The writing workshop I'm taking at NYU is going really well. For the first time, I've shown a section of the novel I'm working on to somebody other than myself. And that's been constructive, because myself tends to nit-pick relentlessly and is, overall, a huge asshole. So I've appreciated getting some perspectives that are more objective and less ... dickish. It's given me a good feel for what's working in the thing and what isn't, and it's really helped me zero in on the important plot bits. My prof is great, too. I have to say, he's very good at being positive while pointing out things that are problematic in your story or with your prose. I've been involved in several workshops over the years and I know that this is a real skill that not every professor has.

Anyway, recently the prof asked us to bring to class a writing sample (somebody else's work) that we find "beautiful" or "dangerous." My first thought was: beautiful OR dangerous? Isn't that redundant? I thought better than to correct him. It's been a while since college, but I seem to recall that correcting the prof never goes over well.

I like the idea that something dangerous can be beautiful and it usually turns out this way in artwork that speaks to me. In writing, for instance, I like authors such as Martin Amis, Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway. To me, these are all writers whose prose has a degree of danger to it, but at the same time is beautiful to read. In film, one of my favorite movies is Pulp Fiction, which I think is one of the great examples of danger and beauty for the risks it takes both stylistically and with plot. My favorite painters are the abstract expressionists from the 50s: Rothko, Motherwell, Pollock, artists who, as I think art critic Clement Greenberg used to say, "did battle" with the canvas. The movement was about the artist as hero, somebody who took risks, delving into the sub-conscious, the imagination, the mythic. Somebody who searched for "truths" through their art and in doing so, became a sort of "existential matador." (Again, I think this was Greenberg's phrase, but I can't find the quote). In music, I'm a huge fan of 50s and 60s jazz, which to me is about these same ideas of "artist as hero." The whole idea of improvisation and play in art gets to the root of a beauty that is mixed with a sort of inherent danger as the artist engages in an exploration of the unknown and a sort of "competition" with the other musicians.

Interestingly, I should point out, that the beauty/danger rule doesn't necessarily apply to things that aren't art. For instance, I was lucky enough to receive a tick bite over the weekend. As it turns out, tick bites are dangerous, but there's really not much beauty in them. All I've discovered so far is annoyance, along with a general anxiety about bacteria and Lyme's disease. I don't recommend them. Now, a photo of my tick bite, taken at a certain angle and with the right lighting ... that might be beautiful and dangerous. I'm just not sure if I'm talented enough as a photographer to pull that off.

Anyway, back to the assignment ... after I figured out what my prof meant (translation: bring something to class that is fucking brilliant), I knew exactly what it would be, and it should come as no surprise to anybody reading this blog: the first couple of paragraphs of chapter one of London Fields.

I thought it would be fun to post the passage here, though I do feel a little weird about it. First of all, even though I named this site after one of the main characters from the same book from which the passage is taken, this isn't a "fan site" by any means and I don't want it to be. So maybe posting a long passage from the book would be awkward or a conflict of interest. This could be the case, or I could just be over-thinking it. I decided it was probably the latter. Secondly, it's a long passage, and I don't want to piss off any attorneys out there that might be concerned about copyrights. But you can also read the full passage (and more) here if you want so it's not like this is the only place you can find it online. And I'm not making any financial gain from it, so it's hard to get mad at me over it, right? I finally decided to just just post it and stop thinking about it. Here you go:


I love this passage. It's dark, and funny, and it feels dangerous—and therefore beautiful. Stuff like this is the reason I want to write. Parts of it read like a poem to me. Of course, this is something that's totally subjective, one of those things I think you either feel and love or you don't. When I read this, I catch glimpses of God. When you read it, you might just see words on a page. I accept that. It's why some of you may scroll through this post, bored as shit, while some of you may read it all the way through (still bored, mind you, but perversely interested in exercises of self-torture). It's my taste, and you don't have to agree with me on its quality or correctness. (It's just that if you happen to disagree, you're clearly wrong. And that's okay—it's okay to be wrong.)

So what about you, then? If you made it this far, is there something you find beautiful and dangerous. Or something that is beautiful to you because it's dangerous?

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Writing  Art 

"What is it? Do I stink?"

"Kinda like dog."

"Cool. Honey and I have bonded in smell."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"The thing is, Baby...she doesn't smell like you. It's not a two-way street."

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

One way to relax after a Sunday afternoon herding leaves is to have a couple of beers and sit on the couch with your hand under your belt and watch some football and feel good and fine and strong—and downright brawny, damnit, like the guy on the paper towel rolls—for having worked hard and for having cuts on your hands and dirt under your nails and an easy sort of pain in your muscles. Another way is to swallow two indomethacin and four tylenol and lay flat on your back feeling anything but easy, anything but strong, and cursing your tendency to overdo it and waiting for your kidneys to give out from all the pills. Yesterday, I chose the latter option. I still got in that football thing, though, watching the Giants come back against the Eagles as I faded in and out of consciousness. But it weren't fun. And I didn't feel strong ... or anything resembling "brawny."

The AS has been flaring for the last week, I think due to the weird weather, and I haven't been listening to him. Instead, I've been swallowing extra pills and deliberately taunting him with all sorts of names. And I could feel his temper getting hot, but I kept at it. And yesterday, just as I was wrapping up for the evening he hauled back and punished me something good for not taking him seriously, the bastard.

I had started out the afternoon with some roof climbing and gutter cleaning, then moved on to some pruning. Then I blew out the beds and raked the grass in the back yard, rounding the leaves into piles and then transferring them to front curb in batches using a big rubber trash can. And all the while I grunted and strutted and did a great deal of chest thumping and I think while I was on the roof I may have even let out a Tarzan-like howl. And all was good; or rather, okay. I was just teetering on the edge of something, but it was mild and I laughed at it and I said, Is that all you have for me, pussy!

And then I decided to play a game of tug-o-war with Honey. And holy crap she's gotten strong, and so as I bent over and pulled at the deflated soccer ball and started to lift her up off the ground, doing that dance that we do. And she did one of her crazy, possessed head-jerking-side-to-side things, which caused my body to twist in a direction it wasn't prepared to go, and I heard it quietly object with a little "whoopsie-daisy" (I hate when my body sounds like Hugh Grant in Knotting Hill) and then—then, I believed. And I stopped, because I knew I had about ten minutes to get someplace warm where I could collapse.

The rest of the night was all about holding on to countertops and railings to stay upright and cat stretches on my hands and knees in the hot, hot shower. And curses in my sleep every time I had to roll over. And this morning I walked Honey at the pace of an 85-year-old man and I squatted to pick things up by holding desperately on to my knees and I implored God, Please, please, God...let me get back up. Don't let my neighbors find me lying in the street. God understands that when he hears from me, most likely my back is shattered. And I think now he just laughs at me for being his rainy-day friend.

And I've been down this road before. And I've bored you with the details of the aftermath. And I kind of hate having you see me like this. So I'll stop now. Otherwise, I'll be tempted to go on with the whine. And besides, I think it's time for another hot shower.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Weekend  Oogah  Lawn  Ho_Hum  AS 

Late at night, when I'm in my office and only the halogen arm lamp above me is on, Honey will sometimes catch a glimpse of my reflection in the sliding glass doors and she'll start barking her deep burglar-alarm bark. I'll assure her that it's only me, but she keeps at it, the hair standing up on her back, until I can finally snap her attention away from the reflection and show her that look, I'm right here, Honey. And she will look at me, pupils big and dark, her brow creased with worry. Then she'll look back at the night glass casting my reflection. Then back at me. And she will huff and sigh and make this agitated noise, almost like speaking and almost like howling. And she will come over to me and nudge me with her nose and put her paw on my leg and wag her tail. Like she is so goddamned happy. So relieved that I'm there. Because, holy crap Daddy-O, did you see that? There was somebody who looked just like you outside. And that was some scary shit, man.

The funny thing is she makes this mistake again and again. Because she doesn't get that it's an illusion—that I'm the thing she's seeing out there. And the fact that she gets so upset, and then so visibly relieved when she sees me ... it kind of cracks me up. Because otherwise she's a smart dog. She can sit and lie down and roll over. She can lift her front paw in the air when she's prompted to "wave." She knows how to fetch her leash from the doorknob when it's time for a walk. But the whole reflection thing, it just escapes her every time.

And I love that about her. And I get it. I do. Because we all have those things that we just don't grasp. We all have those mistakes we make, over and over.


Despite what you may have heard, I am not a dog. I walk upright. I understand the truth about mirrors. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy. And I can do any number of tricks. But I've got these mistakes I keep making. I've made them as long as I can remember, and I've yet to learn the trick of how to stop. And actually, if I'm going to be honest, I don't really want to. Because sometimes I like to make them. Sometimes, I set out to make them—on purpose.

And I used to get angry at myself about this. I used to huff and howl and scream at my reflection. But all that did was make me go hoarse. And so now, more and more, I just laugh. And I drink to forget. And I resolve to myself that I will do it again as soon as I can. Because the mistakes define me, brother. The trick is learning to deal with the consequences. And I guess that's the whole point. And I guess I kind of like that.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Chewing 

Saturday morning, up early. Some hurried grits. A vitamin and a pain killer. This is the way things start. Then C and Honey took me to Newark Penn, where I caught the Northeast Regional to Union Station and transferred to the Metro Red toward Glenmont. Much on the docket. Some minor apartment fixes on order. And some holy (and unholy) communing with friends and family. I was ready.

It began with a late afternoon feast of sauce served atop a mound of pasta, meatballs, and spicy sausage. (The heavier bits were just filler. Like any true Italian family, we were really only there for the red stuff.)

Then, belly full, and my sense of what was right and good in the world renewed, I boarded a metro car at Glenmont and took it south to somewhere in the DC diamond to play ball with this blond blogger who's all the rage down there. She told me she got held up returning some shoes at Neimens, but I suspected "returning shoes" was actually code for "a quickie." And so I let myself into her place and was greeted by a fur coat on a white leather couch. And man oh man, the most intoxicating velvety scent, like flowers and vanilla and grapefruit ... only infused with sugary pornographic undertones. So I read Martin Amis to the art on the walls and the coat on the couch and the pump heels on the floor and together we all waited for our hostess to arrive. And I downed two Stella Artois and coolly pretended to ignore the other distractions in the flat, because I feared I might actually be on camera and playing live in a sticky-walled, coin-operated booth somewhere.

Thus began the second feast that night: a traveling alcoholic buffet that took us from the hoppy nose of an Irish Harp, to the chilly wet island fuzz of Stockholm Absolute Peach Vodka, then to the French fields of Dom P, and on to the dark and dirty St. Louis basement of Everclear Grain. Actually, this last stop is suspect, and you probably shouldn't take my word for it, but I would not be surprised if there were some 151-proof involved in an otherwise innocent looking round of shots.

And let me pause here to mention that there had been a hard rain earlier that night and the DC sidewalks were wet and the the windshield wipers in my soul were still flapping wildly back and forth in sync with the song that had been on my iPod. And that song was So What by Pink. And if you're raising your eyebrows at that and thinking about passing a little bit of judgement on my ass, then ... so what? I've got my rock moves, brother, and I definitely don't need you tonight.

Let's move on ...

Very tall drinks ordered at a hotel bar, where SB and I were joined by FreckledK, and where it made a whole lot of sense to me, as it often does in these situations, to order a round of shots. And since tequila had recently played an upsetting role in my complete dissolution this past July, I thought it was only fair to SB (and the physical and moral integrity of her bathroom) that I stick with something more mild, like Lemon Drops. Only I think some cruel fucker had taught this bartender that Lemon Drop shooters should be mixed up with pure, unadulterated Everclear. Because the shit kinda burned going down and Lemon Drops—they're supposed to be sweet, man. And all this lead to Freckles stealing the mic from the strug-ah-lin cantor who had been choking out his playlist at half the proper tempo. And she got up on stage and delivered a sizzling a cappella lounge act full force at SB, a number so filled with girl-on-girl innuendo that it brought tears to my eyes and warmth to my heart.

And speaking of pure, this is about the point in the evening when we were picked up by a wedding-white stretch Hummer, tremendous in its indecency. Inside, multi-colored laser lights danced on the ceiling and in our hair as we sipped OJ and Peach Vodka from plastic champagne flutes while reclining on those magnificent dark seats. And not being partial to the Peach Vodka myself, I imbibed Bud Light from a can. Because I'm all freakin' class, people. You understand this?

The Hummer came compliments of an exuberant Fauntleroy who was also the one responsible for delivering us to the birthday party of a 22-year-old girl who I'm sure was a lovely person when she wasn't shit-faced drunk and bubbling up spittle on herself. The party was on the top floor of an all-too-swank club full of imperially coiffed twenty-somethings sodden with red bull and vodka. And here's one thing I learned that night, thanks to Freckles: a good way to start a fight in this kind of atmosphere is to pop open the birthday-girl's bottle of celebratory Dom P. You know, the one and only bottle chilling on ice, which the honored inebriatée herself was supposed to open at the stroke of midnight. And a truly great way to carry off this coup de grâce on your wallflowerdom, in case you're taking notes (because I sure was), is to slide that cork out so gently it's like you're making love to it, and then pour yourself and your friends a glass. And then it might help matters further if you offered a toast to each other for your incredible good fortune. And one more toast to the devil for bringing you to this cross-roads in the evening.

But these are merely suggestions. You should try to stretch your creative muscle, because I'm sure this doesn't begin to exhaust all the myriad possibilities. The bottom line is if you hit it just right, the vibe will turn ominous and menacing, and the people whose party you just crashed will begin whispering about the three uninvited assholes who just got into the Dom P and what the fuck were they doing here, anyway?

And then what you'd need—and this is terribly important, I can't stress it enough—is a Peacemaker, a sort of Ringleader of Debauchery, if you will, somebody who's got her fingers on the strings at all times and can pull and tweak them as the situation calls for it. Somebody like SB ... to pay for the champagne and smooth things over with the natives. Then you could take your newly-acquired bubbly outside where you would be told that no, you could not drink it directly from the bottle and what were you anyway, animals? Obviously you needed to use plastic cups in an establishment such as this. And so you would take some of those cups and stake claim on a table and alternate taking sips and pouring some out on the sidewalk to mourn your loss of propriety. Because if you're hearing a kling-klanging sound right now, it's the sound of Klass ringing loud and true and ... unadulterated through the DC streets at 2 am.

Somehow we made it back to SB's flat and found sleep. And the next morning, shell-shocked and twitching, I stumbled to Starbucks for the acquisition of caffeinated beverages. And this managed to score me enough points to get invited into SB's bed, where we sipped, together, Naked, and I fumbled with the remote control, searching for the button that read "art-porn and football."

Oh, god.

Peach Mangosteen Bliss, brother.

And I mean every word of that.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Weekend  Travel  Debauchery  DC 

In many ways, New Jersey has been a good move for C and me. C loves her job and I've discovered inner peace and existential understanding through yard work. Oh, and we have some great kitchen drawers. And while our neighbors are a little yellow-bellied and talk funny, they're friendly and very welcoming. Still, it's no secret that if I had my choice, if it were not for careers and matters of economics, I'd be back in DC in a heartbeat. But life has brought us to the Garden State and, I've got to say, aside from the constant ache I feel in my ass from being repeatedly violated by our township on our property taxes every three months, it ain't all that bad up here. When we go to the store, we have a much greater selection of pasta sauces to choose from and most of my neighbors have last names that end in a vowel. What more could a half-Italian kid ask for? Also, we're pretty much guaranteed snowfall each winter, something I always missed in Texas (and even DC). Factor in that I'm a 30-minute train ride from NYC, which makes it easy for me to begin some evening classes at NYU, and it all adds up to an overall net gain. Bottom line: I can't really complain.

But there has been something missing from our lives here. Something that used to bring us great joy and that we really took for granted for so long ...

Awww, Dave. Stop right there. You know we don't go for those sappy displays of affection, so let's just keep it brief. You miss your friends back home (both in the DC Metro and the Lone Star). Well, we miss you, too man. We ...

Chipotle.

Oh my God we've fucking missed you, Chipotle. It's left an empty spot in our heart not being able to make the five-minute pilgrimage once or twice a week to one of your holy locations, where we would sit at one of your stainless-steel alters and give honor unto thee while we feast upon a heaping bowl of rice and beans and naturally raised, antibiotic-free chicken. And chips of the white corn variety. Lots of white corn chips. Up until about two weeks ago, we actually needed to drive about 45 minutes to get to one of your places of worship. And that just didn't seem right to us. It somehow ruined the spiritual experience to have to travel that far. And it weren't good on the environment, either.

But all that changed a few weeks ago as C was driving home down Route 10 and noticed those eight beautiful letters spelled out on the side of an otherwise useless strip mall filled with a hot dog hut and a Michaels and a Best Buy and an all-you-can-eat chinese buffet. There it was! Grand Opening: Chipotle. And less than a ten-minute drive from our house!

The first thing C did was call me with the news.

"Guess what?!"

"What?"

"Guess what I just drove by?!"

"What?!"

"It's so wonderful. You'll never guess."

"For the love of God, say it woman!"

"Chipotle!"

"Oh, my lord ... that's .... that's ... amazing."

"I know!"

"... I ... I just ... I mean, I think I need to sit down."

"Breath, Honey."

"It's just so much to take in ..."

"I know. I just pulled over and had a good cry."

"C?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Oh, I love you, too, Honey."

Oh, how I wish I could describe the joy that filled my heart at that moment. Suddenly, I knew it was all going to be okay. Maybe our economy was falling apart and the world was entering a powerful and scary financial crisis. But by God, we had a Chipotle in our neighborhood. We had nothing to worry about. Things were going to work out.

God had not forgotten us.

Since it opened two weeks ago, C and I have visited the store a total of five times and I think we're finally over the religious zealot faze. We're finally speaking in complete, rational sentences that don't end in ... "do you feel like Chipotle?"

And let me add, in case you think me cold and callous, we do really miss our friends and family back home, too. And please don't judge us for our love of Chipotle. If we had a decent Tex-Mex place up here, we probably wouldn't depend on it quite as much as we do. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Chipotle is our tie to the Mexican comfort food of home. Please understand.

Now that our bellies are full, we really do miss you guys.

Really.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Food  Friends  Moving  NJ 

"So I was starting to tell the girl at the counter how bad it smells in the women's locker rooms, and this guy, he steps up next to me to hand the girl his card and as I'm mid-sentence—right after I say 'it smells like a mixture of B.O and chlorine'—he says, 'Oh, that's me. I'm sorry. I'll leave now.' And he smiles."

"Geez. What, was he trying to pick you up with that line?"

"I know, right? So I look at him and I want to laugh because it was actually kind of funny—and his tone, totally deadpan—but I don't because I'm trying to make a point with the girl. I mean, it really is starting to smell bad in there."

"Oh my God. No kidding."

"So anyway, I look over at him and ..."

"Hey, how much longer do you have?"

"What, with the stairs? Five minutes."

"God why does it seem like forever when I'm on this thing? I think the elliptical is easier."

"It's because the ellipticals have their own TVs. You can choose your own distraction."

"That's true."

"These, you have to watch whatever's on the big screen, which is normally soaps or finance shows."

"Or Ellen."

"Or Ellen. Exactly."

"Ellen's not so bad, though."

"Look, are you listening to my story here?"

"Yeah, yeah. He said it was him that smelled. You thought it was funny, but you didn't want to laugh. Whatever. You're boring me, love."

"Okay, I guess you don't want to know what happened later in the broom closet then."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. You're bored."

"Jesus. You slut. What did you do?"

"It was nothing, really. Some innocent making out, that's all. Maybe some rubbing. A grope or two."

"In the broom closet? At the freakin' gym? What are you, like fourteen or something?"

"Shhh. Let's not broadcast this, okay? And, what? You've never wanted to make out with a guy in a broom closet?"

"Again ... maybe when I was in junior high. And not married."

"Whatever."

"God. You're just ... well, go on then. Was it all you dreamed it would be?"

"It was a little weird. It did sort of have a grade-school aspect to it. Kinda sloppy and not at all romantic. And I definitely felt dirty afterwards. And by 'dirty' of course I mean, 'totally good.'"

"Ooof."

"And he didn't smell like B.O. and chlorine after all, which I was very happy about. But he did kind of smell like a lawnmower ... and beer. Which is weird. Do you think he drinks before he works out? Who does that?"

"God. You really have no idea who this guy is."

"I know. Isn't that so cool?"

"Hmm... let's see: No. Not really. You think he's married?"

"I don't know. It didn't exactly come up ... although, he wasn't wearing a ring."

"Well, it's the gym, do you wear your ring to the gym?"

"Of course! I wear it everywhere. See?"

"Oh sure, because you're so faithful, obviously. Slut."

"Come on. That wasn't slutty ... but slipping my panties in his gym bag later while he was working out—that was probably a little slutty."

"You're kidding me. Do I even know you? Seriously."

"I know. I can't explain it. He wasn't even that good looking. And he kept talking about how white my shoes were. That sorta creeped me out."

"God. He's probably some perv with a shoe fetish."

"Yeah, probably."

"Ick."

"Oh well. Now he's some perv who's got my thong."

link to this | File:  TheLine 

Sometimes I come here wanting to tell you something important. Other times, what I have to say is so small and frivolous and irrelevant that I wonder if you will think me petty, or an idiot, or both. Sometimes I want to tell you something true, but can't, so I tell a little fiction instead. Other times, I want like hell to lie my ass off, but instead I wind up vomiting entire chunks of my personal life. Sometimes, brothers and sisters, my heart is filled with so much love that I want to just throw my arms around all of you and give you sloppy wet kisses on the mouth and get all naked and dance in the mud like it's 1969. And other times I want to burn every bridge I've ever built and cut the head off of this blog and tell you all to fuck off.

And today might be a day for one of those things, I'm just not sure which one. Because today, I've just come here to declare this: I'm jealous of all the people at my gym with their white, white shoes. I mean it. I don't know how they keep their shoes so clean, but they do, and I hate them for it. It's a dark kind of hate, the kind I only reserve for chipmunks and people who prefer to pull their toilet paper from the bottom. Every day I have to walk in there with my graying shoes, so joyless and devoid of life, and it makes me feel sad and alone and embarrassed. Makes me want to click-wheel over to some Neko Case.


I've tried to keep up with them. Don't think I haven't. I'll go out and get a new pair of shoes every four or five months, and each time I'll resolve to wear my older ones for the dirty tasks, like mowing the lawn, or shoveling mulch, or playing a game of "bury the shoe in the mud" (God, I love that game). But then I find myself outside in my brand new shoes kicking a soccer ball with Honey after a fresh rain, and it's all over—those suckers are destined for a life of shame and ignominy as I trudge over to a stretch mat and lie down next to some woman who looks like she just picked her shoes up from the dry-cleaners. And I know she's sitting there judging me, wondering why the hell I don't buy a new pair of shoes already, not realizing I just bought them last week.

Oh, I feel your judgement, and let me tell you, it stings. And so this is just to say I'm not going to let it bother me anymore. You understand? This is who I am, dammit. I'm a guy who wears gray, dirty gym shoes in public. And though you might not believe it, I am human. If you prick me, I assure you, I do bleed. So get off your high horse and show me some love already.





link to this | comments (6) | File:  TheLine  Music  Gym 

I've always heard it said that dogs are great chick magnets. Personally, I haven't found this to be the case. I think that's because "creepy unshaven smelly dude" outweighs "cute cuddly puppy" by a factor of three to one for women in the Jersey burbs. But I'll say this: Honey can turn a big, tough guy's heart to putty without even trying. And while this isn't usually a goal of mine, it can prove useful every now and then.

Last week, I had to make several trips to the Mazda dealership because Hoshi was having some issues with her breaks and suspension. Turns out she needed new rotors and there was a leak in one of her rear shocks. All the repairs were under warranty, which was nice, and while I was there I went ahead and had her oil and steering fluid changed. She seems much happier now, and the steering wheel no longer shakes dramatically when you break due to the warped rotors. And this all makes for a far less harrowing driving experience.

I like to expose Honey to new situations, so I brought her with me to the dealership each time I went. For me, bringing Honey places like this means bringing along a bag full of toys and treats to keep her entertained, as well as a blanket (God-forbid she lie on the cold, hard ground!) and a bottle of water and her "travel bowl" in case she gets thirsty.

Just to be clear, for any new readers: Honey is a dog.

So I enter the waiting room of the car dealership to pick up Hoshi and I'm carrying this arsenal of dog accoutrements with me in a SXSW festival bag which is slung over one shoulder, the blanket over the other, and Honey on her lead sniffing the floor next to me.

And maybe I should pause here to say that it might be that this looked a little ... what's the word ... "unmanly." You might even go so far as to call it "sissified." And believe me, I was conscious of this fact, especially since I was entering an auto shop, a place where masculinity seeps up through the cracks in the floor, where no matter who you are, your voice seems to want to drop a couple of octaves as soon as you set foot inside.

By the third trip there, the guys at the dealership knew Honey by name. And she was feeling more comfortable in this new environment and was eating up all the attention. A heavyset guy with a beard came out from behind the counter to pet her. He sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting room and called her over to him. I let her go play with him so I could sign the paperwork without her pulling and when I turned back, she was on her hind feet licking the guy all over his big bearded face which was now just one huge giddy smile.

And all at once, I no longer felt self-conscious about the blanket over my shoulder or the half-dozen toys in the bag I was carrying. Because this man who had the stature and appearance of somebody you might be intimidated by when you brought your car to him for repairs, had tears in his eyes. I'll say that again: there were tears of joy in his eyes. He was visibly choked up over my dog.

One of his workmates noticed this and asked him what was up.

"Sorry," he said "Dogs always do this to me. It's just ... she's so soft."

And the funny part was nobody laughed at him or ribbed him for being a pussy or anything like that. Because we all understood. And for a moment we all looked upon Honey in awe and acknowledged her sheer power over our hardened, man-hearts and we choked back our own tears and resisted the urge to hug one-another and start talking about our feelings.

And here's what I know: From now on, I'm always bringing a dog with me to car dealerships. Because I've finally figured out how to level the playing field.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Oogah  Hoshi  Honey  Grunt 

My friend Steph once told me she thought I was "well grounded." I thought she was crazy for saying that since I was the most ungrounded person I knew. But I never argued with her about it. I liked that she saw something else in me and I let her.

It rained nearly non-stop this past weekend. And C and I woke up early each morning to a fog that enveloped our house and the rest of our little mountain. When we looked out our back window, you could barely make out the trees in the yard, and our neighbors' houses were entirely lost in the gray. On these mornings, it's nice to wake up and listen to the rain trickling softly through the gutters, and to imagine that we are the only house for miles, and to go back to sleep.

Last Friday, Honey went to doggy day camp so I could meet a deadline, and for the first hour she was gone I was more distracted than I would have been with her there and I paced and made too many cups of coffee and listened to music and tried to remember what I did before she was around to help keep my mind off itself.

Can you see me from where you are Steph? Do you see how well-grounded I am?

There are 2,421 songs on my iPod. I don't say this to impress you with my large music collection because I'm certain that this is pocket change compared to many of you. Still, a couple thousand songs and several dozen podcasts—that's a lot of media to have latched to your waist. And yet some days I go to the gym and can't find anything to listen to. Because each song is a ghost, reminding me of where I've been. Ready to take me back minutes or hours or weeks or months or years to some point in my personal history. And sometimes I don't want to be reminded. Sometimes I don't want to go back. So I click forward through song after song in the shuffle and I stop on every tenth one or so. And when I have the right song and the right endorphins from my stair climb washing over my brain, then sometimes the words come, and I scribble them down on whatever scrap of paper I can find.

My body produces a really good drug. But I usually have to beat him up to get him to give it to me.

Honey and I were outside at 3 am the other morning. Rain pouring down. She needed to go. We walked out into the backyard through puddles of water a couple inches deep. And as I stood in the grass, the water creeping through the holes in my crocs and making my socks wet, it made me feel alive to be outside at 3 am in the dark and the cool and the wet, listening to the steady beat of rain and feeling it begin to soak my clothes.

Honey is always surprised by the rain, and her first instinct is to run back inside. But after she's been out in it a while, she'll bury her nose in the soaked ground and begin to slap her paws on the large puddle of water that settles near the patio. And I would swear, it almost seems like she's laughing.

And I wanted to do that the other morning—get on my knees and slap my hands in the water and stick my fingers in the wet earth. But I didn't. I let Honey do her thing and then we went back inside and when I put my head back on my pillow I realized my hair was wet and I fell back to sleep.

link to this | File:  TheLine  Chewing