Friday, January 26, 2007
Friday Romp
After two weeks of awful, depressing weather, the pups finally got reprieve from the indoors. The biggest casualty of their imprisonment was a checkbook Jacques decided to devour. I guess he too, knew, it was basically worthless.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Dog
After reading this post today, I was reminded of a Lawrence Ferlinghetti poem, "Dog." On this 14th consecutive day of Seattle-like weather, I thought why not go a little West Coast.
Dog
The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in the doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn’t hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He’s afraid of Coit’s Tower
but he’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog’s life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
barking
Dog
The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in the doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn’t hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He’s afraid of Coit’s Tower
but he’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog’s life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
barking
democratic dog
engaged in real
engaged in real
free enterprise
with something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master’s Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramophone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth
some Victorious answer
to everything
with something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master’s Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramophone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth
some Victorious answer
to everything
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
The City's Got Spirit
Over the break I attended my friend Betsy's wedding. It was in New Orleans, where both she and her husband have lived the majority of their lives. It was beautiful, very warm, and very intimate. Really, it was very New Orleans.
Betsy's husband, Chris, is a musician. So the music, of course, was fantastic. They hired The Hot Club of New Orleans, a popular local Jazz group. My favorite part of the evening was when they performed "Bourbon Street Parade." Up to that point, the dance floor had been more or less avoided by all. However, when the first note rang out, nearly every native New Orleanian left their seats, folded their napkins in half, and began marching around the room, violently waving their arms and napkins in the air. It moved me to tears.
You Either Love It or You Hate It
My first memory of New Orleans is of a Paul Young concert my parents and I attended in 1985. "Everytime You Go" was wildly popular. Young's gesture of pointing towards himself, and then towards the crowd in sychrony with the lyrics, was unforgettable. After the concert, we walked down Bourbon street. At age seven, I was mildly confused and immensely intrigued by the sites we encountered. As I curiously peered into one of the strip joints, a doorman warned, "Don't look in here girl; it'll make your eyes pop out!" It didn't, of course. Although I was shocked at the time, the City has since shown me far worse. Still, I'm smitten.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I suck
The first week of school is over. I'll be back tomorrow with a vengeance. Cut me some slack or cuss me in the comments. Your choice.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Free-thinking kitty
Meet Jezebel, my free-thinking cat who loves to shit outside of the box.
During the last 8 years, I've grown accustomed to finding an occasional a turd or two lying near the litter box. To combat the problem, I searched the Internet for articles, read each of them several times, and tried every suggested tactic to curb her fowl habit. Nothing worked. Instead, Jezebel's diversified her pooping habits; at this point any old spot will do.
The experts claim cats don't act out. If your kitty is missing the box, anxiety or heath issues are usually to blaim. But when it comes to Jezebel, I'm simply not buying it. I doubt it is a coincidence that fresh piles of cat crap usually appear when I choose to spend the night away from home. After all, this is the same cat who once snuck into the room and bit an ex of mine on the neck when we were doing the deed. She's not right, but neither was the ex. Perhaps Jezebel was trying to warn me. Someone needed to, however, that's a story for another day.
During the last 8 years, I've grown accustomed to finding an occasional a turd or two lying near the litter box. To combat the problem, I searched the Internet for articles, read each of them several times, and tried every suggested tactic to curb her fowl habit. Nothing worked. Instead, Jezebel's diversified her pooping habits; at this point any old spot will do.
The experts claim cats don't act out. If your kitty is missing the box, anxiety or heath issues are usually to blaim. But when it comes to Jezebel, I'm simply not buying it. I doubt it is a coincidence that fresh piles of cat crap usually appear when I choose to spend the night away from home. After all, this is the same cat who once snuck into the room and bit an ex of mine on the neck when we were doing the deed. She's not right, but neither was the ex. Perhaps Jezebel was trying to warn me. Someone needed to, however, that's a story for another day.
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