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?


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?


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?


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.


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.


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.


I suck.

I’m a little bit confused right now.


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.


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?




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.


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.

Number 9.

In a different lifetime I used to have to drive a LOT for my job- going to meetings, checking on installation crews, picking up and delivering materials, etc.

Being on the road so much, I found myself unconsciously, or maybe subconsciously, “reducing” the numbers on the license plates of cars in front of me. By “reducing” I mean that I’d add up all the numbers on the plate and then add the subsequent digits together until I arrived at a single digit for that car’s plate.

Why’d I do this? I have no idea. But I did it anyway. And I know this all sounds like the ramblings of a mind running on stripped gears but hang with me just a little bit longer. OK?

Anyway. What I noticed early on was the significance of the number 9. Any combination of numbers adding up to a number divisible by 9 always “reduced” to a 9.

Fascinating, right?

*crickets chirping*

So fast forward to today. I’d stopped at a convenience store to pick up a bottle of water when I noticed it cost $.99 (9+9=18 which reduces to 9). While I was in line I saw that the MegaMillions jackpot was at 27 million (2+7, get it?) and the drawing was scheduled for today, Friday the 13th (which has nothing to do with the number 9, but has everything to do with my mom’s birthday which, since she was born on a Friday the 13th meant I was eventually born, makes Friday the 13th a very lucky day for me).

*doink doink* anybody still out there?

I never play the lottery. The odds are just too astronomically ridiculous to make it a justifiable waste of a dollar.

But I was getting excited.

So when it was my turn to pay, I put my bottled water and my credit card on the counter and asked for a MegaMillions ticket. The clerk looked at my credit card like it’d grown hair or maybe pus and told me I’d have to buy the ticket with cash. I checked my wallet and pants pockets and go figure? No cash. Which isn’t really that strange considering I very rarely carry any money with me. To easy to spend.

I took my water and left.

I was driving to the bank to meet Miss Carol ’cause we needed to get some papers notarized and I just couldn’t get the seeming significance of the numbers out of my head. I was feeling lucky. When we were done and were walking out to the parking lot, I asked Miss Carol if she had any cash and told her the whole story about the convenience store and the number 9 and how we could really use $27 million.

She gave me one of those pained, patient looks she’s been giving me a lot lately and found $11 in her purse and handed it over. She kissed me and told me to be careful and be sure to win the $27 million ’cause we’d need it for my treatments. And then she patted my arm and gave me one of those patient looks again.

That’s my Miss Carol. Always the kidder.

So anyway, I left, whistling my millionaires tune (which sounded a lot like Pink for some reason) and headed to my next job. While I drove I wondered where I should purchase my winning ticket. Not back at the convenience store. I figured it was a bad mojo sign that I hadn’t been able to buy a ticket there earlier. As I drove, I argued with myself. On the one hand I thought, it shouldn’t make any difference- pre-ordained fate will always find you. But, then again, I thought, what if maybe pre-ordained fate needs a little help from time to time?

*helloooo is anybody still awake?*

I was churning through these thoughts when I pulled into a gas station to get more diesel for the ever-thirsty MR.GREENE. It was a prepay place so I went in and gave my credit card to the attendant to hold hostage while I pumped. She thanked me and told me she’d turn on pump number 9. I paused and hesitated and then went out.

When I was walking out to MR.GREENE. I noticed, not for the first time, that my tag numbers add up to the number 9. Hmmmm. While I was pumping I was kinda daydreaming when I saw the speed limit signs on the road in front of me-45 mph (4+5?). Hmmmm. Just then the pump clicked off and as I put the nozzle back I glanced up at the sale amount- $68.58 (14+13=27=9 baby) HMMMMMM.

I knew I’d found my place.

So after I paid for MR.GREENE.‘s thirsty diesel habit, I smoothed out my lonely crumpled dollar bill and asked for a MegaMillion ticket, my voice cracking with nervousness and excitement. And guess what the last number on my winning ticket is- 18.

I’m so excited I can barely stand it.

Doomsday. Again.

Haven’t we been here before?

According to some religious zealots- Christian, this time- the endtimes are nigh, and by nigh, I mean, like, this MONTH. Oh, wait, I’m sorry, let me check my watch; I mean, like this WEEK.

Oops. I mean, holy crap dude, like, tomorrow?

Shit. er, umm, I mean, shoot. I’m not ready for this- I mean, do you dress up for rapture? What’re you supposed to do? How’re you supposed to act?

If you, like me, think that all religion is silly nonsense, what’re your chances?

Do you just hold on tight? Are we totally fucked?

I certainly have no idea but, the upbeat is that, if you google The End of the World you’ll find that the rapturous Christians are either so extremely excited about their upcoming rapture that they’re messy with the date or possibly just dyslexic, ’cause it seems they can’t decide if the rapture is gonna happen tomorrow or maybe on the 21st.

12 or 21. 21 or 12. Silly digits.

So given its last minute direness, what’ya do? Do you hunker down for the end-of-it, whatever that is, or do you just keep stroking along? Or, caught by the surprise of Armageddon, do you rush out to WalMart and buy a bunch of shit and build up a mountain of canned food and sacks of dog food to await the apocalyptic lurch?

I honestly don’t think anything’s gonna happen, but to be on the safe side I figured I needed to flip ahead on my Playboy calendar and check out all the future months I might end up missing.

You know, just in case.

*brief pause *

Wow. OK. It’s a toss up between Miss August and Miss December but I think I’m going with the cuteness that is Miss August.


I swore I wasn’t going to comment on this, but then I did.

I’d written a 400 word post about Osama’s double tap and when I went to save it WordPress kicked me out and erased it.


So let me try again.

I was trying to be objective. Trying to understand the epiphanies.

‘Cause check it.

We’re being asked to believe that a lanky long drink of water, huddled with two 14″ portable TV’s that your grandmother would clutch to her drooping bosom claiming they’re OK, a digital decoder “probably tuned to Al Jazeera via Pakistani satellite network”, a 17″ color computer monitor (read laptop), a Sharp 12 digit calculator with printer (the horrors), a remote control (probably so he wouldn’t have to scramble the coupla feet to change the channels on his shitty TV), and a bolster pillow somehow brought the greatest nation on earth to it’s knees?

Long, deep, breath.

Are you telling me I have to undergo a strip search when I fly to Atlanta because Mr. Lanky’s watching bad TV with rabbit ears? That my whole world has changed and a whole new layer of government bullshit has been added to protect me from a guy with a Sharp 12 digit calculator and a bolster pillow?

You’re kiddin’ me, right?

What is it we’re being fed here? Now that he’s dead and gone can we get back to normal?

Hope wanes.