ERNIEHARWELL

yopterifke

JERRY SPRINGER

There once was a faaaaaar-away land in which lesbians and fat people and cheaters and dwarves and giants and dog-lovers and cat-lubers lived. People "slept" with their kinfolk and nary a day went by without a Cuff-o-Fist breaking out.

There was a man behind the curtain who wasn't.

--And a break in to Reality. Times Square. Thousands of people. A bullseye on the United States, New York in the limelighted center. An SUV left running with explosive devices inside. Let us look at the devices, shall we? Gasoline, timing devices, consumer-available fireworks...kindling?--

Listen: The CNN anchors asking rhetorically if it were an international terrorist attack? Al Kumfuck is laughing right now. I don't blame them. They--the Osama Network--are guffawing. And absolutely loving this shit. They're saying to themselves, "Look! You get some irate numbskull in the A of U.S. and he'll do our job for us!"

Look. It'll happen like this: A man (or a woman) will walk into a densely-populated space--a market, a shopping center--and he or she will blow him- or herself up...along with however many people are standing in the vicinity. People will die. We'll become like a war-torn Middle Eastern nation. Arms and legs and heads and blood. Everywhere.

I am surprised it hasn't happened already.

SATURDAY MORNING

I reckon it pays off to do as the doctors and other professionals say and wake up on the weekend at the same time that you do during the week. My alarm went off and--boom--so did some thunder. I walked downstairs and let the dogs out and saw that, verily, the first few fat drops of the storm were falling. Outside I went to check the car windows--Meeg's drivers-side was down all the way, mine were up--and then back inside to close the windows in the dining room as the rain was starting to slant in through the window fan.

I drained the one-eyed monster (or one-eyed mischievous elf, whichever seems to make more sense) and--cla-zing-crash--the whole of the backyard was illuminated by the nearby brilliance of a lightning sta-rike. And now, as I write this, I hear the seemingly-close peals of fire engines. And the sky is that weird greenish color.

By the way, this has been the norm of late. It's been nice, weather-wise, during the week, and then on the weekend all hell breaks loose. What can I say? It's Michigan. Thanks, Michigan!

REASON #3872 WHY DOGS...

Reason #3872 why dogs are better than cats, why dee-ogs simply blow kiz-zats out of the water.

Here.

Cats, on the other hand? Shit, cats'd have left the scene the minute the hand got cold and/or stopped feeding them.

Just my too sense. =o)

A SIGN FROM ABOVE

You've heard of how people--often in Latin America, it seems--"see" images of deities in prosaic everyday items, right? You know, like a shadow of the crucified Christ in a tortilla? Or a silhouette of the kneeling Virgin Mary in a swirl of wedding cake icing? Well, it seems as though I too have been blessed by a beatific bonanza. It's true. Seriously.

My girl and I were driving on Saturday and I reached into the back seat to grab a napkin to blow my nose. Well, I grabbed two on accident. After I blew my nose and crumpled the first (and threw it away) I stuffed the second, unbesmirched, napkin in my mouth and started to chew it. I don't know why, just to be weird, I guess. Just to get a rise out of Meagan, something like, "Adam Christopher! What on earth are you doing?!" Something like that. Anyway, after I got the requisite reaction--"What the hell are you doing, Adam? God, you're weird." "Wha? No, you should try it sometime; chewing napkins is great fun."--Tiring of the game, I fished the paper out of my mouth and slam-dunked it on the dashboard. And did a double-take.

"Wow," I said, laughing. "That looks a little like Mary, doesn't it?"

"Oh, shit," she said. "You're right!"

"Do you see it?"

"Yeah, I do," she said, laughing. "She's kneeling, and she's, like, wearing a robe, right?"

Strange, strange days, indeed.

PFA AND FOUND STUFF AND BEAGLE BADNESS

I have to admit: I like pens. I'm thinking of founding a twelve-step program called PFA--Pen Fetishists Anonymous. Okay, maybe it's not a fetish per se, but I do like my pens. I like to doodle, to draw, to cartoon, so I've always liked the roller ball-style pens, preferably black, preferably medium-tipped. Art pens with the scritchy-scratchy needle-nosed tips don't do much for me. How to get a consistent line with them--to be thick when I want thick and to be thin when I want thin--is a mystery to me; my lines seem to be spider webby when I want bold and gummed up when I want fine. And when I'm trying to get an expression on a character's face and it comes out looking like a Rorschach reject, well, my goat has been gotten.

When it comes to writing words, don't insult me with a Bic or a Papermate (although Papermates aren't too bad, come to think of it). What I look for in a writing utensil is a smooth line--imagine using a knitting needle to write words on a stick of butter, soft--and a comfortable heft in the hand. I want the scribing experience to be like writing on a cloud: no herky-jerky motions, no tearing of the paper.

This need for smoothness extends to Cousin Pencil, too. Fine-point barbarians that, when used, lend an almost shivery mojo to the page are not allowed admittance to my digs. In fact, I may even call the boys in blue to roust them from my front porch. Like that old song says, "Freaky needle-nosed nuisances need not apply." No, what I'm looking for is, again, smoooooothness.

Just some background, the preceding drivel, to let you--my one or two reader(s)--know why I was pleased, earlier tonight, when I ventured into the back room, the cat room, to root around for the wireless router disk. I was pleased, yes, to not only find the disk but to also run across a few blasts from the past: a Cross mechanical pencil that writes like it's made out of silk, a black roller ball pen that is smooth and has, also, the added bonus of a laser pointer button and a blue LED light button, and the PC game No One Lives Forever, a first-person-shooter set in 1960s England, the protagonist a sexy brown-haired spy named Cate Archer. I hadn't been in that room for a while (I'm slightly allergic to felines) so it was nice to find some old friends. Oh. And I also discovered my Social Security Card, tucked safely away in the bosom of Cate Archer's CD jewel case. The SS Card: always a damned good thing to keep track of, eh?

***

I have a son who either cares not to listen to me, is deaf, is set in his ways, is stubborn, is untrainable, or is just plain stoooopid. I truly don't believe that he is the latter, so it must just be a conglomeration of the previous attributes that affects our poor Oliver, the cute dear little orphan. We got a new sofa and a new recliner about a month ago and I have been doing my damnedest to convey to the boys that they are not welcome on the furniture anymore, damn it. I've put gates and my guitar on the cushions and blocked off the recliner with a TV dinner serving tray and Louie seems to get it but Oliver? He seems to be totally oblivious if said guards are not in place. See, the couch that I had before, a nice newer piece of furniture from my passed uncle's estate, was virtually--hell, was--ruined by the dynamic duo o' dogs. Their smell, their dirt, their weight all served to age the sofa before its time and make it virtually unsittable. Oh, and dear Ollie had the penchant for pulling and prying with his little teeth the stuffing from the cushions and their backs. Great fun, huh? Dogs destroying. So, the rule was set: No dogs on the furniture no more. Well, Oliver hasn't seemed to have gotten the memo. I've caught him a few times on his favorite old perch atop the left back cushion at the window. This way, I presume, he can get his stink all over the new couch and ruin the cushion and gaze out the window at his whim. I caught him today, as I was walking up the stairs with my basket of freshly-laundered clothes and I let him know, in no uncertain terms, that it was his bad, his blow, his ill. Perhaps I was little forceful with the pear-plump dude, but, hell, between his mastication foibles and his overactive Inside bladder (though I let him and Lou out late at night, every night) and his cushion-destroying peccadilloes, he pushes my buttons in the wrong wrong wrong way, sometimes. I still love the little guy, though, perhaps because of his idiosyncrasies.

And Lou remains The. Best. Dog. Evah.

***

Michigan: You don't like the weather, wait five minutes. Yesterday it was 84 and sunny and today it is windy and damp and 50 degrees or so, making yesterday feel like summer and today feel like an early Fall. And it's only the 16th of April. Confused yet?

DISSEMBLE NO MORE

It is interesting where shit turns up, sometimes. Earlier this week (Monday, to be exact) I made a lunch of two corned beef sandwiches with pickles as their accomplices. I ate one for lunch and saved the other--and a couple of pickles--for later. On the way home from work, I stopped at Little Caesar's and jigged out of the store (like the commercials) with a Hot-n-Ready. I'd thought that I put the left-over sandwich and pickles in the fridge to take to work on Tuesday. Well, Tuesday rolled around and the sandwich was nowhere to be found. Huh, I thought, maybe did I throw it away? I mentally shrugged and took some cold pizza to work to eat for lunch.

I never thought about the sandwich again. It drifted out of my mind, out of my life, like so many gossamer clouds on a summer's day.

Until today. Egads, like the cat, the sandwich came back! Dissemble no more! For I hear the beating of its dyed-pink meat heart! It is there! There, I say! Beneath the wood planks of the floor, I hear the beating of its hideous heart! Yeah. Uh, either that...or in the freezer. And, yes, I hear the pickles chiming in, too.

And, so...it went like this:

Meagan [looks stage-right, honestly perplexed]: "Um, Adam? Did you mean to put your sandwich in the freezer? Oh, and the pickles, too?"

I think my brain is turning to Cream of Wheat. I think that, sometimes (often, lately) I'm kind of a moron.

Talk about a blackout! Shit, I don't even remember putting that foodstuff in the freezer! I'm doomed, doomed I say! Doomed to live out the rest of my life putting things in weird places. Next I'll be putting my clothes in the toilet and flushing. Next I'll be storing my cell phone in the microwave. Next I'll be--verily!--putting my bread and cereal in the refrigerator! Oy vey.

AHHHHHHHHH...

It is like having a new computer. The screen, which was cracked and suffering nontransparent brown-black spider slashes across the top and the bottom and somewhat diagonally down from right to left, is fixed. It cost a buck and a quarter, but it is definitely worth it. It had gotten to the point where I didn't even want to crack (no pun intended) the fucking thing. It was too much of a melancholy practice. ("Pwactice?! I know I'm supposed to be the leader of this team and I give my heart and soul during the game, but...but what are we talkin' about? Pwactice?!" Allen Iverson, circa 2006.)

Yes, it sucked to look upon the tragedy of the cracked laptop...when I happened to have it to myself. (I'm faaaaar too passive-aggressive when it comes to using my personal personal computer, the one that I bought for myself to use exclusively. I feel that I, when come off as a selfish prick when I say to whoever is using it, "Hey, I want to use my laptop. I don't know when I'll be off of it. My muse has trouble speaking up sometimes. Sometimes, it takes a while for her to talk to me." My muse is often silenced by my disinclination to speak up; she is damned-near cut off at the knees.)

Hell, it's a work in progress.

(You can see that I haven't been on here for a long while--the writing is stacatto, jumbled and jumpy. Meh, it is what it is.)

Here's something you don't see every day: On Friday, my partner and I were heading back to the headquarters when we came up to a construction zone. We saw red-and-blue bubbles up ahead at the intersection. "Uh-oh," she said, "looks like someone got popped." I nodded. As I trundled slowly past the orange barrels and past the crews laying and smoothing the cement, the scenario revealed itself: Some lady, older it seemed (I don't really know how old because the whole time we were stopped at the light, her face was turned to the empty passenger seat, and she was seeming to get something out of her purse--long time looking) some lady had driven her red Cadillac smack dab into a freshly-laid road-square of cement. And by "freshly-laid," I mean, like, laid an hour or two before. All four tires of her Caddy were sunk midway into the cement and some had splashed up on her quarter panels. That, uh, that would...suck. Not only the damge to the car and its tires, but, come on, the embarrasment of being stuck in virgin cement, while a lane of traffic has nothing else to do but slowly inch past, the great majority of the drivers muttering something along the lines of "you stupid ass," "nice going," or, my favorite, "where'd you get your license? a Cracker Jack box?" Eeeeesh. That airplane commercial comes to mind: Wanna get away?

And the lady says, "Hell, yes, please...please?!"

Well, as Phil Collins said before, "Hello, I must be going." Hi. Bye. It's good to be back. Maybe I'll post more of these thing-a-majigs. Meagan and I have Bad Lieutenant with Nic Cage. I've read good things about it. Hopefully it stands up to the talk.

Peef ow.

"SNOW-LOCKED: SUBURBAN DC STORY" SEVEN PARAGRAPHS

The snow has not abated. It falls, still, steadily and implacably. It shrieks, with its brother wind's help, sideways through the suburban streets of DC. Great voluminous drifts--pure blinding white--squeeze our streets into impassable trails. My 4x4 is useless. I wish I had snowshoes. Born in the great state of Louisiana, I had never seen snow, let alone blizzards. We--my wife, our two daughters and our dogs, a Beagle and a Boxer--are sticky-stuck. We're snow-locked.

The first few days weren't bad. We held faith that the crews would be able to clear the roads, clear them, at least, to the point that going to the grocery store would be a viable option. Hell. The first two or three days, we had fun. No work, no school? What could be better? Paid days off and no school for the teen aged girls. We watched the Olympics, and saw the US men's puck team cream Finland. (What else was expected? The US and all its accroutrements are a juggernaut. Power, greed, success.) And but then the power went out. Briefly. It came back, but the TV was fucked. No matter, I said to my wife. We go Outside. We play. And we did, building snow forts and snowmen and -women till the setting sun withdrew its brilliance from the reflective white world.

Inside was cozy. We had fires roaring nonstop in the living-room-dining-room pit and we had steaks and chicken and mashed potatoes and chicken Caesar salads and all the canned fruit you could shake a stick at. But.

But the snow never stopped. It has not, still. It hasn't stilled. Live is "Evil" spelled backwards. I have reached my wit's end. The girls bickering has reached a fever-pitch and the wife is incommunicado and the dogs are shitting and peeing all over the place because we have about three feet of snow wedging us into this Colonial, this place we call Home. I have reached my wit's end.

***

It is a White Wash-World. DC is under(frozen)water. The snow is omnipresent. It's ubiquitous. It's always here. You know what I'm trying to say. When we and the girls eat, snow is what I think of. When I shit, snow is what I think of. When I go to the basement and bring up yet another bottle of Absolut, snow is what I think of. When I sleep, I dream of snow. I have nightmares in which snow is the villain and I am the hapless victim. Or, verily, I nightmare in which I am the villain and snow is the angelic White. I'm fucked-up, man. My wife of eighteen years and my daughters (and my dogs) are a-scairt of me, now. They're frightened, man. Can't say that I blame them. You see, the last few nightmares I've had have been of White, yes, but they've also been splashed with innocent red blood. I just pray that it's my own.

***

We ate the dogs last night. It was tough for me, but. I'd known them since they'd been puppies, but.... The Beagle tasted better; he had more body fat. The women ate the pets hesitantly, with tears in their eyes. There were some tears, here, too. I, after a prayer for Friendship and Companionship, ate greedily. When one's cupboards are bare, when one's Hunger is omni-fucking-ubiquitous, one has to do what I had to do. I had to eat. We had to eat, so I killed the dogs--humanely!--and we ate them up. We had to use a ten rusted Sterno canisters that I found down in the basement (from earlier, more peaceable camping days), but it worked. And, yes, it's what "they" say: it tasted like chicken. Only stringier.

***

I have blood on my hands. Not to mention my lower face. And, definitely, my teeth. Look out the window, if you will! Oh! That's right! You can't. The snow is.... The snow is.... I have problems even writing this. Before the goddamned motherfucking SNOW came, I was living beautifully. Everyday life, man. You know what I mean. The garbage cans, the fucking grass-cutting. Shovelling NORMAL snow?! Yes! I could do that! All that! And I did. But, wait, Reader, look out the windows. Does it seem dark? Of course. It is. The Sun can't slant through 30 feet of snow. You know. I really truly do not want to go in to graphic details. Let us leave it at this: I'm single again. I'm starting anew. My dogs have been shit out and I still have half of my wife in the snow outside and my two precious girls. I guess it comes down to the survival of the Fittest. Who is stronger? Who has more pull with the butcher's knife? I had more pull and so I have the longer lifespan. I made--I made!--the difficult decisions and so I am still alive. Here. Under three stories of snow. Did I mention that the heat has blew? It's gone. Whatever. The kitchen table--so many good fucking memories--will heat my bones adequately. At least for today. Oh! Come, Spring!

#

THE OLYMPIAD--21ST WINTER GAMES

The Winter Olympics, the 2010 edition, is upon us. I love watching the Olympics. Summer or Winter, it's all good. I enjoy watching the women and men--for the most part, amateurs--competing, in their chosen sport, against the best that the world has to offer.

Sometimes, when the Olympiad is not upon us, I sniff and scoff at the banality of sports like downhill skiing, bobsled, beach volleyball, archery.... But then, when the Opening Ceremonies, well, open, I'm hooked. It's the stories, I guess, that grab my watchingeye. The stories of the athletes' tribulations and triumphs. The stories suck me in.

I think it's the athletes' passion that convinces me. The arduous training days, the postponement of basic human wants and desires and lusts that they, more often than not, smother in the hopes of achievement. Well, that speaks to me. I am a somewhat athletic person. I can rain threes in basketball, I can make diving catches in softball, I can throw a tight pigskin spiral, I can juggle.... But, I know, I lack the passion that these men and women hold.

[I'm not an Olympic athlete. There. I said it. I feel so much better now.]

Which makes what happened today so damned tragic. A 21-year-old Georgian (Russian Georgia) died as a result of an accident during a training run in the Luge. Lugers are fucking crazy to start with, I think. Basically, they're lying on their back, on a sled, on something like a bobsled track, wherein their speeds can reach in excess of 80 miles an hour. Um. Yeah. Sounds safe. It's just horrible, though. A 21-year-old, ranked 44th in the world at his sport, hit a curve a little too tightly and thus upended himself from his sled and went airborne, slamming into a steel girder, back/neck-first at, probably, 85 miles an hour. (In a case like this, the helmet ain't a savior.)

I just think of all the time that that kid put in to training and postponements of Want and it just makes me fricking sick.

What a way to open The Games, eh?

Mister Rogers: "Can you say 'pall'? I knew you could."

Another thing? That makes me ill? I am human. I am not immune to craning my neck at an accident site, to, perhaps, see some carnage. But I was shocked, actually, when, on the national news on whatever network, I saw the hapless Georgian going into his death-soar.

>>>Meet steel girder/column.<<<

We were warned, of course, before they aired the video of the guy's imminent death, but, still. Did they have to show it four times? Twice in slow-motion? I think not.

Sure. It's news. Being the Olympics, it is world news. But. Just...no. I think most of us human beans have the (perhaps) Neolithic urge to survey tribulation and say to ourselves, "That bad. Sho. But that not me. Sho." But there should also be some small amount of dignity in death. The guy was a fucking athlete, you know? He trained the majority of his life for his chosen sport. Was he great at it? Well. 44th in the world is nothing to sneeze at. But for what will the Georgian be remembered? His slow-motion death.

"Hey! Remember that dude that died before the '10 Olympics even started?! He, like, flew off his bobsled, or something, and then, like, smi-zashed into a concrete wall, back-first?!"

"Um. No?"

...Consideration...

"Oh! Yeah! He died, right? But it wasn't, like, bobsled, or nothing, it was...what'd'ya call? Loogie?"

".... Oh! Yeah. Luge. It's a sport where you slide down icy tracks, on your back, in a kinda sled, and you go, like, 45 miles an hour, or something. Wait. Make that 85 or 90. Damn."

Damn.

Well, anyway, I love the Olympics. I just do. Sure it's over-journalized, sure it's sssssssappy, sometimes, most times. It is what it is. I am geeked to watch as much as I can.

(Also? Lindsey Vonn? She is fucking hot. Her face? Her tightly-toned body, sculpted out of years of skiing and training? Um. Yeah. Mmmmmm....)

=o)

A NEW POST--GONATESS

Wow. How long's it been? A month? It seems like that, at the very least. I'm back...for today, at least.

So.

Well.

Er.

Um.

[twiddlesthumbs]

So, of what do I write? It has kind of been the same-old-same-old here, lately. I have no joyous news to convey. But!

I do know this: If'n I ain't exercisin' the Writer Gene, it's-a goan shrivel up n die. And who the fuck wants that?

*Gonatess*

It was one of those word-verification thingies on a weblog. I had to type it in to make my (assuredly) salient point visible to the Blogo-Whirl.

I got to thinking. Just what could be a "gonatess"? To me, it culls images of a priestess, albeit with a goat's mug. And a goat's horns? Maybe. And, perhaps, a goat's cloven hooves? Yes. But the inner beauty/body of the goat priestess? Allllll woman. Replete with 34C breasts and a teeny waist and a couple of slender kickin'-slims.

I am chuavanistic. Hear me meow. [roar]

***

The Gonatess

Once upon a time, there was a small village in Hungary. The schoolchildren were warned at an early age to steer clear of the last house on Mulberry Street. See, there was a gonatess that lived there. She lived off of government funding and rarely left her house, but the people of Ursk were convinced that she was Devil-like. 'Cause of her goat-head, don'tcha know.

Here is what the people of Ursk did not know: Glenda (that was her name) was actually a very gentle soul. She fucking hated her head and her hooves. but, through the love and learnings of Jesus's teachings (and her own genetic predisposition) she was able to channel her self-hatred into, well, Love.

She never made much ado about anything--she was far too self-conscious--but, early in the morn, when all the other Urskans were sni-zoring, she silently and carefully partook in random acts of Kindness. She cleaned chicken coops, she used her hooves to jerry-bust rusted padlocks, she...she...she. She just loved the town, man.

The town that hated her? Well, yes. She turned that Hatred, Ignorance, on its head.

Every once in a while a man named Igor or Victor or a woman named Suzie or Greta would exclaim to their mate (or, if single, the blue sunny skie), "My Lord! Who--how has this been done for me?! It must the work of Your angels, Lord!" They'd cross themselves and then, if, perhaps later they saw Glenda, they'd turn their hearts into rapiers, slicing and dicing the freak, the Gonatess.

To each? Their own...but.

But: There was an Urskan who was blind, had been ever since a bleach accident when he was 6. His name was Vlad. He had suffered from insomnia [ugly word, huh?] since his late-teens. He also possessed a sexual problem; perhaps that factored in to his insomnia.

Sexual problem? Let's just call it a problem of self-love. He could not get it up because he hated his blindness. He saw himself as a fri-zeak. Masturbation could go only so far. And? If one loses one's eyesight at the squeaky age of 6? Well, that just confounds the shit even more. How in the hell can a young man find any microfiche in his mind if he has not been able to see since the age of 6? Sure. Rubbing one's genitals often feels okay, but if one does not have a virtual library of pornographic images in one's mind..? Rubbing? It gets a little old.

Vlad had insomnia. He couldn't whack it, he couldn't put himself to sleep by watching MTV or Crason Daly; he couldn't sleep, but for an hour or so a night. Misery.

As a result, the young strapping Vlad took to early-morning walks; his calves were like barbells. He walked--no dog, no cane--along the sleepy cobblestone streets of Ursk.

As Fate would have it, he, one night, brushed against a breast of a--hold it now-- a woman. Her name was Glenda.

So Vlad and Glenda met. Through the brushing of a breast, a tit, a bazoonga, a gun. [There are worse ways to meet.]

It was early. Three-thirty or four if it were a twelver.

Morning--3:47.

Vlad said, "Oh! Excuse me! I'm blind. I--I'm sorry. Are--are you hurt?" His erection throbbed.

Glenda said: "Blind? Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't see you with a cane. And I see no dog, here, either." She gestured vaguely 'round her head. "Oh, me," she said, as she watched Vlad watch the tree to her right.

"I use no dogs and I use no cane," Vlad said defiantly. "I use this." He jabbed a finger to his temple. "My brain has told me for 17 years which way to go, what feelings to trust...what smells to trust... I'm sorry. Where the heck are my manners? I am Vlad. What do they call you?" His gaze searched the tree.

Glenda considered for a moment. "My name is Glenda," she said. "Hello, Vlad. It's nice to meet you."

"You, too," he said. "Imagine. You, a beautiful girl--"

"I'm not that pret--"

"You," Vlad overrode, "a beautiful girl--who smells like Heaven, I might add--being out here, on the sidewalk at three or four, just happening to walk into my fly-zone. Amazing, huh?"

"Is that what you call it? Fly-zone? Sounds...different, Vlad."

Vlad smiled at her midsection. "My momma called it that, God bless her soul. She'd told me since I was 7 that life would be different, there'd be...you know...."

"Bigotry?" Glenda said. She sighed. "Yes, Vlad, bigotry is rampant. It's evil. It's all around us. It's ubiquitous. It is...."

"Omnipresent?" he mumbled.

"Yes!" She flashed a toothy grin at him. "Yes! So, Vlad? Would you like to walk with me?" She clasped his hand.

Vladimir Roscoe Popillzar accepted her hand. And the smell? Well, she smelled purty, all right. His erection, regenerated, thrim-throbbed against his waistband. "Yes," he said. "I would love to walk with you, Glenda."

She hugged him, then, careful to both keep her goathead out of his "fly-zone" and also to press her beautiful breasts into his chest. "Let's go..." she breathed.

And they began to walk, hand-in-hand, down the dusty four o'clock street.

Click-clock click-clock click-cloc--

Vlad stopped. Turned to her. "You wearing heels?" he asked. "They sound kind of...funny."

Glenda stroked his shoulder. "Let's just say I dressed up for tonight. It isn't often that you meet someone.... Someone with whom you cli-zick. I like you, Vlad. Isn't that enough?"

"Sure," he said, squeezing her hand, "I guess that is about as good as it gets, Glenda. I just met you, but I like you, too. You smell real good."

And they walked, the Gonatess and the blind man, hand in hand, into the yawning darkness.

[You know what they say about goats? That they'll eat anything? Truism.]

***

Happily ever after.

THEEND

AND THE WAVES IS CHOPPY

I don't know what I'm going to write, but I am going to write. I need to. I'm bursting. I just got done reading my sister's blog from the first day of December and, I have to say, I have not recently read more emotive writing. I was leaking from my peepers and my nose was jammed with the requisite mucus.

[It is called crying, Adam.]

I'm wearing Dad's Adidas fishing/safari hat right now. It is a blue hat, 360-degree-rimmed, with brass holes and the logo on the front. I clipped it from my Mom's house, when I was over there to help my 66-year-old mother, with a pulled hammy and a pre-operational knee, bring the Christmas "stuff" down from the attic.

I only mention my mother's physical maladies because I am glued with guilt over the fact that, though I live only 15 minutes from her house, I am an intermittent visitor, at best. Conjoin that with this: She visits her mother in the nursing home every damned day. Who is more selfless?

No. Don't answer that.

Anyway, like I said earlier, I don't know what I want to write about. I think I have given you readers a snippet of what is on my mind, but there is a virtual iceberg beneath.

And the waves is choppy. And the waves is cold. Frigid. Brr....

Okay, here's a metaphor for you all: Right now, I feel like the Titanic, two days before her maiden voyage. The ship appears tip-top, she's had many people compliment her on her physical appearance, she's said to be bullet-proof and ten feet tall, but is hapless, is helpless, is doomed to smi-zash into that iceberg.

And the waves is choppy. And the water is cold. Frigid. Brr....

But. Like I said, I was at my mother's house today. and she said that she'd sent me an email about an--in my opinion--an overly-optimistic fellow. From what I gleaned from her conversation (I was hung-over as fuck) was that the said dude "made a choice every day" to be happy, to think positively.) Besides being an obvious writer--narcissistic, selfish, ego-maniacal, I am also, at this point, I think, clinically depressed. I slop around in my doom and gloom and, somehow, feel...better.

But, what my mom was saying was that this guy--this guy in a forwarded email which I have not yet read--this guy gave himself no leeway at all to feel sorry for himself, to, as I said, slop around in his doom and gloom. The guy fell two or three stories, I heard, and he survived. And, though he was a pin-cushion for, well, pins and epoxy and whatnot, he maintained his sunny outlook.

I say, "How?!"

People are different, obviously. Some people, who seemingly have it good, are constantly miserable. Others, who have not, are happy and buoyant. What gives?

I call it Faith. I think it is Faith. Hope. I think it is Hope, too. I think that some people just have a built-in neuron to maintain a happy face, throughout whatever may come their way.

And, others, myself definitely included, have a built-in neuron to see the glass as half-empty.

Now, neither faction asked for this mindset. It is just the way they were built. Who the hell would ask to live in gloom and doom and shadows and rainstorms? ("I would," says the masochist.) But, seriously? Who would want to put on a sad face every fucking day? ("I would," says the masochist. "And, also? Can you pass me that red ball-gag? I'm getting too much oxygen, right now. Kthnx.")

I have heard someone, before, implore another to "get off the pity-pot." Why?

I'll answer. This, this, is why: Because life is short and life is beautiful and life deserves--no--needs to be explored and sometimes one has to fake it till he makes it and sometimes one has to grin and bear it and sometimes one has to angle on to a better life and sometimes one has to row up the river with only one oar and sometimes one has to leap before he looks and sometimes one has to revel in his talents and avoid his peccadilloes and sometimes one has to forget/forgive the Past and not approach the Future and sit, instead, in the Now and sometimes one has to just remember this: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference

Truer words were never spoken.

The very first word brightens me. God. Though I may take His name in vain--often--and though I may violate the Commandments and Seven Deadly Sins multiple times a day (as most human beings do), I feel--I know--this: God is the Creator, God is the Father and God is the Way to salvation. It is just what I feel, what I know, what I believe. Shoot me.

No. Don't.

So. Shit. Hmmmm. So I started this soul-gutting by stating that I miss my dad. I do. I still do. I always will. But, through the process of writing, I worked some shit out. On your time. In your ear. In your eye.

Said shit is this: Life.

Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's bad. But, you know what? It's mostly good--sometimes great--and the bad times? Look in a mirror. If you have a computer with which you can navigate the Internet, you're probably doing, at best, okay. Life could be sooooo much worse.

But, hell, Life is so much more. I'll give some unsolicited ass-vice: Get laid. It'll brighten your day.

More ass-vice: Volunteer. It'll make you feel good.

Ass-vice: Find your Center. How? Fuck! I don't know! Just find it.

AV: Every day, make a list--be it mental or pen to paper--about the things, people, events, thoughts, animals for which you are thankful. Thankfulness helps the heart. It broadens it; it enlivens it; it makes one's heart swell. Plus? Plus, it gives the thankful person a rush of dopamine and norapinephrine and serotonin. The best drugs ever made; thank God.

And I thank God.

Peace.

ELEVEN-TWENTY/TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

My sister turned 40 today.

Alexis.

Forty.

My! How Time doeth fly! Right? Heck.

Heck, I remember being 10 and Alexis being 14, at the house on Smith. Even at that age, she was showing brilliant flashes of artistic brilliance. (I know. "Brilliant" in its forms, twice. Read on.)

Alexis has always been an artist. Poetry, painting, colored-penciled drawings, prose, short stories, sculpture, artistry of musical instruments--she can pick up an instrument and make sense out of it. Piano, dulcemer, guitar, drums....

So. She turned 40 today. It is her birthday.

I say to her, "Happy birthday!" And I grin like the Cheshire Cat. Because I feel that way. I love the girl. She is an inspiration to me. She truly is. Is.

We have not always seen eye-to-eye and I think I know the reason: We are far too similar in many aspects of our personalities.

But, the fact remains that I love her and I miss her--miss her. She lives in Duluth-fucking-Minnesota, a fourteen-hour drive away. That's far. I am without vacation daze at work....

***

Meagan intervenes (and I type)....

For Alexis's birthday, Meeg came up with the idea of 40 things (for the years accumulated)--randomly chosen from the dictionary, in alphabetical order--that we'd like to give her for her 40th birthday.

And it so goes:

We give her 40 adorable anoles.

We give her 39 blue blankets.

We give her 38 cute cat calanders.

We give her 37 doozies.

We give her 36 ethos...um. Um.

We give her 35 forklifts. Damn. Much work to do, huh?

We give her 34 germy gerbils. (Annie and Nikki.)

We give her 33 heterosexuals. (Back down, Sean.) ;-)

We give her 32 insomniatic nights. Sorry. That's the way the page unfolded.

We give her 31 jowls.

We give her 30 Karmas. (Peace, my sister.)

We give her 29 lifeboats.

We give her 28 malamutes. (You wanted a dog, right?)

We give her 27 Norsemen. (Sean?! Back off, man! It's just an alphabetic exercise.)

We give her 26 obsidian rocks.

We give her 25 precious pandas. (And China is pisssssssed.)

We give her 24 Quakers. (Enjoy your oatmeal, sis.) =0)

We give her 23 rest areas.

We give her 22 sitars. (Be the Beatles, uh?)

We give her 21 tender tendrils.

We give her 20 umbilical cords.

We give her 19 Vermeers. (He's a famous Dutch painter. She got 19 of his works for her life-changing 40th birthday!)

We give her 18 weathercocks. (Whence does the wind blow?)

We give her 17 xenophobes.

We give her 16 Yuppies. (And she will hate that gift.)

We give her 15 zoologists.

---

[We start back at "A" for the remainder of the 14 years.]

We give her 14 apostles. (Meagan and I will round the 12 out to 14.)

We give her 13 bibs. (Red Lobstah, anyone?)

We give her 12 comedians.

We give her 11 deja vus.

We give her 10 entertaining entrepreneurs.

We give her 09 forests.

We give her 08 guest workers, a foreigner permitted to work in a country on a temporary basis.

We give her 07 howitzers. (Aim carefully. Please?)

We give her 06 ideals.

We give her 05 jackals. (Sorry.)

We give her 04 Korean Krishnas.

We give her 03 lobotomies.

We give her 02 megaliths. (Think...Stonehenge.)

We give her 01 neophyte. (Meegie says, "Have fun with that!")

And, for zero, we give her the Love of Language; we give her the Mastery of Mastication.

Chew on, dear sis, chew on.

Love you,

Adam and Meegie. =0)

THANKSGIVING? LET'S...

Hey, it's only November 12th, but Thanksgiving is coming up soon; it's just around the proverbial corner. I figured that I would--in no particualr order--write about some things for which I am thankful.

* I should word this one carefully (one never knows who is reading) but I am thankful that, sometimes, a split-second decision grants one documentation in the stead of a boot to the ass, out the door.

* I am thankful for my immediate family, my Mom and my Gramma and my sisters and my late Dad, and my "other" family, my Meegie and her/our Naomi--from all, love does show and flow and Grow.

* I am thankful for my dogs--they're always there for me; and it is up to me to reciprocate.

* I am thankful for my job. In this economy..? I shan't even finish that thought, lest it germinate, come to fruition. Thankful for a good wage and--generally--good co-workers. Even though I am not the best at, well, anything at that job, I still have it, and it pays a good wage, and I actually find it stimulating, sometimes.

* I am thankful for my strong body. I mean, seriously, the shit I have put it through? And the heart still ticks? And the lungs still fill? And the bwane still works? That says something about Divine Engineering, doesn't it? I am kind of at a loss to explain how this is. But, actually, maybe I already have--D.E.: Divine Engineering. I am 36 years old. 36.76666666, to be somewhat-exact. This ain't a kid's body, anymore. (It may be a kid's mind, but I digress.) God makes many bodies. Tall, short, fat, thin.... Doomed to die young, doomed to die at age 93. I am only 36 years old--perhaps I should not count the farm fowl before they crack through their egg--but I feel thankful that, until this point at least, God has made me a Seiko--I take a licking and keep on ticking.

* I am thankful for the Internet. Because, that way? I can spew, from my fingertips, misplaced hubris.

* I am thankful for sports.

* I am thankful that the world does not have to revolve around liquor, spirits, or beers. The world is a much bigger place, keemie-sabo. (Spelled wrong, on purpose, kemo sabe means "wet bush" in some other language--perhaps Navajo?)

* I am thankful that my brain still has the capacity for Denial. (See above.)

* I am thankful that many people love their cats. I, however, am not one of those people. Cats? Never been a fanatic. But...cats can be cute.

* I am thankful that my car still runs, though through shoddy maintainence.

* I am thankful that my mother instilled in me the love of the Creative and that my dad instilled in me the love of the Ethic of Work.

* I am thankful that I was granted a gift from God to love words. They've lulled me to sleep, they've been exclamations of pain and worth and love and greed and hurt and acceptance and unabashed Hope.... Words are Lifeblood, sometimes. And I thank God that I love them and understand them and use them as I can.

* I am thankful that...the List could go on and on and on.

Thanks.

MEEGIE, MY MASTER MECHANIC

So...here was the situation: my 2002 Ford Focus's left headlamp had burned out. Yesterday, I walked out the door, after work, armed with a screwdriver, ready to make things right...make things...illuminated.

Now, the catch.

You either have to be a rocket scientist (or Meagan) to change the damned lightbulb. I know, I know...how tough could it be? Well.

Like I said, yesterday, I walked out of my door, armed with a screwy, thinking--obviously!--that to change a lightbulb is child's play.

The 2002 Ford Focus is a bitch when it comes to changing bulbs. First of all, it isn't the old-skool way of lighting one's way. You have to pull off a "weather protective" shield--easy--but then you have to, basically, free the burned-out bulb from its shackles by touch alone. It is so inconveniently-situated, it is ridiculous. It's basically upside-down and blind lightbulb-changing.

Some fools on the Internet suggested using a mirror. Hum.

(They were right.)

But I couldn't hack it. I tried (briefly) and then I said fuggit, I'll take it to the Ford dealership, where they would charge me from between $50 and $70 to "get 'er done."

I happened to mention to Meegie that my plan was such, and she blew a gasket.

"Fuck that!" she ejaculated. "No, no way. Uh-uh. That's bullshit."

I said, "But, Meagan, I can't do it. I'll just fuck it up."

"Then I'll do it," she said. And she got off the couch and slipped into her slippers and lit out the door.

I sat there, looking blankly at the front window, thinking to myself, If she does it, again, I may have to become a eunuch. You see, earlier, before I had brought up the imminent rape of myself by the Ford dealership, I had been running water for the dishes. The dishes! And, later, I will pop Ping-Pong balls....

And, when I say, "If she does it again..." it means that she is very very very good at figuring things out. I? I tend to say fuggit and meekly hand my money to the greasemonkeys. Or the geeks. Or the Men-Who-Can-Do-It-All.

Fast-forward.

Meagan took a mirror and a flashlight out to the car. I walked out a minute later to find her fingering the lightbulb encasement.

"It's got a clasp," she said. "I just have to figure out how to unlatch it."

I mentally shook my head. No fucking way. It's impossible. It's bullshit, is what it is. Aloud, I said, "So, how do you want me to hold the flashlight?"

"Wait a minute," she said. "I think I know how to do this."

You have a snowball's chance in Hades of doing this, I thought. I did not think she could do it...again.

Long story.

Short.

She did it. She figured out the Hell-Clasp and she extracted the dead bulb and she figured out how to install the new one and connect it to the wires, and--then!--she figured out how to re-clasp the motherfucking worst idea for a car headlight bulb ever.

(She is reading over my shoulder. She wants me to let y'all know that I had mentioned that, maybe, we should get the bulb in its place before she hooked up the wires. I was just thinking, hell, the clasp is the hardest part. We need no distractions, like wires.)

Yeah.

I'm a boob. I was completely ready to hand $50 to $70 over to Ford mechanics who'd probably have snickered at their rotund snookering of my dumb ass. But! Because of my love, Meegie, I have not to pay for a...listen now...a lightbulb change.

I'm here. I have a dish towel over my shoulder. I am washing dirty dishes. Perhaps, later, I will show you my....

THE CAMERA VORTEX AND SIGNIFICANT DATES

My house is a camera vortex, a camera maelstrom, if you please. I--we--have lost two within the last two months. A camera a month; we're battin' a thousand.

The thing is, we know the optical refractors/savers are here, in the house, somewhere. The other thing is, we can't find them. They're both Canons. One, the original one I had, was a $300 camera a couple of years ago; the other, a red Canon, is a $100 POS that I bought about, oh, a couple of months ago, if that. They both took shots.

And that is the real traged--sorry part of this yarn. The images that was cap'chud is goan.

Gone for all eternity...untill we find the stupid cameras.

(At least Meagan found the rocks that she collected from Martian City. Um...Marine City, Michigan.)

***

On to significant dates.

My Daddy, Robert, God bless bless bless bless his soul, passed away, died, a year ago two days from now. Tomorrow, my sister and my Mom and I are going to have a Dad Remembrance Day. I love him; I miss him; I want him not to be gone. I am not one--seriously--to whine and caterwaul and carry on, shit, but I miss him. He left faaaaaaaaaaaar too early. (Not his design; His.)

And so I may tell myself that this is a part of life and that "the show must go on," but I miss my dad. I miss him. I love him. I miss him. I lovingly miss him.

A year ago, I was fresh out of rehab--not like it helped a damn--and I came out into a situation of seeing a Power Figure sick and dying. It rocked me. I had been in denial. I hadn't dealt with the significance of the situation. (I don't know, actually, if I have, yet.)

When a son sees his Booming Father shrunken and ailing, it tends to--fuck, at least for me--it made me see the world in a different light. I think it is the loss of the so-called safety net that really gets to a kid.

I am 36. I am not a kid. I am a man. (And I should be more successful.)

The point is, though, when I saw my dad dying, it sent a shiver through my bones. (Apropos, considering it is Halloween.) I saw Death. Death is ugly. Death is shit. Death is Pain. Death is diapers. Death is waiting in a line for one's number to be called. Death is always busy.

On the plus side, Death relieves a human being (and all other beings) from pain. From strife. From chaos and anarchy. Death is the great equalizer. All go to the Promised Land.

The thing that pisses me off, though, is that I wanted my father around longer. Am I a brat, throwing Lincoln Logs at God? Maybe. 'Cause, seriously, God knows best. Shit, even if you're a non-believer, Time knows best.

Who are we to question pre-determination? Who are we to question Fate?

Tomorrow, my sisters and my Mom and I will remember my dad. I remember him every day.

As we all do.

But I tend towards the dark side. I remember his pain, his paralysis, his thrushed breath, his neotonical mouthing of mashed pills in apple sauce. I remember all these images in vivid detail.

I have a photocopy of a picture of my dad that my sister Alexis painted. It is stunningly photographic. In it, Robert Raymond sits, his coffee in his right hand, his glasses perched down on his nose, his eyes winking, his shoulders broad, eyebrows tilted in just his way. I look at that picture often. I gain strength from it. I glean some of--a small percentage--of the strength that my father had... up and through his final day.

I have never met a stronger man.

It took universal malignancies to bring him to his knees. And, even then, he was stoic. He was strong. I can't even imagine the psychic and physical pains he was enduring. Yet he stayed. He stayed. He stayed Strong.

Almost a year ago, I bid farewell to my dad.

And now I say hello.

=0)

Peace, Dad. I love you. I miss you. You're always--always--in my heart.

Peace.

SATURDAY MUSINGS

It is around noon on October the 17th, a Saturday. I am downstairs in the comfortable leather La-Z-Boy and Meagan is upstairs, rearranging the bedroom. I shifted it around on Thursday, but my fine woman was not a fan of how I'd done it. So now she is putting her female slant on the project. I had rearranged it so that our feet wouldn't be right up against the window. It's getting chillier, you know. She wants to surprise me with the results. I'd wanted to help her--had been prepared to help her--but she's all about the pleasant surprises. I'll like it any way she ends up shifting it. I'm easy that way.

Exciting blog post, huh?

***

It gets more exciting.

Kind of.

Well...not really.

As I walked out through the kitchen to let the dogs back in, I noticed that someone had called my phone and left a message. The number, as I looked at it, was instantly familiar. My doctor's office. What the hell would they be calling me on a Saturday for? I wondered to myself. I listened to the message and the girl on the other end chirpily informed me that it was Doctor H___'s office calling and could I please call them back at my earliest convenience.

I gotta be honest: Morbid thoughts were floating through my head. Why would they call on a Saturday if it were not important, perhaps even life-changing? Thoughts of the Big C or the Hiv or failing kidneys or high liver counts zinged about my head. That's silly, I told myself, I have just been there a month ago and got blood work done and the results came back with a big check-mark through "Normal." Still, though, I wasn't quite at ease as I called the number back.

Hell, they aren't even open on Saturdays.

I got the chirpy girl and she put me on hold. I waited for about two minutes, thinking death-thoughts and/or being stuck with a medical bill that my insurance would not cover and then I hung up and called back.

"Yeah," I said, "This is Adam; I was on hold earlier? Can you tell me, please, what the call was about?"

"Oh, yes, Adam...um, you're due for your tetanus shot. We need you to come in. When would be good for you?"

Tetanus shot? Ahhhhhh.... A load was lifted. Fricking tetanus shot. And there I'd been, thinking the worst. Ah well, that's the way the Adamnator's mind works, sometimes. I scheduled an appointment for Thursday at 5:15 and hung up, life still intact.

***

So, in summary, just another Saturday. I saw Meagan's finished work upstairs and I am duly impressed. My rearrangement was sophomoric, hers looked professionally-done. She's got the bed up against the opposite wall and the desk in the corner near the window with the computer and the TV atop. Her dresser is at her side of the bed and mine is at mine. She's got me lying on the side closer to the window, which is just fine. I am hot-blooded (check it and see).

I am very pleased with the finished product, and I love my girl and never want her to leave me for warmer climates (such as Virginia Beach). But, as some sage poet once uttered, Love is like a little bird, held in a hand. Squeeze not tightly, or you may crush it. Hold not too loosely, or it may fly away. But, you know, true love is loving someone enough so that one does not oppress the other with chains of the heart. I, in no way, want my love to pedal off into the sunset. I want her here, with me, forever. I, too, want her not to be miserable. Do you see the quandary? Time will unfold, as it always does, and questions will be answered, as they most-often are.

In tetanus-related news, I did some E-searching and I discovered that, yeah, maybe a tetanus shot is not a bad idea. I'd rather not have my back bent like a Beckham free shot. I'd rather have my jaw unlocked and I'd prefer not to be a helpless victim of spasms, ones which contract and crunch and bunch my muscles and skeletal structure into shapes that belong more in the family Homo Pretzelalius than the family Homo Sapiens.

I work in dirt. I get cuts and scrapes. I could step on a rusty nail. A little prevention goes a long way, you know?

IN PROGRESS, WORK

"The first thing we do, we kill all the lawyers."

I looked at Bill. "The Bard, nice. Whatever. What you meant to say was, 'First thing, we kill all the zombies.'"

He looked at me blankly. He opened his case to his .45. Dribble drooped from his lower lip.

***

Man, it'd been quick. Exponential. From a few bleeps about "Cannibals in Sandusky?" to mass chaos. It was exponential. We all learned quick.

***

I'd had this friend Chuck, Charles, since I was seven. He and I grew older and we drifted apart, as friends so-often do. We stopped hanging out when we were, like, 15 or so. He'd started smoking and drinking--at 15!!!--and I still hit the books. We were like grease and water. In the halls we still said hello to each other, but it was low-class teenage bullshit. We'd spaced. I knew it; he knew it. Man....

This is difficult. I hope you--whoever the fuck you are--knows that it was tough to see him that day. After the Alarm-Sec-2009-09.

I do not like zombies. I hate their slack-jawed expressions and I hate the omnipresent fact that they want to kill me and eat my brain.

I'm just not down with that.

Charlie the zombie.

Fuck.

There is no room for error with these fucks. They scratch you, you die an agonizing death. They bite you? You die an agonizing death. They eat you? You're fucked.

Whatever. Charles came after me. It was after all the government's shut-downs and shit. But, yeah, he still was hungry.

He had knocked at my door. He'd still had the modicum of Humanity in his diseased networks.

"Chuck. Not home," I said as I parted the curtains on the door. "Zee-Chuck. Go bite someone else."

He hammered his head in to the door and--goddamn if--his head didn't

WHY DO PEOPLE CHOOSE PETS?

First of all, companionship. And then you also have funny pictures to take. And you also have a warm dog on a cold night, nestled up against your feet.

But, the thing I have been realizing these last few weeks, is that they are not there forever.

***

I kissed his graying snout. I snuffled his ears. I said, "Louie, please...be immortal." I don't want to be the one to tell him that, yes, his time is up. (He is still well-healthy; just graying. But, still....)

***

I had a childhood dog named Merlyn. My mom named him and he became a central part of the family's formative years. Through junior high and high school and then--for the older siblings--the moves-out, Merlyn was always there. Being the youngest of three, I was there for the dog's--the beloved dog's--transition into the Otherworld. It was tough, no kidding, to see one's Constant Companion go through the rigors of old age.

He was the dog I used to tackle in the living room, right? Doggie Team of Kansas, I used to call him as I swept him up in a bear-hug and lay him on the floor. Doggie Team of Kansas...who thinks of that shit?! I did.

Merlyn, a big-ole-snouted Lab-mix, got older and creakier. My sisters were off, out of the house, doing the things they needed to be doing. I was--and am--the baby of the litter. I was still at home and I witnessed Merlyn's fall from dignity. "Look at Merlyn," my mom used to say, "he is so regal." And? He was.

But carbon-based lifeforms get older. They eventually die.

Merlyn lost control of his bladder. He lost control of his bowels. He lost control of his hind legs. He got skinny; he got fragile. At the end, I'd sooner drive a hot knife through my eye than treat Merlyn with anything less than kid-gloves.

The last day of Mer-Burr's life, Mom and I drove him to the North Main Animal Hospital. There is a Burger King right next door and we pulled through the drive-through and ordered a chocolate shake. "Here, Mer," my mom said, tears tugging at her cheek, "have some of this." She proffered the lid-off chocolate shake and Merlyn lapped eagerly. (At that point I thought to myself that he looked pretty healthy; were we not, perhaps, jumping the gun? No. We were not.)

Merlyn had his Last Dinner and, yes, I feel guilty about that.

But what is a pet-owner to do?! There comes a--horrible--time in which one must make the correct decision for the benefit of all involved. It is a pros and cons game. It is a balancing act. How much pain should either side endure before it is time to call a halt to the action? It. Is. Heartbreaking.

If you've had a pet, you know what I mean.

Woooooossssssssssssssh....

Back to Louie. I have known the kid since he was born--I saw him birthed. December 23rd, 2003. So, in a couple of months, he'll be six years old. Six in Dog, with his breed, is like 52. Yikes. Was he not just that little puppy, all ears, looking up at me with unbesmirched eyes? Wasn't he just that agile teenager dodging the raindrops?

Was he the life-preserver when I lit the fireworks in my bedroom when I was 13 or was Merlyn?

Sometimes, I get them mixed up.

And there is a reason for that. Both were big dogs, dogs you could get your arms around--and both had deep wells of permanent optimism and loyalty. And--of course--both had deep brown eyes that spoke of intelligence and pride-pack and love.

They're both much-loved.

Fuck.

But it makes me think. I know Mer--er, Louie--has a few or six years left. But, the graying muzzle? The graying face? That makes me uncomfortable.

Listen: Lou has been with me for coming on six years. He has been with me in three different homes and with six-or-so women. He is Constant Companion. He is my buddy.

But--God damn--I do not want to have to put him in his grave.

***

flowers, colors bloom

we humans do love our dogs

flowers bloom Dog-love

***

This--that--is for you both, MerBurr and Lou. Dig on it.

Peace.

DA BUMBLEBEE MEMOIRS--ABRIDGED

My dear sister Melissa had a birthday yesterday. She turned 38. Wha?! 38?! Jesus, it seems like just yesterday we were hanging out at MSU, she 19 and I 18, both going green-and-white. Hell, it just seems like a week ago that she and Alexis and I sat on the back porch, on the long bench, eating PB & Js and Campbell's Bean With Bacon soup as we looked out at the back yard, dust motes floating through the sun slanting the trees.

Time sure flies, huh?

We all get older, yet we maintain our general default settings. Hers is Helper and hers is Caring and hers is Selfless and hers is Sweet. Sweet as honey.

Happy Birthday, Bumblebee Missy. We all love you.