April 2006, Vol. 5, Issue 4

It's another "better late than never" issue featuring returning writers such as our favorite Norwegian word wanker Sigge S. Amdal, along with Change100, Falstaff, and Sean Donahue.

1. Bloggers and Bunnies Part II: Where's AlCantHang? by Tenzin McGrupp
Yeah if I could pick two worthy souls who deserved to live at the Mansion after Hef died, it would be Bill Clinton and/or AlCantHang. Those two know how to throw a party...More

2. It's a Matter of Perception by Falstaff
You wanna talk about white trash hallucinogens, you can't really go any further into the trailer park than chuggin a whole bottle of cough syrup with a Dr. Pepper chaser at 1PM on a Tuesday... More

3. Outfitting the Doctor by Change100
Sending an unemployed studio executive with a fashion-induced credit card addiction into Ralph Lauren is like handing Robert Downey Jr. the keys to a suitcase full of blow. The temptation is almost too much for one human being to handle... More

4. Man, I Love Tits by Sigge S. Amdal
There's a variety of tits that slip away from most men's conscience, as most men tend to grow weary of illumination and would rather leap into action. But I do love tits, and I appreciate their fulfilling diversity... More

5. The Debt I Should Have Never Paid by Sean A. Donahue
I can remember the day I fell in love with my ex-wife. It was like it was yesterday. We had talked and talked over and over again on who would make the long trip to see the other one, me from Lubbock or her from Indiana. I decided to make the first trip. There was a writers' convention in Indianapolis so if for some reason she flaked out on me I could go spend time on that... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Thanks for returning back to the corner of the universe called Truckin' as we're approaching our 4th birthday. We have some of my favorite returning writers for this issue including Sigge, Change100, Sean Donahue, Falstaff, and yours truly.

Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. You guys write for free and if I could pay you, I would. Your time and effort is worth more money than I can ever afford to pay.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.

Salukis,
McG

An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools." - Ernest Hemingway

Bloggers and Bunnies Part II: Where's AlCantHang?

Bloggers and Bunnies Part II: Where's AlCantHang?

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2006

Joe Speaker tipped the bartender $20 for a Jack and coke and a Vodka tonic. The bartender smiled an informed us that we were a part of the Platinum Club, which meant that he'd hook us with drinks whenever we returned. He also gave us a book of Playboy matches.

As I stood at the stone bar, I surveyed the scene and didn't see to many people outside. The Grotto was in front of us. To the left was a row of folding tables that had various items for the charity silent auction. Behind that was a raised terrace and the Mansion stood behind it all. I spotted a large white tent in the distance with a DJ booth in front.

We were one of the first shuttles to arrive and there were no naked women milling around the Grotto and Hef was nowhere to be found. We almost had the entire place to ourselves, but we were still missing AlCantHang who had split from the group and took a limo to the Mansion with poker pros Steve Dannenmann and Hoyt Corkins.

I spotted Scott from Card Player Magazine and his girlfriend near the terrace area and wandered over there to shoot the shit. Since we both cover poker tournaments, we've never actually seen each other outside of a casino. I was shocked that Scott actually had clothing that didn't have a Card Player logo on it. His girlfriend had to pay $350 to get in. When she told her parents, they agreed to pay for the price tag. They said, "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity!" which was a phrase that I heard uttered a lot. For my parents' generation, the Playboy Mansion represented an urbane sophisticated status. It was not the lair of some sleazy porn-guru from the Valley, rather the retreat of a successful businessman who enjoyed the company of women. Lots of them. Aged 18-25.

I looked around and took a deep breath. I stood in the backyard of Hugh Heffner's palace. He set the standards for the term "stud" over the past four decades. In many ways an invite to the Playboy Mansion was more prestigious that an invite to the White House, with the exception of the Slick Willy years, when Bill Clinton and his hooked penis meticulously jizzed all over chubby interns. With his pants around his ankles, Clinton ran rampant through the same hallways where Richard Nixon used to mutter drunk ramblings at the portrait of Abe Lincoln during the Christmas bombing campaign of Cambodia. Besides from Clinton's two terms, life at the White House was superbly lame compared to the Mansion. Yeah if I could pick two worthy souls who deserved to live at the Mansion after Hef died, it would be Bill Clinton and/or AlCantHang. Those two know how to throw a party.

BG figured out that we were standing right in front of the kitchen, so we were in prime spot for all the hors d'oeuvres. They had a variation of food such as fried wontons, crab cakes, several kinds of sushi, beef with spicy horse raddish sauce, and chicken satay. The beef was pretty tasty and I filled up on sushi as bloggers took turns returning to the bar for refills.

AlCantHang was still AWOL. He called (actually it was loud slurring) to say that his limo was turned away from the Mansion. Hoyt Corkins ordered the driver to take them to the nearest bar, which happened to be the swanky Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I told him that they could get into the Mansion but had to check in at UCLA's parking lot.

I looked around and muttered, "Where were all the naked women?"

There were none.

I spotted a few good looking women and as more poker players slowly started trickling in for the charity poker tournament, but no Bunnies. Chad found a bar in the tent where the tournament would be played. Since it was on a slight slant, about 70 tilted poker tables filled the gigantic tent with a few gaming tables on the backside. We made a beeline for the bar and walked out a different entrance. We were on the otherside of the tent and saw a few tables set up and the infamous trampoline pushed to the side. Several ducks and peacocks sat on rocks in the pond in the darkness. You had to squint to see them. That's when I spotted the red light in the far corner by some trees.

I stumbled upon the aviary and zoo. A large parrot and cockatoo sat on a perch and I followed the stone steps down a spiral path near a few more cages. The spider monkeys were all the way in the back corner up near the top of the 30 foot high cage. No one was around and I figured that it would be a good spot to get lit. After a brief session, I found the other bloggers and showed them my discovery.

Originally we were told that there would be no photography. I usually carry around two cameras, my small digital camera and a larger professional one that I've taken pics for magazines and such. I left both behind and followed instructions. We soon found out that everyone had a camera except us. CJ and Bobby Bracelet decided to head back to the cars at UCLA to get theirs. While they were gone, I showed the rest of the bloggers the monkey cages.

AlCantHang finally arrived and he told us the most hilarious story involving Daniel Negreanu. He had been drinking with Hoyt Corkins and Steve Dannenmann who kept yelling at Negreanu from inside the limo. They questioned his sexuality and flipped him the bird. When Negreanu passed by us near the Grotto, Al stopped him. When Negreanu realized Al was part of the crew who verbally harassed him a few minutes earlier, he stormed away as we all laughed.

"Negreanu, you're a douchebag!" Al screamed at the top of his lungs.

At that point, the best looking women were some of the guests. Still no Bunnies and no Hef when CJ and Bobby Bracelet returned with the cameras. They shared the shuttle bus with Shannon Elizabeth who did not recall me cracking her A-A during the WSOP last year with J-J. She was kind enough to snap a few photos though.

The cocktail hour was winding down, and for the first time all night, the eight of us bloggers were together at the Playboy Mansion. We toasted to Spaceman who was our inside man who scored us the invite. Then we headed back to the bar before we figured out how the hell we were going to cover a poker event without a media table, internet access, and a sufficient power source. I didn't care much. I didn't bring my laptop, just my notebook and voice recorder and started to interview random bloggers and guests as the players slowly made their way to the tournament tables.

Before we wandered inside, I turned to AlCantHang and said, "Let's go do some shots."

As the late arriving players rushed past us, he didn't say anything and walked to the stone bar. Just as Babe Ruth called out a home run in the 1932 World Series, AlCantHang made a similar motion towards the bartenders. He raised two fingers and by the time we arrived at the bar, two double shots of SoCo had been poured for us.

Yes, even at the Playboy Mansion, the bartenders know what AlCantHang drinks.

... to be continued.

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.

It's a Matter of Perception

By Falstaff © 2006

Do you have any idea what this is talking about?

I looked to the left, and hanging out in midair beside my chair, was a brain. I knew it unmistakably as my brain, because it had my eyes. None of the rest of the things that comprise a face, or even a head, just a brain floating in midair with my eyes in front. I was only a little surprised to see it there, and that might have been part of the problem.

There may have been drinking involved. Actually, there was definitely drinking involved, but no alcohol. We couldn't afford it. Not even the 18-pack for $6 Milwaukee's Beast from the gas station on the corner. Underage was beside the point, underfunded was the obstacle. So we went to the next resort – acid. Nothing. Couldn't find a tab on campus at all for less than $10, a friggin' travesty given the quality we had been experiencing – that shit should have definitely been in the drug dealer’s equivalent of a dollar store. So the last resort sent us across the less-than-busy four-lane road that was the main drag in Rock Hill, SC to the grocery store across from campus. We knew the route well enough to have walked it blindfolded – in the front door, turn left, 10 steps, halfway down the aisle, middle shelf – Tussin DM.

You wanna talk about white trash hallucinogens, you can't really go any further into the trailer park than chuggin a whole bottle of cough syrup with a Dr. Pepper chaser at 1PM on a Tuesday. So there was me and Chris, swaying a little at the foulness we'd just ingested, trying not to puke, and failing miserably. Didn't matter, even with the puke, a whole bottle of tussin was still good for about seven hours of seriously bent reality.

So what do two 18-year-old kids gakked outta their minds on cough syrup do on a winter's afternoon? Go to the mall and look at the pretty lights, of course. Now we weren't satisfied with the local Trasheria Mall in Rock Hill. Oh no, we had to put the rubber to the road on the interstate to truck it up to the big two-story mall in Charlotte. Great fuckin' idea. I'm sure there was driving, but my next recollection is looking at all the coooooolllllll shit in the Everything's A Dollar store in the mall, then I see the really neat texture on the wall. Cool fleckstone paint always deserves a closer look, right?

This is when I realized one of the great truths of physics – matter isn't really solid. We all know that there are really far greater spaces between atoms in a wall than appear to the naked eye, right? Well at that point, at 1:47 PM on a Tuesday afternoon in 1992, I could see the precise molecular alignment of not just the wall of the Dollar Store, but also of my hand. I had found how to pass through solid matter, and it was time to try it out, right now!

I slowly extended my arm towards the wall, being very careful not to move too quickly, lest I misalign my molecules with those of the wall. Closer, less than a foot from the wall, I could see everything lining up for me to be able to reach through the wall and wave at Chris from outside while part of me stays inside. Closer, six inches from the wall, moving, moving...

"Hey, you okay over there?"

SLAM!

The bright lights of the mall go off like sirens in my head screaming, "They all know you're fucked up! Act straight! Act like you're not tripping daisies!"

"Dude, he just got out of the hospital, leave him alone," Chris to my rescue. And we bolt, giggling like 8-year old girls (albeit really, really fucked up 8-year old girls). And as we settle into the car for the return trip to campus, I look over at Chris with a look of absolute terror on my face.

"Dude, what if he'd done that while my hand was in the wall?"

(Pause)

(Pause)

"Dude?"

"Yeah?"

"I got an English exam in an hour."

"That oughta be interesting."

"Yeah."

And that's where I was when I looked over, saw my brain floating just to the left of my head, asking me if I had any idea what the prof was asking for in that essay.

"Nah dude, you?"

"Not a clue."

"Then get back in there where you belong before you get me in trouble."

"That flushing sound? Any chance of the dean's list for that semester."

Falstaff is a poker player and writer from Charlotte, NC. He can usually be found at Poker Stage.

Outfitting the Doctor

By Change100 © 2006

"I want to get this over with."

You'd think he was facing dental surgery or something, but we had only been in the Ceasar's Palace Forum Shops for about twenty minutes. I had convinced Pauly that none of the nearly-identical lightly wrinkled button-down shirts that comprised a good portion of his traveling wardrobe would cut it at the Playboy Mansion, and that he should suck it up and pull out the MasterCard in the name of all that is good and holy and buy a hot outfit for the party.

"Do it for Hef," I pleaded.

Our first stop was Hugo Boss, where Pauly declared everything gay. Next was Armani Exchange, where he took a liking to a textured blue button-down, but not the indigo hipster jeans that were paired along with it.

"$115 for jeans? Are you crazy?"

"These ones I'm wearing right now? $145."

"Working in Hollyweird has warped your brain."

We declared that the "fail-safe" outfit, the one you go back to if nothing else in the mall suits your fancy, and continued onward. We hit Ralph Lauren next. Sending an unemployed studio executive with a fashion-induced credit card addiction into Ralph Lauren is like handing Robert Downey Jr. the keys to a suitcase full of blow. The temptation is almost too much for one human being to handle. I buckled down and fixated on men's shirts. A snazzy violet-hued one caught my eye, but Pauly looked nauseous when I pointed it out to him.

"Fine then, what would you pick?"

His eyes tracked along the rows of shirts, stopping on a white one with blue stripes.

"What about this?"

"It's exactly like the JCrew one you already have."

"Or this one?"

"Dude, it's exactly like the one you have on RIGHT NOW."

Ralph Lauren was a bust. So was Diesel. Pauly grew anxious and I was resigned to the Armani Exchange shirt when the Kenneth Cole store peeked out at me. Showcase always seemed to find cool shirts there. I led the Doctor inside.

Our salesman was tall, black, handsome, and very very gay. Pauly gravitated toward one shirt almost instantly-- a soft linen button-down with light green stripes accented with silver and navy-- while I tried to tear my gaze away from a flawless lightly ruffled eggshell trenchcoat that would look so good aginst my $145 jeans. The shirt fit him perfectly and I smiled my approval. The MasterCard came out, the shirt was purchased, and he'd go on to grumble about the $198 price tag all afternoon.

Pants were next. I'd been hard-selling the virtues of perfectly torn hipster jeans, but Pauly wanted nothing but class. How could I disagree with that? We settled on some slick black pants and a matching belt from Banana Republic.

"Try them on with the shirt," I pleaded.

"Come on, we can do that later. I'm hungry."

"Just do it. You have to see the whole picture. You won't regret it."

Two minutes later, a changed man emerged from the dressing room. The same mischief flashed in his eyes, but the scruff of his Old Navy checks and schwag-bag T-shirts had evaporated, replaced by $400 worth of couture. He stepped up to the three-way mirror and took a look at his new, improved self.

"Now this is a man ready for the mansion!" I declared.

And I swear I saw him blush.

Change100 is a former D-girl from Hollywood, CA.

Man, I Love Tits

By Sigge S. Amdal © 2006

There's a variety of tits that slip away from most men's conscience, as most men tend to grow weary of illumination and would rather leap into action. But I do love tits, and I appreciate their fulfilling diversity.

There are tits for each and every occasion, tits for various outfits, tits for late afternoon dinner parties, tits for long fur coats worn in the theatre, there are tits for jogging and tits to bring along to the race track if there should be an accident on the opposite side of the track.

There are tits for politics, not covered but slightly undermined by sublimely coloured fabrics. Tits for cafes that can't be forgotten. Tits for one o'clock deadline, these are bouncy ones that aren't shy but don't call for attention either, 'cause they're tits that stress delivery upon demand. There are tits you wouldn't want to meet in the street at night, there are tits that you couldn't meet in the street at night, there are tits that would attack you if you were close by and unaware, there are tits that would kill you if you caught their stare.

Tits flourish around the globe as posted, stamped, bought, sold, viewed, examined, squeezed, fondled, stroked, rubbed, smacked, slapped, spanked, kissed, spit at, despised, cherished, subjected to religious awe, internalized and centralized, globalized, localized, urbanized and genocide, there are tits broadcasted to thousands of homes by television, much like the revolution.

Some tits are uncalled for, others expected. The best are those who explode in splendor and promise, who ignite the volcano of passions and the imagination of the blind man; those are the ones I cherish the most.

As for forms, Plato spoke of them as abstract and perfect, hardly convincing when their representation by induction are imperfect - while modern writers can't agree on a cognitive or emotional approach, since there are doubts whether tits are empirical or at least possible to validly justify.

Nevertheless, they are a manifold to grasp in one lifetime.

There are tits that are bouncy, there are tits that wouldn't move during an earthquake, there are tits that disappoint you, there are tits that say hello. You can find tits that erupt as soon the bra is unhinged, you can find tits that should never have become, and tits that scare the blood out of you despite your near-mortal alcohol consumption.

Tits that make you blush, tits that make you angry, frustrating tits, tits that make you sad. There are tits that only look right from the wrong angle. There's the Tao of tits, Pauly's pancake nipples, the Victorian tit - slightly compressed, lifted - and the naturalistic tits of mothers, with or without Freud's interpretations. There are tits that make you go wild, and tits that make you run like wild. Tits hardening in the summer breeze, tits soiled in mud as well as tits showered in lubricants or otherwise tempting bodily fluids.

There are those tits that catch you unawares, that don't leave you be, and could probably be your end.

Other tits are nurturing tits, comforting tits, tits of self-awareness and tranquility. That must be the Tao of tits, in writing.

Some tits conspire, even though they seem heart-warm and open at first glance. Of course there are tits without political preference, without history, without an inviting interest. There are tits you can never get hold of from a woman's point of view, except for Fortune's help, there are tits you can buy, that never amount to anything, and only look good on paper.

Nipples have their very own special anthropology, not to mention topography, and I have yet to dissect and analyze enough representative samples.

There are illegal tits and senior tits and tits that are classics, that is, timeless. There are tits you speak of, others you keep to yourself, and those you wouldn't dare dream of. There are tits you only mention in passing, and others you can keep talking about all night. And there are those who by some or other convention are forbidden, spawning many a tale by poet and pedophile alike.

Tits can be frivolous, exciting, enticing, enchanting, encouraging. They can be self-absorbed and monastic or modest and impartial to belief. They sometimes carry an air of cool indifference about them, that makes you uncertain of their deepest interest and truthful determination. There are those that make you forget and those who raise a doubt.

Unaccounted for are those that never seem to fit any category, but must be dealt with individually, that is, particularly. And preferably by me.

Some tits resemble others, others do not. There have been tits that could've been mistaken for something else, but I haven't observed any of those up close.

There are intriguing tits, and tits that make you hungry. There are tits that feels like plastic as there are tits made of plastic. There are tits that suffocate and smother, others who excel in their absence. Some are shaped like oranges, other like ski slopes, there are those who just seem to have a life of their own, and others kept under vigilant control. All of these should be considered non-indifferently, nevertheless.

And yet again there are tits that were, tits that will be, as opposed to tits that are, and aren't.

Some tits like to dance, others should never be allowed to. Yet more, there are those who are rarely noticed, and others apprehended as lethal arms. Which is good.

All in all, I cannot choose my favourite, as I am but an apprentice of this art. But I do my very best to study hard, and maybe one day I shall be rewarded with the perfect pair. Naturally, there are those who aren't perfect, but consider the radius and volume and you might find it's because you're seeing them from the wrong perspective.

Diversity is good, also over time, but never forget what you like.

And as for everything else, you might not even know what you like yet.

That's why you have to try.

But that's only me...

I lit my cigarette that had lost its glow.

My cohort in alcohol looked up from his lemonized drink.

"So... You don't have a girl, presently?"

I inhaled and exhaled and shook my head.

"No, not at the moment. Why?"

Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.

The Debt I Should Have Never Paid

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

I can remember the day I fell in love with my ex-wife. It was like it was yesterday. We had talked and talked over and over again on who would make the long trip to see the other one, me from Lubbock or her from Indiana. I decided to make the first trip. There was a writers' convention in Indianapolis so if for some reason she flaked out on me I could go spend time on that.

I had to book one of those, "I can't believe I am paying this much just to go to Indiana" fares from Northwest and spent way too much to get the ticket. Angie's father sent me a sawbone to help pickup the travel expenses. I should have stayed stubborn and true to my word and paid for the damn thing myself, but I allowed her dad to "make me feel more comfortable." Looking back on that I should have stayed clear.

I traveled to Dallas for my first stop and then changed over to a plane for Detroit. Boy, nothing says class then showing up and being one of 22 people on the plane at 7:14 in the morning.

I got on and sat in my comfortable coach seat. I didn't know what to think. I was meeting someone that I had talked to over and over again. I knew everything about her. But we had never met face to face. The danger signs were all there. It was a new society and I was trusting my friend Chrystal that Angie was the one for me, to go and "jump off the deep end." The stewardesses were more than happy to offer me all the food that was ordered for the trip, no one upgraded to first class and they just served all of us in coach like we were stars.

Alas, food went away after 9/11. But I digress.

I told the stewardesses my story, after prodding and poking.

"OH my, going to see her and talk to her parents. HOW ROMANTIC!" said one stewie.

"Aren't you getting nervous?" said another. "I mean you have been set up by a friend and god knows what I would do if I wanted to set someone up with someone that was ugly or a bitch to me even if I was the least bit angry. Are you sure you didn't piss your friend off?"

My stomach jumped.

What was I doing? I was meeting a good friend of a friend in the middle of Indiana. Where was my brain?

But I had talked to her for months on end, my phone bills were eating me alive. It was a test of either shit and date her or get off the pot and look for someone else.

But my confidence was not with looking. I had never wanted, needed or liked looking. I hated rejection too much.

The plane landed and I immediately went to the bathroom to clean up. My stomach was turning over and over and over.

I went to wash my face and get the Stewardesses voice out of my head. "Are you nuts? Meeting her and then going to meet her parents?"

I opened the bathroom door looked at my face in the mirror and immediately threw up.

All the first class food, came up, everything came up. I was dry heaving for two minutes.

"Look at what you did Joann! Bitch!" said Cindy , the nice stewie.

I was the last person off the plane.

I wasn't wearing what I told Angie I would be wearing cause I had to change after throwing up everywhere and gargling with Listerine for a minute.

"You son of a bitch!" Angie said after she slapped me "I thought you lied to me and didn't come!"

"No I was so nervous about holding you in my arms I got sick in the plane" I said.

"YOU DID?" she said.

Then we kissed, and the stewardesses clapped and smiled. But I heard none of it for I was thinking of two things.

1. I love this woman.
2. Did I leave my wallet on the plane?

I paid her dad the $100 I owed him when he gave her away. Some people think it was a bargain. I will be paying for it for a long time. However, looking back at it, and looking back at the years even after my divorce from Angela. I still remember that kiss.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He plans to move to the semi-pros with stops in Topeka and Albuquerque some day. He has been published in For Kids Sake Magazine, Sunlight through the Shadows and is the author of Instant Tragedy a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.