When Dog Poop on the Sidewalk Saved Me

My ears are still ringing. I was invited to see Starcrawler at The Fonda Theater last night. I don’t think I’ve heard a band play so loud since Mötley Crüe. But that’s not what this story is about. And I am definitely not associating Starcrawler with shit because they rocked. They are already enjoying some success; but they are poised to explode, perhaps reluctantly. Not that guitarist though. He’s going to embrace the fame barreling down on him. Yes, they were good, but that’s not what this post is about. It’s about a smear of shit on the sidewalk. That’s the main character in this story. A smear of shit was my hero last night.

I only recently moved to Los Angeles, so, naturally you find some local stuff to do to get a taste of what your new city offers. I’ve found myself describing L.A. to people as “if you took New York (City) and slapped it against the ground. Everything spreads out. The art, the culture, the restaurants, the entertainment, the variety of people, the traffic, the litter, the gum on the sidewalk, the smell of urine; it’s all there. Especially the dog shit. I normally complain that not enough people clean up after their dog. I feel actual pain if I take my dogs for a walk and forget bags. But what I lay before you may actually come off as an argument for not cleaning up after your dog.

Apparently I’m a sidewalk watcher. I thought that I was the kind of person who looks at his surroundings, and takes it all in. But what I realized last night is I will recognize a crack in the sidewalk, a pattern of blackened and dry chewing gum a million times trampled, or a smear of dog dropping sooner than I’ll recognize a particular restaurant entryway or a packed parking lot next to a car dealership.

We had dinner at a place called Palms Thai on Hollywood Boulevard, which promised an Elvis impersonator. The food was good, but they didn’t deliver on the entertainment. That’s okay, we were heading to see this hot new band called Starcrawler anyway (I keep wanting to say Sand Crawler). Palms Thai has valet parking and they close the garage at midnight, so we figured we were safe heading to a show where the doors open at 8:00pm and leaving the car at the restaurant. We’d walk to the theater. So, that’s what we did. We walked to the theater. Aside from The Museum of Death I barely took note of a landmark. I was counting on the mutual bearings of my wife and friends and enjoying the moment. We walked and joked. We mused on the mundane decisions of how we dress. We discussed the scooter rental habits of the locals. Jeff and I acknowledged when Elaine turned in front of us to warn us of the poop in our path. Pay attention to that detail. It’s important to the story. A good director never adds a detail that isn’t either there for character development or a plot device. This poop smear was both.

I remember getting lost in pondering how one dog poop could have been smeared in three directions spreading over two to three feet of sidewalk real estate. I can’t help but wonder about the three chumps who stepped in it. Were they doing the Moonwalk? I imagine the first person probably smeared a bit on their shoe and kicked when they realized what was happening. Two boulders of smelly doo-doo rolled ahead to better their chances of survival. The next two people didn’t notice the eight inch smear, or perhaps were avoiding it only to be ambushed by the guerrilla bombs in the periphery. It’s a virtual minefield on city sidewalks, kids. Keep your heads down.

We successfully navigated the fecal war zone and needless to say, found our way to the theater with the one event of avoiding some poop on the ground as an all but forgotten anecdote. As we waited for Elaine to get the tickets at will call Jeff, Elizabeth, and I chatted about the event posters on the wall. Elaine dropped a fact on me like a bucket of bricks. The band wasn’t going on until just before 11:00pm so it was likely they wouldn’t finish before the parking garage closed. I had to go back out there into the wilderness of a new city and walk the few short blocks so that I could move the car to a different lot. Easy enough. “I’ll be right back,” I said. Yeah, right. Good one, Kurt.

After getting permission from the security guard standing next to the sign that said “No Re-Entry” I turned right out of the theater heading into the abyss of the unknown. We turned left into the theater. That much I knew. It wasn’t long before I started to feel like a five year old who just spent two minutes standing inside a circular clothing rack. Where’d mommy go? I don’t know where I am. Can someone help me? Then I started to cry.

Okay, I recognize that scooter. Wait, no. It was lying down facing traffic. This was a different scooter. Don’t use vehicles as landmarks. That’s an invitation to a prank by the universe. Dark parking lot behind iron fence. Yes, I remember that. It’s kind of nondescript though. Am I sure that was the same lot we passed before? Walk another block to be sure. That’s the only way to be certain. Hmm, I don’t remember walking past a car dealership. Turn around. Go back the way you came and try the other direction. Pay attention to this moment, dear readers. Take note that car dealerships are typically well lit. They will cast a spotlight on dog poop if it’s on the sidewalk. The problem was that I noticed the poop earlier, not the car dealership. The red herring of a landmark fooled me into thinking I’d gone in the wrong direction. Note to self: The absence of details in a memory and perception does not signify the absence of the same details in reality.

I walked past the theater again, this time in the opposite direction. I never bothered to look across the street as I passed the Museum of Death. That would have saved me. I would have realized I was on the right path initially. Instead I panicked and basically got lost on a street having not made a single turn yet. So what did I do? I turned. That’s what the GPS said to do. I was smart enough to look for the location of the restaurant. I chose the “walk” to destination button over the “drive” button, but for some reason my app wanted me to make a u-turn. Who makes u-turns while walking? Should I walk around the block instead of just turning around? I bowed before my new overlord, technology, and made the turn down that block. Short cut, I thought. Before long the distinct smell of urine soaked cement wafted past me as I began to see tents pitched among piles of garbage and blankets. I think I made a wrong turn into the men’s room. Sir, that’s not a urinal.

Before long the distinct smell of urine soaked cement wafted past me as I began to see tents pitched among piles of garbage and blankets. I think I made a wrong turn into the men’s room. Sir, that’s not a urinal.

There was an instant when I almost walked on confidently, but I snapped out of that stubborn notion and turned back. Maybe the other way, perpendicular to the turn I’d made. Where is the Scarecrow when you need him? No one on the street could help me. They’re all tourists or surprisingly rude Los Angeleños. New York has an unfair reputation for people who won’t help you, but I found out last night the capitol of pedestrian assholery is actually Los Angeles. A few jerks actually mumbled inaudibly intentionally. I felt like an unwanted intruder. It’s cool. I’ll figure it out myself. I fake smiled for no one’s benefit but my own and continued my meandering trek to oblivion.

It’s an adventure, I thought. Instead of being inside a noisy club waiting for a loud as fuck band to come on, and pretending I can understand the conversation I was out in the wild experiencing Hollywood Boulevard as if it was a safari. I spoke to Elaine on the phone and she told me I had been heading in the right direction the first time. Confirmed. I’m back on track. To assure myself I found a security guard waiting to cross the street. He was wearing a Fonda Security shirt. I can trust him. That fucker sent me back the wrong way. Very funny, dude. If you’re reading this I hope you were one of the schmucks who got dog shit on his crappy DSW shoes.

This misadventure went on far too long. I had picked up my pace a while ago, and my smart watch kept prompting me. “Do you want to record this outdoor walk?” Apparently my pulse had picked up enough to fool the watch into thinking I was exercising. It was a power walk.

I eventually got directions from a bartender. I’d finally gone inside a bar to ask someone who was bound to help me. I could trust him, right? The way I trusted the security guard. I was wary, so I walked on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly I saw the red neon lights of the Museum of Death. “Death Comes to Everyone” it said ominously. I took it to heart and crossed the street again, carefully watching for runaway busses. I headed straight for the car dealership I’d dismissed earlier. Okay, I thought. Apparently I had indeed passed that car dealership.

I got my bearings at the corner. Yes, the Museum of Death was where it belonged now. I turned up the sidewalk and began looking for more landmarks, and there it was like Orion’s Belt to a navigator. The three stars of dog smear were like an arrow pointing me in the right direction. This is how dogs do it. They piss along the way wherever they walk so they can smell the popcorn trail they left for themselves. And since we evolved these canine companions with us for so long they’ve learned to communicate with us. No tax dollars spent, they put up they most effective street sign possible. They probably developed the conformational shit arrow a thousand years ago on the cobblestone streets of Rome, and I’m just discovering it.

A minute later I found the restaurant and then the parking garage. I tipped the valet who got my car, and threw in an extra buck because I felt accomplished and happy in that moment. Despair had run off like a squirrel, skittering and chittering up a tree. “Hey, hey, I’m still here. I ran, but I’m not running!” Fuck off, despair. I have pride now. I’ve made the discovery of the millennium. Sidewalk dog shit has meaning.

I am the Dogfather

Here I was, about to start writing this piece about my dogs having been in a recent scrap with each other when I heard one bark outside. That was Kara’s bark. The bark was a play invitation. She was asking George to play with her. I know the sound. But I didn’t trust it. I had to call them inside where I can keep a closer ear on them.

These two dogs are rescues. My adopted kids in a way. Just last week I was trying to explain the concept to a friend whom has actual human kids and also dogs. The dynamic there is different. That’s not to diminish your particular relationship with your dogs if you also have kids. Typically though, the idea of doggie parents makes people cringe or giggle. That’s okay. It’s an emotional surrogate thing. I admit I used to make fun of it myself. But now I am a doggie daddy. I am the Dogfather.

Kara (left) and George (right) are very good at waiting for the okay before eating.

A few days ago I’d left the room after feeding the dogs. They are very good at waiting for me to say, “Okay,” before they begin their twice daily meal. I can thank my wife for that training. Perhaps I’d begun to take for granted that they get along so well. They’ve never before had food aggression. When they get treats they sit side by side and wait their turn. That’s not entirely true. If George misses his toss (He’s gotten much better since we first got him. A tossed treat used to bounce off his snout every time), Kara will often take advantage and take what he couldn’t catch. She has seniority in the house as the older dog who’s been with us longer, but that doesn’t mean she gets more food. She learns the lesson of food fairness on a regular basis. It always evens out. She does eat slower though, and that’s where the problem started.

It should be noted, big sister Kara and little brother George got into a quick scrap that lead to no injuries when we first adopted George a few years ago. They had been playing so well together in his first few days together, so I decided to introduce the ball back into the equation. Kara loves chasing the ball, and she’s always been quick as a whip; but she’s never had competition. When George took a head start, anticipating my throw, he made it to the ball first. Kara was having none of that, and she let him know with a spoiled snap at his face. He was defensive immediately, snapping back, and crying out, “Hey! No fair!” in his best impression of a dog who’s trying to find his place in the new hierarchy. We were his new family. George wasn’t the new dog. We all had to adapt, but the stressful part was on Georgie. They got over it, and George determined that he will only chase a ball if Kara is off chasing her own ball first. His smile is gigantic when he has his own ball, and he will usually just nuzzle his prize after the first catch. He’s easily contented, and he’s always appreciative.

We don’t know much of George’s history except that he has a lot of scars around his neck and face. They are mostly hidden by his fur now since he’s much healthier than when we first brought him home. We often wonder what he’s been through. Who did this to him? Was he mentally scarred too? Was he abused? Did he have to fight to survive in a world of other strays? Whatever the case is he loves his family. We are his pack, and he wears a proud expression with regal posture every time we walk together. He always comes over to say, “Thank you for the meal,” after he’s eaten.

Lately, Kara has slowed down a little. She’s still very much a puppy with her energy, and people are always surprised to know she’s twelve years old. She eats a bit slower than she used to. George will sometimes watch her eat when he’s finished, probably wondering if she’ll leave anything behind. I should have done more than just notice this. I should have realized this situation requires supervision.

Something I’ve done recently is take for granted that they get along so well. I’ve consciously put their food bowls closer together when I feed them. It wasn’t meant as a test. It was more out of convenience. I only had to bend down once, and isn’t that what being a human adult is? A contest to bend down less often? He who bends down the least wins. I had unwittingly contributed to a perfect storm.

I can only presume what actually happened to make them start fighting based on what I know about them because I was one room away when it started. I heard the sounds of collars jingling as they munched away at breakfast. The jingling quieted, and there was only one collar tapping against the metal bowl. I heard a yap, then another yap. Both sounded defensive to me, so I ignored it. They’s said their piece and got past it. That’s when I heard growling, thumping, and snapping. It was all very quick. George probably got too close to Kara as she was finishing. She didn’t like it. She said, “Get away! I’m still eating!” George said, “Sorry! You’re just eating so slow! I thought I would help you finish.” Then Kara said, “Don’t you take that tone with me, mister!” and it became a fight.

“George said, ‘Sorry! You’re just eating so slow! I thought I would help you finish.’ Then Kara said, ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, mister!’ and it became a fight.”

My barks started before I was out of my chair, and by the time I got to them it had only been a few seconds. They didn’t want to be fighting. I know because when they heard me yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” they both got to Sphinx position as I entered the kitchen. Then Kara got up as if nothing had happened, and went back to her bowl. That’s when I noticed the blood on the floor.

Georgie rolled over for inspection, but I didn’t see any wounds. He was fine. I was shocked because Kara is the reactive one. She’s the one who’s taken aggressive positions in the past. It was Kara who was bleeding. I found blood coming out of her nostril. She was licking it too fast for me to see a source, so I assumed George’s tooth caught her in the nose and scraped or punctured her nostril. She sneezed a few times and the kitchen became a murder scene. I quickly got a blanket and a wet towel and called her to the bedroom. I covered the bed with the blanket, and called her up. She was shaken, but happy for the attention. From her perspective, I imagined she thought I was taking her side and comforting her. George followed us around saying, “But she started it!” with his eyes and tail.

Kara had a tooth mark on her snout. The skin and fur was peeled back, and the wound was deep. Her bloody nose wasn’t from a wayward tooth in the gnashing of faces. She was bleeding from her nose because of the pressure from the bite! “George! You bit her face! There’s no fighting in this house!” I said to George. Kara’s expression said, “Yeah, it was his fault.” George’s expression said, again, “But she started it!”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “We don’t fight over food and we don’t bite each others faces!” I actually said that. I felt like we had a language-barrier-free conversation about it. I was being a dad though I’ve never been a father. I was wiping blood off my little girl’s nose after she got into a scuffle at the breakfast table with her little brother. It was a Leggo my Eggo situation.

George is a good boy. He tests his place sometimes. He’ll jump on the bed without permission, and we occasionally have to remind him to wait for an invite. He learns quickly, and one of his main concerns is being obedient. He wants to be a good dog. I only worry slightly that he could feel now that he’s “beaten” Kara in a contest, and he’s risen in the ranks. If anything he saw how concerned I was with her swollen snout. I was reassuring her. He looked like he felt like an outsider for a few moments. That’s when I hugged him. “Sorry, Dad.” he said with his nuzzle. I am the Dogfather.

Sketch a Blue Box

Tap, tap. That’s the first two taps of the keyboard. When I write I always hit return twice to make space between the document title bar and the first line I’m typing. I’m not completely sure why I do this because I always go back and delete the empty lines when I’m finished. It might be because I want a little visual space there. It might be because it’s knuckle cracking or finger stretching. It’s getting ready to sketch by winding the wrists with a pencil in hand. Hear the crackle of the old joints? My wrists need WD-40. “He said ‘Oil can.’” “Oil can what?” “Oil can? Oh! Here it is. Where do you want to be oiled first?”

My rusty fingers tippety-tapping away are not the problem. My overused index fingers can two-finger type like a thirteen year old texts. My thumbs are involved a bit, but any time I try to coax my other fingers into the game the play breaks up. I may as well stick my fingers into my brain and mash it all up like I’m preparing a meatloaf. I can’t type as fast as my creative brain moves, but if I did what I write might be even more incoherent.

An artist doesn’t always know what they’ll draw. I’m not talking about assigned artwork. We do that with specific parameters in mind. A writer might be doing the same thing. With an assignment there’s a framework of ideas that limits where to go. “Write an article about a blue box.” The writer looks into their experiences with blue boxes or Blue Box, the movie and talks about how a blue box affects the world. Or they talk about how Blue Box was much better than Green Box. The whole Box genre is taking over geometry, and we need more angular influence in the entertainment industry.

“When a creative mind looks at a blank page without the suggestion of the blue box the page is either viewed as a mocking void or an inviting space.”

When a creative mind looks at a blank page without the suggestion of the blue box the page is either viewed as a mocking void or an inviting space. That’s where I want to be. That’s where i find myself when I sit down to write. For me the empty page is an inviting space that calls out. It’s asking to be defined or put into focus. It’s asking for words. The blank page used to ask for a picture, but that’s not what I see anymore. I either never reached my potential as a visual artist or I lost my vision somewhere along the way.

My mind used to think in pictures. I had ideas in my head, and I found a fleeting image that represented that idea. That was what I put on paper. One still image from the whirlwind in my head. It’s like one of those cash grab booths. You’re standing in a chamber, and paper money is flying around you. A one hundred dollar bill whips past your eyes, and by the time your hand reaches that space it’s grabbing a dollar bill or a coupon for half off an oil change. You’re overwhelmed, and can’t grab what you want so you grab what you can. It’s too random. Satisfaction is elusive and you’re convince by the host that you’ve won something when you step out with twenty three bucks. There was a potential to come out with a thousand, but you’re supposed to feel good that you managed to get something.

That’s how I feel about my own experience with visual art. I make a living at it, but it’s just not fulfilling anymore. I’m not sure it’s been fulfilling since I was a kid. I was the artist growing up. I was lucky enough to have that nurtured, but what if it was the wrong talent to support. I found expression through praise, but maybe the praise was premature. I distinctly remember being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. On all those occasions I said, among other things, “an artist.” All, but one, actually. I said the things we were expected to say, or what I thought we were expected to say: “Fireman, policeman, astronaut, veterinarian, artist.” “You’re definitely an artist,” they would say.

One day, I saw a story in Cricket Magazine. The cover image was a Trojan Horse drawn as a giant cricket in black in. The detail had me in awe. I could almost draw it from memory, but what really stood out to me was the credit on one of the stories. Who it was escapes me, but the artist also wrote the accompanying story. That’s what I want to be: An author/illustrator. I didn’t know then that I was making a compromise for all the adults in my life who thought I needed to be told I was going to be an artist. I don’t fault them. I was saying I wanted to be an author, but they didn’t hear it. I didn’t hear it either. Because I just didn’t have the experience of life and understanding and appreciation for story-telling.

I had ideas. I had vague stories. I had thoughts, and the way I expressed them was with pictures. So I drew and drew to get all the pictures out. It was impossible. All the pictures were flying around my face, and I couldn’t possibly step out of the chamber and show them all to the world.

Is that my excuse for not trying to be a better artist? I don’t think so. I don’t lose myself in that process. The sketch, to me, is futile. I much prefer to look at the art of others. Artists can make some of the most inspiring images. And what do these images do to me? They make me want to write.

The above process has come out in snippets of conversation here and there. It may have even already come out in a bit of writing. But this is a sketch. My proverbial pencil made a circle on a blank page, and the lines got darker. A picture began to come into view, and I began to add details. This exercise, for me, is extremely satisfying. I’ve found who I am. I’ve learned to sketch again. If you’ve ever had the creative itch you know how important that is.

I won’t bother proof-reading this. Maybe later I’ll read it again and cringe at the sound of it. The flow will be clunky. The words will be wrong and the thoughts will be redundant. The sentence structure will be lanky and loose. I don’t care. I woke up, and sketched some words because my muse wants me to be in shape for whatever is happening next. The And is Near.

Dreams (Season 1: Episode 1: #dreams)

As I was lying in bed after waking up at 4:15 AM I wondered what I would write about. I drew a blank. I had no thought that had woken me. I suppose these are the mornings I should rise to work on my novel. Instead I rolled over and fell asleep again. I woke from a dream some time after 6:00 AM. I was driving. In most dream dictionaries they say driving in a dream means you feel as though you are making progress in your waking life. It’s usually a good thing if you are traveling. Interpretations can vary depending on the vehicle and destination. I was observing a gorgeous sky. It was a brilliant orange with a golden halo that extended well into the blue overhead. My wife was with me in my Mini Cooper. We looked through he sunroof to see how far it went above us. The sun itself was obscured by tall pine trees so we continued to drive. As we rounded the bend passing the trees we could see more. The edge of center was white hot the way the sun looks at noon. We realized it was slowly moving. It was rising, not setting. It was the light that was rising, but not the source of light. The sky boiled into the blue, rippling the way the end of a highway looks in the heat of the day. Black began to frame the explosion of light in the shape of an ellipse, and a trunk of hot black pressed the mass higher into the sky. We realized we were looking at a mushroom cloud, and it was close.

I’ve dreamt of seeing nuclear explosions before; but I’ve never been that close, and I’ve never been driving toward it. I always wish I could have seen the rest considering the relative safety of it all being a dream. I often tell people dreams and nightmares are my favorite source of entertainment. You get to exist in a reality of no consequence, and you can do whatever you want. Sometimes I wonder if lucid dreaming is a self induced morality test. When I was younger I believed that you wouldn’t do anything in a dream you wouldn’t do in real life, but I no longer believe that. I thought it was a way you could judge your own character until I understood the concept of lucid dreaming. Dreams have the potential to be free, personalized Choose Your Own Adventure scenarios.

Waking up can be very disappointing. It’s not that I want to be incinerated in a nuclear inferno, but if, given the chance to understand that whatever is happening has frayed logic, you can find yourself realizing you’re in a dream. Even if you don’t become lucid in the dream who wants the television to go black just before the dramatic conclusion?

Sometimes I find myself wishing I could remain in a dream world forever, and just forget about life. Then I feel guilty, like I’m taking life for granted or not appreciating it enough. I don’t wish my body could be in a coma so I can exist solely in a dream state. I don’t wish I’m in the Matrix while my physical body is harvested for its energy. But then I get pseudo-philosophical, and wonder if either of these things is already happening.

Am I existing in countless worlds? Did I witness the end of one via the nuclear explosion dream? It’s fun to postulate that idea until I remember I also once dreamt I was camping with Jon Bon Jovi when we were attacked by Bigfoot. Bigfoot threw me through a window (in the middle of the woods), and I burst into flame. As a skeleton I battled the hairy beast, and my camping friend disappeared. What’s the most unbelievable part of that dream? I think it’s the part where I was camping with Jon Bon Jovi. So, no, dreams aren’t another reality or a series of other realities. There’s speculative science that explains what dreams are, but I’m more interested in the entertainment value.

Most people would consider witnessing a nuclear explosion to be a nightmare. Maybe I’m jaded. The visuals in my imagination can be and are far worse than seeing something brilliant and awesome moments before my imminent demise. That almost sounds like a religious experience compared to some of the other scenarios my unconscious mind has conjured. Dreaming is one of my favorite things to do. I just wish I didn’t have to be asleep while doing it.

In Defense of ‘Live, Love, Laugh”

I tried starting the first sentence here four times, and deleted each of them after the first few words, not liking the sound or second-guessing my structure. Who wants to start a monologue/post/essay (how do I describe this anyway?) with a sentence that’s going to get the grammar police on scene before the point is made? My muse is here to remind me that what I’m writing about is judgement, and it comes in all forms. If we’re honest with ourselves we are all hypocritical (first time in the history of the universe I spelled that word right on the first try) on occasion. We judge, but we hate being judged. I judge. You judge. We all judge. For ice cream with fudge?

In the past few days there was an obscure coincidence that kept popping up in my social media feeds. It was on Facebook mostly. Side themes that are happening on Twitter and Instagram don’t always match. I’m not talking about the topic of the day, which is usually political. Sometimes it’s celebrity bashing, deserved or undeserved. Sometimes it’s a famous death. There’s a topic that falls into the feeds that occur over and over. You either scroll past or comment on a select few, the people or pages you interact with most.

Sometimes the recurring topic is more subtle. Some idea shows up twice, and you think, “Gee that’s funny,” though I never actually say, “Gee,” and I rarely say the rest out loud. I’ll just curl my lips down in my best unintentional Robert Di Nero expression, and I keep scrolling without much thought. Then a little further along I’ll see that someone has posted a status update, and it covers the same obscure topic. The words may as well have been copied and pasted. I rationalize that they saw the same posts I saw, and they were triggered or inspired to say the same thing. Then I see it again. Someone is making fun of people who have the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” in their home. Has it really come to this?

To be certain, I doubt I’d hang the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” on a plaque, or as a wood cut-out, or using individual decorative letters in my house; but it’s not because I think people who do this are inferior decorators. Heck, the prominent art in my kitchen is two linoleum or wood block prints of King Kong and Godzilla, made by an artist called AttackPeter (Peter Santa-Maria). I’m not the one to come to for interior decorating advice. I may sneer or cringe when I see a Hummel figurine in someone’s living room, but who am I to begrudge someone’s Home Goods or Michael’s design choice?

“Someone is making fun of people who have the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” in their home. Has it really come to this?”

I just looked up the word ‘begrudge’ to be sure I was using the best word. I’m probably not using the best word. I think we’ve been using that word wrong all along. “Envy (someone) the possession or enjoyment of (something): she begrudged Martin his affluence.” If it’s based in envy maybe all the judgements are about wishing you’d thought of it first, but now that it’s a trend you’re too cool to hang “Live, Love, Laugh” in your house.

Maybe it’s because you don’t subscribe to living, loving and laughing. Maybe it’s because the whole notion of putting the idea into words and having it on a wall usually reserved for landscapes or portraits of roosters is too cheesy. Who cares? What difference should it make to anyone how someone might choose to decorate? Sometimes people need Wayfair, or Kirkland’s or the Target home section to inspire them. Whether your living room and kitchen sport high art or CBGB’s memorabilia you have surrounded yourself with that which you love, hopefully.

We aren’t all masters of visual expression. A little inspiration goes a long way. I’ve been tempted to hang words of positivity in my house, but since I will typically go against the grain by the time I notice a trend I believe I’m too late to make an individual statement, and I move on. My wife and I have friends who hung the word “Noms” made from tin letters in their kitchen. When I saw it for the first time I was mad at myself for not having thought of it. I refuse to be a copy cat. I’m creative enough to have my own ideas. However, if I saw another mutual friend put up the word “Noms.” in their kitchen I wouldn’t judge them. If anything I’d think, “Damn, they liked that and they did the same thing. Now it’s a trend. I could have gotten in before it was a trend.”

There was a time I’d be among the judges. I’d roll my eyes at the cliches. Home is where the heart is. A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams. Reach for the moon… If you miss at least you’ll be among the stars. Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery and today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present. Honestly I still roll my eyes a bit. Fashionable philosophy is always going to be a thing though. Commercial convictions and average adages are will always be among us. Look at me. I’m a writer who dared to play with alliteration. Sue me. Ha! Another cliche.

If you’re judging “Live, Love, Laugh” signs and the people who hang them you’re missing the message altogether. Live the way you want to, but don’t fault someone else for living the way they want to unless they are hurting someone. Love what you love. Allow others to love what they love. Don’t weaponize your assessment of what someone else loves. Laugh at it if you need to, but if you’re laughing with your elbow in someone’s side to get approval for your laughter your just laughing wrong.

Passing the Baton to Future Me

I’m not sure how many days it’s been since I’ve written anything. When it’s more than seven days do you start counting in weeks? Does two weeks sound better than fifteen days? “I haven’t written in two weeks!” -or- “I haven’t written in fifteen days!” I’m thinking the former version makes it less personal, like it has no effect on me. It’s something I haven’t done in a while. The latter is so specific that it sounds like it’s a conscious accomplishment like, “I haven’t had a drink in fifteen days.” Do you get a chip for that? Maybe a Disney pin to put on my lanyard. This new “Fifteen Day Non-Writing Pin” is available for trade. I will accept a “Pen-out-of-ink” pin, an “illiterate-while-grieving” pin, or a rare Darth Vader pin. I think I’ve seen most of those though, so try to really impress me.

This entry is going to be dedicated to my father. He died last week. I can’t even remember what day it was. I was thinking that when I was ready I’d write about it. I guess I’m ready. The problem is this blog is meant to be somewhat personal, but it’s supposed to be lighter side stuff. I do fully intend to write about the past few weeks as a cathartic exercise, but I was thinking that it belongs somewhere else. The And is Near is meant to be ramblings of mine that bring you into my head where the skies are filled with ampersand clouds, and the mountains undulate, making avalanches of commas and semicolons. Ellipses are train tracks that take you through parenthetical tunnels to destinations that are spelled wrong. If you stay too long near the landfills of periods and mixed metaphors a thesaurus will come along and bite off your head… ahem, a thesaurus will come along and bite off your noggin.

So I won’t write about the experience of the last few weeks. I won’t talk about holding my father’s hand for most of thirty three hours. I won’t talk about the rush of love that came in to fill the empty space that was eaten away by anger and frustration for the past fifty years. That last sentence sounds a little dramatic. I doubt I’ve been at odds with my dad since I was new on the Earth. I’m turning fifty in a few days, and I feel like a kid again. You know the kid. “I’m going to be six in thirty nine and a half days. It’s half because I was born at lunchtime, and it’s breakfast time now.” That annoying kid. I’m turning fifty in a few days, and I’ve been telling people for months. Now that it’s finally here I’m mentally turning it into a barrier I’m crossing. It’s the next leg in my relay race.

At wakes we talk about the person who’s left us, but we also talk about ourselves. We’re catching up with old friends and acquaintances. The subject of youth track and field came up, and it gave me the opportunity to brag about kid me. I was the first leg in a 440 relay team. There were four of us, and we were the fastest kids on the track team. We held the record one year, then broke the record the following year for fastest 440 yard relay on Long Island. Or maybe it was all of New York. We were fast; and Kenny, our anchor was lightning. He never had to catch a lead. By the time he got the baton we were already in the lead. He was there to embarrass the opposing teams. As far as I know we held that record into the time when they changed the formats of track races. Kids are running in the metric system now, so that record can never be broken, officially.

I ran through life fast as a kid, with purpose and parental planning. I did what I was told. I rebelled in my own way, but I stayed in my lane. That first leg was easy. That was me doing what you do. You run fast, and do what you can to do your part, but you have to pass the baton on to the second leg. You don’t hold the responsibility for the race in your sprint. If you got to the bend in full motion and among or ahead of the pack you were good. You passed the baton and started cheering for your team. I stumbled a little at the college age, the end of the first 110 yards. The baton hand-off was clunky, but career age me took it and did what was expected. I don’t think my father was at that record-setting race, but my memory puts him there. He was carrying more batons or he was in a cross-country race of his own with six kids to think of.

In leg two I’m not the fastest, but most reliable runner. The consistency of my speed is essential. Legs three and four are speedsters, but sometimes they tweak something. They are high speed engines that can break down. They’ll run on one fewer cylinder and still move fast. They can overcome their own setbacks, but leg two needs to get the baton to them well enough to give them a chance. When leg two passes off the baton to number three he can take a breath and cheer on his team for the rest of the race. It was up to one and two to set up the win. It’s up the three and four to bring it home.

“I can hear the support in the echoes of legs one and two as the baton leaves my present hands and is taken by the next version of me. He’s in shape. He’s fast. He moves like a train, and he’s confident.”

I can hear the support in the echoes of legs one and two as the baton leaves my present hands and is taken by the next version of me. He’s in shape. He’s fast. He moves like a train, and he’s confident. Though a baton or two in competing lanes have already been passed he’s not concerned. He’s determined to win his own race. He’s alone on the track for now, but he carries experience for the next 110 yards. Experience makes him light, and carries him when he feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. For the next 110 yards his experience will remind him who taught him to run, and he’ll appreciate every step. The voices of everyone who has ever supported him are cheering, but loudest of all, leg three hears his father. His voice isn’t there yelling, “Go, go, go!” He’s telling someone next to him, “That’s my son.” And though I didn’t hear it while I was running the messages are on the baton. At the wake as I was moving into the next stage of my race. The spit shined baton was slapped into my hand through the voices of the people my father knew. “He always talked about you. He was so proud of you.” I’ll spare you the detailed actual quotes, but that was my father making sure the baton was secure so I could keep running my race.

For this leg I’m using all the support and experience that has gotten me this far to hand the baton off to the anchor. He’s going to bring home the win. I trust future me. And he will be thankful for his team. And every leg on the team will be thankful for what they’ve achieved along the way. They ran alone, but before that happened they had to learn to run. We ran differently, Dad, but man, I can run. Thank you. See you at the finish line.

It’s Bedtime, The Brain.

I’m staring at a white screen *[see asterisk at the end], doing my damnedest to remember the words. I wrote this entire post in my sleep. More accurately, I wrote this entire post in a panic while trying to sleep between 4:00AM and 4:58AM. I was sure I was just waking up to roll over. It’s still dark. The Brain says to wake up. The Body says to go back to sleep (The Brain jiggles The Body, “Hey, wake up!”). This is all over the place for an opening paragraph. The punctuation is terrible and confusing, and the content is nothing like what I’d intended. This is not what I wrote in my head during my panic attack in bed at 4:00AM. I’m still mid-panic-attack. That may explain it.

Breathing a little more calmly. My legs aren’t twitching. My brain is focusing. All the triggers are still there, but my brain now has direct control of my fingers. Let me try that again. The evil villain known as The Brain has implemented the use of his diabolical hypnotic powers to control the feebleminded simpleton known as The Body. Oh, those two. They’re at it again.

There are a thousand reasons for my mind to be racing and only one reason I should be asleep. I’m tired. There, that’s it. That’s the Body’s entire argument. The defense rests (uh, really? No it doesn’t). The Brain wins again. “You win this time, The Brain, but I’ll stop you with diphenhydramine next time!” Drugs are not the answer, kids. I have allergies, and a postnasal drip that has been waking me up. Diphenhydramine is Benadryl. Note: I spelled diphenhydramine correctly in one try, but had to look up Benadryl because those nasty red dots appeared beneath my first attempt indicating I’d spelled it wrong. I guess the prefix bene is not being used here.

It couldn’t have been the pseudoephedrine (got that one right on the first try too). That was a 4-6 hour pill I took twenty hours ago. That helps dry my sinuses during this month of mucus and drip. I’m not making methamphetamine (weird that I didn’t have to look that one up either, but I will find myself going nuts trying to spell words like calendar). It couldn’t have been the two large cups of Cuban espresso I had yesterday. Both were before noon.

“You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!”

The Brain is like a dog or cat. He’s standing at the back door, turning to look at you or whining. “You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!” You let The Brain outside. He gets three feet off the patio, and he’s at the door again, nose and lips streaking the glass of the door.

The Brain insisted The Body jump out of bed. “What for?” asks The Body? “I was asleep.” It could be that I’ve been bombarded with freelance work this week. It could be that I have a writing assignment I’ve been putting off. It could be that I have to design and deliver a sell sheet for my toy manufacturer today (left field for anyone who doesn’t know me. I’ll probably write about this aspect of my life at some point). It could be that my father is in ICU, and the prognosis is not good. I’ve been avoiding writing about that because this is a new blog, and I’m pretty sure I want to keep it light. Writing it is an exercise that keeps me focused *[see asterisk at the end], and I’m trying to focus more on positivity because I have so much displaced anger bouncing around in my skull. I think it’s mostly from not expressing myself enough. There’s a lot in the world that should legitimately make one angry, but Doctor Anger should not have control of The Brain. The Brain has too much power. If Doctor Anger controlled The Brain’s fortress it might spell disaster.

I think I’m done with this post. It’s not focused, but it’s here, and it’s out of my head. One less thing to panic about. Something to note is that The Body gives me a telltale sign when I’m on to an idea that’s exciting. Whenever I’m in an abandoned house (happens more often than you might think) or in a place that’s screaming ideas at me I feel like I have to poop. Well, I don’t just feel like that. The sensation actually arises because ideas fill me up so fully the only way to make room is to empty my bowels.

*[This is how far I got before having to poop. Twice, apparently, before 6:00AM. Maybe that’s why The Brain was waking The Body].

The panic Attack is over. I’m going back to bed. Proof-read Schmoof-read.

Fire this past weekend

Have you ever looked at a fire? Of course you have. Have you ever really looked at a fire? I believe you have. I believe the human animal is completely mesmerized by fire. You don’t have to be an arsonist to appreciate it.

This past weekend I attended a bon fire. It was a memorial to a family friend’s husband who recently died unexpectedly. I want to point out that to me “this past weekend” is typically described as “last weekend” by most people. I discovered at an early age that when people say things like “last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing,” the people they are talking to will say something like, “Wait, you mean last weekend or last last weekend?” The first person will either say, “Duh, last weekend,” because it’s probably Thursday (or possibly the following weekend) when they are telling the story; or they’ll say “Oh, yeah, right. So, last last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing,” because it’s probably Tuesday when they are telling the story.

Do you see the problem with last anything? It’s a specifically descriptive word, but as far as I’m concerned it’s vague. It will inevitably lead to irrelevant follow up questions (especially if someone is trying to pin you to a crime or misdemeanor. Get your stories straight, people).

What happens to the rest of the days of the week. It’s Monday. “Last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing.” This person sounds like a real jerk, huh? I just wanted to make sure you know it’s not me talking. I know you all love a bon fire, but as much as we appreciate a memorial for the departed no one wishes they could be at a bon fire that’s a memorial… unless, of course, they intend to be there and they throw their back out changing a flat tire.

Anyway, it’s Monday. Someone says that. Are they talking about yesterday and the day before or are they talking about the weekend prior? These conversations (like this blog entry) get muddled with questions designed to clarify when said event took place even when pinpointing the exact time is unnecessary. I wonder if Police do what I do here. After all, if you’re securing an alibi you’d better be clear about your answer, and they’d better be clear about the timing in the question.

I’ve established a timeline, and there are no questions about when I was doing the thing. I kind of wish I knew what the thing was now. I’m tittilated.

When I want you to know I was doing something you only wish you were doing last weekend, and it happens to be Thursday when I’m telling you; I say, “This past weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing.” See? It’s clear. I’ve established a timeline, and there are no questions about when I was doing the thing. I kind of wish I knew what the thing was now. I’m tittilated.

It doesn’t matter if it’s Thursday or Tuesday, or any other day of the week. I use words to describe exactly when an even occurred to avoid the “Wait, when?” question. I hate clarifying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This past summer I was avoiding the outdoors at all costs in South Florida. Last summer I was enjoying various comfortable, mostly humidity-free adventures and activities in beautiful Minneapolis. You have no questions unless they are about what the activities were or what I did indoors the whole time. Maybe you want to know why I was in two different places, but chances are you already know that if I’m telling you about my recent summer and the summer prior.

Anyway, fire. How would you describe it? Yellow? White? Blue? Red? It’s absolutely gorgeous. In darkness you can focus on it and see the details and contrast of what’s burning. You can watch the progression as the wood is conquered by the flame, changing it into a black mass with hot orange crevices feeding a delicately dancing marauder.

As you do when you stare into a fire I was imagining being a tiny creature, impervious to intense heat. I could walk the grey and black ash floors while passing through caverns of black and orange, all while admiring the details from within. A little girl of probably three years was nearby, excitedly witnessing the fire, probably her first bon fire. The fire crackled and popped, releasing a small explosion of sparks that looked like confetti disappearing on the way up to the sky. She squealed in delight, “It popped! Mommy it popped! Did you see?”

I wondered if I could remember witnessing a bon fire for the first time. It was probably even more magical than I remember. The moment doesn’t stand out to me, but I wish it did. Instead, I am one of millions of humans who can be transfixed by fire, but come Monday it was just a fire that happened. That was this past weekend if you’re wondering.