Life is made up of the things that you know you'll never remember and those that you can't forget. Every day is an adventure…some are just smaller than others!
As evidenced from Tuesday’s post, I have the tendency to ramble. While I find this quality in myself absolutely endearing, and, if I do say so myself, downright adorable, it is something that I often find irksome in others. “Blah, blah, blah, my job, my dog, my fat ass, my hobbies, my tv shows, my family…” see, when other people say it, it really does sound boring, right? So I understand that perhaps some of you, those more shallow and less intellectual, may just want me to shut up occasionally. I’m listening, and I hear what you are saying. (See how sensitive, selfless, and caring of others’ feelings I am?! Yay me!)
Also, sometimes I kind of tart things up a little; you know, say more than I really need to if I was to be strictly sticking to the truth, or saying it in a manner that puts gardenias in the locks of the simplest, most unassuming sentence. This is a gift to some, and a burden to others. What can I say in my defense? I am a giver. The yakkity-yak is from me to you, with love. Still and all, I suppose honesty, simplicity and brevity all have their places. It’s just that those places are not usually in my mouth.
Finally, someone once gave me this advice: Don’t talk; do. Point well-taken, and well-said, too. I can only improve it by adding this small addendum: Don’t talk; doo-doo, by which I mean, shut up and don’t give me your advice! When I want your advice, I’ll tell you what to say!
So for today, all day, I will speak plainly and succinctly, and only when I have something important or worthwhile to say. I will not embellish, or babble about the mundane, or speak just to hear my own voice. I’ll say what I mean, and mean what I say. I’ll be a man of few words, only a woman, and with even less words!
I like many things. For me, life is terrific. Still, sometimes I get so caught up in monotony, negativity, cramps, anxiety, insomnia, self-loathing, gloom, grading papers, or bad TV (Oh Sixteen and Pregnant! Why are you so compelling?), that I fail to appreciate the many wonderful things, places and people that add quality to my every day. Today, I will think about what pleases me, so here, in no particular order, are some things that I am currently very happy about or grateful for:
1. The fact that grammar is evolving and it is becoming more and more accepted to end sentences with prepositions. This makes much more sense and does not compromise the flow of ideas with the convoluted acrobatics which one must undertake in order to make one’s point fit the rule. I am, however, against the aggressive campaign to do away with the adverb, but this post is not about what I am opposed to. Let’s just say, I am for grammar, but in moderation, and as I see fit.
I am grateful for structure and rules, and for adaptation and progress.
2. I like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvyTCx2Uo6k
I am grateful for innovation and those who try new things.
2. Austin, why you so cool? In honor of you, here is a cool picture of a cool chick keeping cool in the Austin heat:
I am grateful for Austin, my friends in Austin who take me to cool places, and those who accessorize so well that their popsicles match their hair. That beats the carpet and the drapes any day.
4. I like these two topical covers from old New Yorker magazines:
The second is “Rubbed Out”, by Gurbuz Dogan Eksioglu. His name is spelled with umlauts and other accent marks I don’t know how to type or speak. He’s Turkish. You can see some of his work here:
I am thankful for art, designs, things that make me think, and those who create things that are beautiful, haunting, compelling or meaningful.
I’m also grateful that my parents subscribe to magazines and then give them to me when they are finished… even the Martha Stewart magazine. There. I admitted it. I’m grateful for the New Yorker, The Sun, and the A.V. Club section of The Onion.
5. I’m grateful for good music. If there was no good music, I might love that Todd Rundgren song, “We Gotta Get You a Woman.” Or “Muskrat Love”, by the Captain and Tenille.
Right now I like this guy my friend KB turned me on to, Graham Reynolds. Not only is he a creative composer*, but a balls -to -wall banging piano player, AND a cool, give-back-to-the community-type person. Here is a video of him and this bad-ass teenage violinist, Ruby Jane Smith
Ruby Jane sings and writes songs, too. She’s so bad-ass!
* In an interesting and serendipitous coincidence, Graham Reynolds composed the score to the movie Through A Scanner Darkly, that my friend Kari did the costumes for!
I also like this:
So, I am thankful for great music and the many people who turn me on to it. You know who you are. Thanks!
5. I am hearting pistachio ice cream these days. So sweet and creamy, but wait! Is that a crunch and a hint of salt on my tongue? Yumbiliyah!
6. I am reading a new book and I love it so much! It’s called Super Sad True Love Story, and it’s by Gary Shteyngart. I first read a short story that featured the main characters of the novel in the New Yorker‘s 20 Under 40 fiction series (again, thanks for being you, wordy, sometimes way-over-my-head-magazine!) and was immediately intrigued, but the book has just blown me away. It’s funny and sad and scary. Shteyngart is a master of dialogue and a true wordsmith, and the story is an amazing commentary on so many topics: mortality, consumerism, media, marketing, love, loneliness, politics, the immigrant experience, government, youth, religion, priorities, class, consciousness, social worth …I could go on. It’s also dystopian, and you know I eat that shit up! Here is a trailer for the book, which was released last year and is now in paperback. By the way, Shteyngart was James Franco’s teacher.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfzuOu4UIOU
I didn’t even know they had trailers for books.
I am so grateful I can read!
7. I am truly, eternally, unfailingly grateful for my family, those who I am related to by blood, and those by bond. I love you so much, and my relationships are my very best thing. Thank you for caring, coming back, forgiving, tolerating, appreciating, coaxing, encouraging, sympathizing, taking care, picking up the bill, petting my dog, emailing, laughing, not laughing, listening, hoping for the best, not giving up, pretending you didn’t smell that, sending cards and letters, looking forward to my arrival, picking me up, dropping me off, making me dinner and telling me goodnight. All of you… I’m just so lucky. Thank you!
This appreciation thing could go on for days, but I type really slowly, and so I have been sitting on a wicker chair in my shorty-shorts for about 300 hours now, and I can no longer feel my tush. I am exhausted with gratitude, worn out with the felicities of fortune that have graced me, and wrapped in a feeling of goodness and deep appreciation. Really. This goal shit worked!
I am really grateful that my biggest problem today is that I have so many things that I appreciate that it put my ass to sleep. If you have read this far, I really appreciate you, too! Your stamina and fortitude are admirable, and you should be rewarded…so I’ll stop now. You’re welcome. And thank you.
Shit. It’s already Tuesday. Instead of not procrastinating I posted a opossum. Or is it an opossum? But the ‘o’ is silent! I’d better go look that up right now! I’ll get back to this post later…
Every summer I become obsessed with self-improvement. I guess because I have more time to think, I ponder ways to be stronger, smarter, faster, downright bionic. I want to be uber-cool, too and now that I am off for the summer, I have no room for excuses that keep me from being a superhero-timefighter-hipster. This concept fills me with optimism and a sense of possibility that is boundless.
Conversely, the more time I have, the more time I seem to waste. I have 1,001 plans, and I actually complete about 3 and 3/4 of them. (That is not a good percentage, but I don’t know how to convert fractions into percents, so I can’t tell you how bad it actually is. I meant to cover fractions, decimals and percents, along with basic American geography and at least one great Russian novel last year, but time ran out. Instead I learned about the tobacco worm and that asshole, Custer.) This wasting of time makes me hate myself, and since I am out of school and spend more time alone, I put off my fabulous plans in order to indulge in the self-loathing exercises that I usually just don’t have the time to delve into properly. It’s a cruel paradox.
Followers of this blog – and really, who wouldn’t become a follower after feasting your eyes on this literary haute cuisine?- might remember some of my past attempts at self improvement. I was going to stop complaining so much, but it almost killed me, so I had to take it back up, for health purposes. I was going to always talk like Matthew McConaughey, but, while I loved it -allright, allright, allright!- it began to interfere with my relationships. I was going to try to exercise every day and keep a journal of my activities, but then I started making entries like “ran to the bathroom” or “brushed teeth very vigorously”, and I knew that getting in shape was just not for me. I always try to write more, but that cuts into my blogtime, and I take my responsibility to you fans very seriously. That’s right, mama LUVS you!
This year I have decided that I will not abandon my quest to be perfect, but will just work on one goal a day. This week, every day, I will choose an objective and stick to it, if only for a day. That’s as doable as Angelina Jolie, right?
I realize now that if the climax of this saga is the final destination point, I probably shouldn’t have named this post ‘The Beach’. It kind of ruins the big reveal.
Guess what?
I also went to the beach.
See what I mean?
Actually, while the seaside was fun, it was a bit anticlimactic. Texas is not really know for its beaches, though there are over 600 miles of coastline, according to Traveltex.com. (Oddly, when the question “How many miles of coastline does Texas have?” is asked of ask.com, the answer is – and I quote – “About 370,” immediately followed by, “624 miles.” Anyway, who really cares? Miles are just numbers, and numbers are just math, and famous people like Kim Kardashian don’t need math to have someone measure the area of their asses, so as long as you can count the millions your big old bookie booty makes you, don’t sweat it.)
I went to Mustang Island, which is about 25 miles from Corpus Christi and includes the town of Port Aransas. Allegedly Mustang Island used to be home to a cannibalistic Indian tribe, and later to famous pirate Jean Lafitte, who, legend has it, secretly buried some booty there. (But not Kim Kardashian’s. It was not yet worth gold, though there is a good chance it had already been plundered. Argh!)
Really, there’s nothing wrong with the beach on Mustang Island. It’s fine. Plus, what do you really want from a beach? Sand, waves, sun; it has all of that. It’s just that I am not much of a beach bunny; sand is scratchy and has a way of working itself into my delicate nether regions, waves try to drown me and hide sharks and dangerous Sea Chupacabra, and sun makes me sweaty and fries my bikini bared belly. Plus, there are sea gulls and big, obnoxious families, and people who ride loud jet skis or those weird hover crafts that are irritating and should be banned. So there’s that.
And also, I am really spoiled. My friends talked about how every summer, as soon as school let out, their parents would load up the station wagon and the whole family would road trip to Galveston or South Padre.
My dad wasn’t that kind of guy. We took trips to the local dumpster, ghost towns, caves, or Indian burial grounds. In fact, most of my childhood outings with him involved some form of death, entropy, or lost ways of life. My mom, on the other hand, took us to lots of beaches, but she is from Paris, and so the beaches she took us to were places like the special beach in St Tropez where all they wear is Bain de Soliel, which is on The Cote D’Azur, or French Riviera, or to St.Malo (which is where Jean Lafitte was born) or Quiberon, which are in Brittany, in northwest France, or Mimizan, in the Landes area of southwestern France. I’ve stayed on the tiny island of Oleron, in the Atlantic, and the bigger island of Maui* in the Pacific. I’ve been to San Francisco and Jamiaca and the Cayman Islands. The last beach I went to before this vacation had beautiful, rocky cliffs that over looked the tippy-tip of Long Island in Montauk.
Those were all really amazing beaches.
Port Aransas was kind of anti-climactic.
But only kind of, because I had a great time. I went with good friends, and we walked and talked and laughed and drank cherry-lime Smirnoff Ice, which starts off like a good idea, but are almost immediately as bad as they sound. I bought new sunglasses, which the sunglass hut lady said made me look just like Jennifer Aniston. It only costs $7.99 to look just like Jennifer Aniston, y’all!
http://texaslesstraveled.com shows this sandcastle on it’s website to promote Port Aransas, but I got to see this awesome sand structure:
Know what it is? I couldn’t make it out either. Fortunately, I discovered this just a few paces away: Oh, I get it! Clever! There was also this Gaudi inspired chateau and super sand star:
and also scary sea creatures, like seaweed (What? It’s alive, isn’t it? It could kill!)
but of course, the most frightening of all were the bird-shit bombadiers, the seagulls.
Sure, they look lovely enough here, but really they are just assessing their targets. It all makes more sense when you see where they come from – a sand portal to Hell.
Creepy, huh? I’m sorry to scare you, but it’s better that you know the truth.
Here, these pictures will calm you:
Aaahhhh! Better? I thought so. Isn’t it peaceful and lovely?
I guess that the beach really was the perfect end to a whirlwind start of the summer. Maybe it was just what I needed; a strong dose of calm at the end of a stormy school year. In the words of Isak Denisen, “The cure for anything is salt water – sweat, tears or the sea.” If she had included Nyquil in a shot glass with a salted rim, I would agree with her completely.
She also said, “I had a farm in Africa!” but that doesn’t apply here.
SPECIAL VACATION TREAT for all of my friends who have small children, courtesy of my dad: http://www.youtube.com:80/watch?v=FeKxIaG_f_c My dada never said this to me, but his favorite game to play with us was called “Bears Hibernating in the Winter.”
Really, it wasn’t as fun as you might expect.
* I recently heard marine photographer Flip Nicklin talk about whales and their songs, some of which are recorded in Maui, and can be heard here: http://www.whalesong.net. I found out some interesting humpback stuff. (Humpback – heh, heh, hehe!) Only the males sing, and like most lead singers, they are loud- up to 160 decibels at the source, and able to be heard at over 100 miles. Researchers believe that they used to be able to project their tunes from one pole to the other, but no longer can because of noise pollution from ships, obnoxious families, irritating hover crafts, etc. Anyway, it’s strange that they sing at all, because whales have no functional vocal cords. They make their noises by pushing air around in their respiratory systems. They sing in breeding grounds, but females rarely come to hear their love opera; only other dudes show up. It’s like a Yes show, I imagine. Once all the guys are there, they choose a leader – I’m guessing it’s the one who looks the oldest, so he can buy the beer- and then they get all dressed up to go scamming for whale chicks. But here’s the weird thing; once they find the ladies, all the lesser dudes act as wingmen to help the alpha dude score. This is virtually unheard of in the 7th grade human world, which is why scientists say that whales are highly evolved. There is the theory that most human males do not evolve passed the 7th grade, so this is particularly impressive.
On the way home from the Big Blanco Blowout, my travelling companions and I decided to eschew (what a great word, right?! I especially like to roll it around in my mouth when I am eschewing egum) the highly congested and eternally under construction I-35 in favor of the meandering, back road, tiny town square tour that is Highway 281.As you can see, this is Highway 281 in Texas. It goes through lots of places most people have never heard of, like Stephenville, that calls itself “The Cowboy Capitol of The World”, or Alice, “The Birthplace of Tejano”, or Falfurrias, which doesn’t call itself anything, really, but could be called “Busted!”, because it has one of the highest seizure rates of illegal goods brought in from Mexico into the US by the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Patrol. All the little towns have a faded look, though some have been restored in order to draw tourists. From where I sit, that plan doesn’t appear to have panned out so well, but what do I know? Anyway, more on the Texas towns in a second. I haven’t shown you the really cool thing about Highway 281 yet.
Ready?
OK, here it comes!
Highway 281 is the longest continuous 3-digit route in the country (evidently the fact that it has three digits is an important demarcation to somebody somewhere), spanning 1,872 miles from Mexico to Canada, straight up the middle of the US of A, through six states, and without hitting a single major city, unless you include San Antonio. Most Texans don’t include San Antonio as a major city, but it is a fabulous place to visit and you should go there sometime.
Anyway, my kind of highway! Yay 281! There are all kinds of things to check out on 281, even though it would probably take months to travel it, on account of lots of it is called ‘Main Street’ in dinky burgs and hamlets (Burgs and hamlets! Two names for cities that sound delicious!), and much of it is only one lane. Still and all, if you have 4-6 months free -and in this age of high unemployment, you just might – consider all the cool things you could see and do on this ribbon of Americana!
You could see the largest shamrock in the world -in your Irish face, Ireland!- in O’Neill, Nebraska. This shamrock is so big it can be seen from Google’s satellite. Then again, I think Google’s satellite can see into my brain, which is no bigger than a bread box – I have a small skull. So what, right? Every guy I have ever met has told me that size doesn’t matter anyway.
Also in Nebraska there is Hastings, where Kool-Aid was invented in 1927, and Red Cloud, where Willa Cather was born! The fun never ends! Note to McAdams: Nebraska isn’t boring! Omaha is! You need to get your lazy ass to Hastings instead of hanging around in your natural state in the great state of Nebraska!
If you hit 281 in Oklahoma, you can go to Cookietown, or Andarko, which says it’s the Indian Capital of the Nation because Native Americans form the bulk of the Andarko community. Andarko’s pretty small though. Yup. Not much to do in Oklahoma. But you probably figured that already. Tulsa’s cool, and Bartlesville has all that art deco stuff …but I digress. http://beta.travelok.com/article_page/art-deco-architecture-in-tulsa-and-bartlesville
If you go to Kansas you can see the pole art in Hoisington (it’s art on poles) or go to the Miss Kansas parade in Pratt, and if you go all the way up to the Dakotas, you can see where Lawrence Welk and Peggy Lee grew up in North Dakota (apparantly, not much going on up there since the 1950’s), or go to the side of South Dakota that nobody ever goes to, on account of there’s just not really anything there.
But I didn’t get to do any of that. Here is what I discovered on 281 in Texas:
1. If you go into almost any gas station in Texas on 281 – and I frequented many of ’em, on account of I have a bladder the size of a walnut – you will say these condom vending machines proudly displayed over the toilet. I assume they are the men’s rooms as well, but I can attest for their popularity in the ladies’ loos for sure. I think these are a great idea, because just a whiff of ethanol is enough to get my motor running, but I must say, I was kind of disappointed by the selection.
Don’t get me wrong; there were all kinds of things for men. They had condoms with studs, rings, levers, pulleys, kickstarts and all manner of hardware. The had glow in the dark and neon multi-colored condoms, in case your genitals want to dress up like a clown (you have to pay extra for the tiny fright wig and the oversized testi-shoes, though). For the patriotic penis, there were red, white, and blue rubbers, that, according to the little picture on the vending machine, look like the bomb pops I used to happily suck on as a child.
Way to taint a happy memory, prophylactic pushers!
Heh heh… I said taint!
So yeah, plenty of penis costume condoms for your man-pleasure and to make for pretty peewee, but what for the ladies?
Vaginal gel lubricant. Nothing screams sexy like that, right? Yum, yum gimme some! It only comes in one flavor – gel – and there are no extras with it, even though I think many women would jump at the chance to have some press-on rhinestones included, to bedazzle their hoo-hoos. Maybe they could sell some of those guiding lights like they have in planes to help you find the exit (or entrance, as the case may be), in case the glow in the dark willies kind of peter out with excessive use. It’s been known to happen, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
2. Just in case your partner doesn’t get the hint when your dick is wearing a holiday-themed tuxedo and shooting off sparklers, small town Texas gas stations have a little somethin’ extra to put her (or him) in the mood:
Yeah, baby, that’s right- Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill Wine, the Appalachian Aphrodisiac, $3.98 a bottle of pure-D animal love juice, marketed in the sticky-sweet flavors kids love! Dig those colors! When was the last time you had a cocktail that tasted like purple? It’s been too long!
Not only did I never in my wildest dreams expect that the fine folks at Boone’s farm were still producing their unique elixir, but I was thrilled to discover that since I last checked, more Boone’s flavors had been developed, rigorously taste-tested, and added to the line-up. Now you can buy such sophisticated gems as Sun Peach Peak, Watermelon, Blue Hawaiian (who doesn’t love bright blue alcohol?) Snow Creek Berry or Country Kwencher! Huzzah, everyone! I raise my glass to Grandma Boone for taking 7th graders to Strawberry Hill for over 30 years and counting!
Just in case you don’t take my word about the joys of Boone’s farm, here are some testimonials from the Boone’s Farm Fan Club http://www.boonesfarm.net/reviews.html:
“Nothing goes with sitting naked in the dark watching Golden Girls re-runs on mute while listening to REM’s “Everybody Hurts” like six or eight bottles of Boones.” – Michael (Syracuse, NY)
“Boones is that perfect drink when you’re ready to start drinking, but can’t handle the taste of beer, or the effect of liquor. It also has a magical effect many have encountered, yet few talk about. Many a nights at my friend Keith’s house did turn ugly women hot. Versus thousands of dollars on a facelift, ugly mugs should just buy men Boones.” – John (Dallas, TX)
“Boone’s Farm snow creek berry is a real good buzz pretty mellow, but you might end up talking to the cops.” – Jason (Indiana)
“It’s strawberry flavored booze water! What’s not to love?” – Kelsey (Boise, ID)
3. There were lots of fields along the way. The fields had fences. On one of the fences there was this:
Now, that’s weird, right? I understand that coyotes are wily- duh!- and that they will steal your livestock and terrorize your children. Also, like many things in nature, they are probably kind of gross and have mange, mites and scurvy. Well, maybe not scurvy. But are they that clever that they can make reasonable assumptions based on visual clues that lead them to metacognitively aware decisions that are a basis for action and reaction? I would think that the coyotes would look up and see their ex-bretheren stretched out on the fence post and think, “Well, now that’s a strange place for Tom and Fredrico to nap! Maybe they was tryin’ to scratch their mangy backs and got tired, but that don’t look comf’table to me a-tall! Oh, well! Let’s go rustle up some chickens and terrorize some kids!”
Then again, I could be wrong…
4. The trip took a magical, fantastical turn when I saw a group of unicorns in a back alley. Of course, I ran after them, hoping to catch the rainbow. Suddenly, in a shimmer of moon-dust, I made out a beautiful figure! It’s a good thing the sign was there, or I wouldn’t have believed my eyes!
You can always tell a real fairy from an impostor, because real fairies don’t wear shoes.
We also saw a rigor mortis ridden dog named Stiffy, and his little buddy, a raccoon named Pulpy.
I can’t wait to hit 281 again. This time I’m going to stay in Marble Falls for at least a weekend, for sure.
School FINALLY let out. Lordy Lou, it seemed like it would never end! I left without the security of knowing if I will have a job to return to next year, and, if I do, I am not sure what it will be. Disturbing, unfair, demoralizing – yes, si and oui. But right now I don’t care. SUMMER!!!!! WOO HOO!!!! I immediately took to the open road and set out for adventure.
First I went to Blanco, Texas. Never heard of it? Oh, just wait – you will! Blanco is about 45 miles north of San Antonio and west of Austin. It’s total area is 1.7 square miles. It’s one of the 25 counties that comprise the Texas Hill Country, and is one of about 55 towns with names like Dripping Springs, Wimberly, Buda, Comfort, Kyle, Concan, Helotes and Utopia. A friend of mine who lives there says that in Blanco proper, there are about 1,500 people, which is about the size of the high school where I teach.
I had a big night in that tiny town.
The Electro-Magnetics were there. Still haven’t gone to their website, huh? Maybe you’ll never know what they look like. Not my problem! I can’t help you if you won’t follow my directions, now can I?
The New Bohemians were there also.
They played with Hunter Hendrickson, a special guest up-and-comer. He doesn’t really look like that picture, but I like how he’s smiling in it, and the way it looks like someone dumped a bucket of blue paint in his hair, so I kept it. If you want to see him as he truly appears, or hear him play, go here: http://www.hunterhendrickson.com, and for a non-blurry photo where the band doesn’t look like ghosts of themselves, go here: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=224658334214153&set=p.224658334214153&type=1&theater
Also, there was a cakewalk. With prizes. First you picked a number , then there was the cakewalk song and rooting around in a bag , and then the prizes. I got a prize even though I didn’t win anything, because I’m special. People always try to sway the press with swag, and I run a pretty influential site here – that’s why Sarah Palin is so afraid of me. I’m the brainstream media.
Also, I followed Edie back to her hotel and whined until she gave me something. It’s really cool, cooler than all the other prizes she gave out combined. Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll show it to you later, but take my word for it… it really does exist.
If that isn’t a good time, I don’t know what is.
There was also some of this:
a little of this:and a whole lot of this:
Evidently, hooping is serious business in Blanco. Hella-hoola, if you will. I would, for sure, if I could, but I just don’t have that jiggle in my Jello.
I saw lots of great people and drank red wine out of a thermos. I did cartwheels in the dirt even though I am old and was wearing a dress and bright pink panties. Could have something to do with the thermos wine. I spread out a feast from a cooler on a picnic table and then danced on it. The table, not the feast. The music was great and everybody was happy and I was surrounded by friends.
I gotta say, I do love a small town, and I do love a fest, but a smalltownfest? It just doesn’t get much better than that.
COMING UP NEXT! -Beach Blanco Bingo Part Two: The Road Less Traveled
Special to chm chm: thank you so much for doing the pictures and taking such good care of me! Wind beneath my wings, baby, wind beneath my wings!
Special to Em: This, too, shall pass. You are brave and wonderful and deserving.
Special to KW: Haha! Made you look!
Super Special to X, McAdams, Chris, Sheri and Michael C.: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Every time your dog hunkers down to take a big country poo, air guitar and sing the opening notes of a Jimi Hendrix tune. That way, someday, the minute you begin to rock out, no matter where the dog is or what he is doing, he will poop, Pavlovian style. You can always make sure he is in the high grass or when nobody is looking, so you’ll never have to clean up his stinky mess again! Clever, right? I recommend the classic tune “Doo Doo Child.”
Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag
So, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but I’ve been writing a lot lately about dood doo and doo doo bags.
This story’s different. I promise.
So, I took the ol’ dog and chain to Whole Foods the other day on my way to my sister’s house for Friday night dinner. The whole dudes at Whole Foods are pup-positive, so they have water bowls out for the people who ride their dogs to the store to save on carbon emissions. While Atticus was lappin’ the liquid, this guy comes walking straight up to me, quickly, as if he had expected to find me there.
“The people in the homeless shelter eat better than that dog! Yeah, they do! You don’t know! You don’t care!”
This line of beration (new word I just made up -it means ‘the act of berating.’ Duh. I guess I could mean how many bees you are allowed in times of bee shortages, but then it would be ‘bee ration’, and that’s totally different) baffled me. First of all, I hope that people in the homeless shelter are not restricted to a diet of dry (but protein rich) kibble and water. I hope they do eat better than my dog. Second, was I arguing that I knew better? I think not! Third, just what was he implying? That my dog is too skinny? I beg to differ! That dog is lithe, lean, one might even say sinewy, but skinny? Absolutely not! And, I assure you, dear reader, that I DO CARE! It kind of doesn’t matter what it is, I care deeply.
At this point, I was ready to say, “Good day, sir!” in a tone that conveyed my justified disdain and lack of appreciation for his rant, but I had no time.
“ALPO!” he screamed! “Feed that dog ALPO!” He was like a rabid Lorne Greene.
Even a non-deranged Lorne Grreen looks a little rabid.
Who goes to Whole Foods to buy Alpo? It’s not even organic!
Crazy anti-anorexic canine man stormed into Whole Foods, probably to look for processed Cheez Flavored Whiz and Nitrate Jerky. Atticus looked at me quizzically, wagged his tail, and sat on my foot. He began to pant and lap at the water, so I decided we would rest for a minute while I contemplated the weird man. He was angry. The sight of me and my little dog made him mad. That’s strange.
I didn’t have long to ruminate, on account of the man came out of the store to yell at me some more. Perhaps I should have anticipated this.
“How old is that dog? How old?” Little clouds of spittle were forming on his lips.
I answered. That’s what I do. Someone asks a question, and I answer. Sometimes I even answer before they ask.
“Seven months.”
“Yeah, right! Seven months! I wish the world was only seven months old! That’s too young to know about lying and cheating and stealing! I’ll bet you teach that dog how to lie and cheat, don’t you?! Lying, cheating dog! Stealing dog!”
Well, that was it! It’s one thing to insult me or the world, but my little Atticus?! Crazy motha fucka! I gave him a piece of my mind!
“Good day, sir!” I turned on my sharply heel and almost fell on my face because Atticus was still sitting on my foot, and then moved quickly, but in a very dignified manner, away from Nut-Nut. “I said, ‘Good day!'”
I got half way across the parking lot (I was moving kind of quickly), when he yelled, “Hey! You forgot your water bowl!”
I began to retrace my steps to let him know that it wasn’t my bowl, and that I wouldn’t say that it was, because I don’t lie or cheat or steal, but I thought the better of it.
Pretty weird walk to my sister’s house, right? But wait – it gets even more strange.
Did I mention that the whole time the crazy man was ranting at me, he was holding a bag …of his own urine? Yeah, that’s right! it was a big plastic bag attached to a tube that disappeared into his clothing. No wonder he was so angry!
That really happened. No shit.
BONUS: Joke told at Friday night dinner:
So, there are these three samurais. One was Japanese, one was Chinese, and one was, inexplicably, Jewish.
They were trying to prove who was the most skilled.
The Chinese samurai pulled a small, intricate box from the folds of his samurai diaper thing. Inside was a bee. When the bee was released from the box, the samurai lifted his sword and whuck, whick! -that’s the sound of a samurai sword in the air- he sliced the bee cleanly in half before it was able to fly away. It split down the middle and fell dead on the ground.
The other samurais clapped politely. Samurais are all about polite.
The Japanese samurai removed a box from his diaper thing. (Oh, wait! Samurais don’t wear diaper things! Sumo wrestlers and Mormons do! My bad!) He took a box out of his…pocket. In it was a common housefly. As soon as the fly was released from the box, whuck, whick! The fly was sliced into four even quarters and fell immobile to the ground. Impressivo! All eyes turned to the Jewish samurai.
He took from his pocket a third box, tinier than the others. In it was a gnat. He opened the lid and as the gnat took to the air, whuck, whick! But the gnat flew away, into the evening sky.
The Japanese and Chinese samurais looked piteously at the Jewish samurais. (Samurais don’t gloat. They’re above all that.) “That was a very difficult target. We are sorry that you missed it.”
“Well,” said the Jewish samurai, “circumcision is not supposed to kill!”
So, the little dog’s name is Atticus, after a true hero, Atticus Finch. If he was one-dimensional, he’d be flatticus. After he returns from his walk, he has shatticus. If he was feline, he’d be kitty catticus. (I recently tried this terrific comic patter out on a good friend, as kind of a hilarity preview. When I get to this point- the “golden arch”, as I call it- she said, and I’m quoting here, “I don’t have to listen to this shit.” This proves to me that she doesn’t get the sophistication of my humor, and that I just might be – dare I say it?-the Lenny Bruce or Mitch Hedberg of my generation. The great ones are always misunderstood.)
I like Atticus now, but for awhile, I was NOT into him.See, he can be a real asshole. Sometimes, just for fun, he’ll gnaw on my skull when I bend down to tie my shoe, which I have to do all the time, because he demands about 40 walks a day. he wants me to get up with the sun to go for a wee promenade, and he whines if he doesn’t get his way. Perhaps you will recall that I do NOT like to be told what to do. He doesn’t care. He’s seven months old, but he acts like he’s only five months, like a stupid dog baby. He shits wherever he wants and acts like he can’t clean it up, and when I stick my hand into a sweaty little plastic bag to scoop it, you know, to be cool, I notice, as I clutch a squishy, steaming, repulsive mound of doo that he has chewed holes into the plastic. What a dick! I swear I can hear him laughing.Also when we walk, he tries to rip my arm out of its socket and drag me down the street like a queen ( I had a little trouble of thinking of an appropriate comparison of something you drag.) Especially if we see a squirrel or a cat. Or a bird. Or sometimes a flower. When I don’t let him pull me, he bites the leash, head butts me, or works a tooth into the bottom of one of his plastic poop bags. As I alluded to before (see ‘sweaty, steaming, squishy mound of filthy poop in a plastic wrapper that works like a shit strainer’ reference above.) Uncool! Why would anyone do that?
Because of him, I am way behind on my TV. I’m way behind on everything. I can’t read, can’t write, can’t grade any papers…the dog is going to get me fired.Worse still, Atticus has exhibited signs of cruelty to my other pets, Junior, Duckless MacArthur and the twins.See if you can guess who is who.This is an odd turn of events, because these poor stuffed angels have been victimized before. I had an ex-boyfriend who would also torture them, sometimes in a rather obscene psycho-sexual, sociopathic manner. These sweet stuffed pals ask for nothing, and are the absolute least deserving of such abuse. Still, just because Duckless is hot, he is treated like a plaything. Junior is just the sweetest little corporate bear you have ever laid eyes on (he was born in a Starbucks factory; is that his fault?) but he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, bless his heart, and everyone becomes wicked Uncle Ernie as soon as they see him. I don’t know why. Starbucks skimped on his little pillow brain, and he has had to pay for it over and over again. The twins are special. Just because they look a little unusual, people hate. (Unless you are a direct descendant of the original Siamese twins, Cheng and Eng; then they look pretty common, right? It’s all in the perspective, baby!) Different is beautiful and conjoined is sublime! Attticus tried to separate them at the carotid artery, and he attempted to bury Junior alive under the prickly holly bushes outside. He wanted to mount the duck, repeatedly, which is the same reaction the ex-boyfriend had to the this fowl tempter. I am disappointed to report that this behavior was NOT the reason the relationship with said ex-paramour was terminated, but I kid you not, from now on, fellating a stuffed animal is going to be a deal breaker, and I simply will not tolerate it.
So yeah, Atticus has his faults. He isn’t the hero I thought he’d be, though he does hold his urine all night long, which requires a heroic effort of which I personally am no longer capable. He has a ways to go before he saves Tommy from falling down the well. But he’s cute. He trots like a little lamb, if sheep trot. People stop me on the street to ask about him.Note the looks of enchantment on their faces. He’s especially cute when he sleeps: I had to give him a quaalude to get this shot. Kids, do you remember ‘ludes?
Anyhoo, now I love him. He makes me sit quietly and watch the night while he digs up the radishes in my garden. He’s so happy in the morning when I finally wake up. We walk for miles and meet new people and new dogs. I know he’ll be there when I get home. He follows me all around the house and eats the crotches out of my panties. He loves my niece, and she loves him, and he is allowed to go to Friday night dinner with my family, a very high honor indeed.Atticus, not so baddicus!
BONUS: For Milo
Epitaph May 2011
We are mourning the passing of Milo
Sweet prince of a cat with a dreamer’s face
and miss the unique trombone voice he used to express himself
and jellyfish,
