DOG DAZE

 

As a kid growing up, I never really had a dog that was officially mine.  My mother had a chocolate brown poodle named “Teddy” that was seriously in need of doggy psychiatric help long before puppy shrinks came into vogue.  For the space of about two weeks we had a Beagle mix that was supposed to be my dog. Unfortunately, he tried to eat Teddy. I didn’t see a problem with that, but apparently my mom did, so she said we had to get rid of him.

 

When I met my wife she was breeding Shelties and there was a new litter of really cute puppies for me to play with every so often.  They were always sold so it didn’t pay to become too attached to them. We managed to maintain this guarded objectivity until the very last litter that came along. 

 

In that litter was a runt. Actually “runt” would be a kind word. He was more like a “Mini-Me” version of the rest of the pups. He was uncoordinated, afraid of his own shadow, hyper, and completely loveable.  My step daughter pleaded to be allowed to keep him. The plan was for the dog to belong to my step daughter and her boyfriend. My wife semi-reluctantly agreed.  My step daughter named the little guy “Ricochet.”

 

Well, as these things often go; the boyfriend became history. Then the step daughter moved into an apartment on campus where pets were not allowed.  Then a new boyfriend came on the scene who later became the fiancé and then the husband. Then they moved 10 hours away into an apartment that didn’t take dogs either.

 

Since I’ve never had a dog of my own and since Ricochets’ would-be master went and married a human and moved to another state, the dog and I decided to adopt each other.

 

Ricochet and I quickly established a little routine. When I come home from work he likes to jump up in my arms and sit upright with his back against my chest and his front legs out in front of him. He will let me carry him around like this for hours and will actually fall asleep in this position. When I sit down on the couch and watch television he will crawl up on the back of the couch and then walk out and balance on my shoulder like a parrot in a cheesy pirate movie. When I get in bed at night he likes to jump up on the comforter and chase my foot around under the covers. That little seven pound, foul-breathed, fuzz-ball has more personality than the majority of people I know. Or perhaps I should say he had more personality…

 

He’s dead.

 

I came home on Saturday afternoon and opened the back door to let him in. When he didn’t come in I went out back and called for him. Because he was so tiny he could squeeze out of tiny little gaps in the fence and liked to do so at every opportunity. When I couldn’t find him, I figured he’d made a jail break and I got in my car and began to drive around the neighborhood. I scoured the streets for about an hour with no luck and decided to make one more sweep of the back yard.

 

When I walked around the corner of the house I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before and I suddenly got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m getting ready to build a shop in my back yard and I had stacked about 10 sheets of plywood up against the side of the house in preparation for the project. It was incredibly windy on Saturday with gusts up to 50 mph. The stack of plywood had blown over and was lying on the ground. I went over and began to pick up each sheet and stand it back up against the house. I found him lying underneath about the eighth sheet, crushed to death.

 

I’ve been around death all of my life. I buried my closest childhood friend in my teens. I buried both of my parents in my early 20’s. I’ve buried grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. During my years in the ministry it would not be an exaggeration to say I did several hundred funerals. I’ve always met death stoically, in complete control, and have handled it well; perhaps because that was always my role and responsibility.

 

I’ve lost a yappy little dog, and I’m a fucking mess.

 

I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see him lying there. I’m so damned pissed at myself for stacking that plywood against the house that I can’t see straight. I keep replaying it over and over in my mind, and I keep expecting him to greet me when I get home.

 

With all of the human tragedy and death that hangs around us like a shroud, it seems silly to mourn the loss of a dog; even innapropriate. Perhaps, though, I’ve never really allowed my self to experience grief.

 

Well, I seem to be experiencing it now…and its name is Ricochet.

 

IT’S A BITCH BEING OLD AND USELESS

 

When your children are little they need you for everything; from wiping their little asses and noses (it’s probably best for the child if it’s not done in that order) to making sure that the slime monster isn’t in their closet or under their bed.  As they get older the inverse square law takes over and they need you less and less until they go to college; at which point they don’t really need you, just your bank accounts, retirement savings, and what clothes you have left on your back.

 

Parents like to complain about the drain of constantly meeting the needs of their children. Well, for you parents whose children are still at home, let me say that it’s actually a bitch when it suddenly stops.

 

When my son went off to college several years ago I gave him his own American Express card which was billed to my account. We had a long running joke that his wedding day was the date on which he would officially be “cut off.”  The day after my son’s wedding he took the American Express card out of his wallet and handed it back to me. I was shocked at how much I didn’t want it back.

 

He’s now been married a year. He is commuting several times a week from Austin to Waco for grad school. A couple of weeks ago during this commute he hit a coyote and did $3,500.00 worth of damage to his car. The radiator repairs that were done didn’t hold, which left him stranded yet again on the side of the road several days later.

 

Do you know how I found out about this? I read it on his blog! (If you want to read his account of the incident, it’s incredibly funny and is entitled “Montezuma was a Coyote”)

 

When you are a responsible adult and things like this happen to you, you deal with them, take care of what needs to be taken care of, and go on. When I read his blog, part of me was incredibly proud that he is that responsible adult.

 

Part of me felt like I had been kicked in the gut that he no longer needs to come to Dad to take care of his problems.

 

The cycle of life will continue. One day I may need him to come to my nursing home and wipe my ass and my nose (again, hopefully not in that order). We have an understanding, however, about whatever nursing home he puts me into. There won’t be a slime monster under my bed; I expect it to be Halle Berry.

I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO GEORGE WALKER BU…

 

I attended a high school graduation ceremony last night.  The festivities began with a color guard marching in and the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. I don’t think I have recited the pledge since I was in grade school and I actually got a little choked up.  

 

I tend to be blatantly sentimental about my patriotism. I get emotional watching fireworks displays, and I can’t hear that damn Lee Greenwood song without tearing up either.  Don’t even get me started on the Mark Shultz song “Letters from War.” If I hear it when I’m driving, I have to pull to the side of the road because I know I won’t be able to see well through the clouded eyes that are inevitable when he reaches the final chorus.

 

As I recited the pledge, my mind drifted to an article I had read earlier in the day about the Dixie Chicks. CNN had reported that many country stations were still refusing to play their music because of Natalie Mains’ comments about Bush. They quoted station managers as saying they wouldn’t play music from such an unpatriotic group.  Suddenly, instead of getting misty while I recited the pledge, I began to get angry.

 

When justifications are given for war, the word “freedom” is slathered on as thick as gravy on biscuits on a southern breakfast table.  There is nothing I believe in more strongly than freedom. It is the basic concept behind every political belief I hold. I have nothing but respect, admiration, and sincere gratitude for everyone who has ever died or served our nation in the pursuit of, or defense of, freedom.

 

One of our fundamental freedoms, however, is the right to disagree with our President. When our government is doing something we think is wrong, it is our patriotic duty to voice our outrage.  

 

I personally don’t think we should have invaded Iraq. I think the President lied about the justifications for going to war, and I think he knew he was lying when he sent our troops into harms way. I think that, in retrospect, the invasion of Iraq will go down in history as the greatest foreign policy failure of all time.

 

Yes, like the Dixie Chicks, I disagree with our President. Does this make me unpatriotic?

 

As I recited the Pledge of Allegiance I thought about the new, underlying, meanings it seems to have for many in this age of right-wing ardor and religious fundamentalism. Perhaps the words below more accurately describe America as some see it today:

 

I pledge allegiance to the flag, and to the practice of wrapping it around radical ideas so they cannot be questioned or seen for what they really are; of the United (Red only) States of America, and the Republicans for which it stands. One nation, under a Protestant, religiously fundamental God, wholly divided along partisan lines, with liberty and justice for all; unless, of course, you disagree with the President, or happen to be gay, or female, or Hispanic, or Islamic, or don’t speak English particularly well, etc..etc..etc…

 

Go ahead and call me a liberal. Go ahead and call me a left-wing, godless heathen, if you wish; simply because I refuse to give Dubya my rubber stamp. But don’t you DARE tell me I’m not patriotic or that I don’t love my country.

 

(Thanks to Mapmaker Jenny for the “Letters from War” Link)

You may have seen these before. I’d seen the titles but I’d never seen the illustrated covers…these are priceless.

 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS YOU MIGHT NOT FIND ON AMAZON.COM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought the “Everybody Dies” volume being a pop-up book published by “Suck-it-Up Press” was an especially nice touch.

Warning: Long Photo Blog

YOU STAY CLASSY, SAN DIEGO

 

We are back from our mini vacation in San Diego. Or rather I should say…I’m back. I left my wife out there to attend a dental convention while I’m now back at the office slaving away on an Xanga post.

 

I got a new digital camera just before the trip so I’m going to make you endure the trip in pictures (If you came to my house you’d have to endure a slide show, so feel lucky):

  

We stayed in a hotel that dates back to the mid 1800’s…very cool.

 

 

 

The hotel was in the “Gas Lamp Quarter” of San Diego which is very reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans.

 

 

We had a little beach time.

 

 

And a little museum time.

 

 

We went on a fabulous dinner cruise.

 

 

We also went to see the worlds largest outside organ. I was always under the impression that I had the world’s largest organ, but apparently this isn’t the case.

 

 

You can’t go to San Diego without a trip to the zoo.

 

  

And in conclusion…they sat at the bar and put bread in my jar, and said “Man, what are you doing here?”

 

 

I got this quiz from Primeval Wench

 

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 35% Conservative, 65% Liberal

Social Issues: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

ON THE ROAD AGAIN… JUST CAN’T WAIT TO GET ON THE ROAD AGAIN

 

I’m back from my trip to Philadelphia and Washington D.C. I’d like to thank doahsdeer for suggesting I visit the Wyeth exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. My hotel happened to be just two blocks away from the museum district so it was just a short walk over to see paintings in person that I’ve only seen in books.

 

 

On the way in, I ran up the museum steps and danced around with my arms over my head. I was greeted by the rolling eyes of a dozen locals who where bored to see yet another lame tourist do “Rocky”. At least I didn’t sing “Gonna Fly Now” while I was doing the dance.

 

 

 

As I was walking toward the Museum of Art I ran across the Rodin Museum. Rodin has always been my favorite sculptor and I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know there was a Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. The “Gates of Hell” is prominently displayed as you walk in the front doors and I was struck by how much it looks like people trying to get out of my office at closing time.

 

 

I didn’t end up taking a bunch of homeless people to a fancy restaurant on my expense account as I said earlier that I would. Instead, I ended up in the sports bar in my hotel watching a documentary about a guy who gets eaten by a bear. I did end up paying twelve bucks for their chicken caesar salad, however, so it certainly had the price tag of a fancy restaurant.

 

In D.C., one of my meetings was attended by a guy from the F.B.I who’s name was (I swear to God I’m not making this up) Timothy McVey (different spelling). I asked if his name was really Tim McVey and he smiled and said he could neither confirm nor deny his own identity.

 

I’m home today and tomorrow and then my wife and I are headed to San Diego to go play in the sun for a few days, so I won’t get to update for awhile.

 

I would like to say that I’ll be thinking of all my Xanga friends while I’m lying on the beach soaking up the sun and drinking something with an umbrella in it. However, I can neither confirm nor deny the veracity of that statement.

Pick up your copy today of the sensational New York Times bestseller:

 

“THE LAST OF THE LABOUFFS”

 

Ok…so that doesn’t have quite the ring of “The Last of the Mohicans” but at least it alliterates.

 

I’m currently on a flight to Philadelphia, which is the setting for about 8000 historical novels. That, and a trip to see some relatives yesterday that I didn’t know I had until a few years ago, has me thinking about my family history and whether it could be the basis for a titillating novel.

 

Why “The Last of the LaBouffs”?  Well…for a large portion of my life I was told I was the last living “LaBouff” and that if I didn’t dutifully propagate the species, the family name would be lost forever. My father had three brothers, and out of that group, I was the only male offspring. My father was also not aware of any extended family that might bear the LaBouff name. He had been told that his father had several brothers, but he never met them. In fact, he was not allowed to speak of their existence as he was growing up. Apparently, his uncles had a falling-out at some point that rendered them “personas-non-gratis” in the eyes of my grandfather.

 

I was told all of this long before the time you could Google your family name and get 10,000 hits along with numerous pop-up adds for male enhancement products and the chance to play virtual Whack-a-Mole for a free Razr cell phone. Therefore, I grew up believing the survival of the LaBouff name was in my hands, or perhaps more accurately, in my loins. When I got older, I proceeded to propagate away and like a proud Chinese family, had a boy. Having fulfilled my destiny, I was looking forward to passing the propagation responsibilities down to my son.

 

Imagine my surprise when I received an email a few years back from a Sharon LaBouff in California.  The spelling of the name was the same bastardized, American version of “LeBoeuff” as mine, so her email sparked some hope that there were “others” out there (like in the show “LOST” only less prone to mysteriously abduct people).

 

Sharon and I began to compare notes and discovered that we were, in fact, both descendants of this band of feuding brothers. She had been doing genealogy research for some time and had been able to locate many such descendants. She invited all of us to attend a LaBouff family reunion in Laughlin, Nevada in 1999. 109 of us showed up.

  

When I walked into the hotel in Laughlin, I was greeted by a large group of LaBouffs, all wearing those fake “Billy Bob” teeth; making me immediately happy that they all share the same sophomoric, juvenile sense of humor I have.

 

Sharon had traced our family tree all the way back to the early 1600’s and, as the family historian, had many stories to tell. It seems my grandfather and his brothers all lived in St. Joseph, Missouri. As a young man, my grandfather worked on a farm for a farmer and his wife. Apparently, the farmer caught my grandfather “plowing” his wife, and was none too pleased by the discovery. The woman claimed it was rape and my grandfather fled to Oklahoma, either to escape prosecution by the authorities, or to escape being shot by the farmer’s wife.

 

I was told later; that Sharon was hesitant to tell me the story for fear that I would be offended. Nothing could be further from the truth. I love knowing that my grandfather was a nefarious character because I can now claim that my every failing as a human being is not my fault, but is entirely the result of genetic pre-disposition.

 

I don’t know if the rape charge is the cause of the rift between my grandfather and his brothers or not. My father heard it had something to do with a failed bank, numerous affairs, and a crazy family matriarch that may have burned down a Catholic church.

 

I think all of this would make the great basis for a novel. The story needs to be fleshed out, but it already has sex, money, lies, betrayal, insanity, and arson. What more could you want?

 

Mmmm…I wonder if should option the movie rights quickly, or wait until the novel goes to paperback?

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE IN SIX HOURS ON AN EXPENSE ACCOUNT

 

I have to be in Washington D.C. for business this week. Our CEO heard that I was headed out east and called to ask if I wouldn’t mind just “stopping by” Philadelphia for a quick meeting on my way there. Kind of like; “would you mind stopping by the grocery store for some milk on your way to the dry cleaners?”

 

Being a person who isn’t bullied easily simply because of a person’s power and position in the company I replied, “Yes mam, I’d be more than happy to do that.”

 

So…I’m flying into Philadelphia on Sunday and the only flight that is available on short notice leaves at the butt crack of dawn and gets me into Philly about noon.

 

My meeting isn’t until Monday morning which leaves me with half a day to kill in the City of Brotherly Love. I haven’t been to Philly in a very long time, so I need your help. Those of you, who are familiar with the city, please tell me what a tourist absolutely needs to go see with only half a day to see it in.  

 

Also, please let me know what the single most expensive restaurant in the city is. If I’m going to “stop by” Philadelphia on short notice on the company’s expense account, I’m thinking I should treat about 20 homeless people to an nice steak dinner.

I OUGHTA BE IN PICTURES!

 

I recently stopped by Handicap 13’s site. Rick was talking about a website where you upload your photo and it tells you what celebrity you look like.

 

Rick put his photo in and it came back saying he looked like George Clooney, Hugh Jackman, Michael Crichton, and Matthew Perry. Not bad!

 

Needing a little ego boost, I went to the site and uploaded my photo, eager to see what dashing stars I resemble. Here are the actual results:

 

 

 

 

Whoppi Goldberg, Tim Curry, Ariel Sharon, and Faye Dunaway

 

I’m not amused.

REMEMBERING NOSTALGIA

 

I saw an article yesterday entitled “A nostalgic look at the 90’s.”  The 90’s were yesterday. I still write 1998 when I make out checks. How the hell am I supposed to be nostalgic about a decade most of my wardrobe is still from?

 

I understand that nostalgia is big business. I also understand that it’s fun to reminisce about what the world was like when you were young. I think, however, that a law should be passed that you must be older than 16 to wax philosophical about the “good old days.”

 

I ran across one of those “Do you remember when” lists on someone’s blog a couple of weeks ago. This one was apparently written by a toddler because it actually had the following entries: “Do you remember when computers had floppy drives?” and “Do you remember when people rented VHS tapes instead of DVD’s?”  I still have a rented VHS copy of the movie “Office Space” that I haven’t gotten around to taking back to the video store yet.  

 

If you talk about where you were when you heard that Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt were breaking up instead of where you were when Kennedy was assassinated, please keep your nostalgic musings to yourself; you’re making the rest of us feel old.

 

I think I’ve earned the right to be nostalgic. I entered Jr. High in the fall of 1969 and I graduated from college in the spring of 1980, so the 70’s are “my” decade. And no…I don’t think Aston Kutcher is an accurate representation of those of us who actually grew up with print polyester shirts, the Vietnam War, and Credence Clearwater Revival.

 

As a child of the 70’s, I was buying records when James Taylor first sang “Fire and Rain.” I was watching TV when Saturday Night Live first aired and Dan Ackroyd uttered the immortal words; “Jane, you ignorant slut.” I put up a “Disco Sucks” poster in my dorm room window, and I voted for Jimmy Carter for president the year I turned 18. 

 

Of course, even if I have earned the right to be nostalgic, I have to be careful about becoming one of those crotchety old men who play checkers at the Elk’s lodge and talk about the bad winter of ’23.

 

I don’t think I ever told my son that I had to walk ten miles to school in the snow in the middle of July, but I do think I told him the story about our family not owning a color TV until I was in High School each and every time he asked me to purchase something electronic for him.

 

What can I say…those were the good old days.