I've been keeping an eye out for those terrorist rabbits, but they seem to be lying low since the night I met One Eyed Jack. And since they've always been so clever about staying just out of my reach, I've been practicing some "caninja" skills on them. I make a show of not being able to reach one particular spot in the yard, and I've been holding back when they approach my "zone" -- no barking, no lunging -- hoping to lull them into thinking they know where my boundaries are.
I'll get them yet.
Meanwhile, things have been going great inside the house. I'm starting to enjoy the kids a little more, now that they don't all climb on my head, cooing at me everytime they see me. One at a time, they can be very sweet.
And the Mom lady got something great in the mail: a "Walky Dog"! It's a lead pole that mounts on a bicycle so that I can run alongside while she rides. It's fantastic! The Dad takes me on a nice meandering "explore" every morning, and the Mom either runs with me, or hooks me to the bike at night. And when she's on her bike, I can fly, baby!
She's been a little timid about it, though, so I've had to pull her along on most of the rides.
Those evening runs have an element of danger to them, though. I may have mentioned that I don't care much for other dogs. (I am a real bitch, you know.) As a result, I tend to get a little... *ahem* ...belligerent when I see them. I don't know why, but I can't help shouting at them when I see them. And since most of the dogs around here are yappy little pipsqueaks, or oafish tongue-lolling lab mixes, I feel I can put most of them in their place.
Then there's Fat Joe. He's an enormous Rottweiler that lives around the corner somewhere. I can't quite figure out where, but if I do, I'm going to leave him a vicious p-mail.
The first time I ran across him, he was pretty far away, but I let him know I was there. "Hey, Fatso, you better stay out of my way!" I yelped.
He just turned his head and blinked, looking like a hairy, black Marlon Brando on all fours. "It's Fat JOE," he said. "Fat SUE is my little sister."
But the Mom was dragging me across the street and in the other direction at that point, muttering something about livestock.
We saw him a couple of days later, but we didn't spot him until we were already on the same street together. The Mom dragged me to the other side so we wouldn't have to get too close, but I had to say something. It wouldn't be polite to just ignore him, would it?
"Hey, Fatso! You ever start any fires with your blubber thighs rubbing together like that?"
Who knew a dog that size could move so fast? His owner apparently didn't; he was yanked off his feet, and looked like a cartoon person with his feet flapping like a flag as he was pulled into the fight.
Now, if those darned humans had just stepped off and let us go, I'm sure I would have had him. I took a chunk out, that's for sure. But they pulled us apart, and the Mom lifted me up and carried me off toward home, a stream of really ugly words coming out of her mouth the whole way. (I know what I'm going to say to Fatso, now, next time I see him!)
Apparently, our little dust up made the local fauna news. The squirrels started cheering whenever I came out. "We got 20 nuts down on you for the next bout, killer!"
I even caught One Eyed Jack's attention. He came into the yard a couple of days later. I couldn't see him, but his voice seemed to be coming from just outside my reach while I rested by the pool.
"You're pretty scrappy," he said. "Could come in handy. We might be able to use you, if you get a little better with the caninjitsu."
"Use me for what?" I asked. I was irked that he knew about my plans, when I still had no idea what his were.
"We'll see," he said, cryptically. "I haven't made up my mind which side you're on, yet."
"What sides are there?" I sneered. "I'm on the good side!"
But he was gone already.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Dog Blog: The Fourth & the One-Eyed Jack Rabbit
What a lousy week I've had. Every time I hear the explosions outside, I jump. I can't help it. The family laughs, sympathetically, and says, "Poor Trixie! She must be gun shy." But that's not it. Every screamer, every M80, every roman candle sends me up the wall with terror, but it's not just the noise that bothers me.
I'm terrified because any one of those noises could be Them...
I told you I don't trust those rabbits. I knew they were up to something. These aren't just your usual lazy, good-for-nothing lapidary menace. I could tell by the way they run just far enough away so I can't reach them, and then stand there taunting me. They wink, they tease, and they never quite leave... which is what I want them to do!
One of the cheeky little buggers even sits in the middle of the yard, waiting for me to come out so he can bait me. The family puts me on a lead when I go out, and he knows exactly how far I can go. The first couple of times, I thought he was as startled as I was, but then I noticed that he would dart around the corner of the fort, and then run around it and sneak up behind me while I was barking at the corner where I saw him last. Oh, he thinks that's great fun!
Two can play games, though. I started sneaking along the wall whenever I came out, hoping to get enough of a jump on him to at least put the fear of dog into him. And a couple days after my last post, it worked!
I came through the gate at full speed, and there he was. He had heard the door, but I managed to keep the chain from clinking. His ears went flat, and his mouth made a great "O" as he turned to take off. I felt my teeth in his fluffy little tail, too, just before the line jerked me off my feet. That hurt, but even before I landed, I had twisted and shot around where he usually sneaks up from behind. No sign of him!
Satisfied, I went and curled up next to the pool to pant. He wasn't done with me, though. He came sidling back to peek around the corner of the fort. "You think you're pretty clever, huh?" he said. "That was good, but it won't work twice."
I sniffed, and acted like I couldn't see him. Maybe he'd come a little closer, and we could have another shot.
"A bit of friendly advice, though," he went on. He wasn't fooled one bit. "I wouldn't try that with One-Eyed Jack. If you do, you tell him I warned you."
"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked.
"I'm Peter," he said. "The kids might have mentioned me; they named me, long before you came along. Just remember, you might be the predator type, but you're not the one in charge around here."
I shudder now, but at the time I laughed. "Bring on the One-Eyed Jack!" I snorted. "I'll take on any of your type that get within 30' feet of my pole, there."
But Peter was gone.
The next night, after a good walk around the block, I was lying down under the rose bush while the family swam and sat around the patio, reading their books. None of them smelled the thick rabbity effluvium on the air, but I knew they were out with a vengeance. Then I heard an odd, muffled thump.
I looked over at the fence, and there was a huge jack sitting there, holding something strange in his mouth. He thumped it on the ground again. "Know what this is?" he asked.
I hadn't moved, yet, trying to think of a way to get at him. I shook my head, no, to answer his question, and eyed the fence line. No way I could get to the end, and dash around in time to grab him.
"This is an explosive device," he said. "You know those loud bangs you keep hearing?" I nodded. "That's the humans, blowing these up. You know how many my people have managed to gather?" Rhetorical questions I ignore, especially from a stupid rabbit.
"We've got enough of these to take out this whole block," he said. It wasn't like bragging, because I could tell he meant it. But why tell me? "I'm telling you so you know to stay out of our way. You're new here, and I don't think Peter really got through to you the other night."
"And who are you to tell me who's in charge in my own yard?" I growled.
And then he turned. You know how rabbits, being prey animals, usually can't look at you straight on? They usually have one eye on each side of their head, and only really look at you from the side. Well, he turned to face me, and instead of two eyes staring off in two directions, he only had the one. The other side, where an eye should have been, was a mass of scar tissue. Part of the ear was even missing. The scar ran from the ruined base of the ear, down through the eye socket, and pulled up his lip, so he looked like he was snarling.
Without another word, One-Eyed Jack picked up his firecracker, and disappeared into the tall grass on the other side of the fence.
And now, every time I hear one of those pops, bangs, or cracks, I wonder... is it Them?
I'm terrified because any one of those noises could be Them...
I told you I don't trust those rabbits. I knew they were up to something. These aren't just your usual lazy, good-for-nothing lapidary menace. I could tell by the way they run just far enough away so I can't reach them, and then stand there taunting me. They wink, they tease, and they never quite leave... which is what I want them to do!
One of the cheeky little buggers even sits in the middle of the yard, waiting for me to come out so he can bait me. The family puts me on a lead when I go out, and he knows exactly how far I can go. The first couple of times, I thought he was as startled as I was, but then I noticed that he would dart around the corner of the fort, and then run around it and sneak up behind me while I was barking at the corner where I saw him last. Oh, he thinks that's great fun!
Two can play games, though. I started sneaking along the wall whenever I came out, hoping to get enough of a jump on him to at least put the fear of dog into him. And a couple days after my last post, it worked!
I came through the gate at full speed, and there he was. He had heard the door, but I managed to keep the chain from clinking. His ears went flat, and his mouth made a great "O" as he turned to take off. I felt my teeth in his fluffy little tail, too, just before the line jerked me off my feet. That hurt, but even before I landed, I had twisted and shot around where he usually sneaks up from behind. No sign of him!
Satisfied, I went and curled up next to the pool to pant. He wasn't done with me, though. He came sidling back to peek around the corner of the fort. "You think you're pretty clever, huh?" he said. "That was good, but it won't work twice."
I sniffed, and acted like I couldn't see him. Maybe he'd come a little closer, and we could have another shot.
"A bit of friendly advice, though," he went on. He wasn't fooled one bit. "I wouldn't try that with One-Eyed Jack. If you do, you tell him I warned you."
"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked.
"I'm Peter," he said. "The kids might have mentioned me; they named me, long before you came along. Just remember, you might be the predator type, but you're not the one in charge around here."
I shudder now, but at the time I laughed. "Bring on the One-Eyed Jack!" I snorted. "I'll take on any of your type that get within 30' feet of my pole, there."
But Peter was gone.
The next night, after a good walk around the block, I was lying down under the rose bush while the family swam and sat around the patio, reading their books. None of them smelled the thick rabbity effluvium on the air, but I knew they were out with a vengeance. Then I heard an odd, muffled thump.
I looked over at the fence, and there was a huge jack sitting there, holding something strange in his mouth. He thumped it on the ground again. "Know what this is?" he asked.
I hadn't moved, yet, trying to think of a way to get at him. I shook my head, no, to answer his question, and eyed the fence line. No way I could get to the end, and dash around in time to grab him.
"This is an explosive device," he said. "You know those loud bangs you keep hearing?" I nodded. "That's the humans, blowing these up. You know how many my people have managed to gather?" Rhetorical questions I ignore, especially from a stupid rabbit.
"We've got enough of these to take out this whole block," he said. It wasn't like bragging, because I could tell he meant it. But why tell me? "I'm telling you so you know to stay out of our way. You're new here, and I don't think Peter really got through to you the other night."
"And who are you to tell me who's in charge in my own yard?" I growled.
And then he turned. You know how rabbits, being prey animals, usually can't look at you straight on? They usually have one eye on each side of their head, and only really look at you from the side. Well, he turned to face me, and instead of two eyes staring off in two directions, he only had the one. The other side, where an eye should have been, was a mass of scar tissue. Part of the ear was even missing. The scar ran from the ruined base of the ear, down through the eye socket, and pulled up his lip, so he looked like he was snarling.
Without another word, One-Eyed Jack picked up his firecracker, and disappeared into the tall grass on the other side of the fence.
And now, every time I hear one of those pops, bangs, or cracks, I wonder... is it Them?
Dog Blog: Week Three
I think I'm starting to figure out this family I've been assigned to. They aren't too hard to get along with -- one at a time at least. And I think I know now why I was sent here to protect them.
They had me really baffled for the first couple of weeks with that word they kept shouting up my nose: Trixie. Apparently, that's my name. If I perk up my ears and wag my tail when they say it, they go all giggly. I tell you, it's good to figure out the basics, and feel like I have some control over the proceedings. Now I just have to finish hashing out who's who around here. Got to establish Dominance.
The Momma and the Dad were easy enough to figure out. They're bigger, and they made sure I knew they were boss right away. Then there's the kids. Whenever the parents aren't around, I try to mount them, of course. But they don't get it. They just laugh, run around, and yell "She's doing the 'Dog-danio!'" and swarm me. I really wish I knew what THAT meant.
At least the Dad has been really good about getting up early in the mornings and taking me on patrol. He still hasn't learned what rabbits are for -- they're for killing, hello! -- and that's really my only complaint. They won't even let me have at the impudent, long-eared rats when they're in my own yard!
The other night, we came home from one of our walks, and one of the little bastard was hunkered down right in the middle of the front yard. The Dad nearly stepped on it, leapt into the air, and shouted something I hadn't heard before. It sounded like a sneeze: "K chertu!" I think it was Russian.
But even with the sneaky devils ambushing him in front of his own dog, he won't let me go after them. I suspect the Lapidary Mafia has something on them; some kind of nefarious influence. Maybe they've got a hostage or something. I plan to make it my mission to figure out what it is.
Meanwhile, I keep watch. And bide my time. They will sure be glad I was on the job! The amazing Trixie: Dog Detective, Defender from Rabbits!
Oh... time for another nap!
They had me really baffled for the first couple of weeks with that word they kept shouting up my nose: Trixie. Apparently, that's my name. If I perk up my ears and wag my tail when they say it, they go all giggly. I tell you, it's good to figure out the basics, and feel like I have some control over the proceedings. Now I just have to finish hashing out who's who around here. Got to establish Dominance.
The Momma and the Dad were easy enough to figure out. They're bigger, and they made sure I knew they were boss right away. Then there's the kids. Whenever the parents aren't around, I try to mount them, of course. But they don't get it. They just laugh, run around, and yell "She's doing the 'Dog-danio!'" and swarm me. I really wish I knew what THAT meant.
At least the Dad has been really good about getting up early in the mornings and taking me on patrol. He still hasn't learned what rabbits are for -- they're for killing, hello! -- and that's really my only complaint. They won't even let me have at the impudent, long-eared rats when they're in my own yard!
The other night, we came home from one of our walks, and one of the little bastard was hunkered down right in the middle of the front yard. The Dad nearly stepped on it, leapt into the air, and shouted something I hadn't heard before. It sounded like a sneeze: "K chertu!" I think it was Russian.
But even with the sneaky devils ambushing him in front of his own dog, he won't let me go after them. I suspect the Lapidary Mafia has something on them; some kind of nefarious influence. Maybe they've got a hostage or something. I plan to make it my mission to figure out what it is.
Meanwhile, I keep watch. And bide my time. They will sure be glad I was on the job! The amazing Trixie: Dog Detective, Defender from Rabbits!
Oh... time for another nap!
Dog Blog: One Week
I won't bore you with my life story, but let's just say I ended up in the klink. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, I suppose, but jail is jail, and I was a little freaked out.
I've never been able to get along with other dogs, and the kennel amplifies their voices something awful. Have you ever tried to sleep while a chihuahua mix rabbits on and on reciting the dog rosary? Or while a basset hound sings the blues all night?
They put me through all kinds of tests and things, and I have to admit, I wigged out a little bit. Not my finest hour. I ended up back in the kennel, feeling like the end of the world was coming. That's about when they showed up.
There were six of them; four small ones, one huge one with as much hair on his face as I have, and one that was clearly the momma. I liked her right away. They met me outside, and I was so relieved to be in the yard, being petted. The kids weren't bad, I just didn't know what to do with them. So I ignored them, and let everyone scratch me behind the ears. The big hairy guy found that spot at the base of my tail, and when the staff took me out front again, and the whole group led me to their car... I didn't know what to think!
It seemed to go pretty well, though they were feeding me that crap from the kennel. The hairy guy has been taking me for walks in the morning, and sometimes I get to walk the kids to school. The only consistent trouble seems to be with rabbits. Apparently they can't see the little beasts, because they never let me chase them down and destroy them. I managed to slip out of the harness once to show them my chops, but they seemed pretty upset that I didn't catch the one I was after.
They took me in the car today, and all was well (I thought we were going to the "doggy store" again to get toys), and we showed up back at the jail. I even recognized a couple of bitches from my cell block. I was terrified they were going to turn me back in or something, but then we didn't go inside. We went over to a grassy area, and had a lady teach them how to handle me. Some of it was pretty rude... telling them how to discipline me sounded like a raw deal... but then it seemed like everything she was teaching them involved giving me treats. The phrase was "positive reinforcement", and the teacher lady made them practice feeding me treats again.
Life is sweet. Let's hope this keeps going.
I've never been able to get along with other dogs, and the kennel amplifies their voices something awful. Have you ever tried to sleep while a chihuahua mix rabbits on and on reciting the dog rosary? Or while a basset hound sings the blues all night?
They put me through all kinds of tests and things, and I have to admit, I wigged out a little bit. Not my finest hour. I ended up back in the kennel, feeling like the end of the world was coming. That's about when they showed up.
There were six of them; four small ones, one huge one with as much hair on his face as I have, and one that was clearly the momma. I liked her right away. They met me outside, and I was so relieved to be in the yard, being petted. The kids weren't bad, I just didn't know what to do with them. So I ignored them, and let everyone scratch me behind the ears. The big hairy guy found that spot at the base of my tail, and when the staff took me out front again, and the whole group led me to their car... I didn't know what to think!
It seemed to go pretty well, though they were feeding me that crap from the kennel. The hairy guy has been taking me for walks in the morning, and sometimes I get to walk the kids to school. The only consistent trouble seems to be with rabbits. Apparently they can't see the little beasts, because they never let me chase them down and destroy them. I managed to slip out of the harness once to show them my chops, but they seemed pretty upset that I didn't catch the one I was after.
They took me in the car today, and all was well (I thought we were going to the "doggy store" again to get toys), and we showed up back at the jail. I even recognized a couple of bitches from my cell block. I was terrified they were going to turn me back in or something, but then we didn't go inside. We went over to a grassy area, and had a lady teach them how to handle me. Some of it was pretty rude... telling them how to discipline me sounded like a raw deal... but then it seemed like everything she was teaching them involved giving me treats. The phrase was "positive reinforcement", and the teacher lady made them practice feeding me treats again.
Life is sweet. Let's hope this keeps going.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Jimmy Crack Corn
A look at several political issues, originally posted Monday, June 04, 2007; reposting to show how I have and haven't changed my mind about things over the last three years.
Most days, I can maintain a sense of equilibrium. Most days, I can stand to hear the news without really internalizing any of it. I can usually keep my sense of humor intact, and by lifting one foot and squinching one eye nearly shut -- until it waters -- I can see both sides; at least enough to get by for one more day.
Usually, I can ignore the rhetoric that gets tossed around by the ignorant ones; the endless repeating of pointless jibes, and mean-spirited bickering, the accusations and withering insults. Like seagulls yelling about the miserable things they've found to eat in the awful glurp on the beach, they aren't worth listening to, so I tune them out. And usually, on occasion, I can find a nugget of hope, a grain of truth, or a shiny piece of newly minted joy.
But not today.
On this day, I just couldn't block out any more. I keep hearing the same mistakes being repeated, and re-repeated. Here is a short list of my least favorites, in no particular order:
"If we surrender, the whole region will collapse." Which is true; and is the main reason I said it was a bad idea to go in... six years ago. I was told then that I was a bad American for implying that the President would start a war in Iraq without good reason. Well, it hasn't gotten any better... are you going to listen to me yet?
"He (or she) has raised more money than anyone thought he (or she) could!" Is anyone else concerned that the Powers That Be are "fixing" the problem of corruption by raising record amounts of money? It's like trying to ban prostitution by making the girls charge more.
"Global warming is just a ploy for attention." This is true; the scientists have been trying to get your attention for thirty years. You only started listening after Al Gore made a movie. May I point out, America, that you are the same people who sit around on an extra 20-30 pounds (on average) eating nothing but crap and watching TV, wondering why you are dying from diabetes? Yet I don't dare suggest that you change your consumption habits for fear you'll squash me... sound familiar?
"You're just against business... you're a communist!" I have to admit, I am a capitalist. Most of the people who claim to be capitalists are not. When I criticize exploitative business practices (Big Tobacco), rapacious swindling (Enron, Halliburton), monopolization (AT&T, Microsoft), and piss poor misuse of the very word "management" (pick an HMO, any HMO... including TriCare), I am not "against" business. I am against being GIVEN the business, and that is another thing entirely.
"We are at war; we can't waste time worrying about peoples' feelings." We are at war precisely because of hurt feelings. I grant you that the actual Terrorists are evil people bent on breaking our system and installing themselves as despotic leaders. But when we betray our own principles and break our own rules in a futile attempt to "get them", we play into their hands. It would go a long way for us to a) learn some of the language and customs of the country we are invading, b) learn enough of our own history to understand why they might resent us in the region, c) reach out to the American Muslim community to make sure they are being treated like Americans, and not like terrorists.
"Those hybrids don't get nearly as good a' mileage as they say... so I bought a Dodge with a hemi." I actually heard someone say this as though it made sense. To date, I have not seen him haul a blessed thing in it... he doesn't want to scratch the bed.
"I don't think musicians have any right to tell me how I should vote." Yes, they do. And you have every right not to listen to them. But you have a lot of nerve claiming that you believe in fighting for freedom if the first thing you say to someone who publicly disagrees with you is "you have no right to say that."
"Of course we need to fix the immigration laws...but we can't allow amnesty!" Yes, we can. If grocery stores refused to order more produce until everyone who had ever "browsed" a grape was brought to justice, we would all starve. If the cops pulled over EVERY speeder, no one would ever drive again. You know as well as I do that 11.8 million of the 12 million "undocumented aliens" aren't hurting anyone; fine them if you can, deport the law-breakers (that should be a given), and FIX the damned laws. The reason "amnesty" didn't work last time is because they didn't fix the laws that caused the problems in the first place.
"Anybody's better than THIS guy!" I disagree. There are lots of guys who would be worse. Now quit tempting fate, pull your collective head out of your collective orifice, and stop arguing about stupid crap. We have work to do.
I'm sure some of you will recognize things you've said to me, and feel hurt by my response; I assure you, I'm not singling any one of my friends out for derision. I'm sure many of you will still disagree with me on some points... I welcome a chance to talk it out (it's hard to really convey more than sentiment in less than 5 sentences). It's just that it hurts me for my friends -- all of whom I love and respect -- to parrot the rhetoric that has led us to this lowly place.
And one last thought: Do you know why 9/11 happened? After all these years, and all of the reports, no one has put it into these words, but this was the goal: Bin Laden wanted to draw the U.S. into an uneven urban guerrilla war, preferably in the Middle East. In March 2003, we gave him exactly what he wanted.
That hurts my feelings.
Most days, I can maintain a sense of equilibrium. Most days, I can stand to hear the news without really internalizing any of it. I can usually keep my sense of humor intact, and by lifting one foot and squinching one eye nearly shut -- until it waters -- I can see both sides; at least enough to get by for one more day.
Usually, I can ignore the rhetoric that gets tossed around by the ignorant ones; the endless repeating of pointless jibes, and mean-spirited bickering, the accusations and withering insults. Like seagulls yelling about the miserable things they've found to eat in the awful glurp on the beach, they aren't worth listening to, so I tune them out. And usually, on occasion, I can find a nugget of hope, a grain of truth, or a shiny piece of newly minted joy.
But not today.
On this day, I just couldn't block out any more. I keep hearing the same mistakes being repeated, and re-repeated. Here is a short list of my least favorites, in no particular order:
"If we surrender, the whole region will collapse." Which is true; and is the main reason I said it was a bad idea to go in... six years ago. I was told then that I was a bad American for implying that the President would start a war in Iraq without good reason. Well, it hasn't gotten any better... are you going to listen to me yet?
"He (or she) has raised more money than anyone thought he (or she) could!" Is anyone else concerned that the Powers That Be are "fixing" the problem of corruption by raising record amounts of money? It's like trying to ban prostitution by making the girls charge more.
"Global warming is just a ploy for attention." This is true; the scientists have been trying to get your attention for thirty years. You only started listening after Al Gore made a movie. May I point out, America, that you are the same people who sit around on an extra 20-30 pounds (on average) eating nothing but crap and watching TV, wondering why you are dying from diabetes? Yet I don't dare suggest that you change your consumption habits for fear you'll squash me... sound familiar?
"You're just against business... you're a communist!" I have to admit, I am a capitalist. Most of the people who claim to be capitalists are not. When I criticize exploitative business practices (Big Tobacco), rapacious swindling (Enron, Halliburton), monopolization (AT&T, Microsoft), and piss poor misuse of the very word "management" (pick an HMO, any HMO... including TriCare), I am not "against" business. I am against being GIVEN the business, and that is another thing entirely.
"We are at war; we can't waste time worrying about peoples' feelings." We are at war precisely because of hurt feelings. I grant you that the actual Terrorists are evil people bent on breaking our system and installing themselves as despotic leaders. But when we betray our own principles and break our own rules in a futile attempt to "get them", we play into their hands. It would go a long way for us to a) learn some of the language and customs of the country we are invading, b) learn enough of our own history to understand why they might resent us in the region, c) reach out to the American Muslim community to make sure they are being treated like Americans, and not like terrorists.
"Those hybrids don't get nearly as good a' mileage as they say... so I bought a Dodge with a hemi." I actually heard someone say this as though it made sense. To date, I have not seen him haul a blessed thing in it... he doesn't want to scratch the bed.
"I don't think musicians have any right to tell me how I should vote." Yes, they do. And you have every right not to listen to them. But you have a lot of nerve claiming that you believe in fighting for freedom if the first thing you say to someone who publicly disagrees with you is "you have no right to say that."
"Of course we need to fix the immigration laws...but we can't allow amnesty!" Yes, we can. If grocery stores refused to order more produce until everyone who had ever "browsed" a grape was brought to justice, we would all starve. If the cops pulled over EVERY speeder, no one would ever drive again. You know as well as I do that 11.8 million of the 12 million "undocumented aliens" aren't hurting anyone; fine them if you can, deport the law-breakers (that should be a given), and FIX the damned laws. The reason "amnesty" didn't work last time is because they didn't fix the laws that caused the problems in the first place.
"Anybody's better than THIS guy!" I disagree. There are lots of guys who would be worse. Now quit tempting fate, pull your collective head out of your collective orifice, and stop arguing about stupid crap. We have work to do.
I'm sure some of you will recognize things you've said to me, and feel hurt by my response; I assure you, I'm not singling any one of my friends out for derision. I'm sure many of you will still disagree with me on some points... I welcome a chance to talk it out (it's hard to really convey more than sentiment in less than 5 sentences). It's just that it hurts me for my friends -- all of whom I love and respect -- to parrot the rhetoric that has led us to this lowly place.
And one last thought: Do you know why 9/11 happened? After all these years, and all of the reports, no one has put it into these words, but this was the goal: Bin Laden wanted to draw the U.S. into an uneven urban guerrilla war, preferably in the Middle East. In March 2003, we gave him exactly what he wanted.
That hurts my feelings.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Horrors; the Horrors
Originally posted Thursday, May 24, 2007
Our hands were clasped, and we gazed deeply into each others' eyes. We had run out of breath, our hearts were thudding with the passion of the moment. We heard music, and we were compelled at that moment to kiss.
We were barely sixteen, and a kiss like that seems like it lasts forever. But it didn't. We heard the crash of a door slamming open behind us, and we whirled around to face the one who had discovered us...
* * * * * * * * *
On the twenty-third day of the month of September, in the middle year of a decade not too long before our own, a young man was chosen to be the heroic lead in his high school's musical production of Little Shop of Horrors. In case you aren't familiar with this show, the "heroic lead" is not exactly heroic; he's more of a poorly dressed, awkward geek/dork/loser. And I was typecast in the role.
I'm not complaining; after all these years, I still love the part. I can still sing it, and could probably remember much of the dialogue. No, it was a blast, and I loved it. The whole cast did: Rick Marcus as the sadistic dentist; Keith channeling Levi Stubbs as the voice of the man-eating Plant; Paxton as Mr. Mushnik. Stacie, Julie, and... I don't remember our other girl, but Stacie could remind me... as the Brooklyn Greek chorus. And don't forget the band, tighter than any metaphor I could use in a high school setting.
But you may have noticed I didn't mention my female lead, yet. And that is because Alison, my girlfriend's best friend, was cast in the role of Audrey. Let us pause for a moment while you get all of your Jerry Springer associations out of your system, and talk about my high school romantic life.
If you recall an earlier blog entitled "The Monkee", you will have a good idea of what my love life was like during freshman year. Sophomore year looked to be a little better, as one of my choir mates seemed to take an interest in me. As thick-headed as I was, she eventually convinced me that I felt the same way, and we began an awkward, but very sweet, young relationship.
Along with this new girlfriend came something I had never had before, having grown up outside of the school district and attended a small church: a circle of social acquaintances. Suddenly, I was spending time outside of school with people my own age... and I liked it. But I came to notice that I wasn't nearly as into the relationship as the girlfriend was, and this presented a problem, since all of my new found friends were actually her friends.
What to do? I did what any socially awkward boy in my situation would probably do: I acted like a jerk. But this didn't seem to work. All it did was bring out the "concerned friend" in everyone around me, cautioning me that I wouldn't want to lose Her - the One Good Thing In My Life.
And then came the play. Being cast opposite Alison was no big deal to me, at first. I hadn't really read the play that closely. So, imagine my utter shock when I learned that we would have to kiss at the end of our big duet.
"You mean, we have to like, lean real close and just pretend, right?" I asked.
"No," said our no-nonsense director, "you are going to put your lips together and kiss for the last two measures of the song."
Everybody indulged in an "aw, cute" moment as Alison and I glanced at each other in horror. Everybody thought they knew why we were so floored, but I don't think they realized that the real problem was that I had not yet kissed my own girlfriend. Yeah, yeah, sweet sixteen and all that... I had a horrible choice to make. I had to move my relationship (which I didn't really want to be in) to a new level of intimacy that I didn't want to move to, or get my first kiss on a stage in front of who-knew-how-many people.
Alison was not enjoying the situation too much, either. You couldn't even call it a proper love triangle; I don't think it would even make a polygon. But in the end, I either summoned up courage, or I caved in to pressure (depending on how you look at it), and I kissed my first girlfriend after school one afternoon before play rehearsal.
It's hard to describe the weeks leading up to the show. My new found social status was building, and my budding romance was booming, and yet underneath it all, I was growing more and more unhappy about it all. I couldn't break up with this girl; after all, she was incredibly sweet, and loved by all. Not only that, but her life seemed to be a scary mess compared to the idyllic boyhood full of Star Wars men and long, solitary bike rides through the desert that I had grown up with.
It seemed every time I worked up the nerve to tell her that I thought we should end it, something would happen; her mother lost a job, her grandmother died, her alcoholic father came back to live with them... one thing after another for months on end. The only real escape for me was the play, where I was part of a team, doing something that we were increasingly proud of.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Which brings us to the dress rehearsal.
If you've never been in a theatrical production, you can't imagine the value of doing a "real" run-through, just to shake out all of the bugs. This is where the mistakes become apparent, and fixes can be made before opening night. For Alison and I, this was the moment of The Kiss. And for numerous reasons that I came to loathe later, our director had decided to make it an "open dress rehearsal". She wanted as many people as possible to come and watch, to see how we would handle the pressure of an actual performance.
How would you handle a "first kiss" in front of a jury of your bored peers?
We sang our hearts out, and we built that final note. Our hands were clasped, and we gazed deeply into each others' eyes. We had run out of breath, our hearts were thudding with the passion of the moment. We heard music, and we were compelled at that moment to kiss.
We were barely sixteen, and a kiss like that seems like it lasts forever. But it didn't. We heard the crash of a door slamming open behind us, and we whirled around to face the one who had discovered us... Mr. Mushnik.
Remember what I said about "bugs" in the production? Here was one: Mr. Mushnik's mustache. Paxton had insisted all along that he could grow a mustache for the production. He stopped shaving, I'll grant you, but after six weeks of rehearsal, he had only the barest whisper of hair fuzzing the vermilion of his lip. His lower lip. And so, come the night of dress rehearsal, Paxton showed up with a false mustache, and a bottle of spirit gum.
The spirit gum worked great through the first act, but after our big number, Mushnik & Son, perspiration overtook inspiration. What Alison and I did not know as we stood locked at the lip during the finale of "Suddenly, Seymour", was that Paxton had gone in search of an alternate solution to the false mustache. Thus, when he crashed through the door, startling our hero and heroine in love's stolen embrace, we whirled to find Paxton standing before us... with a "Charlie Brown" zigzag drawn on his upper lip in brown dry erase marker.
Alison was lucky; her part called for her to run offstage in tears, which she apparently found very easy to do. I, on the other hand, had to face Mr. Mushnik and look "scared", when what I really wanted to do was drop to the stage and roll around in gales of trouser-soiling laughter.
It gets worse.
Paxton's next bit of dialogue leads to the "ah-ha" moment, where Mr. Mushnik accuses Seymour of doing in the dentist, and cries "...I found THIS!" as he pulls the dentist's blood-soaked smock from a nearby trash barrel.
Instead, Paxton cried "...I found THIS!".... and frowned into the trash barrel for a moment before saying, "I must have left it in the other barrel," and dashing backstage to find his prop.
And there I stood, onstage, every emotion my hormone-riddled body could evoke, fighting for it's chance to surface. The music kept vamping -- a four-bar repeat of the "Oh, dear" music -- and I started to make stuff up.
I have no idea what I said. Something like, "Oh, dear! Oh, me!/What can it be?/What kind of evidence could he have on me?" Like Shel Silverstein on Tin Pan Alley. I was actually told by some kids who were there that when they saw the official version of the show later that week, they were disappointed that part wasn't in there again!
But the point is that, like all awkward moments, this one passed. I kept my head, somehow, and managed to survive it. The show, the kissing, the inevitable break-up... as difficult as it seemed at the time, all of it eventually worked out. Sure, it could have gone better, but then, it was all a kind of dress rehearsal, wasn't it? I like to think I did better in the "Real Show" because of it.
And the moral of the story, of course, is one that anyone with an ounce of common sense will tell you without going through all of the pain and agony: if you can't grow it yourself, you're better off without a mustache.
Our hands were clasped, and we gazed deeply into each others' eyes. We had run out of breath, our hearts were thudding with the passion of the moment. We heard music, and we were compelled at that moment to kiss.
We were barely sixteen, and a kiss like that seems like it lasts forever. But it didn't. We heard the crash of a door slamming open behind us, and we whirled around to face the one who had discovered us...
* * * * * * * * *
On the twenty-third day of the month of September, in the middle year of a decade not too long before our own, a young man was chosen to be the heroic lead in his high school's musical production of Little Shop of Horrors. In case you aren't familiar with this show, the "heroic lead" is not exactly heroic; he's more of a poorly dressed, awkward geek/dork/loser. And I was typecast in the role.
I'm not complaining; after all these years, I still love the part. I can still sing it, and could probably remember much of the dialogue. No, it was a blast, and I loved it. The whole cast did: Rick Marcus as the sadistic dentist; Keith channeling Levi Stubbs as the voice of the man-eating Plant; Paxton as Mr. Mushnik. Stacie, Julie, and... I don't remember our other girl, but Stacie could remind me... as the Brooklyn Greek chorus. And don't forget the band, tighter than any metaphor I could use in a high school setting.
But you may have noticed I didn't mention my female lead, yet. And that is because Alison, my girlfriend's best friend, was cast in the role of Audrey. Let us pause for a moment while you get all of your Jerry Springer associations out of your system, and talk about my high school romantic life.
If you recall an earlier blog entitled "The Monkee", you will have a good idea of what my love life was like during freshman year. Sophomore year looked to be a little better, as one of my choir mates seemed to take an interest in me. As thick-headed as I was, she eventually convinced me that I felt the same way, and we began an awkward, but very sweet, young relationship.
Along with this new girlfriend came something I had never had before, having grown up outside of the school district and attended a small church: a circle of social acquaintances. Suddenly, I was spending time outside of school with people my own age... and I liked it. But I came to notice that I wasn't nearly as into the relationship as the girlfriend was, and this presented a problem, since all of my new found friends were actually her friends.
What to do? I did what any socially awkward boy in my situation would probably do: I acted like a jerk. But this didn't seem to work. All it did was bring out the "concerned friend" in everyone around me, cautioning me that I wouldn't want to lose Her - the One Good Thing In My Life.
And then came the play. Being cast opposite Alison was no big deal to me, at first. I hadn't really read the play that closely. So, imagine my utter shock when I learned that we would have to kiss at the end of our big duet.
"You mean, we have to like, lean real close and just pretend, right?" I asked.
"No," said our no-nonsense director, "you are going to put your lips together and kiss for the last two measures of the song."
Everybody indulged in an "aw, cute" moment as Alison and I glanced at each other in horror. Everybody thought they knew why we were so floored, but I don't think they realized that the real problem was that I had not yet kissed my own girlfriend. Yeah, yeah, sweet sixteen and all that... I had a horrible choice to make. I had to move my relationship (which I didn't really want to be in) to a new level of intimacy that I didn't want to move to, or get my first kiss on a stage in front of who-knew-how-many people.
Alison was not enjoying the situation too much, either. You couldn't even call it a proper love triangle; I don't think it would even make a polygon. But in the end, I either summoned up courage, or I caved in to pressure (depending on how you look at it), and I kissed my first girlfriend after school one afternoon before play rehearsal.
It's hard to describe the weeks leading up to the show. My new found social status was building, and my budding romance was booming, and yet underneath it all, I was growing more and more unhappy about it all. I couldn't break up with this girl; after all, she was incredibly sweet, and loved by all. Not only that, but her life seemed to be a scary mess compared to the idyllic boyhood full of Star Wars men and long, solitary bike rides through the desert that I had grown up with.
It seemed every time I worked up the nerve to tell her that I thought we should end it, something would happen; her mother lost a job, her grandmother died, her alcoholic father came back to live with them... one thing after another for months on end. The only real escape for me was the play, where I was part of a team, doing something that we were increasingly proud of.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Which brings us to the dress rehearsal.
If you've never been in a theatrical production, you can't imagine the value of doing a "real" run-through, just to shake out all of the bugs. This is where the mistakes become apparent, and fixes can be made before opening night. For Alison and I, this was the moment of The Kiss. And for numerous reasons that I came to loathe later, our director had decided to make it an "open dress rehearsal". She wanted as many people as possible to come and watch, to see how we would handle the pressure of an actual performance.
How would you handle a "first kiss" in front of a jury of your bored peers?
We sang our hearts out, and we built that final note. Our hands were clasped, and we gazed deeply into each others' eyes. We had run out of breath, our hearts were thudding with the passion of the moment. We heard music, and we were compelled at that moment to kiss.
We were barely sixteen, and a kiss like that seems like it lasts forever. But it didn't. We heard the crash of a door slamming open behind us, and we whirled around to face the one who had discovered us... Mr. Mushnik.
Remember what I said about "bugs" in the production? Here was one: Mr. Mushnik's mustache. Paxton had insisted all along that he could grow a mustache for the production. He stopped shaving, I'll grant you, but after six weeks of rehearsal, he had only the barest whisper of hair fuzzing the vermilion of his lip. His lower lip. And so, come the night of dress rehearsal, Paxton showed up with a false mustache, and a bottle of spirit gum.
The spirit gum worked great through the first act, but after our big number, Mushnik & Son, perspiration overtook inspiration. What Alison and I did not know as we stood locked at the lip during the finale of "Suddenly, Seymour", was that Paxton had gone in search of an alternate solution to the false mustache. Thus, when he crashed through the door, startling our hero and heroine in love's stolen embrace, we whirled to find Paxton standing before us... with a "Charlie Brown" zigzag drawn on his upper lip in brown dry erase marker.
Alison was lucky; her part called for her to run offstage in tears, which she apparently found very easy to do. I, on the other hand, had to face Mr. Mushnik and look "scared", when what I really wanted to do was drop to the stage and roll around in gales of trouser-soiling laughter.
It gets worse.
Paxton's next bit of dialogue leads to the "ah-ha" moment, where Mr. Mushnik accuses Seymour of doing in the dentist, and cries "...I found THIS!" as he pulls the dentist's blood-soaked smock from a nearby trash barrel.
Instead, Paxton cried "...I found THIS!".... and frowned into the trash barrel for a moment before saying, "I must have left it in the other barrel," and dashing backstage to find his prop.
And there I stood, onstage, every emotion my hormone-riddled body could evoke, fighting for it's chance to surface. The music kept vamping -- a four-bar repeat of the "Oh, dear" music -- and I started to make stuff up.
I have no idea what I said. Something like, "Oh, dear! Oh, me!/What can it be?/What kind of evidence could he have on me?" Like Shel Silverstein on Tin Pan Alley. I was actually told by some kids who were there that when they saw the official version of the show later that week, they were disappointed that part wasn't in there again!
But the point is that, like all awkward moments, this one passed. I kept my head, somehow, and managed to survive it. The show, the kissing, the inevitable break-up... as difficult as it seemed at the time, all of it eventually worked out. Sure, it could have gone better, but then, it was all a kind of dress rehearsal, wasn't it? I like to think I did better in the "Real Show" because of it.
And the moral of the story, of course, is one that anyone with an ounce of common sense will tell you without going through all of the pain and agony: if you can't grow it yourself, you're better off without a mustache.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
On the Road, Again: Driving Man part II
Christmas came, and I was dropped off in Phoenix for a couple of days with the family, while Tom pressed on back to northern California. My four weeks straddled the holiday quite nicely, two weeks on either side.
Truth be told, I spent most of that time battling some kind of horrible stomach ailment. (I had recovered from the Great Burrito Incident; this was something else.) My one stop in Phoenix, and I was spending that being violently ill. Neither of us said it, but it was one more strike against this career choice. But we couldn't afford to quit. The Plan was to tough it out, soldier on, and give it one year. We would stick to the plan.
And just as I was feeling strong enough to get up, and maybe see the kids... back out on the road I went.
Tom was excited about his Christmas present; some newfangled thing called a "satellite radio". Up to that point we had gotten by with his plain old AM/FM tuner (some of you kids might be old enough to remember those). That guy had programmed in every Classic Rock station west of Denver, and it never failed; every morning, someone was carrying the "Bob & Tom show". Whether it was "The Thunder" or "The Eagle" -- or one odd swath of countryside presided over by "The Beaver" -- I must have heard "Barracuda" and at least one Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin song in each state I passed through. (If I never hear "Dream On" again, it'll be way too soon!)
"Next time we stop, I'll have to figure out how to hook this up!" he would crow, and then he'd dive under the dash and tinker while I took us on up the road. I kept offering to help... after all, I always had a knack for wiring up sound equipment... but he insisted on keeping me driving. "You need the practice!"
And practice I did. I hauled 45,000 pounds of paper down from Albany, OR, to the LA Times plant in Olympia, CA. I found my way through Oakland, where the streets were so narrow, the building almost touched at the roof tops. We must have crossed Mt. Shasta at least three times, each time with a different kind of weather system: once with rain, once with snow, and once with fog so heavy, you couldn't see the drop-off on the other side of the guard rail.
I learned when to use the jake-brake, truck stop etiquette (saying "no thank you" to the "lot lizards"), how to plan my fuel stops so I could get the free showers -- always a top concern -- and how to best pass the time when you arrived at the dock and found yourself in an hours-long line to load or unload.
It was hard work, separated by enormous stretches of potentially deadly boredom. The intimidating thoughts of failure or catastrophe began to ebb, though every goof-up I made would bring them roaring back. At one point, passing through Los Angeles, I managed to wipe out one of the back tires of our trailer without noticing it!
But that had been another "forgivable mistake"; we just swapped out trailers at the lot in Fontana. Things were getting better, on the whole. I hadn't screwed up any paperwork since that first load, and had kept up on my DoT timelogs faithfully. I was almost starting to feel good about things. And I wanted to tell someone.
I had to wait a while before we came to rest long enough to worry about calling home, and it happened that we hit a good stopping point just before New Year's. I got a shower, and a phone card, and went to call my sweetheart. I couldn't wait to hear her voice, and let her pass the phone around. So I dialed, and...
You could tell right away she was crying; I asked if everyone was alright. She said yeah, but something was wrong. I tried our usual in-joke. The one I used throughout her long pregnancy with Number Three. He was something of a surprise, and at least once a day I found a reason to look shocked and cry out, "You mean you're pregnant??" It was especially funny in public, when she was in the third trimester and looked like she was ready to deliver right there. Guaranteed laughs!
But this time she just burst into tears. "How did you know?" she wailed.
-------------------------
I came to the table just as Tom finished ordering. The waitress was one of those fading beauties you see in places like truck stops; Tom dutifully flirted with her, and said to me as she flounced away, "Hey, did you check her out?"
"I don't dare look... I'll probably get her pregnant," I muttered. I told him about our news, but didn't tell him all of it. I left out the horrible time my lovely bride had been enduring; the kids catching whatever I had during Christmas break, her getting sick and not being able to contact anyone in the family for help, the bills looming if I couldn't graduate and start driving on my own. Tom thought it was great.
"You'll have four, now?" he said, over and over. "Good thing you won't have to be around for the tough parts!" Good thing? I didn't think so.
After that, it all seemed to come clear to me. I did alright, but I still couldn't do it by myself. The only time I successfully parked was a delivery in Twin Falls, Idaho, where we only had to pull up level with the side of the building. From there we got word that we were "deadheading" (driving an empty trailer) back down to Phoenix.
We cut down through Nevada on state highway 95. I ate the best pizza I've ever tasted in Elko. Whore-houses line the 95, it seemed, female voices on the CB offering "free showers, conversation, and NO obligation." One place was celebrating a 25 year anniversary with discounts for "club members". Another offered a "frequent visitor card" with some oddly worded perks.
"They're calling you, Tad!" Tom would hoot from the back of the truck. He imagined the little "smoke fingers", like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, reaching out of the radio and leading drivers by the nose into these places.
But we drove on, not interested in the dubious goods being advertised. We pressed through the neon over-load of Las Vegas; through the deep, desert dark of Parker, Arizona, and down highway 69 through Wickenburg until we passed my childhood home.
-----------------------------
We arrived back at the terminal, and Tom shook my hand. "Hope to see you out on the road," he said. "It was a pleasure driving with you. I hope the next guy does as good a cleaning job on my truck!" We laughed, and he wandered off to do whatever it was he did.
I went on to the last stage of my apprenticeship: the big test. One of the dispatchers climbed up into a cab with me, and had me drive around to put me through the paces. We hooked up to a trailer, went around the block, came back and maneuvered around the lot. Back up, turned around... all the usual everyday things a driver needs to do.
And I failed.
"Don't worry," he said, "We can keep you on at student pay for a few more weeks and let you practice. You'll get it." $300 a week. For a few more weeks? I thought about what I was doing. Thought about the risks... of damage... of death... and even under the best of circumstances, of simply being gone while a baby came and my kids slowly got used to me being gone.
"No thanks," I said. And, even though I had spent the better part of the last year learning to drive... I walked away.
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