I've gotten some good things from writing here. Also, I've gotten some great things. Recently, I got a short story. Before that, I found a voice for my novel. And always there are the friends and conversations.

She's a right good thing, this. And I love her.

But the truth is, she's my mistress. She's a lot of fun to look at naked, but she's not where my heart lies.

So I'm making a promise to myself. And by making it here, I'm making it to the rest of you. I'm not writing here anymore until I'm done with my novel. By "done," I mean completed a working draft. If I break the promise, I'll know. And you all will know. And, worst of all, she'll know.

Here's one thing I know about mistresses: they're fickle. When I'm ready to come back, she may not want me. If that happens, I'll have to find another. And it's okay, because maybe she'll be somebody a little more fond of the kink. And the dirty, filthy talk. Somebody who doesn't wear panties. Unless, of course, they're the only thing she's wearing.

(When you're writing a novel, it helps to dream big.)

I should also mention that I have shaved my head. And it will remain in this hairless state until a final chapter is typed.

And so I will behave henceforth like a monk, but not of the ascetic variety. Because I need a heavy dose of the social in order to carry this thing off. So I hope to be seeing all of you as much as possible. And I will be available for any and all trouble-making that you may (or may not) deem appropriate. And I will do the wearing of hats and the drinking of beers. And I will smoke what is set before me.

Also, my daddy always taught me, if it's just a quickie, it ain't cheating. So I have decreed that the posting of pics and tweets doth not a true blog post make and therefore will continue to be indulged in at more or less regular intervals.

That is all.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Blog  Writing 

Then there's the whole problem of choice. Goddamit. We like to think having choices makes us happy. But we now know the great paradox about that, don't we? That the more choices we have, in general, the less happy we seem to be. Because there's the fear of making the "wrong" choice. And there's the regret that comes with making a bad one. And, of course, in a certain time and place, every choice can seem like a bad one. At root, I think is the illusion of control we like to maintain—that we have power over our lives and that our choices give us this power. That we determine our fate, in part, through the decisions we make. And shit, when you think of it like that, it's paralyzing, isn't it?

It's why I like to feel the burden of self-imposed boundaries. It's also why I like to be addicted to things. Because when you're addicted to things, when you set up boundaries for yourself, you remove the element of choice from your day. When you're operating under compulsion, you take away the risk of making the wrong decision. Because it's already been made. Long ago. And now you're just carrying through, brother. And I'm good at the carry-through.

Everybody sets up these boundaries for themselves. Some people call the construct of boundaries "religion." Some people call it "the law." Some people go green, or vegan, or organic, or sans gluten...or only the orange ones, daddy, only the orange ones. At root, though, they're all the same—huge constructs of self-imposed limits, of socially-shared burdens, which help people whittle down the decisions they have to make and at the same time feel like they're participating in something larger than their own isolated, random preference. If I believe I will be healthier by using all-natural shampoo and eating organic, free-range chickens that were raised on a farm where at least 15 percent of the diet is flies and all the people working there are left-handed, well that helps me decide which products among the hundreds out there I will pick up the next time I go to the store. And if other people share this belief with me, well that just reinforces my decision and helps me feel...right. Bonus. (Just to be clear, my shampoo ain't natural. But my chicken sure is organic and free-ranging, doncha know. I compromise on the left-handed thing.)

I listened to a great Radio Lab episode on choice recently. There was this story about a guy who, because of an injury to his brain, had lost the ability to experience emotion. And the gist of the thing was, hey, wouldn't this make him a better decision maker? If you think in terms of Star Trek, which I have to admit sometimes I do, this would be the equivalent of being a Vulcan. Without emotion, you'd be hyper-rational. And the usual logic, um...dictates...that this would allow you to be a better decision maker. Well the irony in the Radio Lab piece (and there's pretty much always an irony in Radio Lab pieces) was this: without emotion, this person actually lost the ability to make a decision at all. About anything. Because he was constantly rationalizing. Should he use the pen with the blue ink or black ink? Should he buy Grape Nuts or Wheaties...or the Honey Nut Cheerios? For a person who can only be rational, these seemingly simple decisions become impossible. And so he became paralyzed by them. It turns out we need emotion. Because in the end, some things can't be rationalized. In the end, we have to go with something.

Moses and I are grilling free-range chicken in my back yard. He spits in the grass and takes a drag on a fat cigar. Honey is next to us waiting for the drop of deliciousness that's sure to come.

"Maybe I suffer from a lack of emotion," I tell him.

"Maybe you're deciding not to choose," says Moses. "How's that working out for you?"

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Chewing  TheLine 

C and I have been in California on a ten-day road-trip up the coast. Our first stop was LA, where we participated in Frank's wedding at the posh Hotel Bel-Air. I was one of the groomsmen and had the responsibility of holding on to the rings and producing them for the bride and groom during the ceremony. I was not nervous about this task before the day of the wedding, which proved to be an oversight on my part. The wedding planner quickly set me straight. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, she'd stop me every 15 or 20 minutes and say, "Show me the rings!" And it was clear from her demeanor that if I did not have them, she would, in all probability, breath fire and unleash a swarm of locusts on my ass. So I'd dive my cold, clammy fingers into my interior jacket pocket with no small degree of panic, convinced the rings had somehow disappeared between that time and the last time she had stopped me. Because, as you may know already, when things are out of my sight, they basically cease to exist to my brain. Thankfully, the two silver bands remained in my pocket up to and during the ceremony and when the crucial moment finally came, I was able to take them out and set them carefully in the hands of the betrothed without dropping them.

As it turns out, though, I was not able to recite the ee cummings poem that I was tasked with reading without banging the microphone with the clipboard on which the poem was attached. In retrospect, I think the subsequent loud boom which echoed across the lovely green served as a nice counterbalance to the somber poem, which I otherwise read exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'd love to think I have the kind of voice that could bring a woman to tears, but it would have been horrible if one of the bridesmaids had actually started crying, or swooned, or collapsed at my eloquence. So, a little boom of the mic stand. You're welcome.

At the wedding, I reconnected with the groomsmen I had hung out with in Vegas, which was cool. While in mixed company, nobody discussed the bachelor party. Which was good. We just stared at our shoes and shuffled our feet a lot.

After the wedding, C and I went down to Laguna Beach and stayed at her sister's boyfriend's parent's cottage. It was beautiful and magical and all those other adjectives people use for locations like that. We sat on the beach and went to art galleries, and I can say with certainty that, for both of us, the earth moved. Literally. We experienced our first earthquake. A 4.7, which was not quite on the scale of wetting one's pants, but still enough of a shaker to be thankful that you're still of an age where you have reasonably good control of your bladder. We were sitting in a little Mexican restaurant off the main drag. Enjoying our second margarita on the second floor. Then there was a loud rumbling noise and things started shaking. When I say "things" I mean heavy things. Things that don't normally "shake." Like our table. Like my soul. Then there was a little heave thrown in, and just a tinsy bit of ho. As in give her the ol' heave-ho. Like the earth was feeling finicky and just decided to move the building a smidge to the left. On a whim. Just to scratch an itch. It's a strange sensation to feel that the building you're in is moving, especially given the fact that buildings should not, you know, move. The rumble and the shake went on for a good five seconds or so. We looked at the other people's faces in the small restaurant. It seemed to sink in for everybody at the same time that holy shit, this was a fucking earthquake! A few people stood up and started for the door. Then as soon as it had begun, it stopped, and the relieved waiter shouted out, "Tequila!" And we laughed uncomfortably.

For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. For a little while, anyway. (I'm not that great at maintaining "perspective.") For those who are keeping track, this is the third time I've lost a phone this year. It's still early, though. So don't cash in your bets yet. I have an old Palm Treo which still sort of works and which I have begun using as of yesterday. It doesn't have a holster so there's pretty good odds this one will end up disappearing before too long. Incidentally, if you've texted me over the past week, you may have received the ominous reply "Message Deleted." This is not due to the fact that I hate you. At least not entirely. It's mostly due to the fact that my phone has been deactivated and for some reason this is the response it sent back to C's test text last week.

Onwards ... there was a stop to visit two warm-hearted, lovely women we met four years ago in Costa Rica. They live in the Hollywood Hills, in Laurel Canyon, which has been home to many rock stars and is about as great a location as you can want. A wonderful steak meal. Even better conversation. And Chet Baker on the stereo.

Then we met up with our Dallas Buds, Jeff, Eric, and Kim at LAX and hopped in a rented van we named "TheMitch" for a drive north up the coast. The name has a back-story, but I think it's something I'll leave untold. For mystery and, you know, intrigue and shit. I will say, however, that it had nothing to do with my good friend of that same name and everything to do with a good several hours of hard drinking. Oops. I meant "thinking."

There were stops in Santa Barbara, Avila Beach (I highly recommend this hotel), San Luis Obispo (known to LA'ers as "SLO"), Hearst Castle, Nepenthe, Carmel, Monterey, and finally the San Francisco Bay area, where we spent three nights at C's parent's house. They tried to culture us with a trip to Sonoma and Napa, and I think it may have even worked. We drank plenty of wine. And some brandy. And a few ports. Oh, and an ice wine. And we brought back six bottles from Ledson and two Mondavi Moscato d'Oro, and some fancy vinegar from B.R. Cohn.

Andy and Sabrina met all of us in the city our last day and we walked around North Beach and drank and laughed and talked. And it was just good, is all—to be in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

Three hours sleep the last night. One of those morning alarms that confuses you. Like, why in holy hell is that thing going off and what is it anyway? A long flight back to the Garden State by way of LAX. Hasty pasta followed by dead sleep. Picked up Honey the next morning at her friend Chubby's house. Chubby is a dog about the same size and temperament as Honey only she's black and white, with longer hair, and a curved tail. They roughhouse and chase and smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their owners. I think Honey had about as good a time as we did. Eating cat food and all kinds of treats from the fingers of a seven-year-old girl who, for those ten days, along with Chubby, became her new best friend and let her sleep in her bed.

And Honey didn't know or care that C and I had spent ten relaxing days on the west coast, or that I had lost my phone, or that for five breath-stopping seconds we were in the deep rumble of an earthquake, or that for days after the earth moved and we along with it. And that's why, I guess, it was so good to see her.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  San_Francisco  Friends  Family 

I remember the first time I saw Star Wars in the theater. I was maybe five or six, and I had that wonderful feeling of being completely lost in a movie, like the world I was familiar with had just melted away and, in its place, there had sprung up this whole other realm where people used lightsabers, and moved things with their minds. And I was not just a spectator of that world. I was part of it. I was convinced I had the force. (Still am, really.) And I think I had a crush on Princess Leia. (Still do, really.) And for the moments I watched that movie, I actually lived in that place. For real.

I'm sure there are many, many thirty-something boys (and probably a good many girls, as well) who had the same experience. Star Wars really set the bar for sci-fi/action/adventure movies for us. And I'm going to go ahead and make a bold assertion: despite all the advances in technology and special effects, there has been very little to live up to that bar since. These types of movies just don't give me that same feeling of complete immersion. Maybe The Matrix is one exception. But that's all that comes to mind.

I usually blame myself for this, more than the movie. I assume it has to do with my age, and the fact that I'm probably just more jaded about cinema. But thankfully, this past Wednesday night, the new Star Trek movie proved me wrong. Because it succeeded in making me feel six years old again. And I'm going to tell you this: it wasn't because of the special effects, though they were pretty dang special...and "effective." (I really liked the sound of the ships going to warp, for instance. This was Star Trek on steroids. But it felt good, and not overdone.) The reason I was able to get lost in this movie was because it did what Star Wars did so well back in 1977, and still does well today—it told a story. And it brought to life compelling characters. That's what it's all about, really. And it's sad and sort of disappointing that you don't see it so much anymore.

The new Star Trek movie is first and foremost about storytelling. It doesn't rely on gimmicks. The special effects enhance the movie without being the movie. It's just some good sci-fi drama. Smart. Funny. Character-driven. It even reminded me of that original Star Wars in many ways. It had a similar "raw" feel to it, which is one of the reasons I suppose I've always been more of a Star Wars fan than Star Trek.

There's been a lot of talk about how die-hard trekkies may not like this movie because of the way it's been billed as "not your father's Star Trek." I don't know. I can't really speak for die-hard trekkies, because I'm not one. I didn't start watching Star Trek until Voyager and I still have no interest in watching or catching up on older series. Thankfully, I have a wife who can get me up to speed on the pertinent historical points of the Star Trek franchise. But I can say that it would be a shame to miss this movie in the theater out of some ideological protest. Director J.J. Abrams and writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman have done a great job of re-inventing the story line and characters in a way that make them seem entirely plausible (in Star Trek context, that is). They've lifted the characters out from under the weight of past Star Trek movies and TV episodes and have made them seem more interesting and complicated (credit due to the actors, too, of course). More importantly, they have done the seemingly impossible task of preserving the precious Star Trek story-line that existed before, while at the same time creating an entirely new one. This should make everybody happy (but probably won't.)

I'm usually disappointed with today's sci-fi/action/adventure movies. They're often heavy on action and light on plot and character development and the whole experience is just entirely...forgettable. I realize this makes me sound like an old man. And if that doesn't, this will: I usually fall asleep during most of the action movies I watch these days. Admittedly, this might indeed have something to do with my age, but I like to think it has more to do with over-stimulation of the senses and under-stimulation of the brain. I prefer an even stimulation of both.

I'm happy to report that I did not fall asleep during Star Trek. I did, however, forget I was sitting in a movie theater, which doesn't happen very much anymore. It made me feel like a kid again. And it's nice to know that there are still things that can do that. Afterwards, it seemed way too adult to be sipping a Dewars at the premiere "After Party" with C. What this really called for was ice cream.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Movies  Reviews 

Most of the time, Honey does not eat shit. She will always stay clear of her own, and even though she is usually curious about the excreta of other dogs, she generally refrains from putting any of it in her mouth. I'm not sure how to properly explain my relief about this. Pride? I'm proud she doesn't eat dog shit? Normally, you'd be proud of the things your dog does well. Like "roll over" or "stay." It's a feeling built upon affirmation of a job well done, not on not doing the thing that never, ever—no really, never—should be done in the first place. You should not have to feel pride when the animal you love and care for—and who, incidentally, licks your ears lovingly when you're driving in the truck together—does not eat dookie.

Sometimes though, in moments of weakness I suppose, Honey will rub her face and neck in the feces of other dogs, as she did this morning while we were walking in the park near my house. A beautiful, wet morning. A light mist falling. Hardly any people around. Just the green grass growing. And the pond, still and somber. So peaceful. One minute we're standing there, watching the ducks float gently across the water. The next, she's on the ground, rubbing her neck in poop. So unexpected. So very wrong and upsetting.

And how to express the deep sense of revulsion and horror I feel at moments like this? Disappointment? I'm disappointed in you, Honey, for rubbing your neck in dog feces. Oh, but it's so much more than that, really. Confusion? I'm deeply confused, befuddled even, as to why you would do this neck-rubbing-in-shit business. This gets to the crux of it, I suppose, but lacks that flash of anger that accompanies it. Piqued? Irked? Vexed? Almost there.

Enraged—ah, this might be what I'm looking for. Especially when, later, after removing her collar, I end up with the coffee-colored caca on my hand. Nothing to wipe it on. And still needing to drive home. Yes, rage comes very close to what I felt at that moment. But I'm so rarely enraged by anything, really. And I'd hate to be guilty of exaggeration or overstating the truth.

Sometimes it's so difficult expressing my emotions.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Honey 

The last time I saw Frank was a little over 13 years ago on the Vegas strip. Caesars Palace was the exact location, I believe. Or maybe it was Treasure Island. The details are fuzzy. Either way, it's fitting that our next meet-up occurred at nearly the exact same coordinates, only a few Vegas-blocks north on a spot of land which, back then, had been the grounds of the Desert Inn, but today is home to the Wynn/Encore towers.

Frank was one of my closest friends in college. We shared an apartment for two years. We had adventures. We made stories. Some of them we struggle to remember now. Others we try hard to forget. After graduation, Frank went to LA to work in the movie business. I spent the summer in DC interning at the Kennedy Center. By early fall, I still had no idea what I was going to do next. So instead of coming to terms with this reality, I did what any self-respecting escape artist with a penchant for the romantic would do: I took a cross-country road trip, sleeping in the bed of my truck, and charging the entire thing to my one-and-only credit card, on which some crazy bastard at one of our well-run banking institutions had recently given me a $10,000 spending limit.

So after travels through the Smokies and Texas, and an extended stay in New Mexico and The Grand Canyon, I turned up in Vegas with a German hitchhiker in tow. And Frank and I met up for a day of gambling (with limited funds) and dinner at the cheapest buffet we could find on the strip. Frank suggested I keep going on to LA and hang out at his place for a bit, and I wish I had done that. Because then it would have been a true "coast to coast" trip. And who knows what that fork in the road might have brought. I might have wound up with a career in porn and a nickname like "Ramrod." But I had already been traveling for about three or four weeks by that point, and the credit card was filling up fast, and I was starting to think maybe I should get back to my "real" life, whatever that was going to be. Plus, and I'm not proud to admit this, I think there might have been a girl on my mind. Christ. Isn't there always?

So we hung out for the day and then he went back to LA and I started my long trek back to DC, heading north on 15 through Utah and taking 70 through Colorado and the great flat farm country of Kansas. There's no way I would have believed you if you had told me I wouldn't see Frank again for another thirteen years.

We both have some gray hairs now, though I have quite a few more of them than Frank. And we dress nicer than we used to, mainly because we have women in our lives who are good at telling us what looks good on us. (Not plaid, it turns out.) But other than that, we are exactly the same. And it was really, really cool to hang out with him and his other friends this weekend for his bachelor party. I laughed harder this weekend than I have in a long time. It's a horrible cliche to say, but even though I hadn't seen Frank in 13 years, it felt like it was just yesterday. I think one reason people tend to express it this way is that they find there just isn't that need to "catch up." I mean, even though Frank and I chatted some about our lives and what had been going on, that wasn't what was important. Which isn't to say I don't care about those things, it's just that my friendship with him doesn't depend on "facts." It was just cool to hang out, drink, share some stories, exchange wisecracks, and look at women. (Don't worry Kelley, only I looked at women. Frank was a saint.)

CS Lewis nailed it when he wrote: "Friendship...is uninquisitive. You become a man's friend without knowing or caring whether he is married or single or how he earns his living. What have all these "unconcerning things, matters of fact" to do with the real question, Do you see the same truth?" I guess Frank and I see the "same truth," though I don't know if I would necessarily express it that way. I'm uncomfortable with the word "truth" and other forms of "absolutism," so I feel better calling it a "more-or-less shared philosophy." And an appreciation for the same jokes.

Also, I have to add that one of the great things that happens when one of my good friends gets married is I end up meeting a bunch of other people who I also really like. Because close friends of close friends have a way of getting along.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we were inebriated the entire weekend and that we started things off at a titty bar. That's some truth I can feel comfortable with.


(If you're interested, there are pics here.)

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Vegas  Friends 

As it turns out, I have a fear of drawers. God. It's so humiliating. I never thought it would come to this. I really didn't. But I should explain, so you don't get the wrong idea. Let's see...how to...Ah! Okay: When Honey is standing next to an open door and her tail brushes against it and it moves ever so slightly, she jumps about three feet out of her skin and assumes a stance like she's bracing for impact of a nuclear explosion. Ears back, tail between her legs. She doesn't pee, but it's not from lack of want. To her, it must seem that the door has suddenly taken life and begun to move on it's own accord, confirming her deep suspicion that inanimate objects, like her rope-toy for instance, are actually malevolent, supernatural life forms, just waiting to pray upon her, which is why she must take them down. Closet door movement, or kitchen stove door movement, or sliding freezer drawer movement, these all scare the bejeezus out of her. And she's chock full of bejeezus, man.

So I want to make clear, first of all, that my fear of drawers is NOT this kind of fear. They don't cause me to jump in fright. And I lose very little in the way of bejeezus when I see them. However, like Honey's fear, the root cause of my drawer phobia may indeed have something to do with a general uneasiness when it comes to magic and all things supernatural. Because the thing I can't get over is this: once I put something in a drawer or a file cabinet, that item essentially disappears. Not just from sight. But from existence.

I learned from an article I read in the NY Times recently that I'm the type of person who likes to have every document and paper within easy reach, and I don't like using file folders because "out of sight" is indeed "out of mind." It's why everything I'm working on tends to be out in plain view, either on my desk or on the floor around me. This way I can always see it.

On some level, I guess I've always known this about myself—that I need to be able to see things in order to remember they are there. I suppose it's why I've always resisted filing things in any sort of traditional way. The problem has to do with finding the document, or paper, or whatever it is, ever again. I should say, though, that some things are fine to file. Bills, for instance. I don't want to be reminded that bills exist. So putting old bills in a file cabinet is a perfect solution for them. Moreover, figuring out what to call the folder is pretty easy: "Credit Cards, 2008," or "Utilities, 2007" or "Mayonnaise Expenditures, 2004-2006," (those were wild years.)

Once you've labeled the folders, then you just stick those suckers in the file cabinet in some random way and even though you have no idea exactly where in the drawer the folder is, you're fairly sure it's in there and all you've got to do is be able to read the tabs you've marked in order to find it again...IF you ever need to find it again, which hopefully you won't.

But what about the stuff that doesn't lend itself to easy categorization? Where should I put the great New York Traffic Ticket of 2009, for instance? In a folder called "Traffic Tickets," perhaps? But does it really need to have it's own folder? Maybe I should stick it in the car maintenance folder. The car loan folder? The insurance folder, since this is where it will have the biggest impact? I'm usually overwhelmed by the choices at this point and I just opt for someplace on my desk.

You see? It's the fear, baby. The fear of drawers. The fear of putting things away and never finding them again.

Several years ago, I started using a "box" system. It's similar to the system the professional organizer advocates in the article I link to above. Which makes me feel very smart for having come up with it on my own, and like maybe I could make a career out of this. Or maybe not. In any case, my box system has allowed me to have catch-all bins where I can toss things without committing myself too deeply to a specific category. I labeled the four original bins "Do," "Done," "Keep," and "Biz." And recently I added two others: "Receipts" and "Medical." In general, anything that isn't easily fileable will fall into one of these conceptual categories. And even if my brain switches on itself and decides that a different category makes better sense for a particular item after I've already put it in one of the other boxes, there's still only six boxes to choose from and I at least know it's in one of them.

You might say—and you might be right—that this really amounts to the same thing as tucking it inside a file folder and sticking it in a drawer. But I think the difference is that the boxes are right there in front of me at all times. I can SEE them. And the labels are there staring back at me. There's comfort in that. And I can easily take a box down and rifle through it during moments of sheer panic, which is nice. And then when I'm done, I can just throw everything back in it and pretend the whole episode never happened.

Believe me, it's so much simpler this way.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Lifehack  Ho_Hum  Finances 

I had written down some things I wanted to talk about the next time we met. I had written them on a piece of paper, the kind you get from one of those glue-bound, square scratch pads. But not the kind that are sticky underneath, like post-its. Just simple paper. Three inches by three inches. And maybe three inches high, at least to start off. You know the kind of pad I'm talking about. They usually have some sort of corporate logo on them. But you don't know whose it is. Because you've forgotten how you've come into possession of the pad in the first place. Or why.

And none of this actually matters, anyway.

When I asked the girl at the counter for something to write on, she looked all around her, totally ignoring one of those pads I'm talking about, which was right there in front of her. I had to point at it. Then she made a face like Of course! and tore off the top piece from the pad and gave it to me. Funny how we overlook these ubiquitous pads, especially when we're looking for that one thing that can do exactly what they do so perfectly: provide a temporary blank slate to make possible the quick unleashing of an idea or the jotting of a bit of information.

And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense. So I could explain how and why. And that sometimes this shit scares me. I even numbered them...1, 2, 3.

But I lost the paper. And I've forgotten the three things. Like most of the stuff I care deeply about. Or couldn't give a shit about.

"And isn't that funny?" I say. "I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Maybe there is no difference," says Moses. "Why don't you tell her that."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  TheLine 

At the dog park in the Verdun neighborhood of Montreal, C and I watch Honey play with another crazy Pit. Tongues are out. Panting sounds. It's below freezing in April and my feet are cold and the Quebecois Pit can jump as high as my head. Honey keeps running over to me to ask me why all the dogs there are "talking funny." I say it's not polite to say things like that. I say just roll with it.

We chat with some regulars. An old lady with a deep voice tinged with too many cigarettes and a gruff Quebecois accent tells us that pretty soon a few other dogs will come and then it's time for all the others to leave. This doesn't really make sense to us, but it seems of great importance to the woman and we nod our heads.

The drive up had been rocky. We were hungry. Frazzled. We kept making stops for things. A New York trooper had given C a ticket in a stretch of highway that for no apparent reason had become a 55-mile an hour zone. And we had forgotten some things. And we were just tired.

But we had remembered quite a few other things. And that was good. And at the border, the customs agent smiled at us and wished us well. And now there was maple syrup in our stomachs, and tortiere, and all kinds of other food and beer and wine. And Honey enjoying a good romp around the muddy field, still saturated from melted snow.

And the worries we brought with us too melted, but still formed pools on the surface making it clear to us that a longer break was needed.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Weekend  Travel 

Hi. I am a brand.

On occasion, I write funny things.

Other times, I write things so I don't cry.

I will occasionally be honest.

I will occasionally lie.

And yet, I will never be insincere or falsely sentimental. (Though you may disagree.)

I will never write poetry, because I think poetry is a sham.

Mainly, though...I am just a brand.

Hello.

link to this | comments (12) | File:  Ho_Hum  Chewing  Blog