To be clear, I've no problems (and by problems, I mean squicks) with anyone enterering into a non-monogamous marraige/relationship provided both parties agree that they would be happiest fucking outside the relationship and both try their best not to bring home the scabies.

I got problems with spooning grampa.

Nobody ever argued anybody else out of a squick; I'm good with that.

Total tangent: David, does anybody actually know who shot the lala? Google is no help because all I can come up with is the song title.

Heh. Well I don't know. But a lot of that stuff isn't clear until you get to New Orleans anyway. That's where I finally figured out what the whole "spyboy" thing was about, and why he might light somebody's ass on fire.

I'm still confused, Allyson, but since I think this probably is not a topic of conversation you relish, I'll let it drop.

does anybody actually know who shot the lala?

"The singer is not sure who shot him; but, he says, 'I know it was a .44.'"

Thanks, Joe.

"The singer is not sure who shot him; but, he says, 'I know it was a .44.'"

Actually it sounds like it was a hot shot (the drug kind). Ninth Ward - figures.

Skipping ahead because, Tim, if you're still here, I have a Brilliant and Insightful Question for you. That I always remember an hour after you've passed through.

Which means I'm almost certainly too late. Grump. That'll teach me to spend the evening watching cartoons.

I have a Brilliant and Insightful Question for you.

I want to hear it!

That'll teach me to spend the evening watching cartoons.

Which cartoons?

Here you all are, talking about your Plimsouls, and your X, and your Robert A. Heinlein...and here I am, with my Linda Ronstadt, and my Warren Zevon, and my Raymond Chandler...and I'm feeling left out.

Sad, really. Proof that my generation has passed me by totally...and I'm not even 30.