In Loving Memory of Lucy (1991-2005)

So yesterday I went with my mom to have our squishable, loveable, sass-bucket of a family dog, put to sleep.

I am so sad, mainly because I did not spend as much time with her as she deserved (a regret that we all end up feeling when people/animals important to us pass, I know, but potent nonetheless). I am sad because she wasn't taken care of and given as much attention and love on a daily basis as she deserved. I am also sad because it is a terrible terrible thing to play a part in deciding when to end the life of someone you love. Terrible.

She was a good dog--a good dog but a lonely dog, never getting walked and living in a house where people are gone most of the day. She had a sassy bitch attitude and was always really loving. She was a big chubbo with a cheery but sassy disposition. She was a goddamn good dog. And a goddamn sweet one.

Our nicknames for her:

Lubert

Looby

Mooberry

Lu

Moocow

Moobert

Fatty McGee

Bear

Sausage

Silly things she did:

Claw at the fridge and whine constantly for food

Love popsicles

Hate olives

Like to play with centipedes and eat them

Was picky about the type/brand of potato chips she consumes

Must have secretly been half-cat: liked to spend lengthy periods of time cleaning herself and was *crazy insane* about tuna

Console you when you're crying

Other Reasons We Loved Her (Too Numerous to Mention):

The weird gesturings she used to do while lying on her side (which we took to calling "Satanic Dog Gestures" because they made her look like she's possessed).

How she'd let us "drive" her head by petting her ears.

How she was always, always so goddamn excited to see us when we came home.

Watching her run around in over-sized t-shirts that my sisters used to put on her.

The time she threw the buddha bone (the rope toy that dogs have) and it landed in someone's breakfast cereal.

How much she hated the little stuffed dog I bought her and how we used to drive her nuts with it.

When me and my sister Lisee would be home and bored and would entertain ourselves with Lu all afternoon--dragging her around on blankets, "torturing" her with aforementioned stuffed dog.

The way she used to bite crazily at leaves when you threw them at her or snuffle her nose in the first snow of the season.

That my sister used to dress her up in Mardi Gras beads and she used to like it--watching her walk across the yard with a whole bunch of them around her neck like a big princess, trying to find someplace to shit.

When she was a tiny pup and used to run around blindly outside with the water bowl on her head so she couldn't see.

Her corn teeth and how my brother was the only one who could get her to show them to us.

Watching her and my brother wrestle as though they were both sibling dogs.

Having her 800-lb body jamming itself into my bed to sleep next to/on/all over me when I was home from college on breaks and she couldn't get enough of my company.

The way she looked super-skinny and bare when my mom got her shaved except for her big eskimo-hood of a furry head--how I used to call her "Sausage" whenever she got shaved until it grew back in.

I remember when my dad and mom brought her home, hidden under one of their coats. I remember when she was tiny enough you could hold her in the palm of your hands. That dog was a lovely adorable kick-ass sassy woman, and I love the shit out of her and always will. None of my yammering can, of course, capture even an ounce of what I feel about the whole situation, but re-reading Abbie the Cat's sorrow over her best cat friend (Martha the Pirate) passing away made and makes my heart ache in the same way... with understanding. I am not quite so good at saying such things. So in honor of my pup, I direct you there, to read her words and to feel through her words how much it breaks my own heart to see our dog go:

Abbie the Cat on the Passing of Martha

-------

Dane Cook

I have not laughed this hard in quite some time:

Dane Cook--"Car Alarm"
(shit--actually, just copy this address:

http://radiofreeinternet.imjasonh.com/wp-content/danecook-caralarm.mp3

and paste it up above and just GO THERE, dammit. The link apparently doesn't work. Bastards.)

-------

Funny Cat Anecdote

I refuse to become one of those cat-people who bores the piss outta everyone by constantly blogging about how funny their cat is or how cute it is or what funny thing it did the other day or what shape of poop they scrounged out of its shit box that afternoon. That being said, you gotta let me get away with a COUPLE of 'em, seeing as the kitties are new. I shall now proceed with Funny Cat Story #1:

Zooey (the older of my two new adoptees) did the darnedest thing yesterday. I was sitting over a steaming hot bowl of pasta, trying to get her nose away from the food that was sitting on the table. Franny (the 12-week old) was sniffing around near my bookcase, favoring a thick, old, musty-smelling copy of James Joyce's Ulysses that she was trying ever-so-discretely to nibble on. I pushed Zooey away for the 15th time, and she gave up, stomping away angrily towards Franny. She paused, clearly noticing that Franny was nibbling the Joyce book, and a sassy-bitchy look came over her. Then all of the sudden (I kid you not), Zooey actually blurted the fuck out, "Oh give it up, Franny. Joyce is *SO* overrated and everyone knows you didn't even get through the first 50 pages. Stop acting like you're an intellectual. Fucking poseur." I swear to god. And she said it in a voice that sounded startlingly similar to Truman Capote's. I about choked on my noodles. Cats *DO* say the darnedest things. Oh wait--it's "kids," isn't it?

God, how I hate kids.

-------

Franny & Zooey

I done gone and got myself some pussy this past week, which explains the lack of blogging. Preoccupation and nervousness can do that to a person.

For those of you who were rooting for me, I finally got permission from my landlord to adopt the two strays (with a few caveats and one expensive-ass pet-deposit). I took them to the vets the end of last week, and they're damn healthy. And now they're living in my apartment, amusing the piss outta me with their WWF tussling, freaking the shit outta me by balancing like tight-rope performers across the exposed beams a story above my living room, and making me love them all up with their cute sassiness.

So today I shall torture you with a few pics of my new kitties and ask that you pray that my apartment is still standing when I return home (today's their first day home alone for more than a few hours).






Franny

-&-

Zooey

-------

Lice Checks and Scoliosis

I don't know why, but today I was randomly thinking about how in primary school, they used to give us those scoliosis checks, making us pull up our shirts while we hunched behind thick stage-curtains in the gym, and lice checks, prodding our scalps with popsicle sticks while we silently prayed to ourselves that they wouldn't be calling our moms afterwards.

Do they still torture kids with that shit?

I sure hope so.

-------

Track

2 A.M. moonlight. The train has stopped
out in a field. Far off sparks of light from a town,
flickering coldly on the horizon.

As when a man goes so deep into his dream
he will never remember he was there
when he returns again to his view.

Or when a person goes so deep into a sickness
that his days all become some flickering sparks, a swarm,
feeble and cold on the horizon.

The train is entirely motionless.
2 o'clock: strong moonlight, few stars.

--Tomas Transtromer

-------

"Wine is Bottled Poetry"

This weekend I spent a remarkable 10+ hours driving around southern Ohio, all to surprise E with an Appalachian Wine-Tour weekend. Posh, you say? Very Paul Giammati-esque and Sideways you say? Well, alas, E didn't end up sleeping with any hot wine-stresses and never ended up breaking his nose, but it *did* end up being quite the adventure anyways.



I didn't know what to expect going into the experience--I know nothing about wines except that I enjoy them. All I knew is that we'd be hitting up (hopefully) six wineries scattered across southern Ohio, some as far as 2 and 1/2 hours from each other, and that at each place, you got a piece of a wine-tote kit (everything from wine glasses to an insulated wine-carrier that fits a bottle of wine and two glasses).

The first winery was tucked away in the middle of a County Rd. with a handpainted sign that was barely discernible from the road (and which caused me to pass it up several times with near hysteria when I couldn't figure out where the hell it was). Large fluffy dogs greeted us as we climbed out of the car, and I got made fun of for having taken the longest route (and most windy-roaded route) to get there from Cleveland.

From then on, wineries ranged from the large and upscale (Raven's Glen) to the completely back-road and amazingly beautiful Flint Ridge (we actually drove about 30 minutes on a gravel-road to get there) where we were served homemade munchies (wild-mushroom tarts, etc.), drank wine made from Hungarian grapes, chased noisy roosters, and which I could've happily stayed at all day.


Interspersed between wineries and driving was an overnight adventure spent in Marietta, eating on a historic showboat as the town's light glittered over the river.


The wine tour ended absolutely perfectly (and absolutely accidentally) at a winery on the top of a very large hill which overlooked vast rolling hills of farmland and where we were able to watch the sun drop over the horizon while eating cheesecake and sweet wines.



I was nervous planning the damn weekend (I had to map 10-hours worth of driving, with 6 different winery destinations and figure out the most logical route from each to the other the prior week) but it went better than I could've expected. None of the places had any of the wine snobbery I was leery of (they were all locally-owned, locally-run)--all the people we spoke to were charming and terribly nice folks who love wine enough to make their living making it in, sometimes in the middle of nowhere. Plus, I love road trips, I love southern Ohio, and I love driving the windy backroads and admiring all the worn-down farms and green-infused landscapes, so I couldn't've asked for anything more on my end. And to top off each burst of driving with wine in between, well, damn. It was the most fun I've had in quite some time.

-------

Why the Human Race Needs to be Beaten with a Very Large Stick

The invention/buying/using/advertising of rain sensor windshield wipers as "time-savers"--need I say more?

-------

Things That are Sometimes So Boring to Do That Their Boringness Fills Me With Rage

Using the bathroom

Chewing

Trying to figure out if you're supposed to capitalize "that" and/or "with" when using them in the title of something

Thinking of all the people who were just about to jump onto my comments section to explain to me the proper capitalization of "that" and "with" until they read this sentence

When someone looks like someone else you know causing you to raise your hand to wave at them when really you don't know them and they look at you with a mixture of fear and confusion

Realizing that the last entry in the list is not technically an action and thus does not fit in this list

Being bored

-------

Glorp Glorp

Yesterday I was driving home from work and the fluids in my engine were making strange noises. I randomly tried to think of a word that sounded like the noise they were making. It was sort of a glunkle but not really. Maybe a gorgle? I finally settled on a "glorp." My engine was most definitely making some sort of weird glorping noise.

The phrase "glorp glorp" popped into my head immediately, and I knew I had heard the word and the phrase before. I wracked my brain, assuming it was some weird-ass movie that I was having problems thinking of. About five minutes later it suddenly came to me--it was from some dumbass Cheerio's commercial where the little boy describes the sound of the dad's heart as a GLORP GLORP.

It's depressing when you've seen a ridiculous number of movies in your lifetime, aren't able to remember quotes from barely any of them, and yet are able to reference a fricking Cheerio's commercial as though it were the King James Bible.

-------

Flock of Seagulls

Sunday morning, in bouts of fitful sleep, I dreamt that I was standing outside with friends in the middle of a large green field, an arched bridge looming nearby. Suddenly, from a distance, I could see a large flock of something flying swiftly through the sky towards us. They flew deftly beneath the arch of the bridge and it was then that I saw what they were. Not a flock of geese. Not a flock of seagulls. But a flock of superheroes-in-training. There were about ten of them, complete in their superhero garb (brightly-colored tights and capes). I, of course, shrieked with glee and scrambled for my digital cam (see--OCD I tell you) as they landed quietly on the grass like a flock of ducks skimming out over lake waters. I sighed with disappointment at not having gotten a pic, but then suddenly they were off again, shooting back into the skies, and my scrambling came to fruition this time as I managed to snap a picture of them before they became little black v's in the distant grey sky.

This is vulnerability too--quickly writing a second blog for the day so that you don't feel quiet so self-conscious having your first blog entry sitting there, exposed, right at the top of the page.

-------

"Vulnerability Analysis"

This was the title of a Tennessee regulation I happened to glance at yesterday. My mind wandered, picturing some sort of machine created to gauge our vulnerabilities, something along the lines of one of those fortune-telling machines (or machines which rate how good you are as a lover) where you squeeze the handle and the lights blink up up up like surfacing bubbles until they reach a declaration: "You will be wealthy." "One hot mama." In our case, "VULNERABLE VULNERABLE VULNERABLE!" with accompanying sirenic whoops.

I have issues with vulnerability. I am a scab that keeps getting picked and just wants to heal up already. I am toughened skin that wants to be all baby soft but is leery enough of people and their intentions to be satisfied with a quiet scarring instead.

This weekend I received a letter in the mail. Not so much a letter as a note. It was from someone I've not spoken to in a long time. From the outside, it looked like some sort of business mail, a safe manilla envelope--perhaps the photographs I'd ordered that were to be delivered or something I'd ordered off half.com. I ripped it open while chattering away with Grey Cat and Teany Cat, expecting one of these two items. Instead I got a note. Two words, carefully scripted and staged, with time and effort placed into them. It was like unwrapping a package to find a severed hand with a hundred thousand dollars next to it--shocking, welcome, and upsetting all at the same time. At first I felt the pangs of a broken heart. And then later, it made me angry.

There was no return address. My address was typed out carefully on a white mailing label so that the handwriting would not give the mailer away. Upon opening it, whom it was from was unmistakeable. And yet, I was given no choice but to open it because I was given no reason to doubt it was anything else than what I'd expected it to be.

This is what vulnerability is.

A plain manila envelope with no return address and your address carefully stuck on the front in computer-scripted font. A row of lights with accompanying hooting noises springing through the air as the final light shines down on your face and you can do nothing but accept your destiny.

-------

Blue Windows & Barbed Wire

Saturday afternoon I wandered around streets just minutes from my home, streets that I've never wandered through before, kicking up crackled leaves and taking pictures. These were streets just minutes from the freeway, just minutes away from areas of constant buzzing traffic, but they were silent and still, like bedsheets crisp and fresh from the line. On a bright Saturday afternoon, this silence took on a glow of beauty.

After having a slightly awkward conversation with a woman at a coffeehouse, after surrounding myself with tons of folks chattering away like noisy squirrels while I sat staring at pages of a book, I loved the way the silence splashed all over me. It was much needed.

Only a car or two passed me as I wandered, taking pictures. I heard no one speak. I heard no noise. I heard no movement except my own feet against pavement and the occasional wind-swept leaf. It was like being a lone survivor in the aftermath of some large-scale human disaster. I felt completely and totally alone.

The silence was so beautiful it felt like something with dimensions and weight. I wanted to record it or take a picture of it or paint it. But I couldn't. And that's what added to its beauty.

I like this kind of silence--the kind of silence that hangs above you every once in a while even with hundreds upon hundreds of people around, that slips over your hands like soft silk gloves and holds them quietly.

But it also had a king of haunting hum to it as well because I had to keep reminding myself that, by myself, in the middle of nowhere, couched in all this silence with no one around to hear me or know that I was there, I was not very safe.

I find myself feeling this way often when I walk too far into silence and isolation, whether it be geographically or just into the rarely (and timidly-) explored recesses of brain and memory. The fresh suddenly becomes frightening. Being confronted only with the self and one's thoughts becomes a bit too much to bear.

I ventured on for a little while until uncomfortability settled in and then I shuffled off back towards voices and people and noise and city bustle--back towards distraction.

It was a nice afternoon of roaming, one that felt like I was walking through roads to the deep parts of the brain, through the center of the subconscious, where one rarely ventures, especially alone. And as quiet and gentle as these moments can sometimes be, there is good reason that one venture there only with care and perhaps good company.

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,—
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea...

--Thomas Hood ("Silence")

-------

Grit n' Shit

So I realized lately that I've been completely OCD with this damn digital cam and it's creeping in and taking over this blog. And I don't want it to. I started out this blog to WRITE, and that's what I plan to continue to do with it, digital camera be damned.

Solution:

I've started a little separate place where I shall post photos that I've been neurotically taking with my camera on a fairly regular basis. The ear be the portal to all things photo-related (see pic at top of sidebar):



And rest assured, henceforth and forever, this place shall be all about the writing.

Though I can't assure you that it will be GOOD writing.

That is, perhaps, a bit too much to ask.

-------

Things I Didn't Say But Should've

dedicated to a wide variety of folks
who probably don't read this or
won't even know it's dedicated to them if they do

One day you'll be happy. It gets better than this.

Once or twice I actually fantasized about shagging you in the back of your car right after I saw you, just dragging your ass over there and hiking up my skirt. Yeah, I said it.

Remember that poem I wrote back in college? (You probably don't, but that's ok.) Well, it was about you. I never told you because I know you would've been offended.

Stop your fricking bitching and moaning already. There's people a lot worse off.

Dude, what the fuck were you thinking?

It's a very good thing we didn't hook up because I think we would've lasted no more than a week before one of us murdered the other.

Is your life REALLY that boring that the only thing you find excitement in is gossip?

Yo mama.

Oh my god, did I wanna jump your bones. Several times. Several times upon several.

You are an asshole. An asshole and a fake. You think you are better than everyone else and surround yourself only with people that validate you. You are so laughable, I'd almost pity you. If you weren't such an asshole.

I miss you.

Oh my god, you really need to be introduced to some deodorant.

Yes. Yes yes and yes.

What happened? Was it the whole accidentally-slamming-the-car-door-into-the-curb thing? If so, that's LAME ASS.

I still have that poem you wrote, tucked away safely somewhere or another.

I'm sorry I laughed that time you were ballsy enough to finally call me on the phone. You just caught me off-guard.

Hell yes, Tom Waits.

Yeah, take a good look, because I wouldn't let you touch this even if you PAID me.

-------