Dog days

Guess what? This is my 400th post! Next month Frank (Slept Here) turns two. It's hard to believe that I've spent nearly two years on this site, almost daily, meeting so many new people from different states, countries, and continents that I never would have met otherwise. Unfortunately I don't have much to say today, so I'm going to turn it over to Sarah, who has a delightful tale of bacon, a battle of wits, and unexpected hits to the groin. Enjoy!


Hi everyone, it's Sarah!

Frank is not a morning person. He's not so much grumpy as he is a zombie. But he's not even a cool zombie like the ones in the Michael Jackson video for Thriller. I would have enjoyed it more if my Zombie-Frank had broken out into song and dance in the kitchen. However, I sadly report to you all, sing and dance he did not.

I think coffee might help to perk him up in the morning. If that doesn't work I might have to move up to harder stuff, like cocaine laced with Red Bull.

Having my 70 pound Weimaraner, Pete, act as our alarm clock every morning probably doesn't help either.

The bed is pretty high off the ground, so in order for Petey to jump up onto it every morning requires him to get a running start from the hallway. I'm a veteran dog owner, so I usually wake up several seconds before Pete makes it onto the bed, allowing me valuable time to curl up away from his landing area. Frank, however, doesn't wake up until Pete's feet are firmly planted in his groin, causing his testicles to retreat up to his Adam's apple.

Personally, I always enjoy waking up to Pete. He's full of energy, is always happy to see me, and super excited to start the day. His behavior in the morning is infectious. Who wouldn't smile waking up to this face every morning?

I'll tell you who: Frank.

There was a blog floating around a little while ago about tips on how to destroy Frank because he is evil. Now after seeing him in the morning it all makes sense. Aren't zombies inherently evil?

Thankfully Rachel supplied me with the list of helpful destruction hints so I would know how to protect myself. Breasts and bacon were just two of the many ways to defeat him. Thankfully, being a female who buys bacon, I was fairly confident that if something were to go down, I'd be able to take him. After this weekend, however, I think there is something missing from that list: dogs.

Put Frank in a room with one or more high energy dogs in the morning and he is absolutely crippled. The high energy literally destroys his ability to speak or function like a normal human being and he transforms into a zombie, grunting and staggering before your very eyes.

Saturday morning I brought Petey's BFF Jesse over to play for an hour. Jesse is a sweet and slobbery black lab who Pete and I absolutely adore. Who wouldn't adore these two?

Well, Frank didn't. In fact, I think the presence of two energetic dogs at 9:30 AM almost killed him. He just sat out on the deck with his shoulders hunched and eyes glazed over, shaking his head. He may have been in shock.

"This is why I prefer cats," he managed to mumble after almost an hour of silence. "Cats don't have this kind of energy in the morning. I don't like this kind of energy in the morning."

Now I can't say for sure, but I think Petey heard Frank say this and for the rest of the day Pete was just a little bit melancholy. Pete adores Frank and I think his preference for felines cut Pete pretty deep.

I wouldn't go so far as to say Frank owes Pete an apology. Frank is entitled to his own opinion, and all his opinions are truly awesome and completely infallible.* Pete, in turn, is a big boy who can take care of himself. But do I think that it's not a coincidence that Pete nailed Frank in the groin later that night with a little more oomph than usual? Nope.

Plus, I gave Pete some of Frank's bacon the next morning to help make up for the cat comment.

If Frank is going to be a dog-detesting zombie in the morning, he is entitled to that. But he has to learn that the only zombies Pete and I appreciate are the dancing kind. And until Frank starts to sing and dance in the morning, his testicles and his bacon are fair game.


*editor's correction

(note: Once she starts to make decent coffee in the mornings, I'll be less grumpy. Deal?)

O'er the land of the free

Two of the shortest stories I've ever told both took place on the Fourth of July, several years apart.

Story One - Baby's on Fire

Dad lit the fuse and got away. Bright flash with loud report. Bombs bursting at ground level instead of midair. The leg of my brother's shorts briefly caught fire. He stopped, dropped, rolled, and then checked for damage. He went inside the house to find mom and we lit off the rest of the stuff.

Story Two - Also, Baby's on Fire

She lit the fuse and we got away. Out of the rain. Her hair was soaked but for the first time that evening we were alone. I was busy with the hairdryer in the hand that wasn't going places it didn't belong. The noise of the dryer helped me tune out the knocking on the door. It was probably her sister looking for us. She slid away for a moment to lock the door and there we made our own fireworks as the bombs continued to bang outside.

A few things I hate

(or at least wouldn't try a third time)

WARNING: The list gets kinda blue, you may want to stop here.

1. Being unemployed.
2. My habit of saying/writing too much.
3. The 2008 Detroit Lions.
4. Talking on the phone to people I have never met in person.
5. When your and you're get mixed up.
6. George Carlin still dead.
7. Ladies who bring guns and take calls from their boyfriends on dates.
8. Alfalfa sprouts on sandwiches from Jimmy John's.
9. Nickelback.
10. Just about everything on MTV.

It's random memory time

1. I remember back in the day when if you really wanted to make it big as a rapper you had to somehow have a fast food place that was associated with your act. I'm sorry this has gone away.

2. Back when I was in elementary school and pogs were all the rage, I could always count on the dollar store around the corner for the coolest ones in town - 5 of them for $1. New pogs and a few packs of sour warheads made a kid king of the schoolyard during lunch or recess.

3. When I was very little I had a Batman bigwheel bike. One day I left it out in the front yard and it got stolen. It was one of the saddest days of my life.

4. Looking back, I realise my second grade teacher had a sweet ass. Mrs. Woody, you was fine back in the day. If you're reading this, I don't pee my pants anymore. Call me.

That's all for today's foggy trip down memory lane. Till next time, tip your server, tip your dancer. Be nice.

The real secret

Some hippie once told me that I shouldn't worry about material goods or money because "the universe will provide." Granted, this was before The Secret taught people that they should just wish for stuff. That hippie was sitting on a goldmine; a patchouli-scented, jam band-loving goldmine. I told that hippie to get a job and for good measure to go fuck himself. I doubt that he did either of those things though because he was busy waiting for the universe to provide him with a new hackey sack or a pair of sandals.

I don't believe that "the universe will provide" things like like new pants, money, and a robot butler just because it likes me. To expect that is ridiculous and it discourages people from actually working toward their goals. Furthermore, believing that the universe could be working for you specifically is incredibly self-centered. That said, I can't help but feel that the universe does occasionally drop a hint.

On Saturday, Sarah insisted that we watch some of VH1's continuous loop of Michael Jackson's music videos. Now I am no Michael Jackson fan, as I expressed earlier. Yet, I found myself finding some measure of sympathy for the man who died in his home a few days ago, as opposed to the man I saw dancing on TV in the "Thriller" music video. There had been questions raised earlier about whether he was physically healthy enough to launch another tour, and the news release I read on his autopsy report revealed that he was gaunt and suffered a heavy addiction to painkillers. His life, at least to the public, has seemed to be little more than a train wreck for roughly the last decade. In this last string of shows, it was as if he wanted to regain the confidence, the swagger, and all the LIFE that he showed on stage as if somehow his brain and body could once again find its sweet spot in its particular part of the universe and remember that THIS is how it's supposed to feel. In retrospect, Michael Jackson was a dead man long before he had that heart attack in his house, and so every time he loaded up on painkillers and stepped onto the stage for rehearsal, he was trying to find that "feel" again.

This feeling of trying to stay in those magical moments is something I understand well. I write a lot but not as much as I should because I get frustrated by my inability to find what I think are the right words. I've had various projects started and stopped over the years because of this. Sometimes, when things are just right, it falls into place for a few moments and the words just write themselves, but more often than not this isn't the case and I find myself searching for that feeling. The number one reason I don't write more is simple frustration. Sarah reminded me that I don't have to be perfect, but knowing that and and actually going forward in spite of the difficulties is another thing. This is where the hint-dropping aspect of the universe stepped in.

Over at January Magazine, I stumbled upon an interview with Bill Bryson, one of my favourite travel authors. In it he discussed his favorite authors, his influences, how he went about writing a book - the typical stuff you'd find in an interview with an author. Tucked near the end was a brief discussion on A Walk in the Woods, the story of how he hiked the Appalachian Trail with an old high school friend. When asked how he turned the story of his trip into a book, he replied:

"...every day when you're hiking it's the same endlessly repetitive activity. You're walking essentially the same landscape day after day. You're in the woods and tomorrow you'll be in those same woods. And the day after. I had kind of a feeling of panic much of the time we were walking because: What am I going to say in this book? We're not doing anything. All we're doing is just advancing in these tiny increments day after day and nothing's happening. We're not really meeting people most of the time. We're not having interesting conversations, encounters with wildlife or anything..."

This was news to me, since A Walk in the Woods was his most successful book to date. Hell, Robert Redford even bought the movie rights to it. And yet Bryson was terrifed the entire time that it was going to be garbage. That was my "ah ha" moment, the reminder that not everything needs to be perfect or precisely planned out to be good, and that I need to work my way through my uncertanties in order to get to the truly great things. It's all part of the process of creating something. In short, I should lighten up, get to work, and just see my projects through regardless of the final results.

So, there you have it, the universe dropping a hit in the form of an interview with a travel writer. Was it coincidence? Probably, but I like the idea of the cosmos nudging me in the right direction by using my favourite book too much to fully concede that it's blind luck that I read it just when I needed to.

*UPDATE*

Apparently the autopsy report I read about on Michael Jackson was a complete fake. I feel that somehow I should try to tie this into my earlier post about not trusting most news sources...