Monthly Archives: May 2011

Tug. Remix.

Dogs are funny people.

They’re endlessly evolving while never quite maturing into anything. It’s kinda like living with little kids that never grow up.

They just seem to spark new shit for whatever unknown reason.

So it shouldn’t have been surprising the other night when I was grinding coffee beans for Miss Carols’ morning coffee and Tug started howling.

I mean like a wolf howling at the moon kinda howling.

I listened, grinning for a coupla minutes before shutting it down and saying-

You’re a fucking retard.

Tug panted and grinned and Cutter looked around nervously not understanding.

What is up with that? I said.

If dogs could shrug, Tug shrugged and said- I was just singing along.

You’re kiddin’ me, right? I said- tell me you’re kidding me.

Nah, he said, his tail starting to wag. Hit that button again, I like it. It grooves my bones, he said.

And I did.

And he did.

Book me Danno.

I went into a bookstore the other day. (I know, who goes into THOSE anymore? what IS the matter with me?)

Books, baby.

Let’s us touch the crucible. Let’s us look longingly into the gilt.

‘Cause ya know that’s what we all of us really want and need and yearn for with fibers of our being we’re not even sure we have and would stake the heads of our enemies on. Right?

Books.

The lovely pages.

We, the blogger nation,  somehow yearn for pages of print, how weird is that?

We write our singular treatises expunging nothing but angst into the ether of the internet- pounding out the pithy- and then we curl up around a dog-eared sun-warmed shitty paperback.

And looooooong for it.

Why is that?

How is it that the whole world’s digital onslaught of ones and zeros hasn’t somehow coldly killed the lowly book? Why is it that  a books’ clean and newly printed pages beckon us like cigarettes in a freshly opened pack?

Hmmmmmm.

Fuck if I know, ’cause, well, shit, honestly, I’m not that smart?

But I think of these things and they make me wonder.

Maybe we clutch.

Thematic. Maybe?

So.

I think we’re maybe getting closer to something resembling the possiblities of what could pass for in somebody else’s dream sequence as a dream home.

For me right now, though, it’s a wickedly snarling thing run to trail wrapped up in a nightmare spiked with vodka and set on fire.

Hooboy, ain’t that the fun shit you tuned in for?

I’m sorry.

Let me rephrase all that.

The Little House of Horrors is a full metal jacketed round boring into my forehead if I don’t do something and soon.

Whew. Is that better? No?

I think it’s one of THOSE nights, maybe then.

*total horizontal hand wag*

Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty sure once it’s done and it’s the little house of the best times and parties ever in the history of everybody we’ve ever known we’ll wonder why we didn’t build it and drink and eat like conquering heroes sooner.

I know these things. But, dude, right now? It’s a pestilence, a scratchy patch on my face that festers annoyingly. Honest.

Anyway.

At least Miss Carol and me picked out the stanchions whose lonely light will theme our Little House of Horrors.

Ever since South Beach I’ve been mainlined to the idea of stanchions dimly lit.

And Miss Carol and me finally found some we both like. We’d been thinking The Little House of Horrors is gonna end up being slightly kinda hispanic and seductively recluse so we’d wanted to find something, you know, seductively reclusive? And mexican?

And we did. And a theme was born.

Think Zorro in a thong.

Pause.

You know how when you’re moving between one thing and the other thinking you know where you’re headed, but then, for whatever reason, shit changes and you stop for a second and gaze around and wonder afresh whichaways you were actually going?

I feel like that’s my life right now.

I wish this post was better, I wish I was a better person, but I’m not and it isn’t.

Sorry.

I suck.

I’m a little bit confused right now.

Tug.

Tug’s different.

He was last of the litter, left lonely in the corner of a plywood box wondering where all his brothers and sisters had got to. He’s a dog of few words.

So I listen to him more than Cutter- ’cause Cutter’s prattle can go on and on and on, ad nauseum. I mean really, that little fucker can talk a blue streak about nothing. You know, like a chick.

Tug came in tonight and stood looking up at me and said in his deeply baritone Darth Vader voice- you fucked up.

What? Why? I said.

THE RAPTURE is on the 21st NOT the 12th like you said, he said, darkly ominous. Read the papers dumbfuck, he said.

No wait, I chirped- the Christians can’t decide if THE RAPTURE is the 12th or the 21st or, if ever, so I was just putting shit out there.

Hmmpf, Tug said and sat down so he could lick his balls. He was done. He’s like that.

So.

Is Saturday the beginning of the end of the world or what?

According to the erudite prediction of an 89 year old retired civil engineer from Oakland CA who founded Family Radio Worldwide, the time window is noon to three pm.

I’m thinkin’ hold on tight baby, and leave the dirty dishes in the sink?

Right?

Steps.

Finally.

SOMEthing is done.

I know it’s only a small cog in a much bigger wheel, a tiny part of the larger whole, but it’s done and I never have to work on it again.

By it, I mean the outside stairs. The deck isn’t done and the railings aren’t installed but the steps themselves are DONE, baby.

Woo-Hoo. The Little House of Horrors has steps. No more humping shit up a ladder.

I rest my weary head in my exhausted arms and weep.

Until Phabulous Phil and his crew arrive to install the front door and the windows.

As he’s walking up my newly finished, slightly cherished stairs, he checks the tread overhang with a tape measure he’s carrying.

Inspector Dickhead’s gonna ping you on the treads he says.

WTF? Why?

You gotta have 3/4″ overhang and you only have 5/8″. Sorry dude he says and keeps going up to the stairs.

I stare up at what my life has become for a long, long, time.

Eff number 9.

So like it’s any surprise- Miss Carol and me didn’t win the lottery.

Go figure.

I tried, I bet our dollar, and hoped with all of my heart that we’d be swimming in money, treading in the greenbacks that’d drown us with all the stuff we’d be buying.

But nope, it was not to be.

When I finally remembered to check the numbers on Sunday I was amazed and saddened to find that my ticket did not match ANY of the winning numbers.

Nada. Zip. Zero. I mean NONE.

It was like my ticket was in sanskrit or something, which really surprised me, given all the karmic and numeric certainty I’d convinced myself of, but, hey, that’s me and what I do to myself.

Whatever.

People like Miss Carol and me don’t win lotteries. And except for the money flow spigot staying in the OFF position, I’m fine with that.

‘Cause maybe we’re lucky in other ways.