Display by Label: Oogah

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 

When my dad and my grandpa used to mow the lawn, they would do it "bare-chested." That's what my dad would call it. And, as a boy of four or five, I was intrigued by this concept, that of bare-chestedness. Because I was keenly aware that while being in this state was something the two model men in my life seemed to do whenever they wanted, the women never did—my mom, my grandmother, my sister. Clearly, being in this state of bare-chestedness was one of those things only boys could do, along with the awesome faculty to pee while standing up. Damn we were lucky.

Of course, as soon as I discovered this, I too went bare-chested whenever I got the chance, because it was profoundly important to me to be like my dad. And even though I couldn't actually mow the lawn yet, I used to follow behind him with a plastic Fisher-Price model. And there I would be: jean-shorts, cowboy boots (which you had to pry off of me when I went to bed) and a bare-chest which, unlike my dad's, had no "fur" on it.

Just to be clear, my dad didn't wear cowboy boots when he mowed the lawn, so I'm not sure where that came from. I've since substituted the boots for New Balance or Merrell which I suppose in some ways is a real tragedy, but the rest of the outfit is pretty much the same: shorts and a bare chest—grunt. That is until recently. Because Jersey's weather isn't reliably warm in April, or even May. This year, the warm spring days have been few, and have been bookmarked by bouts of cold, wet rain.

So this weekend, as the clouds and wind gathered for another onslaught of the wetness, I sliced blades of grass in a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a red fleece sweater-vest.

Dad never told me there'd be days like this.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Oogah  Lawn  Family  Childhood 

You'd think that on its second mow, a brand new mower would be hungry to eat some grass. You'd think it would just be getting warmed up.

Apparently, my mower decided it had had enough of this grass-cutting shit. It died on me yesterday.

My neighbor, Ax (not his real name), was outside later that evening and I walked over to our fence to tell him my bad news. He and I are establishing a relationship not unlike the one between Tim and Wilson on Home Improvement. I'm Tim. Things tend to break when I get my hands on them. I go to him seeking consolation and advice. He's Wilson. He's older and wiser and he just knows shit. And dammit he's got a great freakin' lawn.

Ax also owns a classic muscle car, which he showed me the first day we met. I have to admit, it's pretty sweet. And shiny. Ax works on it in his free time. Also, he drives a Ford F-350 4x4, a truck that continually lobs taunts over at Remington from Ax's driveway. Damn bully trucks. The only thing that's a little pansy-ass about Ax is he's got two Dachshunds. I mean one would be unfortunate. But two is tragic.

As I walked over to Ax, the two "dogs"—a term I use loosely—greeted me as they always do, with furious barking and yipping. Have you ever seen a Dachshund when he's furious? It's kind of like when real dogs are being playful. Because of the commotion, Ax didn't hear me too well when I said, "My mower died." I could tell by the expression on his face and the way he said, "I'm so sorry" that he had misunderstood me. So I bent down and offered the dogs my hand to sniff, which shut them up. Then I said, no not my mother, my mower. God, who walks up to his neighbor, who he's only known for a couple of months, and says with a sort of flabbergasted, aw-shucks, can-you-believe-it atttitude, "guess what, my mother died." Nice weather we're having, isn't it? He must have thought I was crazy. Oh well, it won't be the last time for that. He'd better get used to it.

So I'm not sure if I set a record for killing a lawn mower, but I was going to look into it. I brought it back to Fred, who doesn't seem like so much of an angel to me anymore. He went to start the thing, only to find that the pull-chord wouldn't budge. Like I said, it was fed up. He admitted that this definitely seemed a little fishy. "But don't worry about a thing!" he said. He would figure out what was going on and I wouldn't have to pay for a thing. He's damn right I'm not paying for a thing. It's a Toro. And I bought it last week, remember? I wasn't worried about paying for things. But I do want to get up all this thatch I raked up the other day so that I can get some seed and fertilizer on the lawn before it rains this weekend. I'm on a time crunch, here Fred. I can't deal with mowers that die on me on the second mow, brother.

So if I find out more bad news today, and I can't get my mower back, I'm going to ask Fred for a replacement. And if that one dies, then I'll know God is pissed at me for last week's post. Maybe I should go ahead and apologize now.

link to this | comments (11) | File:  Oogah  Lawn  House  Grunt  Remington 

O Lord, I give joyful thanks for the lawn equipment you have given me.

After bringing home the shiny new Toro Mower and the Stihl Kombi-System Trimmer yesterday, and putting them in my shed, I could feel Your grace wash over me. And I sat for a moment and basked in this glory and contemplated the fact that the trimmer's engine can actually power a leaf blower along with several other attachments, including an edger, a cultivator, a hedge trimmer, and a power sweeper, and my heart was filled with wonder by all of these glorious instruments and the thought that one day they might all populate my shed and how this hope was a testament of Your love for men everywhere, O Lord, and of Your eternal genius.

And thank you, Lord, for delivering unto me an angel by the name of Fred, who owns the lawn equipment store down the road a ways, and who, in his thick Jersey accent, patiently coached me in the proper way to use these divine instruments of lawn maintenance. When he revved the engine of the mower in the parking lot, I could feel Your power fill my heart and understood that enlightenment was near. I grunted to Fred. And he grunted back. Because in our heightened state of spiritual awareness, language no longer mattered. Words were only obstacles to the exaltation of Your magnificent glory. Instead, we communicated like our forefathers, directly through simple, mono-syllabic sounds. And it was good and it was righteous.

And bringing that mower home, O Lord, in the bed of my truck—it's handlebar raised high and tall and shining in the New Jersey sun—was perhaps the proudest moment of my life. Could a man hope for something greater? And later, as I was filling my new red gasoline jugs at the Exxon, the attendant actually let me do the honors—which I didn't think was legal in Jersey—and I spilled a little on my hand. But I didn't wash it off, Lord, because the sweet smell of it filled my heart with gladness and brought back memories of my childhood, mowing lawns in the armpit wetness of Houston town. And as I drove home I scratched my beard with that hand so that the smell would embed itself there and follow me throughout the day and let others know that I have received this gift of love. And that I had been blessed with Your Holy Mercy.

Finally, Lord, I ask that you keep my neighbor's hearts from filling with envy at the sight of my new powerful lawn-care tools. And in turn, I will do my best not to covet that which I do not yet have and to not be jealous of A---, my next-door neighbor with the amazing green lawn.

Amen.

link to this | comments (11) | File:  Remington  Oogah  House  Grunt