out enough liquid shit to denote my level of interest in which hot blond chick the hot greasy dude will give a rose to.

Story is, of course, king. As is character and craft. Give me dark. Give me edgy. Give me something with wit.

Squandering my sacred evening hours watching mindless reality nonsense is akin to hanging at the bus station, begging for spare cigarettes. Why live, really, if you are going to waste your precious few remaining hours so?

But there is, and has been, work worth watching.

And so it was tonight, having reached the end of the 6th episode of Game of Thrones on HBO. HBO. HBO... How has one cable network become the singular epicenter of all that is epic and grand on television. Sure, the subscription relationship allows the occasional expletive or the subtly swinging titty, but there is more, so much more, to the quality of their original programming.

Beginning with the dysfunctional Soprano family, through the Fishers and now on to the Starks; HBO has produced, by my calculations, most of the most-compelling programming in the last 10 years.

Carnivale, Dead Wood, Rome, The Wire, Six Feet Under, Boardwalk Empire, Treme, True Blood and now, Game of Thrones... If I were to make my top ten all time list, which I am not, so just settle down, there would be little room left for the likes of MASH, West Wing, Battlestar and X-Files with the fat load of throbbing HBO programing.

If pressed, I'd pick the Wire, I suppose, as the Best-In-Show, but only narrowly nosing out Dead Wood. Carnivale, it could have been, if it had not been shut down before its time.

But now, it is the dark and plodding, vaguely-mystical, goth-o-drama from the mind of George RR Martin that has become the compulsion over which I obsess. It is a world in which dwarves are wicked and witty, queens are incestuous, heroes are dullards, whores have perfect nipples, and nosey children get thrown out of windows.

If you have not sampled, I invite you to try, only start from the beginning and journey across the seven kingdoms to the Wall, and the white walkers beyond...

Kings Ruin
2 oz cognac
1 pint Dry Champagne
Serve with a lemon twist

Panda

2011-05-24T23:40:00.000-07:00

Juniper

2011-05-23T00:43:00.001-07:00

Gin, it was once believed, held magical healing properties. This opinion was held, of course, by the Dutch, a people notable for building their entire civilization near the sea, but below sea level.

These were the people responsible for athletic shoes carved from blocks of wood.

Their emigrants invented Apartheid.

This is the nation whose football team dresses like this:

They are, however, also noted for their progressive tolerance to the finer vices in life. But most notably, they invented Gin. Sure, sure it was conceived of as less a cocktail mixer and more a miraculous cure of most modern ailments; but still, a mighty contribution to the panoply of gastronomical delights...

Actually, I have no idea whether the Dutch invented gin or not. I just wanted to riff on the Dutch for a bit...

Anyway...

Whether inventors or no, the Dutch did perfect the recipe for fermenting and distilling the tar-like pungent sap of the humble juniper berry. And any right imbiber would tell you, 200 years ago, that if your Jenever did not come from Holland, it was probably crap, if not outright toxic.

Now, what you and I call Gin today, is not what they called Gin or Jenever back in the day. Today's gins are not actually Gin at all. They are more closely related to vodkas, distilled, filtered and re-flavored with hints of citrus, flowers, juniper, whatever.

The old school Gin, however, tasted like tequila. Or more precisely, tequila made from the shrubs in your front yard. I thank sea-faring Amanda for the bottle of Jenever she brought to me from a wayward visit to Amsterdam all these many years ago. It took a while to acquire the taste, but I mourned its absence once it was gone.

But now, what's this, tales of a gin-infuse wonderland? A sinfully villainous Valhalla of little green bottles, marching, armed with sidecars of lime and tonic? What witchcraft has wrought such a mystical mirage of drunken gluttony??

East coast Amy, it seems, has been busy building this liver-slaying arsenal of booze. Sure, it's mostly Tanqueray, you might say, but what the cache lacks in quality, it more than makes up for in quantity. And besides, it Tanqueray, not Gilbeys for godsake...

Apparently she is opening a gin store, or throwing a baby shower, or god knows what. And after the first three or four bottles, no one is going to care what they are there for anyway. Because, as the ancient Dutch will tell you, the is no drunk, like a Gin drunk.

Such glorious limes...

The Naked Martini
3 oz of gin
Pour into a chilled martini glass
place in the freezer for 30 minutes
garnish with an olive and serve immediately

Unconquerable

2011-05-20T01:02:00.000-07:00

I am not a sports fan.

I do not lay around all weekend in my boxer shorts, flipping from game to game to game. I do not do brackets. I do not know the names of the guys on ESPN or even on Monday (Sunday?) Night Football.

This is not to say that I do not have a passion for certain teams. In fact, it was, I believe, somewhere deep in the third quarter of the 2010 Fiesta Bowl, when TCU was gaining momentum against Boise State, that my wife, watching me perched raven-like atop the arm of my sofa, chewing my fingers, observed: "I see now why you do not follow sports."

It was 1981, in the Fall, although Fall in Los angeles is no different than Summer, and the Dodgers were down two games to nothing against the Yankees. The series had moved from New York to Chavez Ravine, and the boys in blue needed to take advantage of the home field. It was during that game, while I watched at home, that I prayed, fervently, penitently, beseechingly, for divine intervention. Now, I'm not one for religious superstition, or for personal grandstanding, but the Dodgers did win that game, and the next three to win the World Series.

And well, ya, there are the Timbers...

So, it is not sport in general, but the teams to whom I have attached myself that stir the circulation, throttle the testosterone and rouses the inner caveman. And no, I chose not to bore you with tales of Timbers fans, chainsaws and chants, but I am going to talk a little about a photo...

It's this one.

Pity it is so tiny in the wee confines of this page, but for the full effect, see it here.

This is a photo from a game that didn't matter. It was from a game that did not count in the MLS standings. It was a qualifier match for a secondary tournament, and ultimately had no long term effect on anything.

Only, it did.

This was the first game at home after two humiliating road losses. It was the new squad's first game in front of their fans. It was the game in which they figured out who they were. The young man in green is Khalif Alhassan. Born in Ghana, but found his way to weird wet Portland, this was the game in which he became a star. After several half-assed appearances, and one thorough ass-whooping from the angry Scottish coach, Alhassan discovered his own determination and his ability to fly.

Into the wind, into the rain, with a horde of red-shirted defenders on his heels, this is the Khalif he has become. This is also the wallpaper image on my computer, and it reminds me, when the rain is in my face, to keep running, because that is the only way to win the game.

And that is what sports can teach us. And perhaps it is also why sports lend themselves to efficiently to film. Again, I am really not a sports fan, yet so many of my favorite films are sports films.

Now, of course there is the drivel, any sports movie featuring Kevin Costner, for instance, but there is also the sublime.

Rudy. Yes, Rudy. It is your favorite sports movie. It is everybody's favorite sports movie. Determination, inspiration, tradition... Don't deny it. It's your favorite.

I would also add Lagaan. Yes, it is in a different language and has musical dance numbers, but hell, they beat the British in a two day cricket match... Any movie in which the British lose (AND features colorful dance numbers) is a damn fine movie in my book.

Of late, however, I have discovered a new sports movie, to rival the hallowed position of Rudy. You probably have seen it, maybe not. HBO has been showing it every night for about six months. History, epic scope, social commentary, bloody athletic violence and Matt Damon with his shirt off! I'm talking about Invictus.

Invictus is the latin for "unconquerable," and relates to Mandela's unconquerable soul as much as South Africa's rise in the 1995 Rugby World Cup. Historical, passionate, illuminating, suspenseful and inspiring. It has the legs to overcome and perhaps conquer Rudy for the top spot.

Victory
1 oz French Vermouth
1 oz Italian Vermouth
1/4 oz Lemon Juice
1/4 oz Orange Juice
Dash of Grenadine
Shake over ice and strain into martini glass...

To Do

2011-05-14T01:00:00.000-07:00

Life, as we know, is short. Seventy-some years if you are lucky, healthy and able to avoid speeding trains. We live as long as we can, and then it is over. The key is to live as well as we can for as long as we can. I don't expect to go soon, but someday I will. Before I go, though, there are a few simple things I would like to do.

1. I would like to see the sunrise over the pyramids on the Giza Plateau.

2. I would like to discover a new comet and name it after my daughter.

3. I would like to write and publish a novel, a story of a young boy, raised by wolves, who fights Sasquatch to the death in an alien cage match.

4. I would like to yell "fire" in a crowded theater, after having actually lit a fire in the crowded theater. And perhaps after having barred the doors shut.

5. I would like to run naked, outside, in the fresh air, on a Monday morning, through rush hour traffic, with a chain saw.

6. I would like to go bow hunting, in the forrest, for humans.

7. I would like to jump out of a plane, with a stewardess, against her will.

8. I would want to conquer my fear of licking brass handrails in public train stations.

9. And finally, before I leave this world, I would like to take the perfect photo, of a beautiful flower, sticking out of Newt Gingrich's ass, as he gives a nude oil massage to Donald Trump, on Rush Limbaugh's backyard hammock.

Death Wish
1 oz Bacardi 151
1 oz Boodles Gin
1 oz Everclear
1/4 oz Jagermeister
1 tsp Grenadine
Build in a tall shooter, pour Grenadine in last, over the top.

Pad Thai

2011-05-11T22:58:00.000-07:00

Sure, you come here looking for a personal dash of wit and repartee. But then, you show up and see that I've lazily slapped up someone else's grand opus.

Well, yes. Get over it. Watch the whole thing.

This video made me laugh and feel hungry at the same time.

Funny thing is, it's a nice recipe.

Where can I get me one of those knives?

Thai Smile
2 oz Mekhong
1 oz Lemon juice
3/4 oz Simple Syrup
1/4 Pomegranate
Muddle the pomegranate with the syrup, shake with remaining ingredients and ice, pour into martini glass, garnish with pom seeds...

Two Girls, One Lounge

2011-05-10T23:50:00.000-07:00

(This little ditty goes right on out to the wonder twins, Carrie and Amanda)

We have a hankerin for more lounge, they say, yet are not willing to submit the smut that drives the engine...

"More Lounge!"

Fine, here I go, back to the salt mine, spinning whimsy and woe for the salaciously-minded. However, what if our two cougar cubs had actually contributed? What pray tell would that have looked like??

Hmmm... what could it have looked like?

[cue dreamy music]

This, perhaps.

Or this!

No, really, it was certainly this:

Duck Turd

1/2 oz Butter Shots

1/2 oz Vodka

1/2 oz Irish Cream

add the Irish Cream last to create the effect...

Doughnuts

2011-05-05T01:37:00.000-07:00

Who is the smartest man in the world?

Is it Stephen Hawking? No, probably not. Sure he's hell-on-wheels with a wicked robot voice, his own personal black hole theory and a recorded IQ of 160, but no, that ain't gonna do it.

Christopher Langen? Well, he certainly has the highest recorded IQ in the United States at 195 (He'll tell you 200...), but no, contrary to our collective national delusions of grandeur, we are not the world, and there are others, like Kin Ung Yong of Korea, whose IQ scores redefine the charts...

And yes, before you get all snippity at your poor old sub-genius bartender, I know that IQ is not the only measuring stick or even within the only definition of intelligence. However, for the opening to this, my little literary puppet show, it gets us there...

There are geniuses of the heart and of the mind. There are geniuses in the arts and in the trades. For certain, the weary waitress who, upon taking my chicken fried steak order as I left Salem for Portland for good, asked me whether I'd like the sausage gravy "all over everything, hun?" was a culinary savant of the highest order.

And yes, I did in fact want the sausage gravy all over everything...

One thing is for certain, however, when a man tells you, in no uncertain terms, that he, and he alone is indeed the one and only smartest man in the world, then he is, most certainly, and without quest, not.

Which is why, despite the grandiose self-adulating title of his podcast, Greg Proops is most definitely worth listening to. Yes, the gay one from Whose Line is it Anyway, although, turns out he's not actually gay. Well, not-gay insofar as he is sexually attracted to women, but apart from that, all bets are off...

And maybe I'm the only one who gets it. Certainly the live-audience laughs are thin (or poorly miked), but his hypnotic staccato of turned phrases and verbal miscues can lead his lemming-like horde of digital disciples down a swirling whirlie ride of post-hip cultural references, obtuse historical musings and the occasional wry 12-year-old-girl-like exclamations...

Smartest? In the world? Well, sadly no, but genius in its own tragically-erudite fashion. And no, I do it no justice.

But this week, in his latest submission from his sojourn in the southern hemisphere, the smartest man in the world took questions from the quick-witted denizens of Melbourne (Melbin for those in the geographic know, as it were) when what to my wondering ears did appear, but a nagging query from a snarky foreign lass which made reference to my very own Portland. Which was recognized for its fine Stumptown coffee and for with devilishly good VooDoo Doughnuts.

And so, when both the smartest man in the world and nagging Aussie harpies and can agree, it only bears further proof that Portland is the greatest city in the world. (And that, my friend, is no delusion of self-agrandizing grandeur...)

Portland Coffee
2 splashes Triple Sec
1 oz Bacardi 151
1 oz Kahlua
3 dashes Cinnamon
3 dashes Nutmeg (are you ready for the nutmeg??)
1 pinch Sugar

Meriwether, Osama and Emeralds

2011-05-03T01:15:00.000-07:00

This Lounge post is not about Osama. He's mostly dead. Let's move on, down tonight's particular rabbit hole..

And, surprisingly, let's start with sugar cubes.

Several dozen, in fact, stacked in racks and rows; tall walls of impenetrable sucrose bricks. Roman arches, Spanish spires and holy pure-cane crosses, assembled upon sturdy styrofoam prairies. Whose idea was it, by the way, for Californian fourth graders to build Catholic missions out of sugar?

Why sugar? Why not plaster of Paris? Dried marshmallows? Legos?

No, it was sugar cubes. But not for me. No. I was not tied to the simplistically sweet masonry of every Californian history project that came before. The history of the state was too rich, too varied, to repeat yet again, the same tired project.

The state had been settled by native nations, Russian whalers, Spanish conquistadors and Mexican Rancheros. The Golden state that drew, by the horde, gold-lusting fair-skinned descendants of the Angles and the Saxons, the Irish and the Chinese, is now the seat of global media domination. It is the fifth largest economy in the world, ahead of entire nations. The home to Los Angeles, San Francisco, Apple Computer, Disney, Sonoma, five major league baseball teams and Half Dome, is not appropriately, or adequately, represented historically by crunchy little sugar cubes...

In terms of California's historical epicenter, however, nothing compares to the gold rush, which was previously discussed HERE. Being the precocious history nerd that I was, therefore, I proceeded to construct, with the crafty aid of my mother, a mostly working scale model of a 49er's gold camp, including rocker boxes, long Toms, panning prospectors and nuggets. Missing, of course were the saloons, card houses and whores...

Skip ahead 14 years, and find me (and my iguana) moving to Oregon, the historical home of the Missoula floods, Meriwether Lewis's winter home, the Fort Stevens "attack" and Big Foot.

Sure, we sit at the end of the conveniently-named Oregon Trail, but essentially, it was a dirt road. We, as a state, are the end of a long long long dirt road. Scant pickings, this, for an insatiable history enthusiast such as I, but we get by.

Get by, that is, by reading, researching and listening to others who know, nearly, more than we do about most things.

If you have sat and spoken with me for more than about 10 minutes, anytime in the last three years, you will have likely tuned me out as I was droning on and on and on and on about any one of my current favorite podcasts, many of which revolve around either Skepticism, Astronomy or History. (Woo!)

Two (three) of the very best podcasts available across the entire podcast spectrum both (all) delve deep into the churning currents of the historical past. They are The History of Rome with Mike Duncan and Hardcore History with Dan Carlin (AND A History of the World in 100 Objects from BBC Radio 4, although, this one, while spectacular, doesn't count, ).

Mike, of Rome, we learned early on, researched, wrote and recorded from his home in Portland, Oregon, for years, until, for some ridiculous reason, like work or love or something, chose to move to Texas. Hardcore Dan, however, remained a mystery, declaring his hidden coordinates to be at the end of the Emerald City International Airport, wherever that was... Seattle, I thought, or maybe Los Angeles.

I was shocked, therefore, to learn today that he was broadcasting (podcasting) from Oregon's own Emerald City of Ducks, cowboys and hippies; Eugene.

Dan and Mike, the two (two of the three of the) most fascinating purveyors of popular history, both sprung from this vapid historical wasteland. (The BBC show, being from the BBC, naturally, doesn't come from Oregon. Their brilliantly British program dulls my point and runs counter to the artistic aesthetics of this now-obnoxiously-long tome, and therefore will not be discussed...) (much) (yet)

(Anyway...)

Dan does an independently-minded centrist political show too, which appeals to my independantly-minded centrist mind, but his history show is the proverbial shit... He skips around, sucking the marrow from the bones of the epochs, telling the tales of history from street level.

Mike, who is telling us the entire history of Rome, in order, one deadpan inference at a time, on the other hand, is leading a private tour across Rome, Greece and Turkey this week. I will, regrettably, not be joining him.

I'm not going to encourage you to listen to the podcasts. You can do what you choose to do with your own morning commutes. Sure they will make you smarter. They will rouse your intellectual curiosity and allow you to discuss subjects like Alexander, Mithridates, and Diolcetian with an air of authority at cocktail parties.

But really, you stick to Justin Bieber and the morning zoo crew.... I'm sure you'll get a lot out of it.

The Roman Riot

1.5 oz Amaretto

1.5 oz Galliano

1.5 oz Sambuca

Build in a tumbler, no ice...

Highlander

2011-04-30T16:29:00.000-07:00

I'm mostly not gay at all, as I have alleged time and time again.

Although, I have confessed, more than once, to having a bit of a man crush on Ewan McGregor. If I were to make movies, and had to cast them, I'd try, more often than not, to cast the broad-grinning Scotsman in each endeavor.

He's a wee bit of a star these days, however, and not cheap or easy to cast. Therefore, until my theoretical filmmaking career merited the requisite A-lister budget, I'd have to go with a cheaper, yet no-less talented, substitute. And that would be, naturally, Peter Sarsgaard.

Because, really...

These two...

Were separated at birth.

HOWEVER...

Peter Sarsgaard...

Should never never never be confused with Alexander Skarsgard

Now, until such time that I can cast the grinning Scot, and satiate your never-ending McGregor hanker, All I can do is point you to two fantastic Ewan odysseys on DVD. They are not new, and if you have already sampled them, it's a fine time to return to them this summer. The Long Way Round, and it's sequel, The long Way Down, both follow Ewan and his buddy Charlie as they take the less-traveled route around the globe on nothing but a pair of motorcycles.

Charming, exhilarating and informative, they are worth your time to watch.

And, since I've been gratuitously pandering to the female ramblers, here are a few more actors I'd like to cast...

Flying Scotsman
1oz sweet vermouth
1oz scotch
1/4 tsp simple syrup
dash bitters
-shake with ice

Beer Goggles

2011-04-29T00:42:00.000-07:00

The taunting has, of course, begun again. Naturally. Your bartender is here to take your barbs, but from Mrs. Gin and Tonic?

Already?

And just what is her complaint? What is the crux of her criticism?

She has criticized and scolded me for nothing less than not leading off with enough edgy smut... Not enough good old fashioned G&T T&A.

So. OK. Fine. Back to familiar form we go.

Therefore, let me bend your ear, and lay plain the current grievance of my heart. What, you may ask, is it these days that confounds me and causes consternation? It is simply this, what to do with topless bartenders.

Sure, I see the confusion in your eyes. I see you scanning back, trying to understand what it is that I just wrote. Topless, yes, we understand that. Bartender, wait, no, I am not talking about myself. But the final pieces do not seem to fit.

Mr Gin and Tonic? Confounded by a topless anything? Say it ain't so! Has our daringly-debaucherous icon lost his nerve?

Well, maybe, but that is beside the point. It's a matter of manners and appropriate eye contact. In business dealings, whether with high-powered corporate law-babes in high heels, or simply while ordering an egg mc muffin from the girl at the drive through, maintaining eye contact shows respect and keeps the peace.

Sure, there are times when the eye is appropriately appropriated to survey an alternate scene, but those opportunities are few and clearly defined. And so, we come to the matter of the bar keep, who in an effort to increase tips, shows more of the goods than a bar patron may have bargained for. To maintain eye contact while placing a drink order may signal an insensitive rejection of the heaving display. To stare, though, flies in the face of good taste.

Fidgeting, therefore, ensues. As does stammering, shuffling and mumbling small talk. Squint. Look at the time, order the quickest drink possible and inspect the stash of plastic garnish picks while she's pouring...

What to do? I do not know. Bikini coffee girls? Great! But bartenders? Let's keep our shirts on.

Topless Nun
1/3 oz Peach Schnapps
1/3 oz Bailey's Irish Cream
Few drops - Sambuca
Mix the schnapps and Baileys in a shot glass,
drip the Sambuca into the middle, making a small nipple-like dot...

Touch Wood

2011-04-28T01:12:00.000-07:00

Words.

Words which once rolled, fluid, effluent, as gin pours from the crystal carafe, roll raggedly now, like rust on the chain, or sand in the eye. The blogger box, which once framed my nightly ritual, night after night for four and a half years, is familiar yet distant. Alliteration, it seems, still seeps sleekly from the keys.

Dita desires to take, yet again, your drink order. Scarlett is crushing the ice. Your bartender is back, running his hand along the long wooden bar top.

The wood feels fine, solid, patient. It's been here all along.

Professionals in this, our automated environs, digitally sanitized, service-oriented, are left, bereft, of the tangible product of their labor. We have nothing but bare statistics to show what we have wrought. We must, thus, touch wood, touch life, touch the fiber of creation, and reconnect to the soil.

This place, this potent place of pretentious pandering and foppery, base discourse, and drunken rambling is as wooden and natural as electronic social media allows.

Your bartender surveys the familiar scene. Old faces may be gone. New faces are now expected to take their place. What truths? What smut? What wicked tales of woe?

Bar's open. What can I pour ya?

Pull!

2009-01-11T23:56:00.000-08:00

So, I think I'm closing it down.

Well, yes, actually, I am closing it down. I think for good. I'll leave the four-and-a-half years of material up for a while, at least until I can archive it somewhere.

Thank you all, or at least those of you who are still around. I do so enjoy being the center of attention.

For those who still need their fix, do not despair. I am working on something new. It's not ready yet, I need to let the creativity recover from four years of depletion. But it is in the works.

I'll be sure to let you know.

Oh, and, Dita, Christina and Scarlett said to say good bye...

The Simple Secret to a Happy Life

2009-01-10T23:42:00.000-08:00

I know for a fact that many of you regular readers, you drunkin ramblers, you have gotten a bit carried away with your Facebook accounts.

To those of you who have not Yet joined the herd, let me say, "Don't." For the love of god, do not get sucked in!! It is manic. It is insidious. It is obsessive. You'd do better to just steer clear.

I, unfortunately, did not heed my own advice, and now have regular near-daily contact and updates with people I've otherwise been able to avoid for nearly 20 years. Some longer. Some less long.

A few, however, truth be told, have been a pleasure to reconnect with.

Which, finally, gets me to my point.

All of this social re-connecting business has caused me to stop and ponder just a bit. Why did these acquaintances fall away? Why did friendships end? Why did I move further and further away from folks I cared about?

Well, mostly, it comes down to one simple thing. I used to be a total fucking dick.

Really. I know what your thinking: "Mr. G and T, how can that be? You're so fucking charming, how could you have ever been a king-sized ass hole?"

Well, it's true. I was. I was an arrogant fascist prick. Insufferable, really. If I could go back in time, I would probably just find myself and punch myself in the head.

Growing up helped, I suppose. So did leaving the church.

But the true sense of enlightenment came when I arrived in Salem. It was the freshest of starts, and I made the most of it.

And the secret? The key that made me the adorable social magnet I am today?

Simple. Don't be a dick.

And really, I think that's what Jesus tried to say all those many years ago...

Don't be a dick.

So far, it seems to be working. Sure, it's not a perfect system, subject as it is to my many human foibles. But over all, in general, the basic practice of not-being-a-dick seems to be the right way to go.

Confidentiality

2009-01-08T23:45:00.000-08:00

My career and my Lounge often find themselves at odds.

For instance, there was this thing that happened yesterday that could, in the future, become one of my best all around go-to stories.

It was crazy! It happened in my office. And I cannot tell you about it.

I'd LOVE to tell you about it. It was a story made for the Lounge.

But I have to keep it to myself.

What I can say is, this person came in to talk about this one thing, and in the course of the conversation, she did this totally crazy other thing!

I even asked her three times not to do the crazy thing, and she did it anyway!!

Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it was...

I can't even hint at it!

The Secret

2009-01-08T13:40:00.000-08:00

The following book review demonstrates the real life-altering power of the Secret.

Click on the image to see a readable sized copy...

(Thanks Fred)

Go To

2009-01-07T00:10:00.000-08:00

I was never in a fraternity, but I've known folks who were.

You can spot them, often, from across the room.

You can spot them without even looking at them.

They are the ones fetching the quick and easy laughs by their rapid recitation of popular movie one-liners. Quick quips from Animal House, Caddy Shack, and really almost anything Bill Murray has ever done.

These are the fraternal go-to zingers, always sure to bring a smile or a nod of approval.

I have my own, but really, nothing that was ever spoken in a movie. My go-to politicians, for instance, depending on the inappropriateness of the conversation, are Bob Dole and Bill Clinton. They are each funny in their own way.

The go-to obscure foreign land is Kuala Lampur.

Go-to hatefulness rotates between soggy bread, three-bean salad and professional basketball.

You get the picture. I keep this parcel of quick picks in my pocket, and pull them out to punctuate a conversation as needed. You, I'm sure, have your own.

Sadly, I have discovered, my go-to career advice for most women, and some men, is "stripper." I mean, it's mostly a joke. It's inflammatory and dirty, but if you have a hot bod and need cash, it seems like a no-brainer.

And I say it a lot. Enough to wonder whether maybe I really mean it. Hopeful wishing? maybe.

Lack of creative alternatives? More likely.

No one has taken me up on the advice, though. Oh well, I'll keep trying.

More Hap

2009-01-03T23:09:00.001-08:00

Thanks, Oosje...

Hap

2009-01-01T00:40:00.001-08:00

By the time most of you sober up, wake up, and sip enough tepid water to ease out of your hangover, it will be over.

It is the closest thing you will ever find to historic ritual in southern California. Pretty girls in bright dresses. Snorting horses. Motorized floats feathered in fine floral facade.

1,000,000 spectators swarm down upon pleasant Passadena, staking their claim upon the piss-stained sidewalk to watch the parade.

Most arrive on new years eve, and brave the mild tropical night.

It was, as most of my stories seem to start, 1987. The last day of the year.

The following day would bring a new year, which would in turn bring adulthood, romance, and a lucrative career in the frozen yogurt Industry.

And so, we decided to go. Not for the parade though. I had built those floats. Those goddamned floats. I had no desire to stay for the floats.

Dr B and I hatched the plan. The post christmas rush being over and the christmas store being gutted, we plotted and planned.

Jose, the manager of the Vans store next door would come with us. Tom, of course. Familytrain. Some other people.

Jose, I think, acquired the copious crates of booze. I brought blankets. Dr B brought rubbers, I think, that or floss.

We found Colorado boulevard already overrun when we arrived. No matter though, we weren't there for the view.

We made camp in front of a shifty motel and began to drink. As we loosened up, the sun went down, drawing 87 closer to it's end.

Darkness and drunkenness led to wandering and adventure.

For me, though, it led to a cute girl sitting attop a newspaper box. Ratted blonde hair, snug acid washed jeans. It took one wine cooler and a compliment about her blue eyes to get her tongue down my throat.

And so we sat and drank, under the blankets on the curb at the dark and ugly end of the route.

My friends returned from one wander and we wished each other a "happy eighty-fucking-eight!!"

We drank more and kissed more and did other things. The guys wandered around again and I was able to wish them "happy eight!!"

And then it all gets fuzzy. It was cold. The girl fell asleep. A peppy band of Mormons tried to convert me, and I continued to sip on one bottle or another.

Dr B came back. He wasn't in much better shape. But he came back and looked down at me. I sat with a sleeping girl under one arm and a bottle of hooch in the other.

I looked up, unable to make words, but happy. Very very happy. I smiled (or grimmaced) and managed to say: "Hap..."

"Hap!" he grinned back.

Hap in deed.

And so, I wish you and your family Hap. Hap in the new year, and Hap in the years to come.

Women in the Kitchen

2008-12-30T23:42:00.000-08:00

There are two Starbucks shops on the route from my kids' daycare to my office. Sure, once I get to the office, downtown, there are several other better local independent coffee choices, but on the long cold road, I need a quick and reliable jolt of Joe.

The first is in Multnomah Village. The village is a small alt.goth.granola shopping district in the hilly SW arts district of Portland. It is quaint and friendly. Low key. Pedestrian friendly, which means, no parking.

Really, there's like three parking spots. If none of the three are open as I pass by, I have to bypass that first stop, and jog on to the next shop.

The next one is, in fact, in Hillsdale, the slightly upper scale, more suburbany top-of-the-pass neighborhood. The coffee is the same, the crowd is slightly different. Parking is better, and it works well as a back-up coffee stop.

Problem is, it's packed with loafers. Students, writers, haus fraus and lay abouts.

It can get packed, and when it does, I'm hosed.

That is, until recently. A month or two back, I was confronted with a coffee crowd and a long line at the Hillsdale Starbucks. Time was tight, and I dejectedly turned tail to head into town without my first hot fix.

Then, suddenly, I spied something new. Or, at least new in my mind since I hadn't seen it before.

A small bakery, two doors down. Baker and Spice. Cutesy name, kinda turned me off, but I needed coffee. Surely they had some.

It was warm as I passed through the doors. Strong scents of cinnamon, yeast and cocoa filled my nose. Well-packed cases displayed absurdly perfect pastries packed tightly into trays. It all had that glowing sense of freshness; it was begging to be eaten.

I saw that there was coffee to be had, and the line was short. The available tables were taken. The crowd was mixed.

I looked at the coffee menu. It looked standard. Prices were the same as Starbucks.

Then, I saw the woman at the register, taking orders. Tall. Thinish, but not wafer-so. Customary compliment of Portlandy tattoos. No make up... Short finger nails... Boyish hair cut... Ahhhhhh. Gotcha.

Not an issue. Besides, I just wanted my coffee. But then, I looked up...

The kitchen was expansive, open, glimmering white, punctuated by industrial stainless steel. Populated by about two dozen very angry-looking lesbians. All busy. All working very hard making terribly yummy concoctions. All looking hell-bent for leather. Ticked off. Full of piss and vinegar.

OK, so I wouldn't necessarily expect a kitchen loaded with artisan lesbian bakers to look like the goddamn Keebler tree, but really, I was taken aback by the palpable anger.

Now, the coffee was nutty and delicious. The vanilla cupcake I ordered was divine, and I have now returned many times for their fine morning fare. The amazon-like register girl is always friendly. The coffee is always respectable.

The lesbians in the kitchen? Always Angry. Always.

Just part of the charm...

Next time you're in Hillsdale, stop at Baker and Spice and pick up a little snack. Don't fear the kitchen staff. You'll be glad you did!

12.29

2008-12-29T00:47:00.000-08:00

Hurray for me...

So, There Was This Guy Named Stephen

2008-12-26T00:13:00.001-08:00

December 26, 1987. Dr. B and I arrived early for what was going to be the longest shift of the season.

Puente Hills Mall was dimly lit and the retail cages were still closed. Small hordes of bleary-eyed haus fraus roamed the tastefully-plantered landscape looking for their first kill of the day.

I knew from past experience what was waiting for us at the end of the promenade.

As we grew closer, the vast throng appeared to grow larger. There was an insatiable consumer hunger in their eyes. I quickly unlocked the gate and we slid in, low to the floor, and we hurried to brace ourselves against the press of bargain hunters.

It was the day after Christmas, and we had been working at my uncle's Christmas Store, one of a small chain. Everything was 50% to 75% off. We really didn't want to have to haul it all back to the warehouse...

I worked for my uncle for several seasons, and December 26 was always like that. ravaging bands of the cheap and greedy coming to fisticuffs over marked-down baubles and trinkets. As a shopping day, it rivals Black Friday.

At least here in the U.S.

Elsewhere, in other English-speaking countries, December 26 is called Boxing Day. I've always wondered why it was called that, as we don't call it that. so, I did a little half-assed research. This is what I learned.

So, there was this guy named Stephen, or some Aramaic version thereof, and he was friends of Jesus. Well, he may have been a friend of a friend, but still, he was two phone calls away from the son of god. Records show (to the extend that the Catholic Church relies on such things) that Stephen was the first official guy to die for Mr. J. He was stoned, to be precise, and not in the good way...

Coincidentally, Saint Stephen, like St. Nickolas, whose day we just celebrated, was also associated with the giving of gifts. AND!! Both Stephen and Nick's special days coincide with the ancient Roman holiday of Saturnalia, which ALSO featured the giving of gifts! Imagine that! This is why, at this time of the year, I am endowed with approximately $300 worth of Starbucks gift cards, which I'm NOT complaining about... No, no, daddy needs his grande coffee...

Somehow, sometime, probably around the time of the Reformation (mid-1600's), when England decided to not be Catholic anymore (for a while), They stopped referring to it as St. Stephen's day, changing it to "Boxing day."

Which really doesn't make any sense.

Anyway...

Boxing day incorporated the gift-giving ideals of St. Stephen's day, and the wealthy would basically hand off their scrap gifts to those who were not worthy of Christmas gifts, like servants, beggars and the Irish.

Over time, as these things go, and as with their non-Canadian American friends, the Boxing Day tradition was converted to one big shopping day. And so, now, 21 years later, St. Stephen, looking down on us from Heaven, still nursing his 1,973 year-old blunt-force trauma wounds, can squarely be blamed for my 16-hour marathon of discount retail misery.

Happy Boxing Day!

Merry Christmas

2008-12-24T23:53:00.000-08:00

Here's hoping you stayed on Santa's "Nice" list this year...

The Feel of Food

2008-12-22T23:19:00.000-08:00

It is dark and cold, and i am drinking scotch.

Good scotch.

Neat.

Problem is, this sinus thing I've been fighting has left me with out smell, and thus, without taste.

I can feel the vapors of the scotch on my nose, but I cannot smell them. it warms my mouth and stings the back of my throat, but I cannot taste it. Still though, the physical sensations are pleasurable in a familiar way.

Lasagna tonight was hot and meaty. The cheese was stretchy and gooey. It was pleasurable to bite and chew through the varied layers. Yet, i could not taste any of it.

It is frustrating, yes, but only causes me to work that much harder, paying attention to the non-flavor qualities of food.

What I have found is, spaghetti is terribly boring, in terms of texture, while a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a delight. Who Knew??

I may go blow my nose now. Sometimes that offers a hint of a whiff. I hope there's something...

Storm Watch 2008!!!

2008-12-22T12:42:00.000-08:00

OK, so, it's still snowing...

Solstice

2008-12-22T00:09:00.000-08:00

Welcome to winter! Today was officially the shortest day of the year. I mean, it still had 24 hours, but well, you know...

Anyway...

Winter, you may have heard, has arrived in Oregon, and most of the west coast, with a score to settle. Apparently, we've been getting off too easy for too long, and Winter has come to make us its bitches.

12 inches of snow, now, over frozen ground, topped with a 1-inch thick shell of top-ice, fun for stomping on, but not good for driving. Then, for added insult, we received another six inches of snow today on top of the ice shell.

Mind you, I have yet to start my Christmas shopping.

So, with limited entertainment options, and with a dazzling landscape at my disposal, I took a walk with my camera...

And yes, there are only about two of you who care about this stuff, but that's about all of my remaining readers anyway. If you are interested, I'd suggest clicking on the photos to view larger images with better detail.

Doll House

2008-12-21T23:45:00.001-08:00

Four years and two nights ago, I sat on a padded bench, eating vanilla pudding, and watching Men in Black on small television suspended high up on the wall.

The missus was well-medicated and sleeping soundly. I was killing time before the morning arrived, when my daughter would begin the process of clawing her way out...

I wasn't really watching the light-hearted Sci Fi flick, though. Rather, I was thinking, as any father would, about what was to come. Certain events were sure to come in the life that was about to begin. Certain checkpoints, mile posts. Walking. Talking. Learning to ride a bike. Starting first grade, etc...

One thing that I pondered, though, was the inevitable doll house. It kinda got stuck in my head, and it rumbled around for a short time. It seemed important, I suppose, for a little girl to have a doll house, but only when she was old enough not to bite the heads (Ozzy-style) off the dolls.

I wondered what it, the house, would look like. I wondered where I would put it together, and how much work would it require. Would she like it? Would she want it? Where would we put it.

Well, that particular road marker has been met. While she's had other smaller plastic versions of dwelling places, she asked for and received her first very own doll house. AND, to answer the questions, I put it together in the living room while she napped. The assembly was not over-burdensome, but the instructions were shitty.

AND, she liked it very much.

Here, we see the girls where they belong... joking... just joking.

And here, of course, is the family sitting around in the living room watching Battlestar Galactica. It must be Friday Night.

This, of course, is the bedroom. Yes, I did consider posing the dolls in compromising positions for the Lounge, but Come On! It's my daughter's doll house...

Although, here is grandpa tanking a dook. I'm not sure why, exactly, he's still wearing pants.

Now, this one is not what it appears. Grandma has come in to the bathroom to wash her hands at the sink, which is just out of view. Although it appears that Grandma is getting ready to give grandpa a blumpkin, I assure you, there is nothing tawdry going on on.

Really, get your mind out of the gutter...

Quatro

2008-12-19T23:54:00.000-08:00

Happy Fourth Birthday to the Girl! The party has been postponed due to ridiculously inaccurate weather hype, but the Dora Pinata is filled and hanging from the ceiling.

Silly Me

2008-12-18T22:51:00.001-08:00

Oh dear me!

Too many words.

I lost sight of the intellectual capacity of my readers.

Here you go, this should be more your speed...

What it is About

2008-12-17T23:49:00.000-08:00

o' for a muse of fire...

I sat, sipping on an African ale, stretching cheese tendrils from the slices of my brick oven-baked pizza. I sat with a friend from the office, a regular reader who had less of an appetite, but who sipped a hot toddy to ward of the winter, nonetheless.

We chitted and we chatted and I related my recent television viewing experience as best I could.

"So," I said, "we've been watching Mad Men on DVD. Netflix, you know..." I added that last bit to punctuate my independence from network broadcast strictures. I mean, with DVD, Tivo, DVR, On Demand, and YouTube, who the hell watches anything when it's on anymore??

"Ohh!" Her eyes lit up. "I've heard that's really good. What's it about?"

What's it about? What's it about. I had no good answer. I've been fiddling about with that query for three days now, which has brought me no closer to anything like an acceptable answer. In fact, I have applied the same question to several other great programs as well.

Which just leads to more questions.

The show is set in 1960. Firmly, deeply, unapologetically set there. It is set in an ad agency on Madison Avenue in New York. But that is certainly NOT what it is about. It is no more about the advertising business, than Deadwood was about gold mining or Big Love is about Mormonism.

Style. The show adheres to a strict 1960 aesthetic. There are no anachronisms. It is a pristine alien environment. The vocabulary. The clothes. The music. The behavior. But the show is not about style.

Shock. This hits closer to the mark, but is not the point either. Shock is a tool to make the point. Shock is a side effect of the point being made. Racism and sexism are open and accepted norms. Sexual harassment is par for the course. Women secretly sleep their way to the glass ceiling. Men assert their dominance with a never-ending carnal carnival of grab-ass and insults. The copious, and somewhat gratuitous, cigarette smoking is, as another friend and regular reader put it: "nothing short of pornographic."

The pregnant woman smoking the cigarette while polishing off her second cocktail is not even noticed.

And while the social shock of very primal and disturbingly-unenlightened behavior will be the lasting hallmark of the show (I'm confident that every frat boy in America is busy memorizing every line), that is not what the show is about.

What the show's creator says the show is about is "The internal struggle of men, and the women who suffer for it."

But actually, I think he's not exactly right. He may be right about the internal struggle thing, But it is not gender specific, and it is moderately misogynistic to suggest that only the women suffer or that they suffer only because of men.

Some 50 years later, we find ourselves with radically different values. PC run rampant. We have educated ourselves and trained ourselves so far away from the way things were, that the workplace and the relationships of 1960 are barely recognizable today. We are more diplomatic now. More respectful. At the very least, more tolerant.

Yet the show pushes every button we've been trained to ignore. It spotlights every internal impulse, every conceit, every private assumption and desire.

Who are the men you know today?

Why, they are Ross, Chandler and Joey.

But who are men really, beneath the politeness and the sensitivity? At their hidden core? Men are Don, Pete, Roger and the other boys at Sterling Cooper. Men ruled by their Id and their fears of inadequacy.

And the women who suffer? No, women who play the game and perpetuate it's rules. Women who are complicit in the values of the culture. Women who prey on other women. Women who prey on men. Women who practice the mystic art of manipulation, conscious or not.

But we have have made a new game for ourselves, written a new rule book. We try to behave better, but it is learned behavior. The expectations are somewhat artificial.

A dog can be trained to not eat a steak, but is that natural?

So, really, the show is about us, and our inner struggles, and our attempts to be better people, but it pokes, it prods and it shocks its way into making its decidedly-pointed point. It is an uncomfortable ride to take, but the vehicle has style.

Something to Say

2008-12-17T00:30:00.000-08:00

So, I have something to say, I'm just not sure what it is yet. See, we've been watching Mad Men on DVD, and, as those of you who have seen it know, it provokes certain thoughts and gives you more than enough to chew on. Many things, actually.

I'm just not sure what I necessarily need to say.

So, I will sit and think on it tomorrow. It appears I will have plenty of time for that, as the next blustery blizzard is set to roll in any minute now. (And I'd rather rub a hot cheese grader over my tiny pink nipples than take another goddamned Trimet bus in to downtown...)

In the mean time, though, I will say this: Today is December 17.

December 17 is 12 days before my birthday. It is just three days before my daughter's birthday! But most significantly, it is Wednesday! And Wednesdays kick ass!! Woooo!!! Let's give a big G-and-T Lounge shout out to Wednesday!! Yeeeee haaaaaw!!

What?

That's not what you were expecting?

I'm forgetting something?

Oh, ya, well, it's also Mrs. G-and-T's birthday, I suppose. Is that what you were thinking?

Oh, alright...

Happy Birthday to Mrs. G-and-T!
You're not as old as Dr. B, but you're still older than me!

Bus

2008-12-16T09:52:00.001-08:00

I am on the bus. What started as a charming winter adventure has
quickly devolved into a siberian gulag caravan.

With all of the delays detours waiting and standing around, I cannot
imagine how many man hours are lost to public trans every day.

The government should scrap busses altogether and just buy everyone an
SUV.

Ok I just looked at the clock. I have been on this little adventure
for an hour and fifteen minutes. I am only now leaving Oregon city.
That is like three miles from my house.

TriMet's stupid fucking incompetence is hateful.

Bleggg!

Should Have Gone to Costco

2008-12-15T23:48:00.000-08:00

The streets of Portland are essentially clear. My street, though, is a side street, and is on a hill. It also has a 1-inch thick sheer sheet of ice covering its entire surface. I'm a bit stuck at the moment, or at least until the next temperature bump over 32 degrees.

Meanwhile...

We're out of beer. We're out of diet soda. We're out of sandwich meat.

The situation isn't exactly dire, but I may kill and eat the neighbor just for sport.

I've taken to eating tomato/basil flavored Wheat Thins for excitement.

I think I may hike out tomorrow for help. Or, at least to catch the bus into downtown.

If you don't hear from me, assume the worst.

Snowday

2008-12-14T23:44:00.000-08:00

By Oregon standards, it was one of the better snow falls in recent memory. We were able to sneak out and see Santa Claus before it got too thick.

Hot chocolate, sledding and snowballs. It was a good day all around.

Now, pat my back and tell me how cute my kids are.

The Missus's Fault

2008-12-14T21:55:00.000-08:00

Apologies to Princess Leah.

When the missus slapped together the naughty calendar, she had some difficulty with the birthdays, which kept deleting themselves.

So, that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to Princess Leah, who's like 58 or something...

2008 Gin and Tonic Lounge MAN OF THE YEAR

2008-12-14T14:24:00.000-08:00

The Lounge has not actually named a "Man (or Person) of the Year" before. I guess I never really thought anyone deserved it. However, this year, there is clearly one man who deserves the honor.

Obama?

No. We've gone on enough about the President Elect.

McCain? Hillary? Cheney?

I wouldn't waste your time with such nonsense.

No, I didn't know who the Man of the Year would be, or even that there would be one, until today. This afternoon, actually.

There are, by most estimates, approximately 6,700,000,000 people in the world, most of whome hate George W. Bush. And yet, no one, not one single human being has taken a shot at that treasonous asshat douchebag.

Not until today.

For some reason, George (lame duck) Bush decided to hold a press conference in, of all places, Baghdad this afternoon.

No, seriously, the one place on Earth that most represents his failure and crimes against the American public, the Constitution and the world...

Sure, he hasn't held a press conference in the US in years, and he decided to hold one in Iraq.

Well, anyway, while there, surrounded by international press and scores of secret service agents, one lone man was able to do what so many of us have wanted to do for so long. One lone Iraqi, desperate with frustration and anger, stood in the crowed and threw, not one, but two size-10 shoes at the quick-dodging cock-sucker-in-chief.

And for that, the 2008 Gin and Tonic Lounge MAN OF THE YEAR award goes to Muntazer al-Zaidi.

I swear to God, the UN should give this man a medal.

Average?

2008-12-14T00:42:00.000-08:00

So, apparently, this is Wikipedia's idea of the average human body. Both genders, naturally.

So, what can we learn from this?

Well, apparently, hippies without pee holes represent the average human. In nature, all humans are white, and women have naturally trimmed pubic hair.

Naked white men are preternaturally friendly, and women have six pack abs.

Apart from the crossed eyes, she's really not that bad, I suppose. The dude, though, probably plays Jesus every year in the church Christmas pageant.

Welcome to Saturday

2008-12-13T00:46:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Saturday.

Nothing important ever happens on a Saturday.

Go back to bed.

Personal Day

2008-12-12T11:12:00.002-08:00

White Anticipation

2008-12-11T23:22:00.000-08:00

We are sooooo not ready.

I am out of scotch. We are down to one Netflix DVD, and I don't own any chains for my tires.

The forecast calls for snow this weekend, and I just haven't gotten my rations together.

If I were Noah, I'd have a couple of gerbils balanced on a skiff, and I'd be rapidly looking for a floatation device.

If I were a boyscout, they would kick me out.

If I were the admiral in charge of Pearl Harbor, I'd be hung over from too much Sake, and sleeping in...

Unprepared.

What I do have is one unused evil toboggan. I also have some tequila, whiskey, margarita mix and bottles of bad wine. We have hot cocoa. We have a snow dog. We have snow boots, a gun, a warm hat, and unfettered Internet service.

Still though, if I am left to fend from the pantry for five days, I'm fucked.

So, snow is coming, I have been warned. Perhaps I will have time to hit Costco before the blizzard. Perhaps I will put it off.

I cannot put off the liquor store though. That's a priority.

Fine Ice

2008-12-10T23:21:00.000-08:00

I like to dry my pickles before putting them on my sandwich.

I like a crisp vinegary pickle, finger-squeegeed dry, or better, patted down with a clean paper towel. This prevents excessive pickle juice from soggying my bread.

To her credit, Mrs. G and T has learned the maneuver, and dries my pickles before putting them on my sandwich.

Everyone has their own thing, though. Some people's thing is that their sandwich must NOT have any pickles at all...

Inog's gin must taste like flowers. Oosje's dinner must not have animal parts. Mitch's bacon must be kosher. Diva's underwear must have Hello Kitty on them.

Some folks insist on matching their boots to their underwear, or somesuch.

Everyone. Even you. I'm sure you have a preference, a hang up, a rule.

Well, I can accross a new one the other day. One that I hadn't heard of before. One that impressed me, and may swing me to abide by it as well.

A close relative of ours, some one who I enjoy sharing a drink with when he visits, has a particular preference. He doesn't like to use homemade tap water ice cubes. He is particularly picky about the ice that goes into his cocktails, and he has a fully-developed theory, with supporting research, behind it.

He is an ice cube connoisseur. He selects only the best ice made from impurity-free professionally packaged filtered-water manufacturers.

Not crushed, but not block either. No little white bubbles. No haziness. No frozen fizz. There is also something about little square cubes versus hollow cylinders, but I forget at this moment what that is.

And really, after living with left over quality ice for several weeks now, I can definitely taste the difference in the tap water cubes. And we even have good water!

I do wonder whether it would make a difference if I made ice with bottled water. Or, whether the quality is affected by metal ice trays versus plastic.

I may have to experiment.

Then, I can have my friends and my family over for lunch. I can serve them dry-pickle sandwiches with Boodles-and-Tonic poured over perfect ice...

Douchebag Redux

2008-12-09T23:36:00.000-08:00

Apparently, It's not just "Douchebag."

Over the past week and a half there have been several social memes that have emerged over and again in different places, in differing contexts and within completely different spheres of influence.

"Douchebag" is one, but so are: "ass hat," sex change," and "refrigerated milk cases."

All of which makes me feel better about the douchebag thing...

Today, for instance, there were sex change comments made about me in the office, on email, and on certain social networking sites. Now look, I am all man. I have no breasts, and I have no vagina (or mangina)... I'm not taking girlie hormones. I don't even wear girl clothes. And NO, the kilt is not a skirt.

Yet in the course of the last 36 hours, it has come up over and over and over...

Last week, I ended up discussing a certain refrigerated milk case story with two completely unrelated people. Then, Dave blogged about the very same topic, the very same day.

And don't get me started on "Ass Hat!"

Perhaps these things are mere coincidences.

More likely, I suspect, I am some sort of pan-dimensional being. A vortex, if you will. A quantum singularity of social jackassery.

Oh! That's another one! "Jackassery!" It's popped up many times in the last few days. Even right here on the Lounge.

Yes, quite certainly, I emit a gravitational force for these little trains of thought. They, like you, are drawn to me...

Stand back, I must warn, at your own peril. If you get too close, you will certainly be called an "ass hat" by someone...

Brilliant Tradition

2008-12-08T23:55:00.000-08:00

My finger tips didn't exactly turn black, but they were certainly numb. The arches of me feet, resting upon the narrow rung of the ladder, started to ache.

The sun was on free-fall toward the horizon, and visibility under the eves was poor.

I had made good progress, and was only about three feet from completion, but I had to stop. I would finish on Sunday.

I lifted the ladder out of the cursed rhododendrons, and stood back to survey the handiwork.

I was steaming.

No, not angry-steaming. No, I was literally emitting steam. I was hot and sweaty, yet the air around me was near freezing. steaming vapors poured off me like I was a little tea pot, short and stout...

I set the ladder down and looked at the long straight row of fake plastic icicle lights, stapled to the support beams of my roof. There were plastic expandable net-lights on the shrubs and a ribbon of plastic pearl lights on the porch.

I stood silently, thinking, and I wondered to myself, "why the fuck do we do this??"

Every goddamn year I risk my life up on the ladder, loosing feeling in my fingers to string lights on my house to celebrate a co-opted pagan holiday that was re-ordained to commemorate the birth of some deity that I don't even believe in.

Sure, the kids like it. And really, that's the only excuse I need. And don't get me wrong, i enjoy it too. But why cheap plastic low-voltage twinkle lights? How did that start? Why not just adorn the roof with a row of crucified chipmunks? It would make as much sense.

OK, that would probably smell bad after a few days.

The tree, I get. Druid tradition ripped off by the Catholics. And the lights on the tree are safer than the traditional tree candles. No problem. I get that one.

But where did the house lights come from? Is that another crappy American creation, like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer??

Maybe it's a landing strip for Santa, which he apparently needs. I mean last year, I didn't bother to buy gifts for my kids, and Santa totally overlooked our place. The kids cried and I was totally pissed off. Santa sucks...

But anyway...

The lights are now up, and fully operational. The kids can see them from their windows. On foggy nights, they shine like a beacon down the street. Santa now knows where to land, and no chipmunks were harmed in the writing of this Lounge post.

Douchebag

2008-12-08T00:12:00.000-08:00

I'm no Gandhi.

But at the same time, I'm no Hitler either.

I'm generally an OK guy. I stop for pedestrians. I let old ladies have my seat on the train. I usually try to recycle. I'm a good dad.

But for some reason, last week, there was a random and somewhat coincidental spike in the collective number of references to me being a "Douchebag."

"Douchebag"

"Douche"

"Douchey"

Six of one, half dozen the other. All the same thing.

Now, I don't usually get my feelings hurt very easily. Especially from name calling. But the sudden repeated occurrence of the epithet in different places and at different times caused me pause.

Am I truly douchey? (that is a rhetorical question)

Maybe.

Could I have altered my behavior to prevent the hurling of the word?

In certain cases, yes, and in some, no.

Ultimately, do I care?

No, not significantly.

Still, though, taking it as an omen, I will watch my steps in the days to come, and do what I can to avoid further douchery.

Tannenbaum Envy

2008-12-06T23:14:00.000-08:00

As with most vertically erect objects, bigger is better.

Christmas trees are no exception.

Even when I attempt to exercise moderation, I frequently end up with a much larger tree than I anticipated. Fortunately, the vaulted ceiling in my living room tends to accommodate such errors.

As the Yuletide festivities are approaching, the G and T family made its annual trek to the tree farm today, to slaughter yet another holiday evergreen.

The girl, who will be 4 in a few weeks, took great pains to inform us about the differences between deciduous trees and evergreens. Though, she was momentarily at a loss to point out a deciduous species in the middle of the Christmas tree field...

The boy seemed confused by all of the trees, but enjoyed stomping in the mud.

The selection process was meticulous, yet tedious. As the hunt went on, we realized that we were essentially looking for a tree with all of its branches up high, with nothing close to the ground, because we know our little Mr. Grabby-Hands will be unable to resist the temptation.

And of course, unless we nailed the tree upside down to the ceiling, the tree we needed did not exist.

That is when we realized, this year, we're just going to put a small tree up on a table, out of reach. We put the girl to the task, and she quickly scoped out a petite Noble Fir, just slightly taller than her.

I mean, it's barely a tree. It fit in my trunk. It's more of an allusion to a tree. A metaphor. A perfectly proportioned midget.

The saw that I brought with me sliced through the trunk without effort. I could have cut it down with garden loppers.

We hiked back through the festive forest, Christmas shrub in hand. As we approached the parking lot, we spied a giant (ungodly) Black SUV parked ridiculously close to my little family wagon. Atop the SUV was an obscenely enormous Doug Fir, 10, maybe 12, feet long with a 6 foot base diameter. Two adults attempted to wrangle their kill down with yards and yards of twine.

I felt them looking at me with my tiny tree. I hoped to hell they did not pity me. I mean, I could have had a bigger one. I could have cut down and carried a bigger one. I could afford a bigger one. I could have even crammed their monster through my door and raised it under my own roof.

But there was no chance to explain the necessity.

We will decorate the tree tomorrow. I will festoon the limbs with line after line of lights. The Missus and the girl will gleefully garnish it with sentimental family trinkets and baubles.

In the end, we will have the finest tiniest miniature holiday sapling ever.

Because, as everyone knows, it's not the size of your tree, it's what you do with it.

Silverado

2008-12-06T00:25:00.000-08:00

I am not a fan of western movies, per se, but I have come to the understanding that two of my top five movies fall into that genre.

Still, and likely for a long time to come, the #1 movie on my list is The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. Fluid morality. Dynamic alliances, and the greatest Mexican stand-off ever filmed... I can forgive its flaws to worship its grit. This is my favorite movie

Number two must be, for completely opposite reasons, O Brother Where Art Thou. Erudite, deceptively simple, coursing with wit and charm. This movie can be digested layer upon layer upon layer...

Pulp Fiction is number three. Roger Ebert will argue, while not the best, this is perhaps the perfect movie. And I agree. Every protagonist is loathsome. Every antagonist is redeemable, and it is not necessarily possible to tell one from the other. Non-linear storytelling executed with not-traditional script writing. This movie entertains and provokes with every viewing.

Number four is up for grabs. I think it may be the near-perfect Shaw Shank Redemption. It may be the achingly-beautiful Chinese nationalist Kung Fu saga, Hero. It may be Kurosawa's King Leer, Ran. What I do know is, it is certainly no longer Star Wars.

And number five has been a malingerer for some time. It has woven itself in and out. It is an amalgam of re-tread cliches. It was a re-imagining and re-awakening of a long-since-out-of-style genre. Clearly, however, as imperfect as it was, Silverado is unquestionably number 5 in my top five movies of all time.

What about you? You like movies don't you?

March 1970

2008-12-05T00:08:00.001-08:00

There is something about March. Perhaps it is the spirit of spring, the thawing of Winter's chill...

Maybe it was the end of the TV season when perpetual boredom set in. Whatever the reason, there seems to have been a whole lot of unprotected sex going on in March in the late 60s and early 70s. I know this because many of my friends, myself included, were born in December.

Today, December 5, is regular-reader Mitch's birthday, the first of many coming up.

So, Happy Birthday to Mitch!

Yom Huledet Same'ach!

Sofa

2008-12-04T23:18:00.001-08:00

The call came during lunch. I was dining with the missus, and her phone rang first.

We didn't recognize the number, and let it go to voice mail. Then, my phone rang with the same exact number. Voice mail told us it was the furniture store. The sofa was in.

A quick call back confirmed that they will deliver it tomorrow (today, as many of you read this).

As domestic acquisitions go, a sofa seems, on the surface, insignificant. Essentially, it is padded furniture for your ass. But I think, it is much much more...

As a child, the sofa and its cushions provided endless cover against countless military assaults. It was a fort. It was a castle. It was an impervious barricade against the hoary lava monsters.

It was the best place in the house to lay when you were sick.

The sofa is your ever-present companion for every memorable TV moment you'll ever experience. It was there when JR got shot. It was there when Mr. Hooper died. It was there when the Korean war ended after 11 seasons. It has supported your ass for every Superbowl, World Series, Playoff and Final.

Your ass knows your sofa well, and anticipates its loving embrace before you're even fully sitting. It let's you sleep on the nights that your spouse is snoring. It lets you sleep on the days when the kids are out of the house.

You once kissed your first girlfriend or boyfriend on a sofa. Chances are, many of you have children that were conceived on a sofa.

I dine while sitting on my sofa almost every night.

My current sofa, the one that will be replaced tomorrow, looked good in the showroom. It also seemed to be comfortable, while we were there. Unfortunately, once delivered, 8 years ago, it became quickly apparent that it was way too squishy to be even remotely comfortable. And yet, we made adjustments, and learned how to cope.

Now however, with my rambunctious boy taking headers over the high back, it has become time for something new. And tomorrow it arrives. Firmer cushions, closer to the ground. Less froofy flair. I'm looking forward to the new sofa. My ass is too.

Slow

2008-12-03T23:17:00.000-08:00

I hated iTunes before I got the iPhone. I hate iTunes even more now. It has wonky handling, an ugly clunky human-interface and it is bogged down and slow as hell. Since loading it onto my machine, it has slowed my whole system down.

Still, I need it, and right now it is converting a (backed up) copy of my music library into whatever crappy Apple files that it and only it can read.

And, it is taking for fucking ever. EVER! It's been chugging out the conversion for three hours now, and it will probably take another 8. Why? Why can't iTunes just read and play the music files I already have?? Why can't it just play nice?

Sure the iPhone is fabulous, and probably worth the effort. But seriously, iTunes is a jizz-guzzling shitty fucking sub-par user-unfriendly bucket of bloody vomit that has soured me on ever buying into any other ass-sucking Apple product ever.

Ever.

Seriously. I'm on the verge of jihad. Apple must die.

And don't get me started that craptacular iTunes store... Really, Apple should hire someone from Microsoft to teach them about navigation, searchability an accessibility. Jesus Christ...

Long Live Bill Gates.

"Intellectual" Property

2008-12-01T22:19:00.000-08:00

I'm not what you what call a big fan of pop music.

I have never been a big fan of the Brittneys, Madonas or Christinas. I own no Destiny's Child CDs. I have no Maria Carey collection.

I don't listen to Top 40 radio. I have no stomach for it.

It, however, is big business, and the magical musical formulas are scientifically tested to compel consumerism. The songs are not written by musicians anymore. They are constructed, one brain-washing element at a time in a laboratory, engineered to embed themselves in the cerebral cortex.

And so, when a hapless dullard like myself wanders within reach of their siren call, it takes very little to lock it in my brain. And there it sits, all day and all night, humming its wicked little melody in the background clutter of my thoughts.

A number of Pop divas have been there recently, causing embarrassing whistling on the elevator. Recently, though, it's been Beyonce and her bouncy little Single Ladies diddy diddling between my ears.

And why?

It's all because of the video.

Oh, but not the Real Video...

No, it's because of the FAKE video. The SNL video, which I have wanted to post for you, but have not been able to because NBC has been Nazi-like in the enforcement of its intellectual property rights. Currently, it's up, though, so I'll post it here for now.

The good (evil) bit is half way through, although the first half is clever too.

Watch it quick though, I suspect it'll be taken down soon.

Oh, and, if you wake up tomorrow with the catchy little bee-boppin beat bouncing around in your head, tough shit. Welcome to my hell.

Passing of Time

2008-11-30T22:54:00.000-08:00

Most laws, including those of relative physics, nature and the sea do not apply to Inog. Gravity requests voluntary compliance. Thermodynamics avoid him completely.

So, to wish Inog a Happy Birthday is to make unfounded assumptions that Time has, in any way, bent him to its will.

And that, I have to say, is a big assumption.

Still and all, for the rest of us temporal-bound mortals, we can recognize December 1 as his birthday. So, happy birthday to Inog, and for the rest of you, welcome to December...

Pie With a Little History

2008-11-28T13:29:00.001-08:00

The Little Mishaps

2008-11-27T21:52:00.000-08:00

Cilantro was almost mistakenly substituted for parsley in the stuffing, but the blunder was detected and remedied at the very last second.

Apart from that, we had no mishaps. And hopefully, you and your family did not either.

The turkey was juicy. The bread was warm. I had BOTH kinds of cranberry sauce on my plate.

As I sat there, though, having changed shirts for the third time, waiting for the final preparations prior to dining, I watched with bemused wonder as the bread basket slid slowly closer to the low-profile candles in the center of the table.

The buns in the basket were wrapped in linen, and a corner of the cloth draped over the side of the basket.

Closer and closer it slid. I waited and watched, wondering when the flame would erupt. Eventually, it dawned on me that I was not 14 years old, and that fire on the Thanksgiving feast table would probably be bad.

So, I moved the basket.

But not before I quickly recalled that one thanksgiving incident, oh so many years ago...

Recent-reader Lois will recall that lovely holiday spread in her dining room. It was an impressive meal. Good food and good company, all gathered around a long table with a very tasteful fall-colored dry-shrub centerpiece in the middle.

The centerpiece was figuratively aflame with reds and oranges and yellows. All VERY dry. And, perhaps, unwisely flanked by long tapered candles.

I was present with one of Lois's daughters. I sat across from her other daughter's husband. We were both a bit bored.

I'll blame him, I suppose, for starting it, pushing the candle closer and closer, millimeters at a time, charring the outer most fronds. Then it was my turn. Testing to see how hot the dry leaves could get before combusting.

Soon enough, we found out, as slightly-less-than 1/4 of the centerpiece burst into a fire ball. We singed our napkins, spilled water and blackened our hands, but we got the fire out before it spread.

We were heroes.

At least in our minds.

Of course, the table full of disapproving faces told us otherwise.

Tonight though, no fire. No mishaps. Just good food and good company. And TWO kinds of cranberry sauce!

Oh, And, Happy Thanksgiving!!

2008-11-27T08:42:00.000-08:00

Oregon Thankful

2008-11-26T23:10:00.000-08:00

I give rural Oregon a lot of shit for its hillbilly ways. Perhaps, undeservedly so. Perhaps, especially today.

The city of Silverton, Oregon, is essentially a geographical side note. It is a wayside on the way back to Salem from Silver Falls. It is filled with white picket fences, churches and playgrounds. A nice place to drive through, but not an ideal place to live.

Of course, that is my own brand of dismissiveness.

A strange thing happened there recently. The kind folks of quaint Silverton elected themselves a new mayor. A long time resident. A pillar of the community.

Also, a transsexual.

Mayor-elect, Stu Rasmussen, is a man who is apparently on his way to becoming a woman. He dresses as a woman, and seems to have a "nice rack," although the surgical modifications appear to end there.

Silverton surprisingly doesn't seem to mind, and really, as a community, it's their business. Yet, the election has caught the attention of unwanted guests...

Specifically, the Westboro Baptist Church of Kansas, of "god hates fags" fame, have focused their sights on this tiny Oregon town. Four prolific protesters, including the head hate-monger himself, arrived in Portland this week and wasted no time in protesting Portland's openly-gay mayor-elect, Portland State university and Portland's Swedish Consulate.

Of course, their prime target lay 45 miles to the south...

All four Westboro bigots arrived in Silverton yesterday, bearing signs that read "God Hates You," "Fags Are Beasts," "Your Pastor is a Whore" and "Barack Obama Antichrist."

Tragically, one of the protesters was a child, only further fueling my argument against exposing children to the hateful and destructive brain-washing message of religion... But I digress....

The fearsome foursome, however, did not have the street to themselves. Rather, they were met by, and out-shouted by, nearly 200 counter protesters. Nearly 200 rural Oregonians took time out of their day to confront hate, to protest in the name of love and tolerance, and to defend their own political odd ball from narrow-minded harbingers of idiocy.

Generally, I like the state that I call home. Today, however, I am openly and enthusiastically proud and thankful to live in the State of Oregon.

Six Versus Seven

2008-11-25T22:23:00.000-08:00

Pigtails, for most guys, mean one thing: Handles.

They are something to hold on to when the lithe pigtail bearer is bucking and squirming. Better, yet, when combined with a tight white blouse, unbuttoned down to there and a short plaid skirt trimmed with knee high stockings.

But when it comes down to it, it's really about the pigtails.

Which led to a dilemma back in 1977.

See, Princess Leah mostly mucked everything up. We were used to pigtails on the side, or buns on top, but she went all wonky on us. she had big fat brunette buns on the side of her head, where pigtails should have gone. She also flitted around in a sheer white night gown, which revealed only the slightest hint of what lay beneath, even when up to her waist in water down in the trash compactor.

And still, head buns be damned, she was the hottest space babe of the decade, setting the standard for sexy space babes to come.

Although she re-appeared in a slave girl bikini in the 80s, Sigourney Weaver probably took the title for the Reagan years.

And with a due nod to Milla Jovovich's Leeloo, I believe Jeri Ryan's Seven of Nine was the cosmic nymph of the 90s.

And this decade? (Whatever this decade is called..) No doubt the sultry space minx is none other than Tricia Helfer's Cylon, Six.

And then, last week, lying in a sweaty feverish stupor, my meandering mind wandered to the inevitable hypothetical cage match. In one corner, wearing her fuck-me-red party dress and stiletto boots, is Six, insidious infiltrator of the Cylon race.

In the other corner, former Borg and born-again Human, Seven of Nine, wearing a form-fitting, curve-hugging wrinkle-revealing Star Fleet issued unitard.

In this ultimate cat-fight to the finish, who will win? Well, let's take a look.

First, the Ms. Congeniality category is a no-brainer. Six kills babies with her fingers, soldiers with missiles and 99% of the known Human race by fucking her way into the Defense Ministry's mainframe. Seven, while once an ugly Borg-ette, struggles to regain her humanity on a daily basis.

Seven wins easily, but then, for the exact same reasons, Six wins the talent competition.

Swimsuit competition? This is far tougher to call. Six, of course, has a Victoria's Secret body, and model-looks, but Seven is no slouch. Brooding, almost pouting, Seven seethes with sexuality and race track curves. On the margin, I think Six takes this one by a nipple's width.

Intelligence? Seven has been assimilated into a collective and her brain has been turned into a computer. Six, on the other hand IS a computer, but sometimes, not a very bright one. The Cylons, as a whole, have proven to be just intelligent enough, just as much as they need to be. Seven, however, could fix things and shit.

I might be stepping out on a limb here, but I think Seven takes this one.

Finally, though, we come to the only competition that matters, hand-to-hand combat.

Seven has proven to have superior fighting skilz, yet is limited, essentially, to her average human strength. Six, of course, seems to have slightly elevated strength, yet Starbuck was able to spike her.

I think they would be evenly matched, grappling, tearing at each other's flimsy fashion. Buttons would burst, seams would rip, thighs would flex. Hot pale flesh would dampen with sweat. Faces would flush. Breathing would accelerate.

In the end, they might both collapse with exhaustion, skin scraped with scratch marks, bosoms heaving. We could only hope. But who would win?

Six, I suppose, with her super strength and resurrection. But really, after a watching a fight like that, I'd say we all win. We're all winners!

Not To Be Morbid

2008-11-24T23:41:00.000-08:00

...but we're all gonna die.

Sure, some of us will go sooner than others. But really, the end is near.

The species as a whole is doomed, which may be, for the planet, a good thing.

Anyway, case in point, just a few days ago, this happened:

And yes, that is an actual video taken by a camera mounted in a police car. It was apparently seen over most of Western Canada.

What was it? A meteor. A chunk of space rock that got a little too close.

How big was it?

Good question. Scientists (Canadian scientists, but scientists all the same...) estimate that it was the size of a grapefruit.

Yes, that little breakfast fruit, whose flesh you spoon with a serrated edge... A grapefruit did that.

And what would a larger object do? Well, you can guess. But you better guess quickly, because Apophis, Ganymed and Golevka are coming. But even if they miss, there are more than 1,000 known near-Earth asteroids with a diameter greater than a kilometer.

And that, my friends, is bigger than a grapefruit.

I wonder, is that project you're working on right now, really that important?

Beer

2008-11-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

just getting warmed up

2008-11-23T09:56:00.000-08:00

Birthdays and a Break.

2008-11-13T22:55:00.000-08:00

Friday is Lucky Red's birthday. Happy birthday to you. You'll be 29, right?

Saturday is Dr. B's birthday, and really, he's just lucky to still have hair.

Happy birthday to all.

And with that, I'll be taking a break for one week. I'll be back with more devilish delights next weekend.

Face Recognition

2008-11-12T23:56:00.000-08:00

With praise to the blessings of the Internet, I, like you, or most of you, have exponentially multiplied my exposure to porn. But not just porn, smut too. Erotica. Titillation. Prurience.

If it's out there, I have probably seen it, or something like it, for better or for frighteningly worse.

And why look? Well, there are the obvious reasons; the reasons that you are familiar with, but might not want to share. But there are also the not-so-obvious reasons as well.

"Not-so-obvious reasons??" You may ask. "Do tell!"

Well, the fact is, as Mitch may very well tell us, after a great deal of time, pornography can lose its appeal. It can get repetitive. Boring. But then there are little games you can play to keep it interesting.

For me, the most common game is Face Recognition. Looking for faces that you recognize. Looking for that one shy acquaintance that you once knew, prominently gagging on 10 inches of love.

I mean, if there is one thing I've learned, it's that there is A LOT of smut out there, with unthinkable legions of actors, actresses and models. Statistically, I do not think it is possible to live a life in modern America without knowing at least one person who has appeared in Porn.

Perhaps if you live in Utah, but otherwise...

And so I scan. I filter. I search, always keeping an eye toward the possible surprise of finding a friend's dark secret. Sure, it's creepy, but it's my game.

Problem is, I'm getting older, and so is my field of acquaintances. With age comes wrinkles, flab, hair loss. With age, it becomes less and less likely that I will ever discover my hidden friend.

It certainly hasn't happened yet, though I've had to stop and study a few times...

I'll keep looking though.

Flavor

2008-11-12T00:09:00.000-08:00

If you had to describe me in terms of a flavor, what flavor would I be?

I, for instance, might say that I am Margarita flavor, sweet, but a little wicked.

(Originally, I was going to ask what flavor you were, but my narcissistic instinct took over. It's all about me, not you.)

So, what flavor am I?

Maybe It Was the Cough Syrup

2008-11-10T22:07:00.000-08:00

"So, how are ya feelin?" I heard, over and over today from a horde of both in-person and electronically-connected well-wishers.

"Different." Has been my repetitive reply. I have spun the Wheel-Of-Symptoms, and I have lost every time. It was one thing, then changed to another, then to another, then to another. Now my body is just pissed off, and has basically clamped down on any further medicinal exhibition.

Still, though, the time off afforded me the chance to catch up on sleep.

Sleep, that is, tinted with fatigue, fever, and over-the-counter cough syrup. Seriously, that shit can fuck you up good.

So, maybe it was the fever, maybe it was the cherry-flavored cocktail of expectorants and decongestants, but I have had the most bizarre gallery of dreams. Now, as some of you know, I tend to dream on the extreme end to begin with, but add a shot or two of Dextromethorphan, and watch out!

I have found myself showering in a public shower stall in the lobby of a doctor's office. I have cavorted with European prostitutes at my grandmother's house, which happened to be on a ship. I have been chased through a 1970's-style dark wood panelled shopping mall, with a dim smoked-glass interior and ridiculously over-sized escalators...

My poor repressed subconscious. It's had a busy week. One thing that it has kept coming back to, however, over and over, is flying. Planes flying, cars flying houses flying... You get the drift.

Most importantly, though, and something that has recurred enough times over my life to be recognized as something of a pattern, is me flying. Just me. And it always starts the same way.

First, I fall. I'm usually walking or running, and I trip or something, and I fall, but I miss the ground. Somehow, I dodge that persistent Newtonian vector, and I miss the ground. Then, I get back to my feet and think, "Oh ya, it's just like in those dreams, although I'm not dreaming now." And I go and do it again.

Once I do it intentionally, I gain some forward momentum and flight control.

Oh, and palm trees, I always end up plying over palm trees...

In the end, I wake up. No flight. Earthbound. Not even any European prostitutes. Yet, still somewhat satisfied.

Oh, and before all of you Junior Freud Scouts run out and grab your dream interpretation books, I'll just tell you, I've got this one figured out. I've observed its occurrence in connection to enough certain life-events to know its root, its trigger and its meaning, but really, thanks for playing along.

Now, I just need to get me some more of that cough syrup.

Congratulations

2008-11-08T23:19:00.000-08:00

So, congratulations are in order. Though, in the interest of anonymity, I will need to be somewhat vague.

So, Mrs. G & T works in a particular field here in this particular state. As part of that job, she belongs to a professional organization, and served for a long time on, or with, its board of directors. Within the field, she has taught and trained many practitioners, and has even drafted changes to the law regarding this particular field.

Today, then, at the organization's yearly state-wide conference, Mrs. G&T was presented with an award of excellence for her achievements in that field. So, congratulations to Mrs. G&T, we are all very proud of you.

Three Hours I'll Never Get Back

2008-11-06T23:47:00.000-08:00

Most of you know, I've been home sick for the last two days, and will likely be home, on the boss's orders, Friday as well.

Lying peacefully on the sofa eases the discomfort and nausea. It's only when I stand up, or move, when things get unpleasant.

So, prone on the sofa, I have remained for the better part of two days, alone with my vitamin C, Ibuprofen and the TV. It's been a long time since I had this much opportunity to watch daytime television, and let me tell you, it sucks ass.

Big dirty ass.

And so I flip flip flip, across the spectrum of entertainment, around the Horn, and back again. Every now and then something catches my eye: the the final Senate tallies, the Girls Next Door, Jesus TV...

But really, there is nothing worth watching this early in the day.

And so, it must have been around noon today, having had a small lunch, I collapsed back onto the sofa and flipped some more. It may have been BET, or possibly VH1, I don't really know, but the familiar blue and gold uniforms caught my attention.

No, I had never actually sat and watched the entire movie from beginning to end, but yes, I'd seen most of it in disjointed pieces. This time, it appeared to be near the beginning, and so I lingered.

Mind you, I never actually committed to watching the goddamned thing. I was aware of just how bad it was. And yet....

OK, so I lingered. I did flip away, but somehow, found my way back again and again. Being daytime television, as it was, the television station had made many ill-advised cuts to cram as much advertising into the film as possible. So much so, that a 90 minute flick easily filled three hours of my day.

Three Hours!

And it wasn't even a good movie! It's all preposterous cliches: coming of age, learning lessons, rivals become friends, the hero is flawed, blah blah blah...

And somehow, I cannot flip past this flick without stopping. And now three hours of my day are gone.

The movie, since you are now wondering, is called "Drum Line," and it is all about southern-style marching bands battling to the finish for justice and honor, or something, with super-sonic drumsticks and ostentatious choreography. Really, I could not be any further out of the demographic for this film.

Sigh... So, here is the big finale scene:

You know, as long as I am going to waste another half day in front of the TV on Friday, I might as well just put on a three-hour movie, and watch Lagaan...

Lagaan - Ghanan Ghanan

Thank For Putting Up With All of the Politics...

2008-11-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Dave for sharing...

Cool

2008-11-06T11:42:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Valdez for this.

One of These Things is Not Like The Other

2008-11-05T14:00:00.000-08:00

I am sick at home today, but a received a surprising email from Dr. B.

I thought I'd share it with you.

Click on it to see the bigger version.

Richmond

2008-11-04T22:26:00.000-08:00

In Richmond, on a warm June day, the new President of the new nation walked soberly down the street.

He was a tall man. Thin, with a narrow brown beard. He had risen to office on a wave of political passion. His tiny nation was at war and the future was uncertain.

The man walked on, away from the new Capitol Building, where he had just taken the oath of office. This was 1861. The man was Jefferson Davis and he had just become the President of the Confederate States of America.

Though bearing a striking resemblance, he was now at war with another young President, Abraham Lincoln.

The Civil War was about many many things, and I will resist the historical urge to name them here. However, all of these un-enumerated issues, in one way or another, always trailed back to the slavery of Africans.

That was a long time ago.

Richmond, Virginia, was the capitol of the Confederacy, the spiritual center of the Grand Old South. It was the last political bastion against emancipation. So vital was it, that the great General Robert E. Lee named his massive army: "The Army of Northern Virginia."

Richmond remained, after the war, the capitol of the State of Virginia. It has seen, particularly in the last 60 years, tremendous change.

Tonight, as the numbers fell into predictable color-coded categories, as swing states swung either red, or mostly blue, I watched with interest as Virginia votes were counted.

It was too-close to call for much of the night. The winners and losers would be named with or without it. And yet I waited, scanning the channels, surfing the wire sources, playing with CNN's cool on-line map.

It may have been NPR. Maybe CNN. I'm not sure. But after much counting and delay, the call was made. Old Virginia, led by Richmond, the capitol of the Old South, had elected a man with African blood to be President of the Union.

OK, So I Should Have Posted This One

2008-11-04T13:44:00.001-08:00

Thanks to Mrs G&T for finding this one...

November 4. 2008

2008-11-03T22:08:00.000-08:00

We have waited a long time.

We have dreamed of this day, trying to imagine what it would be like to get what we most wanted.

It is a day of Control.

It is a day of intelligence.

It is the end of Kaos.

Unless you have lived under a cone of silence for the last 40 years, you know exactly what I am talking about. The long-awaited Tuesday is finally here.

It is finally time for the release....

The release of Get Smart, available November 4 on DVD!!

Join Steve Carrell, the Rock and Alan Arken on a madcap magical adventure through the zany world of espionage and assassination! This was my favorite television show as a child, and it has been a long time coming. Sure, I never actually saw this move-version, but I'm certain it was good...

What?

What's the matter?

What did you think I was going to write about??

One Day More

2008-11-03T09:46:00.000-08:00

The Nut

2008-11-02T22:37:00.000-08:00

Well, almost the nut, anyway.

Would that be the demi-nut? Maybe the quazi-nut?

I'm not sure. What I do know is, there was only one card that could beat me.

The Nut-hand, as it were, in Poker, is the best possible hand you can have, given the cards that are in play. Sometimes, when the board is very bad, the nut can be very small. Or, when there is a whole family of face cards on the board, it can be very large.

The deal came, and I had a King and a three, both hearts. The pot was small, and the minimum bet was a dollar. So, I limped in, and waited for the flop.

The flop came with three consecutive middle cards, giving someone a possible straight. Not me, mind you. However, two of the flop cards were hearts, giving me a Flush draw.

Now generally, it is my personal rule not to chase Straights or Flushes, but this time, no one chased me out, and it was cheap to stay in. Then, the fourth card, the Turn card, came, making an obvious Straight draw on the board. Betting continued to be light. It cost me next to nothing to call, so I stuck around for the river, and my 1-in-4 chance of a heart.

The river came, and it was the Queen of Hearts. The Queen extended the range for those who were chasing the straight. For me though, it made my flush.

Some folks saw the flush draw and abandoned their Straights, but not everyone...

I knew what my hole-cards were. I didn't have to re-check them. I didn't play with them. I didn't touch them. I looked at the board and calculated. I knew a Straight-Flush was out of the question. Four-of-a-Kind was not possible, nor even was a Full House.

No, the Nut was a Flush, and the Nut-Flush was an Ace-High, which I did not have. I had a King-high Flush. The second highest possible hand. There was only one card in the entire deck that could beat me, the Ace-of-Hearts, and it would have to have another heart in the hole with it to matter...

I began to calculate the odds of one of the other players holding both the Ace-of-Hearts AND a another heart. That was like 52-to-1 times 4-to-1 minus the cards in play plus the burn cards, but what about the folded cards... and... uh... aw, fuckit, I wasn't smart enough to work out those calculations.

I made the decision that I had the effective nut.

Then, I watched those who had made their relative Straights confidently bet, raise and re-raise. The bet made its way around the big table to the shadowy corner where I sat. I would not go all-in, not wanting to chase away other people's money. Still, I wanted to bet for value and suck my opponents dry.

They were all so smug in their Straights and possible smaller Flushes. They were blind to the Nut. They could not comprehend it. And so, I bet. Large.

I stared at the mound of chips in the middle. I looked at no one.

I heard the friendly man to my left (who had a large Straight) confidently call my enormous bet. I heard the woman at the end of the table (who had a small flush) call as well.

And then there was silence.

There was a brief moment of pure satisfaction. Like catching two fish on one hook. Like watching your favorite team hit the tie-breaking homerun at the bottom of the ninth. Like the moment the girl you want to kiss smiles and leans-in for it.

It is the instant of pre-victory, adreneline and expectation, and time stood still for just the briefest of seconds...

...and then we rolled the cards.

Sure, I contemplated the statistical impropbabilty of an Ace-high flush sucking me out, but the odds-gods smiled on me. The Ace was no where to be found.

And then, the warm glow of victory.

And I wonder, will Obama feel that Tuesday night? Will it be five minutes before the polls close on the west coast? Will he be within grasp by the time the clocks strike 8 in the Pacific Time Zone? He holds the Nut in California, Oregon and Washington.

Will it be a sense of terror mixed with exhileration? Confidnece? Silence? Will he close his eyes and ride the current in to history? Maybe. I probably will.

Costume Ideas

2008-10-31T14:17:00.001-07:00

Full Size

2008-10-31T00:07:00.000-07:00

With white pillow cases, we would run amok. Sure, the parents were present, but they strolled slowly, chatting, keeping barely-an-eye on our advance. Our street was long, but closed to cross-traffic, and littered with many many children.

Young kids, older kids and teens, decked out in 70's sensibilities, running door to door, slinging swollen sacks.

This was before the sensational stories. Before fear of razorblades and demon cults. Before Amber alerts. Really, before helmet laws and seat belt citations.

Back when the world was perfect, or apparently so, to a 7-year-old on a quest for free candy.

And then, at the end of the journey, after my friends had gone back to their own houses, before I had to go to bed, we would sort the loot. My sister, who was much smaller, and I would dump our collective bounty into a pile, and the parents and grandparents would pilfer through for favorites.

My mother was obsessed with the Abba Zabba. My dad made for the Milky way. I horded the SweetTarts, Smarties and anything else of a hard-and-sour nature.

But then, even after an epic Halloween haul, there was always the dud. The crap. The waste of precious trick-or-treating time. These were the plastic-wrapped carrot sticks, JuJu Bees, Bit-o-Honeys, Pennies and (worst of all) religious tracts.

Every year. Every goddamn year, some religious weirdo would sneak the mini-gospel into my sacred sack of goodies. I'd watch for it, but never saw it. They were good. The sneaky power of the Lord was with them. And for me to call THEM religious weirdos was really something, considering where I came from...

But I digress.

Look, as a parent, I now understand the internal motivation to hand out nutritious snacks, or helpful-seeming tracts, on Halloween. However, those things are just not fun. they are like getting socks for Christmas. It's not like the kids go begging door-to-door for candy every night. It's only once per year. And the whole point, at least these days, is to have fun.

And so, with that in mind, I have always been a big giver on Halloween; although, the relative swarm of ghouls and witches varies. The missus, who makes the costumes by hand, takes the tots door-to-door, and she gets to revel, to a reasonable degree, in the oohing and the awing.

I, on the other hand, man the door and hand out the candy to the other kids. It's the system, and it works.

So, to the store I went, late this evening, to fetch the goods to give away tomorrow (tonight, as you read this). I quickly grabbed three bags of cheap chocolate crap, when suddenly, my eye caught a hefty looking box. The box was wrapped in cellophane and priced to move. Still though, the box alone cost about 4 times as much as one of the bags.

Whereas, the bags contained bite-size mini candies, the box was full of full-sized candy bars. Snickers. Milky way. Baby Ruth. Reeses Peanut Butter cups. Kit Kats...

Full Size!

And so, I dropped the cheap-ass bags and grabbed two boxes.

Why? Because a whole bunch of kids will get a few fleeting moments of glee, when they sort through their sad sacks of bite-sized crap, and they come across an actual full-sized candy bar! That's why!

Will it save the world? No.
Will fix the economy? No.
Will it end the war? No.

But it will maximize the fun for the families that live in my neighborhood. And on Halloween night, that is the entire point.

Fail To See the Humor

2008-10-30T13:21:00.000-07:00

Thank to Valdez for this.

Monumental Luck

2008-10-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

I was on a pilgrimage of sorts. I was on a quest. I had the time, to be certain. I had a car. I had my camera.

I was returning to my childhood.

It was my intent to put an actual place, and pictures of the place, to the stories and descriptions I had heard so many times before. Lessons in the history of California must lead, without exception, through the small discovery made in the Sierra foothills one cold wet January morning in 1848.

The story actually started many years earlier, when one white man immigrated to Mexico...

Back in the day, back before Los Angeles was even a Pueblo. Back when the official language of California was Spanish, back when it was nothing more than a primitive northern province of Mexico, a Swiss man named Johann (John) Sutter landed in the small impoverished mission town of San Francisco.

Sutter's plan was to built a new Switzerland in Central California, a land flowing with milk chocolate and raisens, apparently. He quickly convinced the Mexican Governor of California to fork over 49,000 acres of land, upon which he would build his Utopia.

But first, he had to build a fort, mostly becasue the local native population disagreed with his plan...

But soon the community took root there at the confluence of the Sacramento and American Rivers, and Fort Sutter grew. (For those of you who are now quickly google-mapping the confluence, let me save you time. Fort Sutter is now known as Sacramento.)

Sutter thrived, but quickly discovered that he needed wood. And lots of it. Fortunately, in 1847, the US decided to steal New Mexico, Arizona and California from Mexico, and the brief and heavily lop-sided Mexican-American War left legions on unemployed soldiers to wander the west coast.

One such vet, whose own riches had been squandered in the war, was James W. Marshall. Although Marshall had experience as a soldier and a cattle rancher, he was inexplicably recruited by Sutter to run a saw mill.

So, Marshall marched, with the help of his famed Mormon Battalion, and they built a mill, Sutter's Mill, along the bank of the rugged American River...

I arrived, by guesswork and rudementary maps, at the little tourist town of Coloma. It was an hour East of Sacramento, though the road thankfully led me passed an In-N-Out on the way...

The entire city of Coloma resides within a state park. The entire city (and there isn't much to it) is dedicated to the memory of the gold rush. I parked, looked at a posted map, and began to wander around.

The mill, pictured two-above, is merely a replica. The stone wall, immediately-above, marks the actual site of the original mill, before it was washed away in a flood...

Marshall and the Mormons chose a generally ideal site, notwithstanding the floods, and built their saw mill there.

As you know, a mill requires water to power the saw. The water comes in off the river, and goes out through a drainage ditch, called a "mill race." Problem was, the day after the mill opened for business, they discovered that the Mormons had dug a race, which was too narrow.

Marshall, being a bit lazy, chose not to widen the race by hand. Rather, he opened the flood gates and let the river water do the work for him.

The following day, Marshall walked down to the race to inspect the river's progress. As he walked along the race, he happened to peer down, and in so doing, changed the history of the world forever.

I followed the dusty ill-marked trail down to the water. I stood on stones among the shrubs, swatting at bugs. I looked down and peered into the murky mud below. This is all that is left of the mill race. This is where Marshall stood when he looked down and found gold. Shiny flakes of gold, uncovered and stirred up by the river wash. Gold in the water. Gold in the mountains. Gold in California.

What was once a quiet little Mexican province was suddenly the newest, and soon-to-be, most-populated territory in the United States.

Gold discoveries do not remain secret for long.

In the early spring of 1849, thousands upon thousand of would-be miners poured into California from all over the world. These were the fabled 49ers. They streamed across the land, bypassing rich farm soil, and clambering up rocky hillsides in search of the pure vein, the mother lode.

They overran Sutter and his fort. They overran Coloma. They even overran Marshall himself. They swarmed up the American river like Levi-wearing Salmon. (Google Levi Strauss yourself...)

I studied the water of the American River. I stooped to touch it, running my fingers through the same current than ran two centuries ago. Through the crystal water I could see rocks, but didn't know enough about what I was looking at. Each rock was unique. Each had its own story to tell. Some of it had to have been gold. The gold is still there...

And then I saw the man on the other side of the river. A sole survivor of the last age; by himself on the bank, panning for gold.

A hobbyist, I assumed. Perhaps there for just one day. A pilgrim, like me. Though, while my quest was for historical tangibility, he was somehow more significant. There are people today who still mine for gold. Hobbyists who dig, sift and pan. And for any miner, whose life is limited to less-gold-friendly localles, Sutter's Mill must be Mecca. If gold-panning was the passion of my life, I could not immagine a more important and meaninful location to sift the silt.

So, I envied the man on the other side of the river. And I hoped that he found something of value in the water.

I saw what I had come to see. I touched the place that I had read about and visusalized in my mind, three decades earlier. I saw the mountains that Marshall had seen the morning of his fateful walk. I wandered through the birthplace of California, and made a tangible connection to history.

Then, on the way out of town, I turned on to Highway 153, California's shortest highway, and drove up to the top of the hill to see the Marshall Memorial. It is a statue of Marshall on a tall pedaestal, pictured at the top of this post. Marshall, you can see, is dramatically posed, pointing down. Because, really, that's all he did. He screwed up the mill design, came up with a lazy fix and took a walk. Then, he looked down!

In the end, Both Marshall and Sutter were run off by the teeming hordes of immigrant miners. Which, really, according to Republicans, is similar to the story of California today...

([wink] that bit was just for you Dr. B!)

Tuesday Morning Motivation

2008-10-28T10:53:00.000-07:00

Follow

2008-10-27T23:44:00.000-07:00

We have a new gadget on the side bar. Click to follow and add your profile icon to the list. It will give you Lounge updates when you log in to Blogger!

The Idle Wiener Is the Devil's Play Thing (Warning: Wieners)

2008-10-27T22:52:00.000-07:00

The ladies have been complaining about the lack of full frontal male nudity here on the Lounge.

Well, here ya go! Stop yer bitching...

Oh, and you can blame Marge for this post...

HOW IN THE WORLD...

2008-10-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

...Did I NOT think of this??

H8te

2008-10-26T22:11:00.000-07:00

It's funny what you learn when you visit other places. For instance, did you know that Californians are voting this year on whether to intentionally put discrimination INTO their state Constitution???

INTO...

I don't even know how this is possible. California Proposition 8, it seems, amends their state constitution to discriminate against homosexuals, polygamists, hermaphrodites and transsexuals.

I mean, the very purpose for a constitution is to LIMIT the power of government and ensure the rights of the individual, NOT to take away fundamental rights of individuals. That is entirely against the purpose of a constitution!

I am baffled. I am dismayed. What the hell is the point of anything in this country if we can just turn a constitution into a weapon of hatred??

History is repeating itself. The Visigoths are on their way...

Poolsged

2008-10-24T22:47:00.001-07:00

It is warm in Sacramento. I am sitting by the pool smoking a cigar watching the guests mill about. This place seems to be filled

2008-10-24T22:44:00.001-07:00

It is warm in Sacramento. I am sitting by the pool smoking a cigar watching the guests mill about. This place seems to be filled with bike

Bathroom Humor

2008-10-24T15:22:00.000-07:00

Jimmy Olson

2008-10-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

There is very little left to watch on network broadcast Television. For me, it comes down to Heroes and The office. Yes, Yes, 30 Rock is terribly funny. However, The Office, now in its fourth season, has reached its stride. It is skull cracking funny, witty and warm all at once.

Other than DVDs from Netflix and waiting for the final ten episodes of Battlestar in January, that's all I watch.

Well, sorta.

Secretly, embarrassingly, I have to confess to one additional network series that we watch. Yes, after 8 seasons, We are still watching Smallville. I know! I know!! The show should have ended four seasons ago. It should not still be on the air. The last three seasons have been miserably horrible. Dismal. Wretched.

And while this season has shown a creative upturn in the narrative, I still cannot recommend it to ANYONE. so, really, don't watch it.

But yet, we watch it.

As we did, once again, tonight.

Clark Kent is not quite Superman; though, he is like 45 years old...

But at least, all of the peripheral characters are gone. Young Lex has quit the show. Lex's apocryphal dad is dead. Clark's parents are gone, and his non-Lois love interest is gone. Clark is now at the Daily Planet, and he hangs out with Lois lane and Jimmy Olson. The Story has finally almost "gotten there."

Which leads me to the point.

No, see, the point isn't Smallville, nor is it even Jimmy Olson, as the title suggests. No, this post is about Jimmy's newspaper-photographer equipment.

See, tonight, Jimmy was taking pictures of some monster thing that Clark had to fight with a tire... Long explanation, not relevant...

So, Jimmy is blazing away in a dark alley with his digital SLR rig, fat lens and blazing flash. I wait, of course, for Jimmy to turn toward the TV camera for the necessary product placement, which he obediently does, and provides a slow close-up shot of the Nikon emblem on his camera.

Then, Mrs. G&T, in her own precious way, looks over at me and says: "so, is his flash better than yours?"

Which, in fact, causes me to grimace. I scowl and twitch because, goddamn it, the honest answer to her question is: "Yes!!"

MOTHERFUCKER!!

Yes. Jimmy Olson shoots Nikon. I shoot Canon. And everyone in the know, knows that Nikon makes better flashes. Their flashes are more advanced and more flexible. Their camera bodies have advantages with insanely high ISO speeds, advanced noise reduction and impressive live-view capability.

Canon? Well, Canon makes better lenses. Which really is the point. The camera exists for the lens. It's all about the glass. Which is really the reason I shoot Canon, and not Nikon.

Well, sorta.

The fact is, I'm a Canon snob. My grandfather put an SLR camera in my hands for the first time when I was 12, and it was a Canon. Every professional photographer that I've ever known, save one recent one, has shot Canon. I Love Canon. I visit the Canon products home page more often that I look at porn.

Now look, it is entirely irrational. I get it. I know! It makes no sense, and I cannot defend it, but the bottom line, raw truth is, I hate Nikon. I hate it. I hate the product line. I hate the company. I want it to fail. I get angry every time I go to Costco and see some sad schmuck with his shitty Nikon D40 box popping out of his cart.

I hate Nikon advertising in my photo magazines. I hate Nikon product placement in my television shows. I belong to the quiet and confident Canon family, and the blood-thirsty zombie Nikon Hottentots are at the gate.

It's a sickness, really. An obsession, but Nikon must die. Die Damn you! Die!!

Perhaps if I were Superman, I could save the world from the evils of Nikon. for now, though, I must simply stew in my own seething hatred.

Another One for THAT One

2008-10-23T17:11:00.000-07:00

Never humiliate your press secretary by coercing him to lie on your behalf to the world media.

He will destroy you, your party and your pawns.

I keep waiting for McCain to endorse Obama.

Oh, by the way, I voted today. Just one tiny little hammer stroke onto the final nail of Cheney's coffin.

Of Note

2008-10-23T00:39:00.000-07:00

First there are two new blogs added to the link list. First, Allie has given up on the Gouda, but is now running an adviser site called "Ask Allie Anything" I'm not sure that her answers are correct, but go ahead, ask her something...

Second, Ev's beau Bill is running his own blog. The link is to the right. Stop by and check him out.

Lastly, I hope to deleiver most of the calendars tomorrow, or at least get them packaged. The print quality is not what I hoped for, but the layout is great...

That is all. Move along now.

Wash Your Hands

2008-10-23T00:27:00.001-07:00

Suddenly, I have the need to wash my hands.

Thanks to Marge for the submission.

The Caledars Have Arrived

2008-10-22T11:11:00.000-07:00

I just received word from Mrs G&T, who is at home, sick, that the calendars have arrived, and they look good!

We will try to get those packaged up tonight.

Dirty... Dirty... Dirty...

Sacramento

2008-10-21T22:32:00.000-07:00

Once again Biker duty calls.

Later this week, I'll pack every pair of jeans and every black shirt that I own. We have a couple of things to talk about this time around. A couple of cases to present.

I'll be addressing the crowd. Stating the case. Looking 500 black-leather-clad bikers in the eye, trying desperately not to look like the out-of-place jackass poser that I am...

And then, there is the town.

California's capitol.

I drive through a few times per year, going to, or coming from, Los Angeles. Frequently flying past, as fast as I can, to get to the first In-n-Out in Stockton. However, I have stopped on occasion, just to look around. I've driven around. Seen the sights. I've even seen the Jerry Brown portrait at the capitol building.

So, now what? What is there to do in Sacramento?

There are politicians and lawyers, so there has to be a strip club.

Sutter's mill?

Wine tasting?

Jesus, I'll not even be that far from San Francisco.

I'll probably just go see a movie again, drink and wait for the feds to come harass our boys.

Anyone have any good entertainment tips for California's Capitol city?

Nice Glass

2008-10-20T22:46:00.000-07:00

Glass, it seems, makes me horny.

Long glass. Fat glass. Short glass. Fast glass. I like to hold it, weighing its heft. Judging its length. Testing its speed.

I like to slowly swab it, daubing it, cleaning slowly with fluid and wipes. Circling smoothly with dry compound cleaners and soft bristle brushes.

I gingerly care for my glass, covering it, capping it, stowing securely with straps, buckles and zippers.

I like to hear about other people's glass. I like them to tell me about their desire for spotting scopes, digiscopes, telescopes and binoculars.

I like to hear about other people's un-filtered fish-eyes and crop-factored telephotos. Size, they say, doesn't really matter, but really, it all depends on what you need it for. Sometimes, a job requires a small one, no longer than my finger. Sometimes, it requires a heavy one, as long as my leg.

Groups and elements of glass, ground and polished to imperceptible tolerances, ashpyrical, concave and convex, meniscal and planar; infinite combinations to correct aberration as the lens drinks-in the available illumination.

Some suck more greedily than others, lapping at the light, slurping it down. Swallowing. Magnifying. Focusing. Diffracting.

But, glass is just glass.

Though, I suppose you could say that about anything. Regardless, it flips my Pavlovian switch like few things can. Or maybe it's Freud's switch. Hard to say, really. Doesn't really matter. I just cannot get enough of that fast fat watery glass.

So, tell me about your glass. I'd love to hear.

Weekend Wrap Up

2008-10-19T22:46:00.000-07:00

Never coerce a 4-star general to lie for you under oath.

He will destroy you, your party and your pawns in the end.

Truffula?

2008-10-18T22:39:00.000-07:00

He was shortish. And oldish.
And brownish. And mossy.
And he spoke with a voice
that was sharpish and bossy.
"Mister!" he said with a sawdusty sneeze,
"I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees.
I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues.
And I'm asking you, sir, at the top of my lungs"-
he was very upset as he shouted and puffed-
"What's that THING you've made out of my Truffula tuft?"

We were deep, deep in the South.

Now, I don't mean "South," like Dixie and bass fishing. No, I mean the South county. Clackamas County, which in some ways is very much like Dixie. Deep into the wily reaches, we roamed, away from the private lake and the interstate. Away from the Urban Growth Boundary. Away from civilization.

Sure, there were roads there, and stores and schools. However, the proliferation of churches and McCain signs was making me uneasy. Farmsteads were surrounded by barbed wire. Old tire-less cars sat rusting in front yards. Pickup trucks ranged over the roads.

More than once, I considered removing the Obama magnet from the back of my car. I mean, I was alone in the car with my friend JB and neither of us were wearing cowboy hats. Neither of us smelled of cow shit, and neither of us had married our own sisters.

Let's just say, we didn't blend in...

But, we were on a safari, and we followed our spirit of adventure. It was a beautiful blue October afternoon, and we were out to shoot photos of whatever we could find.

Unfortunately, in South Clackamas County, apparently, the only thing to be found was Christmas tree farms and cows. Neither of which offered a wealth of photographic opportunity.

We stopped and stomped around the clackamas river. JB picked up a nice shot of a blue heron.

I, on the other hand, didn't fare as well.

Then, we drove on. Searching, scanning, seeking something worthy of investigation.

Then, just past the tiny town of Liberal, Oregon, we found it. A field? A forest? Acres for sure. Many many many acres of trees. Oh, but not just any trees. No, these came straight out of a Dr. Seuss story book.

The Lorax, for instance, came immediately to mind.

It was unearthly. Unnatural. We skidded to stop, and careened up the tiny dirt access road. Sure it was probably trespassing, but then, were weren't exactly dressed like Topiary burglars.

Although, on second thought, how exactly would a topiary burglar be dressed??

It was mesmerizing. Not even Seuss himself could have described a stranger place. No two trees were the same. Each one, and there were thousands, had to have been hand trimmed, meticulously carved into unique shapes.

Was this perhaps the true home of the real-life Edward Scissor Hands?

We both bolted from the car, cameras in hand, and started to blaze away. The sun was getting low, and the shadows were deep. Still, there was enough there to shoot until nightfall.

Unfortunately, though, we didn't have all the time in the world, and I was getting thirsty...

And so, we moved on, found some food and a couple of G&Ts, and pondered the meaning of the trees.

I never actually spotted the Lorax, but if he exists, I know now where to find him...

Unintentional Theme

2008-10-17T10:35:00.000-07:00

Hello Darth Kitty

2008-10-16T11:09:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Fred for that...