May 2005 Archives
Yesterday, I was outside, enjoying some peace, when the Charlie started hopping and jumping around and pawing at the ground. I'm trying (no doubt in vain) to break the dog from digging, which is what she seemed to be doing. So I wandered over there with rolled-up newspaper in hand with the intention of giving the dog a good whack on the rump. (Not enough to hurt her, mind you, just enough to let her know in terms so simple that even a dog could understand that I'm unsatisfied).
When I got over there, I saw a clump of mulched grass pulsating. Like there was something alive underneath it. This inspired no small amount of excitement from the puppy.
(Note to the squeamish: the story gets really violent and nature-show here, so if you don't want to know the rest of the story, skip down to where you see the three stars. And if you're not sure if you want to know or not, you probably don't want to know.)
I didn't know what it was, but I assumed it was vermin of some kind, so I figured I'd let Charlie chase the thing off. Or whatever.
Well, as the dog kept pawing and yapping at the throbbing bit of grass, the curiosity got the better of me, and I started walking over to the scene, when out jumped two tiny baby rabbits, squeaking in terror.
(Note: seriously, you probably don't want to know what happens next.)
Charlie's nose sprang into action, and she quickly tracked down one of them, which she began barking and pawing at.
This was decision time for me. Should I scold the dog? That one was definitely out of the question. Charlie is half Beagle (hunting dog) and half Jack Russell Terrier (also a hunting dog, and I believe they were originally bred for mouse hunting). Thus, every fiber of Charlie's being was crying out to attack this thing. Punishing her would be cruel.
So, I tried to distract her by feeding her a bit early in the day. And that worked... for about five minutes. Then the wheels started spinning in her little noggin: "Man, that was some good food. Wait, what was I doing before dinner? Oh, I remember!"
So, she wandered back over to the hole, which, with her acute dog nose, must have been as conspicuous as if it had been painted florescent orange. And she quickly found one of the baby bunnies, and began playing with it again, barking, pawing, picking it up in its mouth, not to kill it, but just to carry it around.
By this point, the mother rabbit had heard the plaintive cries of her baby and came to check out what all the commotion was about. Rabbits are not going to win any intelligence prizes, so you could see that, while the mental cogs were turning in its head, they weren't turning very quickly.
But something had to be done, so she did the only thing she could do when facing down a carnivore without any defenses of her own other than moxie. It was a fairly shrewd strategy, all things considered: she ran straight at Charlie and then ran in the other direction. The mother was a much larger and more tempting quarry, but also much faster and easily outran the still-clumsy and awkward puppy. I believe the plan was just to lead the dog as far away from the baby as possible, in the hopes that Charlie wouldn't be able to find the baby afterwards.
Shrewd, but in the end futile. The mother rabbit ran under the back fence where Charlie couldn't follow, and Charlie quickly tracked down her new toy.
After what seemed like a lifetime of Charlie running around with it in its mouth, tossing it in the air, barking at it, batting it around with her paws, finally the little guy gave up the fight, and Charlie's puppy teeth managed to poke a hole in the bunny's belly and was enjoying a nice desert of bunny liver.
After watching in horror as my adorable puppy did her impression of Mr. Blonde in Reservoir Dogs, once the thing had expired, I decided, enough fun, got a Schnuck's bag from my bag of bags and, when the puppy had its back turned for a second, I snatched the carcass and disposed of it.
Well, this morning, as per usual, I let the dog outside for her morning restroom break. She seemed to be investigating the scene of yesterday's crime, and, remembering that there were two bunnies, I again tried to distract her with more food. Then I went inside to take a shower. I think I might have heard another plaintive bunny squeak while inside the house, but I tried to ignore it.
(Creepy thought: now that I think about it, the bunny squeak sounds exactly like the squeak in the squeak toy.)
When I came back outside, all dressed and ready for work, and ready to put the puppy in her kennel for the morning, I saw her under the maple tree, snout and feet covered in blood, the top half of a dismembered infant bunny clamped in her front legs.
Yes, only the top half.
(Note: Be honest, here, you probably wish you hadn't read that, don't you?)
This was too much for me, so I grabbed the dog and, holding her about two feet in front of me, I took her inside and placed her in the kennel. The smell of blood was all over her. Then I went outside and disposed of my second carcass in the last 12 hours.
I guess if there's an upside, there was half as much work disposing of this one than the last one. Cold comfort, I assure you.
Anyway, I went inside to leave the house and heard the dog complaining about the injustice of its captivity, and I realized that I hadn't let it do its business after, um, eating. So, I picked her up, and, again holding her out in front of me, took her outside to use the facilities.
Then this afternoon I let the dog out and was cooking myself dinner, when I heard that now-too-familiar squeak. This time I walked outside immediately, and the dog came running excitedly. She ran right into the kitchen and I closed the door behind her. On the patio, I saw a tiny bunny, shaking in terror.
There had been enough murder, so I was going to save this one. So I got a box, and coaxed the bunny into hopping into the box. The two kids next door had come up to the fence to investigate, and I asked if they'd be so kind as to find a place to put the bunny in their yard.
They said that the'd be delighted to.
So, the story ends with a happy-ish ending. The last baby bunny is alive, although I don't know if rabbits are like birds where, if they smell the dog slobber on their young, they'll ignore it. Or if the stupid thing won't wander back to its old hutch, and thus to its certain death and my certain cleanup duty.
But I'd like to think it'll get back together with its mother, and they'll all live happily ever after, although not without having learned a valuable and very costly lesson:
There's a new sheriff in town, and her name is Darth Charlie.
***
I'll leave you all with a joke. Which, if you ignored my multiple warnings and didn't skip down here, you probably need it.
Q: Why can't dogs dance?
A: Because they have two left feet.
[rimshot]
And, no, I didn't cry at this one. I've only done that once, and I'll probably never do that again. So, if you weren't at that wedding, you missed what might be your one chance to see me cry in public.
You know, unless we're in public and you happen to drop a hammer on my big toe. I'll probably cry if you did that. Or if I'm watching Old Yeller.
Anyway...
This was my cousin, AKA "Da Cousin" for reasons too long to get into. It was a very nice ceremony. Lutheran. Say what you want about Lutheran services, but they're much shorter than when, say, two Catholics get married. Then you have the whole business of Communion, they have to bring Mary into it, the whole thing can drag on for hours.
The ceremony was on a farm, one of probably two or three left in Chesterfield, future home of a clutch of soulless, yardless, shabbily-constructed, multi-bazillion dollar houses built cheek-to-jowl with their neighbors. At least, I'm assuming. If they make build other kinds of houses in Chesterfield, I haven't seen them.
It was a beautiful setting, at the crest of a hill, leading off into a wooded valley. Da Cousin looked radiant. The groom looked delighted, and I think he might have cried a bit. What a weenie. I mean, there's crying at someone else's wedding, but who cries at his own wedding? Jeez.
The preacher -- or whatever those snake-handlers call him -- looked and sounded exactly like Dick Gephardt, although his delivery and rhetoric had a bit more of a Slighty Too Earnest Youth Minister feel to it.
The reception was very nice, with everyone getting shitcanned except for me. They had Chicken Satay on the buffet table, which the Cub and I had about seven a piece of.
And my cousin/erstwhile roommate delivered an powerful, emotional toast. Say what you want about him, but he's a really nice guy.
So, that was most of Saturday. Picked the younger brother and wife up from the airport. They and the Cub were staying at my place. We ate at the best Imo's on the planet (i.e. the one in Old Orchard), went to the wedding, and then went home and collapsed.
Well, I eventually collapsed, once my brother's better(-looking) half got finished checking her email and IM-ing half of the 405 area code, i.e. 1:30.
Well, Darth Charlie was sleeping soundly while I was waiting to hit the sack, so when 6 a.m. Sunday morning rolled around it was time to visit the little girls' room for her. For me, it was time to get another three hours of sleep. But Charlie's bladder waits for no man, so I tossed the girl outside and took a bit of a nap.
Then off to the folks house for brunch. At 10 a.m. That was way too early for me, and I ended up going to sleep sober at 1:30, so I looked like a spring chicken compared to the other reception-goers who had been drinking until 3.
So, if there's a moral to the story, instead of a brunch after the wedding, maybe a lunch would be a more humane idea. Like at 3 or so.
My brother and I went to see Layer Cake at the Tivoli. It was directed by the guy who produced Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch. Kind of the same genre, and the plot was similarly byzantine. And, despite being in English (supposedly), subtitles would have been helpful in a few spots. Although this movie had the advantage of not having too many East End cockney types in it. Mostly generic middle or upper class types, a guy who sounded like he was from Trinidad, and Chief O'Brien.
I'd give it a thumbs up. Didn't change my life, but it was entertaining, and I think I'll probably end up watching it again. You know, just so I can figure out what the hell was going on.
The Mrs. had gone to the mall while we were at the movie, and she collected us afterwards. We went home and I let Good Time Charlie out and read the news. I came back in and my brother was out jogging and the Mrs. was sitting on the bed staring off into space.
Against my better judgement, I asked if she was all right. (Against my better judgement because that question runs the very serious risk of inspiring a half-hour-long monologue.) She said, "Not really. I said something that made your brother mad."
Having escaped from that relatively unscathed, I didn't ask any follow-up questions and just filed that bit of intelligence away as he and I went to the folks house. I did notice he was a bit more morose and withdrawn than usual. (Yes! He gets worse than he usually is!)
We picked up the Cub, although not before we stopped off so I could get some chow. With this mortgage, I have to be tighter than a tick with lockjaw, so while I had always made it a point not to turn down free food, it's a necessity now.
There were several friends of my parents there, and after about 45 minutes, my brother strongly suggested we get the hell out of there. He never likes talking to strange people, and he seemed considerably less in mood to do so that night.
The three of us saw Star Wars III. My brother and I had already seen it, but the Cub hadn't seen it yet, so we fought through and watched it over again. On second viewing, I've decided it's plenty entertaining for what it is. I was in no danger of passing out, in any case.
When we got home, my sister-in-law said that she hadn't had anything to eat. I offered to take her to Steak 'n Shake in Maplewood. It's on the drive over that she drops the bombshell on me.
"I told your brother I don't think I want to be married any more."
Most of the conversation was one-sided, her offering a defense of herself. Most of it was even accurate. Examples:
- He's a very negative person.
- You know those people who will forgive but never forget? He's like that, only without the forgiving thing. Whatever you've done, it's not that he stops being mad about it. He just stops talking about it. He never really lets go.
Well, I kept all that under my hat, not even mentioning to my brother that she'd said anything to me. He's a very private guy, not a big sharer of feelings, and I respect that. So if he wanted to talk about it, I figure I'd let him bring it up.
I took the two to the airport with the Cub, who's off to Washington DC this week for the big school trip.
Mom and Dad ended up hearing the story this afternoon, which had morphed from "I don't think I want to be married any more" to the more definite "I'm leaving you". I stopped by this evening for some ribs and to talk Mom off the clock tower (if necessary). It wasn't necessary. To be honest, it was one of those things where everyone is upset and disappointed, but with the possible exception of my brother, nobody's really surprised by it.
She came from a pretty strange family, and she's got more issues than Newsweek.
So, I'm going to be headed down to Oklahoma City next weekend, to my brother's place. I'll be offering myself as needed, and possibly appearing with his band. Of which there will be more later, if it happens.
For right now, I'm going to put this ugly weekend behind me. Nighty night, folks.
. actually gives a pretty good idea of what to expect from the band.
They're not bad. It's kind of twee and cartoonish. Their instruments seem to consist of a banjo, bass, tamborine, acoustic guitar, recorder, glockenspiel, and the same kind of keyboard The Rentals used. Those are two instruments we just don't have enough of pop music today: the banjo and the glockenspiel. The singer sounds like a really gay, Limey version of Jeff Tweedy, of Wilco fame, and he pulls it off roughly as well as Mr. Tweedy.
They seem to be one of those bands that could only come out of England, because if they tried to pull this kind of crap anywhere else, they'd get the living bejeezus beaten out of them, their instruments would be smashed to splinters, and they'd be strapped naked to a lamppost with saran wrap, and the perpetrators would drive away in their car. Especially when word got out how many women they're (undoubtedly) able to score with their brand of whimsy. Assuming, of course, that girls is what they're into. Which is doubtful.
For that matter, I don't know how that kind of ass-beating escaped them in England, even. I'm not sure what it is, just something about this music seems to be begging for someone to get their ass whipped. Either that, or the stress of trying to potty train Darth Charlie is getting to me.
I don't usually pay attention to lyrics, but these seem to have something to do with being very concerned about the singer feller's friends all turning into monsters. And we've got song titles like "I See Spiders When I Close My Eyes", "Warm Panda Cola", and "Fur Soft Fur". It's like he's been writing songs since he was six, and is just now getting around to recording everthing he's written over the past 15 or 16 years.
Overall, three stars. Possibly three and a half if I were in a better mood. It's all pleasant enough stuff, especially for someone at my advanced age, who's taking to enjoying the more mellow pleasures of life. I don't know if they're worth paying imported record prices to get at them, and, of course, I would never encourage music piracy. So, if they happen to come through town (fat chance) or perhaps get an American distributor, give them a try.
***
How's about some links, eh?
-
This article is one of the most interesting things I've read recently.
It's about fraud, multiculturalism, women's rights, the extent to which anyone can really understand the point of view of someone from a different culture.
- This one is highly offensive and highly dorky, which means, of course, that I got a kick out of it. And it's highly informative, answering the question that has vexed mankind for decades: why didn't Superman get it on with Lois Lane?
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This is a story about the death of the joke. He makes some good points. I seem to recall in the past, sitting around the campfire telling jokes. Now, I hardly remember any jokes, and the ones I do are wildly offensive, and therefore have limited utility. I think I'm funny, but most of the funny things I say involve saying the unexpected rather than telling a story.
And that's probably it. I'd guess the death of the joke has coincided with the death of storytelling in general. Who tells stories any more?
On the other hand, I suppose there are fads in humor. I wouldn't guess the jokes have disappeared forever, people have just started doing other things to be funny, like howling out some bit of wackiness they heard on the Dave Chappell show (at Mardi Gras last year, if I had heard one more guy say, "I'm Rick James, bitch", the streets would have flowed with that unfortunate soul's blood.)
So, I'd guess we'll see the jokes come back. If only because they've receded so much from the general consciousness that nobody's heard any of them any more, and so they're all fresh and new again.
First off, I saw Oldboy. Holy freakin' cow! Talk about disturbing! This was without a doubt the most disturbing movie I've seen all year. I doubt I'll see one more disturbing. I think, in fact, this is the most disturbing movie I've seen since I watched the movie Alive on acid.
(Note to any kids who might be reading this: Don't do acid more than once. And if you do do acid (tee hee! I said doo doo!) then, for the love of all that's holy, don't watch something like Alive! Or (heaven forbid) Oldboy. Might I suggest Spirited Away?)
I don't think there's anything I could say about the movie that wouldn't give away something of the plot. And I hate that. In fact, I shouldn't even have linked to the website. So, don't visit that site. If you're lucky enough like us St. Louis folks to have a variety of arthouse movie theaters playing all kinds of rad stuff, then go check it out and let it unfold before you.
***
Oldboy was considerably better a movie, and considerably more entertaining (not always the same thing), than the other movie I saw this weekend, Star Wars III.
Since everyone reading this will no doubt know the plot (i.e. Shocker! Anakin becomes Darth Vader!), I'll feel free to comment upon it at length.
First off, there's that one line that bothered me.
ANAKIN: If you aren't with me, then you're my enemy.Really? Only the Sith? I suppose that's why the Sith deal in what they call the "Dark Side" of the force, whereas the Jedi deal in what they call "That Side of the Force That Doesn't Really Have a Color; It's Whatever Color You Want It to Be!"EWAN MacGREGOR: Only the Sith deal in absolutes.
Goodness! Where did this come from? I seem to recall the Star Wars movies -- the first three, at least -- having all the moral subtlety of Rambo III.
Now, as someone with deep-seated Papist tendencies and an exquisite appreciation of the movie Rocky IV, obviously I don't have with simplistic moral binarism. In fact, that's one of the appealing things about the first movies. The bad guys were the bad guys and the good guys fought them because, well, because they were the good guys and that's what good guys do. Now, all of a sudden, I'm to discover that the good guys weren't so much good guys as enlightened moral relativists, who eschewed such hamfisted designations as "good" and "evil". And they were fighting the bad guys because, um, well, never mind about that. They just were.
On the other hand, the Jedi did get their asses beat badly because they couldn't see Palpatine for who he was. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the point is that it's their refusal to deal with the evil that people are capable of that was their real undoing. And then Obi Wan will spend his time in seclusion on Tattoine thinking about how badly they blew it.
Although, somehow, I suspect that's not the case. Since the antecedent line sounded like something George Bush would say, and Ewan MacGregor is too good looking to pull of anything but a good guy.
However, despite this backhanded slap at the current administration, Lucas can't manage to stay on message. A few moment after these lines, Ewan says, "But the Emperor is evil." And then -- dig this -- Anakin says, "From my standpoint, the Jedi are evil". Which sounds perilously close to him saying, "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter".
Although, I think Darth could probably have done better. Something like, "Hey, what's this 'evil' thing? I thought only the Sith dealt in absolutes!"
(Side note: I'm referring to him as Ewan MacGregor rather than Obi-Wan Kenobi, because Alec Guinness is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and always will be.)
Well, in any case, I don't mind this Jedi-as-relativists thing nearly as much as the Jedi-as-materialists. Like, the first movies, the Force sounded like something strange and mystical, and people watching it could fill in whatever name they wanted to, like "chi" or "the Holy Spirit". Then we find out that the Force is caused by these little creatures infesting people's bloodstream, and some people, whom we'll call "Genetically Superior Nietzschean Supermen", or "Jedi" for short, have more of them than others.
Well, so much for the beauty and mystery of the Force.
One other thing: If you're of an advanced age like myself, you will perhaps recall some curmudgeonly fellow using the phrase, "They can put a man on the moon". As in, some guy, looking at the smoking remains of a toaster, saying, "Do you believe this? They can put a man on the moon, but they can't make a toaster that can go for a year without going kaputz!" Or some such.
So, two problems from that movie similar to that, which we'll call "They can build a spaceship that goes the speed of light but...".
They can build a spaceship that goes the speed of light but... somehow women still drop dead during childbirth? I know, she didn't drop dead from the childbirth, but still. You'd think they'd have gotten medicine figured out so well that dying during childbirth wouldn't even occur to Anakin.
They can build a spaceship that goes the speed of light but... they haven't figured out to use ultrasound on pregnant mothers? So they'll, I dunno, not be so suprised about the fact that they're going to have twins?
I could go on but, that's plenty. All in all I'd say, if you haven't already seen it, congratulations! Save your money, and wait for it to come out on DVD. Or, better yet, if you're flipping through the TV a few years from now, and it's on Cinemax 5, maybe catch the last 20 minutes of it.
Unless your town has an IMAX. That might be worth it.
***
On the Star Wars tip, there's this thing. A parody of a much better movie than the one that just came out.
(Warning: contains some highly questionable material.)
Call #1:
TRAV: What's up, Momo?FAMOUS J: You saw Star Wars last night, didn't you?
TRAV: Yep. Pretty good.
[TRAV proceeds to discuss some plot holes. And then...]
FAMOUS J: So, are you going to take the Cub to see it this weekend?
TRAV: I was thinking about it.
FAMOUS J: Well, how's about you skip it, and the three of us will see it this weekend when you come up for the wedding?
TRAV: I don't know if you want to do that. I mean, if the Cub's the only kid in school who hasn't seen it, all the kids will start making fun of him, because he's the only one who didn't see it. And then, they'll end up beheading him because he's an infidel. His blood would be on your hands then. Do you really want that?
FAMOUS J: Of course not. Although I suspect they won't actually behead him.
TRAV: Do you really want to take that chance?
I don't know if he'll actually end up taking the Cub or not. I have other movies to see this weekend. This one as it happens. So, I'll probably end up going to see it on week three. On the positive side, I won't end up having my son beheaded.
Call #2:
TRAV: Did you name your dog yet?FAMOUS J: Yeah. Charlie.
TRAV: Oh yeah, that's right. Too bad.
FAMOUS J: Why's that?
TRAV: I came up with the best name for your dog: Darth Smokey. And if anyone asks why she's named that, you can say "Well, when I got her, she was smoking cigarettes, so I called her Smokey. And then she turned to the Dark Side."
FAMOUS J: Genius! Alas, though, the dog already has a name.
TRAV: Dumbass. Yeah, I've taken to calling all my pets "Darth", like "Darth Zöe" and "Darth Dog" [who is otherwise known as "Mr. Dog"].
Too bad his cat Mr. Noodles succumbed to AIDS. Otherwise, he would now be known as "Darth Noodles", which is a pretty cool name.
And, now that I think about it "Darth Charlie" has a pretty cool ring to it as well.
Call #3:
TRAV: I was just remembering the coolest scene. It's near the very end when Darth Vader first walks out in his armor. There's heavy breathing, and then he takes off his mask, and underneath is... a sled.So apparently you have to sit through six movies, a combined 18 or so hours, only to find out that Darth Vader is actually a sled.
***
You wanna talk about dorky. I found a link to this dorky little logic puzzle thingamabob. I ended up spending about three hours doing this silly thing. Took me about six tries.
I kept painting myself into logical corners. I'd think, "Aha! I've made the breakthrough! The last piece has fallen into place!" And then I'd realize, "Well, crap, if that's true then that means that these seven things are wrong!" And then I'd start over.
The normal person would probably just give up and turn on CSI. Not this guy. It became my big white whale for the evening, and I just couldn't stop until I'd gotten the thing licked.
***
Now it's time for a new feature. I call it:
The Salivating Dog Mailbag
Our first letter is from a Jennifa from the palindromic town of Ada, OK.She writes:
I have to slightly disagree with you about "[(Don't You) Forget About Me] vs. "Alive and Kicking". Overall, DYFAM is probably the better song. HOWEVER, it does not have the kickass keyboard solo in the middle that really propels A&K from mediocrity into a good song in it's own right. Believe me, your brother has had much more dumbass opinions than this one. Okay, Jen, you did get one thing right:
That's far from the most dumbass opinion he's ever had. And I'm not even going to get into his opinion about Pat Buchanan or Chelsea F.C. It's just the one that happened to come to mind.
Although I'm going to disagree that the keyboard solo makes the song. I think the little keyboard bridge just bumps it up from "forgettable" to "passable".
On the other hand, Scotland doesn't have just a lot of music going for it. Looking at this list of acts from Glasgow" I'm not seeing a collection of musical titans. Jesus and Mary Chain, the admittedly great Franz Ferdinand (though let's see if their next album blows or not), Jimmy Somerville, the great Donovan, and who could forget Wet Wet Wet?
Actually, I could. Who the f#$* are Wet Wet Wet?
My point is, Scotland isn't exactly a musical mecca, hurling out musicians by the score who set fire to the world music scene. So, since they have so little going for them, I say, let them have Alive and Kicking, and let's agree to call Simple Minds a legitmate Two Hit Wonder, rather than the One Hit Wonder they probably deserve to be called.
And, to answer the other question from your email that modesty and common decency prevent me from reprinting, No, it's not normal to have those sensations when you urinate. It could be nothing, perhaps just a bladder infection or, hell, maybe it's all those tomatoes you mentioned you'd been eating. I'd see a doctor just in case. Sure, it'll be embarrassing talking about your wing-ding and your habby-flabby-mabby. But they have a variety of treatments available, which should help.
And that's all for this week's Salivating Dog Mailbag. Any questions? Any comments? Drop me a line at salivatingdog [the AT sign] gmail [period] com
Although here's something I was thinking about:
I average about six hours of sleep a night and have through most of my twenties. I have a friend Spot who (and I'm being generous here) averages about eight hours of sleep. I was wondering how much longer I've lived than he has.
Now, we're operating under the assumption that when you're asleep, it's like you don't really exist. Most sleep research I've read (or read about, at least) seems to indicate that that isn't really true. Your mind is active all that time. However, you aren't taking in new information. You're just processing old information.
That in mind, over the course of ten years, 21948 hours will have passed, of which I'll be "existing" 18 out of 24 hours, or 16461 hours. Spot, meanwhile, will be "existing" 16 out of 24 hours, 14632 hours. Which means, I'll have a total of 1829 hours difference that I've been getting stuff done while he's been loafing.
1829 hours is 76 days. So about two and a half months of being alive that he won't have.
Granted, a lot of that time was spent drinking, watching "Friends", I think I got talked into reading a John Grisham novel (you want to talk about not existing for a while, read one of those). Although, from what I've seen, Spot doesn't seem to spend his time -- as the cliche goes -- as busy as a one-armed paper-hanger with crabs.
I have no point in mentioning that. It just popped into my head. Look, people, if you're wanting something interesting or inspirational, you've come to the wrong place. If, however, you're looking for fart jokes, you're welcome to pull my finger.
***
Ugh. I was just about to publish this sucker, when little Charlie starts complaining. So, just in case it's about bladder issues, I let the poor guy out of the crate and take her outside. (I was considering having a last smoke before bed anyway, so that wasn't that big a deal)
However, it would seem it wasn't an "I have to use the Little Girl's Room" whine, it was an "I'm freakin' bored in here and want to go outside and sniff things" whine.
But if I'm taking the dog outside, I'm going to make it worth my while. So, I just spent the last 20 minutes with the dog on the leash, pleading, "Good God, Puppy! Would you please relieve yourself!"
And with that, I'm going to get my six or so hours of sleep. Nighty night!
"The puppy!" I can hear you all clamoring, "Tell us about the puppy!"
Okay, fine. First off, I took some pictures of the little guy and posted them. Warning: exposure to this much cuteness can be harmful to your psyche. I've seen strong men of solid character and mental fortitude disolve into a puddle of gooy puppy love.
STRONG AND MIGHTY PERSON: All right, now watch as I break this cinder block over my head. That's just how strong and mighty I am. [notices puppy dog and drops cinder block] Aw! Look at the little guy! [in baby talk] Wook at yoo! Such a cute widdle guy!
So, having seen the pictures, you now know that I wasn't just kidding when I said that the dog is the cutest thing the law will allow without a prescription.
The other important news on the dog front is that I've decided on a name: Charlie. "So," you ask, "which ruthless tyrant is this guy named after?"
Glad you asked. Althouhg it's worth pointing out that I decided on Charlie, and am working backwards to figure out who he's "officially" named after. Kinda cheating, I know, but if you have a problem with it, get your own dog.
I have four main candidates. The first is Charlemagne. Certainly ruthless, although the more I read about him, the more I've decided that, while ruthless, he was actually fairly enlightened, by the admittedly very low standards of 9th century monarchs.
Then there's his grandson Charles the Bald. Although he was neither as ruthless nor as elightened as his grandfather. And his name has the added disadvantage of being a slang term in France for the weenie.
Then there's Charles IX, the guy who oversaw the Saint Bartholomew's Day Massacre. Two strikes against him, though: First off, the massacre seems to have been his mother's idea, and he just kind of got bullied into it. Bloodthirsty tyrants don't usually get bullied by their mothers. And second, that mark notwithstanding, he doesn't seem to be an otherwise noteworthy king, neither good nor bad.
Finally, there's the Charles I and Charles II of England. The big problem with those guys is that I'm (very distantly) related to them. Naming the dog after either of these guys would imply that they're villains, and I don't want to do that. And, for that matter, I don't think they were that bad. Charles I wasn't great, but in the end, how much worse was he than Cromwell? I mean, really. (The answer is: quite a bit worse on lots of things (e.g. religious tolerance), about even on lots of other things (e.g. abuse of executive power).) And Charles II seemed to have learned his lesson from his Pa, and really loosened up on Parliament. (Just an aside: whatever his faults, you have to admit that Charles I had a great mustache.)
So, all things considered, the dog will be called Charlie, in honor of [drumroll] Charlemagne. All around probably the worst of the lot. First off, he's the founder of France, a country that has caused no small amount of headache for most of the world ever since. Second, he's one of the architects of the concept of the divine rights of kings. While he may not have abused it too much himself, that concept was the alibi for more repression than any idea until the French (there they are again!) seized upon "The Common Good" during the Revolution.
Okay, technically, the divine right of kings was St. Augustine's idea. But, hey, nobody gets everything right.
Anyway, potty training this guy is going to be a monumental pain in the ass. The problem is that this puppy apparently has the animal kingdom's smallest bladder. Seriously. I'll take her outside, and watch as she goes potty five, six times over the course of an hour.
So, assuming she actually had any bladder control, the other problem is, it's hard to tell when she'd thinking of going. She's got that beagle in her, so she's constantly sniffing. Sniffs everything. And if there is a way to distinguish the "I'm sniffing because I'm curious" or "I'm sniffing because this might be a great place to whiz", well, I haven't figured it out yet.
So, I'll be staring at the little guy, and if I turn my back for a second, Bammo! There she is making a puddle. And Le Maison de J has hardwood floors. So the consequences of said puddle are pretty dramatic.
Although I did catch her in the act once. I yelled, startled her, threw her outside (I didn't literally throw, by the way), and she seemed to get the hint that she'd done something horrible.
So, up next on the agenda is to get some chicken wire for the gaps at the bottom of the fence. Then I think I'll just start leaving the dog outside until its bladder is strong enough to keep from going every 20 minutes. So, the dog can start staying inside in 2007.
Okay, more on doggy later, I'm sure. That'll just have to suffice for now.
I think I settled on a name, too: Tojo. Thus, I'm keeping up with two traditions: getting a totally adorable dog and naming it after a vicious tyrant.
There will be pictures tomorrow, i.e. when she's awake. It's been a long day for both of us; more so for her, I'm sure.
Well, since I have to wake up at 6 a.m. to walk the little guy, I'm going to hit the sack early.
More tomorrow, I'm sure.
I guess that isn't exactly news. But if anyone is curious what Lance is up to, that's it.
***
I was hoping that once I got the bed, I'd be less tired. Nope. Well, it's not really a fair experiment since the first day I got the bed, I had been moving all day, which involved me walking up and down the stairs about 70 or so times. Then yesterday I'd mowed the lawn.
Mowing the lawn. Or more specifically, mowing my own lawn. That's one of those rites of passage. And unlike a lot of those rites of passage -- like the day you discover that you dad is human, and actually has foibles, same as everyone else does -- it's one of those rites of passage I was aware of going through at the time. Like "baby's first steps" of the domestic world.
However, after mowing about two or three strips of grass, it stopped being an Important Moment in My Life, and became a sweaty chore. I have what might be the easiest lawnmower to use. A self-propelled mulching mower. Basically, all I have to do is walk behind it and make sure it doesn't keep propelling itself into the fence. I must be doing something wrong, because that last part wasn't quite as simple as you'd think.
Anyway, I did the back yard and threw in the towel for the day. And despite getting plenty of sleep, I was still freakin' exhausted the next morning. Might take a few days for me to get my sea legs under me.
***
Tomorrow, I'm going to visit a dog. I was supposed to visit today, but there was one of those springtime Gates-of-Hell-Opening thunderstorms. Not here, though, but somewhere between me and the middle of nowhere, where this dog lives. So, I thought I'd visit tomorrow.
As though between the yard, the hundreds of boxes to unpack, and all the other dozens of things I suddenly find myself responsible for, I don't have enough going on. Apparently not. And now I'll be waking up at 6 every morning for the next 10 years or so.
***
I was just thinking about this today. This is from the J's Younger Brother Is an Idiot file.
He insists that "Alive and Kicking" is the superior song to "Don't You Forget about Me".
Reread that sentence and stare into the face of idiocy.
Look, I know you have to mentally adjust for the fact that it's the theme to The Breakfast Club, and make sure the genius of the movie isn't inflating DYFAM in your mind. But, no, the song is genius on its own merits.
"Alive and Kicking"? Good song. Better than "Don't You Forget about Me"? Not just "no" but "Hell no".
I should point out that I make a distinction between "Best" and "Favorite". Like the best Van Halen album is 1984. Medical science has proven this. It's a fact. But my favorite Van Halen album is Fair Warning.
But that's not what he was saying. He wasn't saying that's his favorite, rather, that it's the better song.
Also, I got my computer desk. Well, I should point out, they moved all my furniture today, which I'm stoked as hell about, but these are the highlights. I had the computer set up on top of an empty box. I had to look down onto it, and I was sitting in a lawn chair to do it.
Horrible ergonomics. Good thing I'm not doing this blog thing to make any money, otherwise OSHA would bring down the mighty hammer upon me.
Well, the comforter is dry.
Did I mention that I got the washer and dryer this weekend? Did I mention how utterly awesome that is? Man, everything -- everything -- is turning out Milhouse for this guy.
Anyway, now I'm going to climb into bed (with the clean sheets) and get my first decent night's sleep in about a week and a half.
With any luck, I should actually wake up sometime around lunch tomorrow.
This guy has a recap of the news as it rolled in.
Bewildering array of constituencies, these Brits have, with their Brent East and Finchley and what not. I'm not sure how they keep it all straight, but somehow they do.
The results weren't exactly surprising in that Labor's majority was reduced, but it's still a freakin' huge majority. The Tories did better than expected, but since their expectations were ridiculously low, despite having done better than expected, they weren't within shouting distance of having done "well".
The big question is whether they did well enough that they'll change course or not. If they had a motto this election it would be something along the lines of "The U.K. Conservative Party: We Aren't Nearly as Scary as Everyone Says". Which is all well and good. Most people don't like to vote for creeps, unless things have gotten unspeakably shitty, and that's not usually a good time to take office anyway.
On the other hand, it's not usuall enough just to convince people you aren't a bunch of frothy-mouthed lunatics. Sometimes you have to actually give people something to vote for. Other than "You aren't those guys".
So, are they going to go back, retool, and come out swinging in a half decade? Or are they going to stick with this same group of anodyne milquetoasts they got now, and hope that once Gordon Brown take the reins, he'll run the economy into the ground, at which point, the "Not The Party In Power" vote will carry the day?
I mean, Britain has some serious problems. Like crime. It's almost getting to the point that there's no city that's less dangerous in terms of being jumped on the street or having your house robbed than the most dangerous city in America.
Think about that. Some of the swankiest neighborhoods in London are still more crime-riddled than North St. Louis.
Although if you actually were to do something about crime there, it would almost certianly disparately impact minorites. And then we're back to the whole "scary" thing.
On top of that, the tax rate is creeping towards 1970's levels. The public sector is eating up 45% of the economy. And the whole immigration thing, some of whom are apparently trying to literally blow the place up.
I don't have a dog in that fight, other than that I like elections to have at least two competitive parties with some kind of idealogical difference between them. Well, it'd be nice if at least one of the parties wasn't insane. Like Italy in the 20's you had the choice between the Fascists and the Communists. But hopefully you know what I'm talking about.
You want more than one party because of what I'm calling Mark Steyn's Axiom: If you only have one party in power, you attract people more interested in power than in the party. And if the parties are too similar, the election ends up being about stupid shit like "which guy is more photogenic", and problems don't get solved.
Anyway, congratulations to Tony Blair. Enjoy your day of victory as well as the next couple months between now and when Gordon Brown shoves you to the curb.
And when that happens, well, we'll see.
If you're one of the two or three people (Hi, Mom!) who actually reads this freakin' thing, and found that you couldn't access it, this is actually running on my PC at home. And, the DSL was on the blink all weekend.
I suppose you could have dropped by the new house, pulled up the browser, and taken a peek there, since the web server was still running, despite the slow-as-molasses internet connection. But that wasn't possible for most people.
So, sorry about that. Couldn't be helped. But since there's only two of you, and everyone of you has my cell number, I don't think it's really that big a deal.
Frankly, this thing really only has one audience member whom I'm really concerned about, and that's me. I just like writing stuff. Now that I've gotten into this, I'd probably continue even if nobody were reading.
And as it happens, nobody is.
Except you, Mom.
Speaking of Mom. It's Mother's Day this weekend. Have you gotten your Mother anything?
I came across this blurb. I can't think of anything to add. Other than one of those "Did You Know" things.
Did you know that the word "Ewok" doesn't appear in Return of the Jedi? And yet, everyone knows who the Ewoks are. I wonder how that happened. Could it be a relentless stream of Star Wars marketing that saturated TV's everywhere in the early 80's?
Of course not. That would be grubby capitalist work.
I've been reading Brideshead Revisited
. So far, it lives up to its reputation. I don't know that I'd recommend it to anyone else. I've found that I have an uncanny ability to pore through the most boring tomes imaginable, and I suspect this book might bore everyone else rigid. Or maybe they'd find it a serious page turner. Who knows?
Something I've been thinking about reading this. I haven't finished, so it's possible that there's some kind of plot twist on the way that will make this analysis moot. But anyway:
Are Charles and Sebastian (narrator and a main character) gay? The answer is either "yes" and "possibly not".
I was thinking about some comment some guy had made before. Fifty years ago, homosexuality was something you did. Nowadays, it's something you are.
It used to be defined by behavior. To people a half-century ago, there would be no such thing as a "celibate homosexual". Obviously, if you were celibate, you weren't homosexual, since you weren't doing anything sexual with anyone.
So, to present day readers, were these two people gay? Of course they were! But to Mr. Waugh, probably not. Or maybe there was something going on that he just didn't write about.
Anyway, it's odd to think that all the guys I know who are gay would 50 years ago just be guys. I'm sure there'd be some name for them, since, you know, there is something about gay guys that's clearly different from straight guys. But, assuming they didn't spend time in bath houses committing acts of sodomy, (or at least assuming they didn't get caught) there wouldn't be a reason to think any differently about them than any other guy.
Another thought was that, while these guys were gay, it's pretty clear that society seemed to make plenty of room for them. I mean, sure, they weren't supposed to have sex or anything, but if they were a guy and a girl, they weren't supposed to have sex either.
But aside from that, Charles, the narrator, says that he loves Sebastian, and describes it as an "in love" kind of experience. And Pat Robertson didn't appear from the fountain at Brideshead and condemn them to eternal damnation.
Anyway, this is all to some extent a tragedy. Our society has been sexualized to the point that some otherwise innocent, non-sexual relationships just aren't possible any more.
But you can't get toothpaste back in the tube. We live in the society we live in, and it isn't all that bad. Just thinking, you know?
