For Everyone Who Ever Knew a Dog

Canis fidelis

When my toes are not exposed
On my fingers you do linger
With your little lapping tongue.

When my door is not ajar
With your paw you make a scar
An echo of your tiny “Let me in.”

When my day is not the best
In my lap you ask to rest.
Tell me all is well my warm and furry friend.

If you could you’d crack a grin
Instead, your leg begins to bend
As you roll and ask to have your tummy rubbed.

And when the day turns into night,
You don’t bark nor do you bite.
You know exactly where to lie and be on guard.

You were my fine and faithful friend.
We were together in the end.
I hope the same is said of me when I am gone.

For God’s Sake, Don’t Google That

My three-day bout with some sort of nasty bacillus-er-other has come to a close. Thank y’all for the many get-well wishes. What ever this thing or things was, presented a new symptom every day. I won’t go into the gory details, but to say, “For God’s sake, don’t Google your medical symptoms.” I did and it really messes with your head.

The body’s natural defenses have to get rid of all those nasty bugs so it’s natural that things smell differently at some point. I plugged in “odor” into Google and its handy “I’m guessing what you’re thinking based on things other people searched” feature filled out all sorts of weird guess. Just a side note, people who use Google, and that means everyone, are curiously dreadful people, including me.

After visiting a couple of the the top hits, I determined that I have one of the following:

• Celiac Disease though I’ve never had it before and it’s a genetic disorder.
• Advanced, Stage 3 liver cancer though you’d think I’d have noticed some other symptoms before now.
• Any one of several heavy metal poisonings from eating large amounts of certain fish which I don’t eat.
• Am possibly pregnant. Call the National Enquirer.

For now, I’m going with “it’s just my body getting rid of all the nastiness.” But all this got me thinking. It sure would be helpful if there were people out there who could make heads or tails out of all this mess. Sure, it might take a little more college to learn this stuff, possibly four years or more. In the end, these people would be able to help us figure out what’s ailing us and maybe even help us get well. They could even dress up in funny costumes like white coats and whatnot. Yeah, probably a pipe dream. Besides, when you’re sick, you don’t feel like getting out to see people anyway.

So kids, learn from my mistakes and stay off the Google for medical advice. If you believe everything you read on the internet, you’ll be doing surgery on yourself with a power drill and Swiss Army knife in your garage out of the fear that some ganglionic mass has taken over your pituitary gland. All because WebMD said you may have Nakajo syndrome. Well House, if you do have Nakajo syndrome, your parents were siblings and no amount of warnings will dissuade you from your self-surgery.

As for the rest of you, be well.

Oh, and if your armpits smell like tacos, the cure for that is “take a shower.” That’s a freebie from me to you.

Well, We’re Movin’ On Up

I’ve bemoaned my crappy digital camera for about as long as I’ve had it. The whining didn’t fall on deaf ears, either. My wife is a good listener and when she saw a good deal on a Kodak M420, she thought that would make the perfect “that’ll shut him up” Xmas gift. I’m glad she told me about it because I was about to buy a new camera for Xmas.

I was concerned that this one would be a piece of junk, too. You see, the one we have is one she got a really great deal on, too. So Xmas came early when it was delivered today. We needed to take if for a test spin so we would know whether to return it during the 30-day trial period.

In just four snaps, I was convinced to keep it. Not that any camera would have to do much to be better than the crappy Mustek we have, but this Kodak M420 takes pretty decent pictures.

It has:

• about 20 pre-set modes for various situation
• a tight/wide toggle under the right thumb
• a 27 second video w/ sound recorder (sound isn’t great)
• a big 3.5 inch (diagonal) LCD screen
• and best of all, a motion/blur stabilizer

The blur stabilizer is the feature I like best. With the old Mustek, I had to hold my breath for 5 seconds to get a decent shot. Plus, the Kodak takes much better close-ups than my old camera. Getting a good close-up is invaluable when putting pictures of items for sale on the web, which I do for my daughter’s craft site.

For a comparison here is a shot of my then-newly planted Angel Trumpets shot with the Mustek from about 4 feet away.

Angel Trumpet

Here is one of the Angel Tumpets today shot with the new Koday M420 using the zoom from about 18 feet away

Angel Trumpets in Bloom

Keep in mind, this was the third picture I took with my new camera, but I can already tell it’s going to take better pictures than my old one. Obviously, it’s not a professional’s camera or even a great personal piece of equipment, but when you’ve struggled for as long as I have with that Mustek P.O.S, anything is a step up.

I wish I had taken some before pictures of my chimney repairs, but here’s the after. You have to look closely to see that the side, which was what was replaced, isn’t exactly like the old siding (on the left and under the light). Much thanks to my cousin who gave me a family discount on the job.

Chimney Siding

Where Does the Crap in My Head Come From?

Seriously.

I woke up this morning with song lyrics in my brain. Woke up, mind you. I did not acquire these from my recent environment. I haven’t heard this song in years. Yet, there it was spewing out of my mouth as I made coffee, as I read my email, as I showered. It wouldn’t stop.

This brain worm would be understandable if it were something recent, but this song was released in 1968. It got jammed into my cerebellum sometime in the 1970s, probably from an album (yes, vinyl) I inherited from my sister. Why did it decide to produce itself fully formed this morning?

Now here’s where you laugh. The song is Tapioca Tundra. Never heard of it? I’m not surprised. It was written by Mike Nesmith. Yes, that Mike Nesmith of the Monkees. So I still have to wonder, why is there a Monkees’ song stuck in my brain at 6:40 AM?

Maybe because it’s really good poetry. Maybe because I was exposed to it as an impressionable youth. The specific lyrics I woke up with are:

And softly as I walk away
In freshly tattered shoes.
It cannot be a part of me
For now it’s part of you.

Sunshine, ragtime
Blowing in the breeze.
Midnight, looks right
Standing more at ease.

That’s all I could remember until the shower water hit my head. Then suddenly the first verse started gurgling out from under the water:

Reasoned verse, some prose or rhyme
Lose themselves in other times
And waiting hopes cast silent spells
That speak in clouded clues.
It cannot be a part of me
For now it’s part of you.

I was sure that no one else in the world remembered that tune. I had to be the only one who ever heard such an obscure song. So I went to our modern repositories of all things cultural, Google & YouTube. There were the lyrics as big as day on multiple lyric’s sites. YouTube is devoid of any original Monkee’s recordings, but a few covers exist there.

I’m not alone in my insanity. That’s comforting.

When Sparkly Vampires Kick Your Ass

Last night, my wife breezed through the living room asking for something. I wasn’t really clear what it was. She has a tendency to start our conversations before she enters the room and finish them from the kitchen, usually all while I’m either writing, proofing (ha), or intensely playing poker. Normally, I hear, “Blah…Blah…So don’t forget to buy that.” Huh? What am I supposed to buy?

It turned out to be the September edition of National Geographic. Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Where did that come from? But being the good and faithful husband I am, I stopped by Books-a-Million while out-and-about today and grabbed the September Nat. Geo. for her.

The woman ahead of me at the cash register was buying something from the tree-killing Twilight series, but the best part of her transaction was the gushing coming from behind the counter. This kid was way, way, way too into Twilight. Then he got all forlorn and misty when he said, “I probably won’t get to see the new movie since I’m going off to basic in October.”

As some of you know, I grew up Army. I have the greatest respect for our men and women in uniform. I wanted to give this kid some encouragement. I wanted to tell him I was proud of his sacrifice. I wanted to give him some sage wisdom to carry with him, maybe even onto some foreign shore some day. Something that might save his life. I wanted to, but this is what came out of my mouth:

“Kid, I want to give you some advice for boot camp. Keep that thing about liking the sparkly vampires under your hat. Trust me on this one. You’ll have a much better relationship with your drill sergeant if you just don’t bring it up. Just keep that to yourself, unless you want a nickname you’ll never shake.” He agreed that was probably the best course of action.

I hope that young lad starts the new phase of his life a bit wiser for meeting me. I hope one day he thinks back on a random meeting with a stranger in a book shop and thinks, “That guy really changed my life. In fact, he saved my life.”

I hope my words prevent him from letting it slip over evening chow in the mess one night, just how great he thinks Twilight is. I’ve got to tell you, once everyone in basic training knows you like sparkly vampires, you’re going to get the sparkly-vampire crap knocked out of you for the next six weeks.

And you’ll never shake the nickname, “Sparkles” or “Twilight Toes”. That crap will haunt you forever. No one ever wants to be in the thick of a fire-fight and hear, “Get Sparkles on the radio! We need fast movers!” or “Lay down some Willy Peter, Twilight Toes! We need smoke!”

So I think I did him some good. I may have save a whole platoon of men. You never know just what effect a butterfly’s wings will have.

Oh, and Nat. Geo.? Totally worth a peek this month.

A Lullaby for Mr. Spanky

There are one hundred reasons I am annoying. Number 54 is, I’m an absent-minded singer. I hum. I whistle. I sing. I get a tune stuck in my head and it randomly comes out during the day. I’m sure it’s annoying, but people don’t say anything. Their silence is probably born from fear. I guess they think I’m a bit mad. If I’m uninhibited enough to just burst into song, you can’t be too sure what I might do or so the logic goes.

Distractedly singing in public can get you some funny looks, not to mention, in all sorts of trouble. Today was one of those days.

I was in a great mood and Led Zeppelin was my all-natural, rhythmic Prozac. It started innocently enough. Nobody’s Fault But Mine popped into my head on the way to work. A simple whistle escalated to full-blown, belting-’em-out-at-the-stop-light car tunes. By the time I got to work, I needed a real fix. So I slapped it up on YouTube while I read my morning email. By the second chorus, the guy who shares my office was probably fantasizing about jamming a letter-opener into my neck, but I didn’t care.

YouTube, being what it is, suggested more Led Zeppelin for my enjoyment and others annoyance. I selected Since I’ve Been Loving You from the video jukebox and prepared for my morning meeting. All prepped, I decided to grab some coffee and hit the head.

Now kids, if you’re a singer like me, what you don’t want to do is find yourself in a crowded men’s room, belly up to the bar so to speak, singing Since I’ve Been Loving You softly to yourself. It’s not a great career move to have your boss catch you with your hands full, melodically swaying to, “Lord, you know it ain’t right. Since I’ve been loving you, I’m about to lose my worried mind.” In this situation, people get all sorts of the wrong impressions about your relationship with Mr. Spanky.

Now kids, if this ever happens to you, don’t not panic. Panic leads to only one thing … quickly replacing the song with another. Panic freezes the brain and since it’s stuck on Led Zeppelin, panic makes the conspicuous transition to Whole Lotta Love, complete with guitar intro. Panic fails to obfuscate what is obvious to every suit in the vicinity. All panic can do is:

“Badantdahdandant. Badantdahdandant. You need coolin’, baby, I’m not foolin’. I’m gonna send you back to schoolin’. Way down inside honey, you need it. I’m gonna give you my love. I’m gonna give you my love.” Badantdahdandant. Shake. Badantdahdandant. Shake. Badantdahdandant. Zip. Badantdahdandant. Flush. Wash. Badantdahdandant. Hi Bob. Way, way down inside honey, you need it. I’m gonna give you my love.”

Dream a Little Dream of Me

My wife is a believer in dreams. I don’t mean she has lofty aspirations or inspirational goals. I’m talking about the fuzzy images her brain generates while she is asleep. Many the morning I’ve awakened to cold, peering eyes watching me from her side of the bed. Those are the mornings when I know, some how, some way, I’ve been up to no good in her dreams … and I’m about to hear about it.

A common scenario involves her dreaming that we are both back in high school, wherein my dreamy doppelganger is ignoring her and is putting the teenage moves on some other girl. On those mornings, my coffee is less tasty while I hear about what a cad I am … er … was in high school. Not the high school of 30 years ago, but the high school of 30 minutes ago when she was dreaming. It’s all very confusing for me.

I only know one thing. At some point during my shower that morning, the water will suddenly burst forth in a jet of steam when my wife exacts her revenge by flushing the toilet for no other reason than to scald me … er … my dream self … er … but my flesh self still has first-degree burns. It’s all very confusing for me.

My sly male brain concocted a plan. I would tell her I had a dream. Her strong belief in the validity of dreams would compel her to follow up on my dream. It was a perfect plan, until I put it into action.

I set it up one morning with, “G’morning, Dear Heart. I love you. Wow! I had a dream last night.” Step one. Interest piqued.

“What did you dream?” Her reply fell right into my trap.

“It was a wild sex dream.” Bait dangled. Of course, she must know if she was part of my dream.

“Was I in it?” Bait taken. Now to snuggle up close and seal the deal.

“Of course sweetheart. Who else would be in my sex dreams but you?” Get ready to call work and tell them I’ll be late…

“That counts then. We’re good for another week.” Damn you, twisting female logic! At least I could take my shower as cold as necessary after my failed plan.

Today’s lesson: reach for your dreams with an open hand in case you have to pimp slap a brother on the way.

Celebrity Deaths Who Cares?

This week three celebrities died, Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. They died in that order like Death was doing some celebrity countdown. Each one was a bigger celebrity than the previous. When the week culminated in Jackson’s death, hysteria filled the air and digital waves. Twitter and Facebook spiked with everything from the major networks stories down to the smallest “I remember my first kiss was to a Michael Jackson song” tribute on MySpace.

Do I mourn these people. Sure I do, in a John Donne For Whom the Bell Tolls sort of way, sure. But I didn’t know these people and neither did the 99.9% of the people who pretended their deaths were the end of an era. No matter what fond memories you have of The Tonight Show, Charlie’s Angels, or the Bad album, you didn’t know any of these people. All the internet equivalent of throwing yourself on their caskets does only one thing. It makes me sad…for you.

Over 140,000 other people died today. Their lives were just as important as Michael Jackson’s. They just aren’t in your iPod. Do you mourn their deaths? This year over 300,000 women died in child birth leaving 300,000 motherless children. Many of those same children died of malnutrition or curable diseases before their fifth birthday. In fact, 5.3 million children under five died this year alone. Did you mourn them? Did you even donate to a charity that was trying to prevent their deaths? 22 million abortions were performed this year. Less than 3% were done because the mother was at risk. That’s more than one abortion every 3 seconds. Did you try to help those girls in distress? Did you offer them an alternative? Did you just picket a clinic and make them feel worse about their predicament? More than half a million lonely people committed suicide this year. Did you do anything to reach out to any of them and try to prevent their deaths?

I’d venture to say, someone in your neighborhood had a family member pass away this year. Did you take them food or even send a condolence card? I was expressing these feelings to my sister-in-law this morning. A member of her church died this week. She didn’t know them very well, but she vowed to at least attend and help out with food or the nursery so others could mourn properly. That is how you deal with death. That is real. That is tangible. That is mourning.

Sappy, crappy, faux feelings for someone you never even met because you feel they touched your life doesn’t impress me. It makes me kind of sad. There are people on your street who could change your life in infinitely more meaningful ways than a few entertainers, if you would just let them. When was the last time your even spoke to your neighbor? Do you even know their names? If you got their mail, would you know where to return it without looking at the address?

Do us both a favor. Don’t post another stupid ode to Michael Jackson on your blog unless you meet a neighbor you haven’t met. No more fake feelings on Facebook about Farah until you visit a nursing home or hospice this week. Stop acting like you know these people when you don’t even know the names of the people you work with every day. Make death personal and deal with the people involved face to face. Then you’ll have something of substance to talk or write about.

You can check these and more statistics at the World-o-Meter.

Water. Cool Clear Water.

Summer is officially here. The temperature is pushing triple digits (Fahrenheit) and the talking heads on the news casts are doing their summer heat precautions shtick again. If my digital weather station is to be believed, the humidity inside my house is 71%.

But that’s OK. After living 28 in Alabama, you learn a few things about how to beat the heat. My grandparents live 80 years in L.A. (Lower Alabama) without air conditioning. They pickup and passed on a few tricks for survival, too.

Rule #1: Water. Drink it. Drink it all day. If you want to change it up, drink decaffeinated iced tea. Because…
Rule #2: Lay off the caffeine and alcohol. They are diuretic and sap the body of water.
Rule #3: Take breaks. Take it easy and rest in the shade often.

This third rule is why Yankees characterized Southerners as slow. We’re not slow. We just don’t move too quickly because of the heat. We’re smart that way. Life goes on. Chores still need doin’. We just know how to work with the heat and not against it.

Just to prove how important water is, here are some before and after pictures of my Angel Trumpets. In the before shot, you can see how the leaves are curling and drooping. The after pictures were taken only five minutes after a good soaking with water, just plain old water.

Plant one. Before.	Plant one. After.
Plant two. Before.	Plant two. After.

My advice for beating the summer heat is simple. Be a plant. Don’t move around to much. Let the breeze move you when possible. Drink plenty of water all day long. However you choose to beat the heat, stay hydrated.

Closing in on the Odd Little Happy

Weather is one of those things that we are hard-wired for. It’s our base brain which responds to weather. Sure, you can intellectualize it. You can quantify it with temperature and pressure. But weather is as primeval as fear, food, and sex. You’re not buying this, are you?

Think about it. What do we talk about? Our fears, good food, great sex, and the weather. “Nice day?” is one of the most common introductory phrases spoken. Like a fire, we stare at the sunrise. Who hasn’t laid on a hillside and made shapes in their mind from passing clouds? If we’re lucky, sometimes we have the perfect dinner, stare at the sunset, and follow it with great sex. See, your primeval brain can have a great night out.

We’re wired to pay attention to the weather like our lives depend on it and they do. Just like our ancestors, we need to know when to take shelter from a storm and when the season is right to plant our crops. Even our moods are affected by how much sunlight we see. People at extreme latitudes suffer more depression in the shortened days of winter. We should feel sorry for them, but during those long night, they’re having great sex so screw them, literally.

So where’s the odd little happy in all this talk about the weather? Today was gray and overcast. There was brilliant, ozone-creating lightening and rolls of echoing thunder this morning. It rained most of the day. True to the old saying, “Don’t like the weather? Wait a minute,” by 5 o’clock, the sky was clear and blue. The birds were back singing after hunkering down all day. The dogs weren’t afraid to go outside again and stopped peeing on the rugs. Things changed that quickly.

Some complain about the rain, but I don’t. I didn’t have to mow the lawn today or water it either. Free, nitrogen-rich water literally fell from the sky. Some complain about the sun, but I don’t. I just put on my sunglasses, pour a tall iced tea, sit on my deck, and took fabulous in the good light. Whichever the weather, you just have to learn to take the good with the good.

While your chasing the odd little happy, beware of reindeer-munching, semi-depressed Eskimos looking for a one-night stand and keep your eye on the sky. The odd little happy may be just behind the next cloud.