Nov 30, 2009 | General
I had remained resolute in my resolve to have only one dog at a time from now on. Until I met Zeus, a four-month-old puppy that was the sweetest thing I’ve ever met. It was at a high school graduation party and he was with a bunch of strangers and could not have been more sweet. This is his 10-week-old, 24-pound sister, from the last batch of siblings he’ll ever have:
The big dog on the left (five years old) is supposed to be Great Pyrenees and Bernese Mountain Dog, but I never saw her parents, although she definitely has Great Pyrenees traits (she enjoys herding the llamas every once in a while, and they indulge her for a bit, then ignore her). Yes, I know, she looks like she has some Golden Retriever in her but, as Captain OCD/Obvious likes to point out every time he throws a stick, “She’s no retriever.”
Since we got the puppy the day before Thanksgiving, we’ve been tossing around names and haven’t come up with one that everyone likes. The big dog’s name is Scout, named after Jean Louise Finch, but no one was interested in Jem or Dill or Calpurnia for the puppy. Last night we almost settled on Layla, but she can’t be bothered to respond to that in any way. One of the first names I thought of, out of the blue, was Augie Doggie, who got his start on the Quick Draw McGraw cartoon and that makes me smile every time I think of Doggie Daddy saying, in his Jimmy Durante voice, “Dat’s my boy!” She perked up to “Augie,” so Augie it is, for now, because “Buckethead, come!” is harder to yell.
Nov 1, 2009 | General
The fall colors this year were especially vibrant. We always get red and some yellow, but not often orange. Of which, I have no photos.
Nov 1, 2009 | General
Color me intrigued. A couple of weeks ago I came home to this message on the answering machine (all names have been changed):
Hey, that’s great. Hey there, good buddy. Uh, Howard, that is. How you doin’ there, pardner? Ah, I’ll be over there soon one of these days. Having a hell of a time. Bad news. Well, you know all about it. Be over there soon, I hope. Having a very–ahh, shit, you know all about it. Be over there soon, I hope. Anyway, good buddy, I gotta get a automobile license, haven’t had one for years. Be over there to see you and, uh, Stabler, the detective. Don’t know what the fuck we’re gon’ do. He doesn’t tell me anything. I gotta dig stuff. Don’t know if you give a shit anymore, I’m just sad at this whole bullshit, you know that? Yes sir, I’ll be over there one of these days. Give me a call. Jesus christ, my home number is 808-555-1234. Give me a call fer chrissake, ya dumb shit. See you later. So many things I wanna talk to you about, you know. Y’all be good. Bye.
I saved the message so Captain OCD could hear it. Using the saddish, resigned voice as guidance, I decided that the message-leaver is in his mid-sixties, single and lonely, lives in an old single-wide on the back five of a friend-of-an-acquaintance’s scrub land in eastern Washington (that because he said, “Be over there,” and that’s where we are if you’re in eastern Washington. Of course, that’s where we are if you’re in Manhattan), and he drives a clapped-out ’72 Chevy half-ton 2-wheel drive with rusty steel wheels that used to be painted white. The kind of guy who doesn’t let things like the lack of a valid drivers license get in the way of driving not because he’s a rebel, but because life just happens to him.
A few days later, I came home to another message:
Hello there, Jimmy Bob [don’t know what happened to Howard]. Heh, heh, heh. Anybody talkin’ to you? I’m, whatta ya call it? Anyway, be over there pretty soon, have a few laughs. See ya later, good buddy. Bye.
This second message makes me happy that I didn’t delete the first message, especially when, a few days later, I came home to this message:
Hello there, Jimmy Bob. I’ll be over there pretty soon, I gotta get a driver’s license for a car, I been ridin’ a motorsickle for years. Anyway. You and I gotta talk. You already, probably already, talked to Sergeant Stabler, didn’t ya? Anyway, I been so, been so goddamn brain-addled for a long time. God. I had a really bad, really bad results from one of my surgeries several years ago and I’m just now getting my senses back. Hell, I could’ve been back there in a few days, but I just didn’t know what the hell to do, ya know? Uh, when Bill disappeared and I found him three days later in the hospital I tried to get him transferred to the vet hospital, but, uh, his daughter pulled, uh [laughs], told the charge nurse I was a drug dealer. [laughs] So they kicked me out of the hospital. I thought that was pretty funny. Ah, damn. That’s great. Anyway, I bought Bill a little, nice little yacht and when I found him I said, hey, you wanna make a break for it, I got a yacht for you and a motorsickle. You got any money left, hell, we’ll go down there and we’ll do some sailing, how’s that? And he said, “brmphugmphrm” and that was about that. Anyway, after about eight months I give [someone] 50 thousand bucks, and I spent the rest of it trying to get Bill out of her clutches. Got back here and just crashed. Been drunk for a year, I think, just about a year I been drunk. Left there in October and it’s October again. So I just sobered up and my brain’s workin’ again and I’ll be back over there again as soon as I can. I’ll get a little, get a, whattaya call it, a U-Haul thing and rent it for a month or so, get me a gas heater, camp, camp stove and all that shit. Jesus christ, really is good to have a, I have a good retirement now, damn. Be good there, good buddy. Ya’ll be good there. Hang in there [chuckles]. Kick ’em in the ass. [chuckles]
No one has been home to answer his calls, yet he still leaves these messages. I’m more and more curious about him, but I don’t look up the area code because cell phones, long-distance cards, and VOIP can make area codes useless in determining where a call is actually coming from. I’m more interested than my usual nosy self is because he’s talking about where I live, names the only local hospital, and I recognize the detective’s name from newspaper articles. Last night, the phone rings and I recognize the area code, so I let the machine answer because I don’t want him to stop calling once he realizes he has the wrong (unlisted) number:
Hey there, Jimmy Bob. Give me a call. You and I got some, lotta laughs to talk about. I think we’re on the same wavelength, good buddy. Ha! Shit! I’m havin’ so much fun! Ev-ry-body hates me and you! [laughs] Horses’ asses. Yeah, I’ll be over there in a little bit. My brain’s startin’, I startin’ to feel good. Ah, man, I’ll tell you. So much fun. Have you talked, I guess you’ve talked, to Stabler, haven’t you. Okay, well, watch what yer sayin’, but don’t lie, or, you know that though, dontcha. Rest a these sons-a-bitches are ly-in’ like a bunch a bastards. Per-jer-y is prosecutable. Je-sus christ, I can’t wait to start prosecutin’ these sons-a-bitches. See you later, good buddy. Y’all be good. Bye. Good-bye, sir. Give me a call, I’ll be over there pretty soon again. Now my brain’s workin’. Holy shit, I’m havin’ fun! See you later, Jimmy Bob. Heh. You’re the only other person, human person in the world that I, that I appreciate. Yepper. Bye.
I looked up the area code: Hawaii. I’m going to have to rethink my idea of who this guy is, which won’t be easy because I’ve never been there.
Oct 5, 2009 | General
What I want to say to the cherubic-faced Boy Scout with impeccable manners standing outside of Albertsons with his dad, both in full-on Boy Scout dress, when he timidly but politely says, “Excuse me, ma’am? Would you like to buy some popcorn to support the Boy Scouts?”:
I’m sorry, sweetheart. I applaud your commitment in giving up your PS3 time to work for what is often a good cause, and the Boy Scouts do a lot of good for a lot of boys, but I won’t support a bigoted organization that excludes whole groups of people for who they have sex with or whether or not they worship a particular god, or any god at all. While I support private organizations’ rights to implement any membership criteria they wish, as long as they do not receive any public funds, I choose to not support such organizations by buying overpriced snack foods that are clearly a rip-off perpetuated by the companies that make unseemly gobs of money off the backs of little kids selling stuff that no one really wants or needs to friends, family, and strangers.
What I do say,
No, thank you.
Sep 6, 2009 | General
Years ago, when the kids were little, they went camping with my brother’s family on a holiday weekend like this one. I was to go up on the last day of the weekend to spend the day with them and bring the kids back home with me. Much like this Labor Day weekend, though, the weather was cold and rainy, so they decided to come home early. This was before the ubiquitousness of cell phones, but they did manage to call me from a payphone on their way down to tell me to pick up the kids at their house later in the afternoon. Not having to leave early to drive up to the wet, rainy mountains to spend the day in the dirt and mud with no power or running water: color me not disappointed.
Driving to their house in the pouring rain that afternoon, I began to see homemade signs tacked up on trees, sign posts, and telephone poles. “This way.” “Keep going, you’re almost there.” “Turn right left at the next corner.” “Oops, not this corner, the next corner.” I thought they were for a garage sale or a birthday party. Until they started to get more personal: “C2’s mom, go this way.” “You’re almost there.” “She’s just up the hill, C2’s mom.”
Turns out C2 had spent the weekend worrying that I wouldn’t be able to find them in the mountains, so my brother had made the signs to put her mind at ease and posted them on trees and bushes on the dirt road leading to their rustic camping area. When they decided to come home early, the change in plans was just about more than C2’s worried young brain could process. Just when they’d solved the problem of me finding them in the mountains, they decided to not stay in the mountains. There had been some discussion that they wouldn’t be able to contact me before I’d left home for the campsite (that they did indicates that I didn’t leave as early as I was supposed to). Unless we passed each other on the road, how would I know they’d gone home? I would drive all that way, follow the signs to be reunited with my darling children, and find them gone. Then what? I would have no idea where to look for them and they would likely spend eternity waiting for me to pick them up. That we lived about 10 miles from my brother’s house is no solace to small child’s worried mind.
Hence, the signs on the way to their house, with a few new ones added: “C2’s mom, she’s at the house, not camping.” “Don’t go up to the mountains! C2 is not there!”
Aug 7, 2009 | General
The check-out queues at Wal-Mart are long, so my fellow shoppers and I are stacking up out in the main aisle. A woman in front of me, holding a couple of items I assume she is in line to purchase, is standing a few feet behind the next person in line. All I see is a long, thick braid hanging down her back. She’s reading the magazine covers, a task easily accomplished in less than a minute. Those of us behind her have to keep stepping aside so shoppers can get past us, a fact the magazine-reader appears to be oblivious to. Finally, the line moves ahead and she takes a magazine from the rack. And stands there, re-reading the magazine covers, with an even bigger gap between her and the next person in line. I’m a regular Wal-Mart shopper (DOT 4 brake fluid and all the tubes of Vaseline Lip Therapy they had on the rack this time), so I know that it’s a not uncommon stop for quick-tempered shoppers (because they’ve been screaming at their kids all day). I tread lightly.
Excuse me? Are you in line?
She turns around. That braid does not fit with her face.
Why? Are you in a hurry? Go ahead.
I tell her no, that’s okay, I was just wondering if she was in line so those of us behind her would know if we should step around. She moves up. A little. A bit later, she turns around to face me,
The banana boat has arrived!
Hmm. Maybe there’s a Banana Boat sunscreen display close by that I missed? And she’s excited because she’s been anxiously awaiting the new shipment of SPF 15? I scan the area. Nope, no Banana Boat bottles or tubes of any kind. About a minute later, she turns around again,
If it doesn’t rot in the bay.
I doubt there’s a boat full of bananas in the bay, rotting or not. While there are a number of rotting boats in our bays, this is not banana country. More than a minute later, she turns around again,
It will be good for the kids at Christmas.
Although I try, I cannot arrange these disparate statements into a coherent conversation. My brain is too fried at the moment to engage in crazy, so the rack full of souvenir shot glasses, key chains, and lighters becomes fascinating enough to me to require close study.
She doesn’t answer the checker when she says hello and asks how her day is going. Doesn’t say a word as the checker, finally, rings up her few purchases. When the checker is done bagging, when Banana Boat Lady should be on her way out the door, she doesn’t move, but says,
My pastor is giving a sermon on the bad boys of the Bible. You should come.
The checker’s mistake was in saying that she has to work on Sunday. Banana Boat Lady didn’t mention the day. Turns out that sermon is readily available any day you are.
